Divers Vanities E-Book

Arthur Morrison

• Herausgeber: Ktoczyta.pl
• Kategorie: Krimi
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2018

Beschreibung

Arthur Morrison, who was English novelist, short story writer and journalist, wrote pioneering realistic narratives about working-class life in London’s East End. He is also celebrated for his exciting mystery stories, featuring the detective Martin Hewitt, who served as a natural successor to Sherlock Holmes. This comprehensive book presents Morrison’s collection of short stories. The collection includes: „Chance of the Game”, „Spotto’s Reclamation”, „A „Dead ’Un”, „The Disorder of the Bath”, „His Talk of Bricks”, „Teacher and Taught”, „A Blot on St. Basil”, „The Torn Heart” and others. Each story features a fascinating look at life in the 20th century, and even includes some action along the way.

Leseprobe

Contents

CROSS-COVES

CHANCE OF THE GAME

SPOTTO’S RECLAMATION

A “DEAD ‘UN”

THE DISORDER OF THE BATH

HIS TALE OF BRICKS

TEACHER AND TAUGHT

HEADS AND TAILS

ONE MORE UNFORTUNATE

INGRATES AT BAGSHAW’S

RHYMER THE SECOND

CHARLWOOD WITH A NUMBER

A POOR BARGAIN

STATEMENT OF EDWARD CHALONER

LOST TOMMY JEPPS

OLD ESSEX

THE BLACK BADGER

THE TORN HEART

CROSS-COVES

Frères humains qui après nous vivez, N’ayez les coeurs contre nous endurcis, Car, si pitié de nous pauvres avez, Dieu en aura plus tôt de vous mercis. –Villon.

CHANCE OF THE GAME

THE truly great man of business has no business hours. To lose an opportunity is no less than a crime, and an opportunity which displays itself in a time and place of relaxation is none the less an opportunity. It was for this reason that Spotto Bird found himself running his best in Bow Road.

Spotto Bird was not at all the sort of practitioner to use the Bow Road in the ordinary way of business; even as he ran in the dark streets, with more pressing matters to occupy his mind, he was conscious of some added shade of apprehension from the possibility, not merely of being caught, but of being caught working in the East End. But the clock was a red ‘un, and the opportunity undoubted; to be pinched in the Bow Road merely might well imply loss of caste in the mob, but nobody need be ashamed to be pinched anywhere for a gold watch, after all. Not that Spotto had the smallest intention of being pinched at all if his legs could save him.

As a rule he went West for purposes of business, and worked alone, like the superior high mobsman that he was. Theft from the person is a poor trade for the ordinary ill-dressed thief. It needs a scramble of three to get a watch, which will never bring them a sovereign, no matter how much it may have cost the loser in the game, and probably will bring no more than a few shillings. But a high mobsman like Spotto Bird, well dressed and presentable, who can work the West End and get a watch or a pin or the like by his sole skill, without vulgar violence, does better: his profits are undivided, and his prices are higher.

But now the occasion was exceptional. The end of an evening’s relaxation at the Eastern Empire Music Hall found Spotto, near midnight, strolling along Bow Road. Something had been happening at the Bromley Vestry Hall, and a small crowd of most respectable elderly gentlemen–guardians, well-to-do tradesmen, or what not–was emerging from the doors and spreading across the pavement. In the midst of this little press Spotto Bird found himself squeezed against a most rotund white waistcoat, in such wise that a thick gold watch-chain positively scarified his knuckles. From such a situation there could be but one issue. It was not a time for finesse; Spotto Bird hooked his fingers about the chain, tore away the lot, and drove out of the crowd with a burst.

He made across the broad road with a string of elderly gentlemen after him, and two policemen at the end of the string; for it chanced that the police-station was actually next door. He struck for the nearest turning, but was almost headed off. For a group of men on the other side of the way saw the chase start, and broke into a run. They missed him by a bare yard, and Spotto Bird turned into the dark by-street clear in front, but hard pressed.

