The man who stood with such an air of ease in the dock of the North-West London Police Court bore himself with a certain insolent dignity. There was a smile which was half contemptuous, half-amused, on his bearded face.
If, from time to time, his long white fingers thrust through the mass of goldy-brown hair that was brushed back from his high and narrow forehead, the gesture revealed neither nervousness nor embarrassment. Rather was this a trick of habit.
Though he wore no collar or tie, and his clothes and patent-leather shoes were daubed with last night’s mud, the clothes were new and well cut; the diamond ring which he wore, and which now sparkled offensively in the early morning light, hinted most certainly at an affluence which might be temporary or permanent.
He had in his possession when arrested (to quote the exact itemization of the constable who had given evidence on the matter) the sum of eighty-seven pounds ten shillings in Treasury notes, fifteen shillings in silver coinage, a gold and platinum cigarette case, a small but expensive bottle of perfume (unopened) and a few keys.
His name was Vladimir Litnoff; he was a Russian subject and his profession was that of an actor. He had appeared in Russian plays, and spoke English with the faintest trace of an accent.
Apparently, when he was in wine, as he had been on the previous evening, he spoke little but Russian, so that the two policemen who supported the charge of being drunk, and guilty of insulting and disorderly behaviour, could adduce no other than the language of offensive gesture to support their accusation.
The magistrate took off his glasses and leaned back in his chair wearily.
“Whilst you are living in this country you must behave yourself,” he said conventionally. “This is the second time you have been charged with disorderly conduct, and you will pay twenty shillings, and seven and six costs.”
Mr. Litnoff smiled, and bowed gracefully and stepped lightly from the dock.
Chief Inspector Gaylor, who was waiting in the corridor to give evidence on a much more serious charge, saw him pass and returned his smile good-humouredly. The policeman who had “picked up” the Russian followed from the court.
“Who is that fellow?” asked Gaylor.
“A Russian, sir. He was properly soused… drunk, in the Brompton Road. He was quiet enough but wouldn’t go away. Him and his brooches!”
“His whatses?” asked the inspector.
“That’s what he said when I took him--about the only English thing he did say: ‘You shall have my beautiful brooch--worth ten thousand!’ I don’t know what he was talking about. Another thing he said was that he’d got property in Monro--he shouted this out to the crowd as me and P.C. Leigh was taking him away.”
“Monro--that’s in Scotland somewhere.”
Just then Gaylor was called into court.
Later in the evening, as he glanced through his evening newspaper, he read an account of the police court proceedings. It was headed:
DRUNKEN MAN’S BRIBE OFFER TO POLICE.
TEN THOUSAND POUND BROOCH THAT
WAS DECLINED.
“… P.C. Smith stated that the prisoner had offered him a ten thousand pound brooch to let him go.
“The Magistrate: Did he have this brooch in his possession?
“Witness: No, your Worship. In his imagination. (Laughter.)”
“Now Reeder would see something very peculiar about that,” said Mr. Gaylor to his young wife, and she smiled.
She liked Mr. J.G. Reeder, and, quite mistakenly, was sorry for him. He seemed so pathetically inefficient and helpless compared with the strong, capable men of Scotland Yard. Many people were sorry for Mr. Reeder--but there were quite a number who weren’t.
Jake Alsby, for example, was sorry for nobody but himself. He used to sit in his cell during the long winter evenings on Dartmoor and think of Mr. Reeder in any but a sympathetic mood. It was a nice, large, comfortable cell with a vaulted roof. It had a bed, with gaily coloured blankets, and was warm on the coldest day. He had the portrait of his wife and family on a shelf. The family ranged from a hideous little boy of ten to an open-mouthed baby of six months. Jake had never seen the baby in the flesh. He did not mind whether he saw his lady wife or family again, but the picture served as a stimulant to his flagging animosities. It reminded Jake that the barefaced perjury of Mr. J.G. Reeder had torn him from his family and cast him into a cold dungeon. A poetical fancy, but none the less pleasing to a man who had never met the truth face to face without bedecking the reality with ribbons of fiction.
It was true that Jake forged Bank of England notes, had been caught with the goods and his factory traced; it was true that he had been previously convicted for the same offence, but it was not true (as Mr. Reeder had sworn) that he had been seen near Marble Arch on the Monday before his arrest. It was Tuesday. Therefore Mr. Reeder had committed perjury.