It was a quiet street in ordinary, lined with decent small houses. Now it was empty and dark ahead, but loud with shouts and the beating of feet behind the runaway. Spotto Bird dropped the watch into his trousers pocket, and spread his legs for the best they could do. He led down the middle of the roadway, partly because it was less hard and noisy than the pavement, and partly because there was thus more room to dodge any attempt to intercept him. Here he gained, and at the nearest corner there was a dear twenty yards behind him. Beyond this turning he went so well that he reached the next–which was very near–ere the head of the chase had well regained sight of him. Down this new street he ran alone, his eyes wide open for the next turn, or for some likely refuge or dodging-place; for the chase was too fast to last.

Among the houses on the left he saw a dark arch–doubtless the entrance to some lane or alley. He snatched at a lamp-post, swung round it, and darted into the archway. Within he found a paved yard, lighted by a dim light at the far end; and he saw at a glance that here was the end of his run. For this was a yard of old almshouses, and there was no way out but by the arch he had come in at.

The crowd was yelping at the street corner, and nearing the arch with every yelp. There was nothing for it but to lie low and let it rush past–if it would. Spotto Bird turned and sprang for the nearest doorway, with a design to stand up close in the shadow in case the hunt turned into the yard. There was a little pent-roof over the door, and two brick steps at its foot. Stumbling on the steps, he reached to feel the dark door, and pitched forward with his hands on the mat; for indeed the door was wide open.

It seemed a stroke of luck, if only nobody had heard. He crept into the entry, rose gingerly to his feet on the mat, and listened. The shouts and the pelt of feet came up the street, and the clamour burst with a sudden distinctness through the archway.

“Ere! In ‘ere!” came a few voices. And while some of the trampling went on up the street, part turned aside at the gate. Spotto silently pushed-to the door before him within two inches of the jamb, and peeped through the two inches.

Two or three of the pursuers appeared at the yard entrance and peered about them.

“Nobody ‘ere,” said one. “No,” said another, “it’s only the alms ‘ouses; ‘e wouldn’t go there.” And they turned to rejoin the scurry.

It was a long, straggling crowd that still passed shouting up the street, as though all Bow had turned out to the hunt. Probably the old gentlemen from the Vestry Hall were toiling at the tail, and as they could most readily recognise the fugitive it seemed well to keep back still a little longer. Spotto pulled the door wide, and as he did it a loud clang resounded from overhead. His start was merely momentary, however, for the stroke was followed by another and another, and he realised that somewhere in the dark above the almshouses a church clock was striking twelve. In some odd way it turned his thoughts toward the house he stood in. For the first time he peered backward along the tiny passage. It had seemed black enough from without, but now he could see that it bent by the stairs, and that the door of the back room, feebly lighted by a candle, stood open. He took a noiseless step or two down the passage, and saw that the candle stood on a deal table, in company with a little loaf or cake and a glass of beer. The room was quiet and tenantless; probably the resident was gossiping in another of the cottages. The beer looked very clear and pleasant, and a hard run, with the police close behind, induces a peculiar dryness of the throat and tongue–a different and a worse dryness than that derived from a plain run with no police. Spotto Bird walked in and reached for the beer.

As he did so the little cake caught his eye. It was a pallid, doughy lump, with two sprawling capital letters impressed or scratched on its upper side–M. H. It seemed so odd that he paused with the glass in one hand and lifted the cake with the other. There were no more marks on it, and it was a dead, leaden mass, which nobody would dream of eating, Spotto judged, as he turned it over, at less than five shillings a bite. He put it down, and took the beer at a gulp. That was better.

He turned, with the glass still in his hand, and almost choked the beer up. For as he faced the door he saw that he was not alone–that he was trapped.

A girl emerged from behind the door, gazing straight in his face, and pushing to the door as she came.

“Oh then,” said the girl, “it’s–it’s–there! it’s true after all!” Her pale face was radiant, and slit; met him fearlessly, her hands stretched a little before her. “It is true!”

“Oh yes,” replied Spotto Bird vaguely, “it’s quite true, o’ course!” The shock was sudden, but presence of mind was a habit of his trade.

“Don’t talk loud, or you’ll wake mother. We mustn’t wake mother, you know.”

Spotto Bird was relieved, though more than a little puzzled. In the first place he had never seen a girl exactly like this. She was pale beyond his experience, with a pallor that seemed unhealthy enough, though it was scarce the pallor of sickness. Moreover, she regarded him with an intensity of interest–even delighted interest–that he could not at all understand.

“No,” he mumbled: “we mustn’t wake mother, o’ course;” and he furtively returned the glass to its place on the table.

“You must come and see her another day,” said the girl. “I’ll let you know when. When I’ve broke it to her a little, you know.”

“All right–I’ll be sure to come,” replied Spotto, edging toward the door. “I’ll bear it in mind, particular.”

She laid a hand on his arm. “You needn’t run away,” she said, with a sudden archness. “Why, I don’t even know your name yet!”

Spotto was well resolved that she should not learn it. “Jenkins,” he replied glibly–“W. Jenkins.”

“Is it Wilfred?” she asked eagerly. “I do love Wilfred!”

Spotto made it Wilfred readily, and shuffled a foot. But now this strange young person had put a hand on each of his arms, and stood between him and the door.

“Do tell me now, Wilfred,” she said: “did you know you was coming here when you came out? Did you come all of your own accord or as if you were–a–sort of drove, you know?”

“Well, yes, I was sort of drove,” Spotto admitted candidly, wondering desperately what it all meant.

“You felt a sort of awful great influence that you couldn’t stand up against–that drew you along?”

“Well, yes; there was a good deal of that in it too, no doubt.”

“And you didn’t ever see me before, not in all your life, did you?”

“Well, no–not to say see you, exactly; not what you might call see you.”

“Oh, isn’t it wonderful?”

“Reg’lar knock-out, I call it,” agreed Spotto fervently, with another uneasy glance at the door.

“I was frightened at first–quite awful frightened. That’s why I hid behind the door. And when I heard you comin’ in, ever so softly, I was ready to faint. You see, I didn’t know whether it might be really you, alive, or your ghost walking while you was asleep.”

(“Mad,” thought Spotto Bird. “Off her blooming onion. But all right–quite friendly.”)

“But o’ course when I see you really alive, and turning the cake and drinking the beer, just like they always do–why, I didn’t mind so much.”

“That’s all right,” he answered. “I’m glad you didn’t mind my ‘avin’ the beer.”

“Why, o’ course not. That’s what I put it there for. They always do, you know.”

“Oh yes,” he assented hastily; “they always do, o’ course.”

“And it isn’t Midsummer Eve, after all. And old Mrs. Crick was so positive it was, too!”

(Now the day just over was October the thirty-first. Quite plainly the girl was balmy–balmy on the crumpet)

“Was she, though?” Spotto answered aloud. “Silly old geezer! I’ll–I’ll just go and tell ‘er she was wrong.” And he made a more determined move toward the door.

But the pallid girl gripped him tighter, and pressed him back. “Why, she’s in bed long ago,” she said; I “you might know she would be. And so you know her, do you?”

Spotto was cautious. “Well, only in a sort o’ way,” he said. “Not what you might call know her–not intimate.”

“I thought not, else I must ha’ seen you in the yard. I’m always lookin’ out o’ window when mother’s asleep, if I ain’t readin’. Did you ever hear Mrs. Crick talking about this?”

“What?”

“Why, this, you know,”–with a nod at the table. “She see her own husband that way, over fifty years ago, when it was all trees and green fields round here. On Midsummer Eve, she says; but Mrs. Nye says it ought to be twelve o’clock of All Hallows’, and so it is, you see. I tried Midsummer Eve, and hid there behind the door till past three in the mornin’, and daylight, with the front door wide open, and nobody came at all. I had to shut the door then, o’ course, else somebody would ha’ seen it open.”

“Ah–jesso,” Spotto assented. A dim light was beginning to break on him. He remembered to have heard of some such thing as this years ago. Didn’t the women call it the “dumb-cake” or something of the sort?

“I was afraid perhaps it wasn’t true after all,” the girl went on. “But I said nothing to nobody, and I tried again to-night, as Mrs. Nye said it ought to be; and now I know it is true–true as gospel. I did it just as Mrs. Nye said–made the dough of plain flour seven nights before, unknown to anybody, and kept it under my pillow. And to-night I marked it with the first letters of my name, baked it, and put out the cloth and the candle and the glass of beer, and opened the doors and waited. And when the clock struck twelve in you came; and you lifted the cake in your hand and turned it, and you drank the beer just the proper way!”