To Jake came a letter from one who had been recently discharged from the hospitality of H.M. Prison at Princeton. It contained a few items of news, one of which was:
“… saw your old pal reeder yesterday he was in that machfield case him that done in the old boy at born end reeder dont look a day older he asked me how you was and i said fine and he said what a pity he only got seven he oughter got ten and i said…”
What his literary friend said did not interest the enraged man. There and then he began to think up new torments for the man who had perjured an innocent man (it was Tuesday, not Monday) into what has been picturesquely described as a “living hell.”
Three months after the arrival of this letter Jake Alsby was released, a portion of his sentence having been remitted for good conduct: that is to say, he had never once been detected in a breach of prison regulations. The day he was released, Jake went to London, to find his family in the workhouse, his wife having fled to Canada with a better man. Almost any man was better than Jake.
“This is Reeder’s little joke!” he said.
He fortified himself with hot spirits and went forth to find his man.
He did not follow a direct path to Mr. Reeder’s office, because he had calls to make, certain acquaintances to renew. In one of these, a most reputable hostelry, he came upon a bearded man who spoke alternately in English and in a queerly elusive language. He wore no collar or tie--when Vladimir reached his fourth whisky he invariably discarded these--and he spoke loudly of a diamond clasp of fabulous value. Jake lingered, fascinated. He drank with the man, whose language might be Russian but whose money was undoubtedly English, as was his language occasionally.
“You ask me, my frien’, what profession am I? An actor, yes! But it pays nothing. This, that, the other impresario rob--all rob. But my best work? I am ill! That is good work! Delirium--what-you-call-it? Swoons? Yes, swoons--voice ’usky, eh?”
“I know a graft like that,” said Jake, nodding wisely. “You chews soap.”
“Ah--nasty--no… ti dourak!”
Jake did not know that he was being called a fool, would not have been very upset if he had known. He was sure of one thing, that he was hooked up with a generous spender of money--a prince of fellows, seen in the golden haze of alcoholism. He had not yet reached the stage where he wanted to kick anybody. He was in that condition when he felt an inward urge to tell his most precious secrets.
“Ever ’eard feller call’ Reeder?” he asked profoundly. “Reg’lar old ’ound--goin’ get him!”
“Ach!” said his new-found friend.
“Gonna get ’im!” said Jake gravely.
The bearded man tilted up his glass until no dreg remained in the bottom. He seized Jake’s arm in a fierce friendliness and led him from the bar. The cold night air made Jake sag at the knees.
“Le’s go ’n bump ’um,” he said thickly.
“My frien’--why kill, eh?” They were walking unsteadily along arm in arm. Once Jake was pushed into the gutter by an unanticipated lurch. “Live--drink! See my beautiful brooch… my farm… vineyards… mountains… I’ll tell you, my frien’--somebody must know…”
This street through which they were passing was very dark and made up of little stores. Jake was conscious that he had passed a milk shop when he became aware that a man was standing squarely in their path.
“Hullo!… You want me… gotta brooch?”
It was Vladimir who spoke; he also was very drunk. The stranger did not speak.
The crash of the explosion made Jake Alsby reel. He had never heard a pistol fired at close quarters. He saw the Russian swaying on his feet, his head bent as though he were listening… he was fumbling at his waistcoat with both hands.
“Here… what’s the game?” Jake was sober now.
The man came nearer, brushed past him, thrusting his shoulder forward as he passed. Jake staggered under the impact. When he looked round, the shooter had melted into the thick darkness--there was the narrow opening of a mews hereabouts.
“Hurt, mate?”
The Russian had gone down to his knees, still gripping at his waistcoat. Then he pitched forward and hit the pavement horribly.
Jake felt himself go white… he looked round, and, turning, fled. He wanted to be out of this--murder! That’s what it was, murder.
He raced round the corner of the street and into the arms of a policeman. Whistles were blowing. Even as he fought to escape, he knew the impossibility of such a hope: policemen were running from everywhere.
“All right--I done nothin’… there’s a guy shot round the corner… some feller did it.”
Two officers took him to the station, and as a precautionary measure he was searched.
In the right hand pocket of his overcoat was found an automatic pistol that had been recently fired.