“So I did,” agreed Spotto Bird. The thing was clear enough now. This extraordinary girl looked on him as her future husband, brought to her by this old woman’s spell. Spotto Bird sadly wanted to laugh aloud. He had his own superstitions, like most of them that get a living “on the cross.” A lucky penny, or a piece of coal in the pocket, or ceasing “the game” for the day on meeting a squinting man–these things were reasonable enough; but as to this!...The whole adventure touched his sense of the comic, and he longed to get outside and laugh.

“So I did,” he said. “But I’d better not stop now. Your mother’ll be comin’ down.”

“Oh no–she can’t,” the girl explained. “She’s bed-rid–been bed-rid thirteen years. That’s why I never go out, nor see anybody except Mrs. Nye and Mrs. Crick and the other old ladies in the yard. Mother won’t even let me out of the house, and Mrs. Nye gets the things in for us. I ain’t even got a proper hat! And I haven’t been past the arch since I was twelve years old.”

“No?” replied Spotto wonderingly. “Why not?”

“Mother won’t let me. Says we’ll go out together when she’s better. She never will be better, but we mustn’t tell her so. If she loses sight of me for five minutes she almost has a fit. She hasn’t anybody else in the world but me, you see, so I must do what I can. But I get very down sometimes, except for reading. Do you read Home Slop?”

Spotto Bird admitted that he didn’t.

“It’s full of such beautiful tales! Lovely tales! You ought to read them. Next time you come I’ll lend you some back numbers.”

“Thanks,” Spotto answered hastily. “I’ll come and see about it. I’ll bear it in mind,–and–and I’ll just be gettin’ along!”

The pallid girl looked at him reproachfully for a moment, and then dropped her gaze. “Isn’t there–anything–anything else you want to say to me?” she asked tremulously; and Spotto Bird felt desperately uncomfortable. “Why,” she went on, “you haven’t even asked me my name yet!”

“Well, no,” he stammered, “I didn’t–you see–I didn’t like to–bein’ a bit–you know–a bit nervous; and–Well, what’s your name?”

“Martha Hardy,” she replied simply. “But I don’t like Martha–I’d like to be called Melissa. Don’t you think Melissa’s a pretty name?”

Spotto Bird expressed unbounded admiration of both names; but was quite ready to agree that perhaps Melissa had a bit more style about it.

“So you’ll call me Melissa, won’t you, Wilfred?” she said, and watched his nod with wistful earnestness. “It all seems–seems like a dream, don’t it?”

“P’raps it is,” Spotto suggested sagely. He was now convinced that the sole expedient was to kiss the girl and get out on that. He had in general no greater objection to kissing a girl than any other young man of his age. But there was something odd about this girl: physically she repelled him, almost as a corpse would have done; and in other respects she left him puzzled, uncomfortable–somewhat abashed.

“Oh no, I hope it isn’t,” the girl replied with seriousness. “Don’t you? We’ll make sure of it, Wilfred. I’ll give you a keepsake.” She pulled a little locket out of her pocket. “I put it in my pocket in–in case,” she went on. “It’s a bit of my own hair in it–I put it in a long time ago; just for–fancy, you know, to–to pretend to myself. But now it is all quite real, isn’t it? And you’ll wear it, won’t you? Next your heart? It is gold.”

Well, a gold locket was something–even a little one like this. “I’ll bring you something next time I come,” he said. “Next–next Thursday.”

There came a sudden thump on the floor above their heads, and three more after it, with the cry of a thin, peevish voice. Instantly the girl flung wide the door and called aloud, “All right, mother, I’m coming!”

“You must go now,” she whispered hurriedly. “But be sure to come on Thursday. Come at dusk, and I’ll be waiting in the passage. Good-bye!”

Spotto Bird bent quickly and kissed the pallid girl, thinking, as he did it, of damp wax. Then he hastened into the yard, while the girl, summoned by more thumps, cried, “I am coming, mother!” on the stairs. And the voice had a ring of novel gladness.

Spotto Bird made out through the archway with a broad grin. The street was empty and still enough now, and he caught again at the friendly lamp-post and burst into a quiet fit of laughter. It was quite the most unprecedented go! So he laughed again, long and heartily, though with the quietness of cautious habit. Truly the rummiest start!

Presently he turned his attention to the spoils. It was a poor little locket–gold, no doubt, but with sides like paper. Nine carat, probably. The watch and chain was a different matter–thick and solid; nothing of nine carats there. Indeed, quite a good night’s work, as regarded the clock and slang.

He put the watch away and turned the locket over in his hand. After all there was little enough in that, one way or another; and there are some things below a high mobsman’s notice. To work in the East End might be well enough, for a gold watch. But a thing like this–well, a man of Spotto Bird’s standing must have some self-respect. He turned back into the yard, dancing the locket in his half-closed hand. The cottage was shut close and dark now, and Spotto stooped over the brick steps and felt along the bottom of the door. The crack was a quarter of an inch wide, and more. He pushed the locket through, and thrust it as far as it would go with the blade of his knife.

“P’raps she’ll fancy it was a dream now,” thought Spotto Bird,–“a sleep-walking dream!”

SPOTTO’S RECLAMATION

SPOTTO BIRD’S reclamation, like a number more of his adventures, came about through a watch.

It was at a period of some difficulty in Spotto’s history. He had had a bad “fall”–a stretch and a half; that is to say, in shameless English, he had been imprisoned for eighteen months; the most prolonged misfortune of the sort that had yet befallen him. Now, it is not well to begin “the game” again too soon after such a release, and that for more than one reason. Firstly and obviously, of course, the police eye is upon you, and a fresh conviction just then is looked on with peculiar disfavour from the bench. But furthermore, eighteen months with hard labour (and for that term the living is as hard as the labour) has a ruinous effect on the professional abilities of so finished a fingersmith as Spotto Bird. Like the cultured quickness of the boxer trained to the hour, like the lightning riposte of the fencing-master, and like the preternatural spurt of the nurtured runner, the dexterity of the master pickpocket is an artificial product, kept alive by daily practice, and vanishing utterly with a month’s disuse. And even that is not all; the seclusion of a year and a half costs more than touch and training; the practitioner loses his accustomed nerve; he feels shy in the crowded streets, and desperately apprehensive of a thousand eyes.

But it was not easy. On his very first outing he encountered a certain plain-clothes constable, well known to him and others in the trade as “Ears.” This man’s ears–they were huge ears, splayed outward–had won him promotion from the uniformed force; not so much because of their size as because of their quickness, whereby he had been enabled, unsuspected, to overhear conversations addressed from one cell to another, and so acquire information of much use.

No sooner had Spotto discovered a promising little crowd before a shop window–it was in Regent Street–than he became aware of the presence of “Ears.” There the enemy lounged by the kerb, and Spotto, cold shivers running between his shoulder-blades, averted his face and slunk away, hoping–and he thought with reason–that he had not been observed.

He crossed the roadway, walked a little way down the less crowded side of the street, and then recrossed close by the beginning of the Quadrant. One could always depend on finding just here, at a corner, a gaping knot of people, mostly well dressed, and always staring at photographs in a window. He knew the place of old, and judged it an easy spot to begin with; and, in fact, there were the photographs and there was the knot of people, absorbed and gaping as ever, as though they had never left the place since he saw it last. He crossed the pavement and joined the group. A sealskin hand-bag hung from a fat old lady’s wrist at his right hand, and a man with a possible though somewhat doubtful breastpin stood on his left. The pin was too difficult–and uncertain as to quality; the hand-bag was better. But at that moment some instinct, some telepathic shiver in the back, induced him to look behind him, and there stood “Ears” again, staring full at him!

There was no question, this time, of the detective having seen him. He was watching him, following him, without a doubt. Spotto Bird shifted uneasily from his place, and, hands deep in pockets–his own–made an industrious pretence of great interest in a photograph of the Albert Memorial. Then he edged away round the corner and so down the turning, miserably conscious of being followed by “Ears.” This is what is called in police courts being “kept under observation,” and it is one of the discomforts of Spotto Bird’s profession.

For the rest of the day Spotto avoided crowds, strove not to look behind him–though the temptation was sore–and did his best to impart an air of aimless innocence to his back view. All to little effect; for no sooner did he begin, next morning, to prospect afresh, than he perceived that “Ears” was “on” him again.

Spotto Bird’s nerves began to suffer. “Ears” seemed ever behind him, and Spotto wondered why in the world he had not rather been called “Eyes.” It was a fact that the detective was keeping a particularly close watch on Spotto, and was asking questions about him of certain private informers, for he knew Spotto must soon begin business again; but it was also a fact that Spotto began to see the detective where no detective was, and that for Spotto each successive crowd was fuller of ears and eyes than the last. Meanwhile “Ears” had other business, and others to watch; and there came two days when Spotto saw him in the flesh not at all, and even began to grow less and less convinced in fancy of his baleful proximity; till, on the evening of the second day, things being very low indeed, Spotto Bird at last began work again.

He had come along Oxford Street, and he turned up the detached northern end of Regent Street on the chance of a meeting at either of the halls, since this was about the time at which such meetings began. St. George’s Hall was shut and dark, but there was a meeting of some sort at Queen’s Hall, a small crowd at the door, and cabs. Spotto was desperate. This absurd nervousness must be got over somehow, else starvation faced him–or even work. There were dark corners here and there, a crowd to hide in, and people everywhere. On the outskirts of the crowd, and near one of the dark corners, a man stood intently reading a newspaper by the light of a street lamp. He wore spectacles, and had ragged, hay-coloured whiskers and beard; on his head was a feeble-looking soft felt hat, of no particular shape, unless it were that of a pork pie in a saucer, and as he held the paper close before his face his arms parted his large cloak before him, revealing, in the light of the Queen’s Hall lamps, a black watch-ribbon. Now it was Spotto’s experience that a black watch-ribbon was commonly attached to one of two sorts of watches, either very expensive indeed, or very cheap. Perhaps the man did not look exactly the person to carry an expensive watch, but again experience told Spotto that this was a thing you never could tell. It was a good enough chance.

He glanced about him, and sidled toward the man, so as to give himself a wide field of observation to the left, in the direction of the crowd and the lights. First the ribbon, and then the bow of the watch passed between his forefinger and thumb, and so, with his little finger on the edge of the pocket, he lifted the prize deftly. The man stood still, with his spectacled eyes close on his paper.

The rest occurred in an instant, though it is slow to tell. As the watch left the pocket, Spotto felt the back smooth against his finger-tip, and then was aware of a certain prominence about the edge. Surely this was a Waterbury! The suspicion put him to a shade of pause. It must be a tug and a bolt if the thing were worth it, and if it were not, then best let the watch slip back and try farther in the crowd. The moment’s indecision, the unworkmanlike fumble did it. Down came hands and paper from the man’s face, and Spotto’s forearm was grabbed and held.

Spotto tugged and whimpered. In other circumstances, with his full nerve–before his eighteen months–he would have knocked the man over with his left. In his present state he whimpered and pulled.

“You lemme go–I got nothing o’ yours–give a poor chap a chance, guv’nor–I’ve done nothing, s’elp me! Let go!”

“It’s all right!” the stranger answered eagerly. “I shan’t charge you! You’re the very man I want to consult. It’s most fortunate for both of us, really! You’ll be quite safe, I tell you!”

Spotto ceased to pull, but continued to whine. “It’s very ‘ard when a man’s ‘ungry, sir,” he pleaded, “an’ if you’d bin through all what I ‘ave, you’d–”

“Yes, I know,” the stranger interrupted; “that’s just what I want to hear about. You shall tell me. You’re quite safe, my friend, I assure you.”

Spotto took heart again. Perhaps there was more to be got out of this man than a white-metal watch after all, and by safer means. But at this moment a shadow fell on them from the direction of the hall lights, and behold–it was the shadow of “Ears!”

“‘Ullo!” growled “Ears,” with a fierce stare at Spotto; “what’s this? What’s he been up to?”

“What do you mean?” retorted the man in the felt hat, dropping his hold of Spotto’s arm. “Who are you?”

“I’m a p’lice officer,” answered ‘Ears,’ “an’ I want to know what this man’s been up to.”