THE WHODUNIT COLLECTION: British Murder Mysteries (15 Novels in One Volume)
the little man, and swung a blow. Hugh, who held the heavy-weight police championship, swayed his body and the Irishman swung half round. Hugh's hand descended on his collar and he was jerked forward into half a dozen willing hands and held securely while a little rumble of laughter went round.
The house, like most of the others, was packed with humanity, and as the river man had suspected, a store at the back full of rope and metal explained Tim's unwillingness to allow unimpeded access to the premises.
That, however, was a minor matter in the circumstances. Of far more importance was the fact that among Tim's coterie of lodgers was only one who had not been awakened. He was sleeping in the remote corner of one room with his face turned to the wall.
Congreve it was who walked over and casually lifted the blanket. One glimpse he took and the next moment he had his arms round the kicking, cursing occupant and had lifted him bodily to his feet. An automatic pistol dropped on the floor and a couple of men hurried to Congreve's assistance. The struggle was brief.
They dragged their prisoner he was fully dressed towards the door and two or three lights fell on a face that was distorted with rage a sallow, thin face with a hawk-like nose, and high cheek-bones surmounted by a shock of thick, curly black hair. He wore a reddish brown suit of American cut, the skirts of the coat sagging low over his hips and the wide peg-top trousers with a well-defined crease. Glaring from his necktie was an enormous pearl pin too big to be genuine.
He ceased his struggles as soon as he realised their futility, and stood scowling round on the police. "Tell dem gazebos to take de spotlight off me," he complained. "I ain't no stage prima-donna."
"Get him outside," ordered Congreve. "The guvnor'll want to see him."
He walked meekly out into the street with his escort and Congreve sought out Menzies. "We've pulled one thug who looks a possible, sir," he reported. "Big Rufe Isaacs shamming asleep in his clothes with a gun by his side. I grabbed him quick and he didn't get a chance to use it."
Menzies removed his pipe from his lips and a look of interest came into his face. "Big Rufe, eh? Good business. Has he got shiny elbows or do you think
This isn't the kind of place he'd hang out in while he's got dough."
"That's what I thought when I spotted him. He's no bum. Looks as if he could afford the Carlton if he wanted it rather than Tim Donovan's doss-house."
"Fetch him along. No. Wait a bit. Ask the ' Three Kings ' to let us have a room and cart him in there. I'll come and talk to him."
Big Rufe, as the manner in which he had been taken showed, was one of those crooks who are not averse from running desperate chances and probably if Congreve had not acted as quickly as he did murder would have been set alight in Tim Donovan's boarding-house. Had he had brains he would have been as formidable an international criminal as Ling himself. But he had no brains only an immeasurable audacity and a degree of cunning that had carried him through until both New York and London had got to know him. For him to embark on an enterprise unaided was to court immediate disaster, and after tripping several times he had wit enough to recognise the fact and to attach himself when possible to the banner of some more masterful crook who could plan as well as execute. He was an admirable tool when working under directions and away from liquor a skilled mechanician with a brute courage that had, more than once, got him into trouble. Like most crooks he was a free spender.
Menzies had a little doubt that one of the unknown factors in Ling's gang had at last been run down. Big Rufe, out of luck and without a penny in his pocket, might have been found in an East End doss-house without any deduction being necessarily drawn from it; but Big Rufe, flush and well dressed, in Levoine Street and with a gun in his hand could have only one explanation.
The man was palpably uneasy when Menzies walked in upon him. The chief inspector greeted him affably. "Bad job this of yours, sonny. You look to be in it bad."
Rufe had all the philosophy of the captured crook. He would cheerfully have shot Menzies or anyone else if by doing so he could have secured a chance of escape. But once taken he held no futile animosity. Violence, either of speech or action, he knew would be merely silly. His mouth glistened with gold filling as he smiled cheerfully.
"Not," he ejaculated. "No pen for mine. If you'se de wise guy you'd take these mittens off." He shook his wrists, on which the thoughtful Congreve had taken the precaution to encircle handcuffs. "Say, this will be funny stuff for the Sunday supplements wit' you Scotland Yard bulls, I don't think! What do you reckon you're holdin' me for, huh?"
"Persecuting a poor down-trodden American citizen again, Rufe, eh?" commented Menzies. "We can't help it. It's the way we're built. Let us down light with your journalistic pals."
"G'wan," commented Rufe shortly. "Cut it out." He was grinning, but there was an uneasy look in his eye. The usual gambit of the crook and it does not matter what grade in the criminal hierarchy he adorns is bluff when he is run to earth. It is an easy weapon to handle and can do little harm if it fails.
"Just as you say," agreed Menzies amicably. "What are you doing up in this quarter, Rufe? I thought Piccadilly was more your mark."
The other was ready. "There's a kiddo, chief y' know I wandered down to--"
"What's her name?"
"Enid Samuels. She--"
"Where does she live?"
"Her boss, he's got a little cigar factory down Commercial Road. She's a cigar-maker. Say, chief, you ought to see her she's a peacherino--"
"Aren't you wasting time?" said Menzies acidly. "Look here, Rufe, you know you'll get a square deal from me. You didn't come to meet your kiddo, your Enid, your jpeacherino, with a gun. You didn't expect to find her in Tim Donovan's kip, did you? What kind of suckers do you take us for to swallow that? You know what we want. Where's Ling and the others laying up?"
Rufe blinked several times in succession. "Come again," he murmured. "I don't get you."
The chief inspector crossed his knees and eyed the prisoner placidly. From his breast pocket he took an official blue-coloured document. "This is your dull night, isn't it?" he asked. "You know all about English law, I reckon. I can't put you in the sweat-box. A police officer mustn't ask incriminating questions of a man he intends to arrest. I can't make you give yourself away, Rufe, can I?" He shook a menacing forefinger.
The prisoner shuffled his feet uneasily and his insolent eyes lost something of their boldness. He was shaken and he showed it. "There ain't nothing against me, anyway," he agreed.
"No." There was an intonation of polite surprise in Menzies' voice. "Nothing at all. Just a few little things like arson and conspiracy to murder don't count in this game. I reckon Gwennie has been playing you for a Rube."
The beady black eyes caught fire. "I ain't nobody's fool," he cried. "Gwennie can't put it over on me."
"I'm glad you feel like that, Rufe." From Menzies' air he might have been chatting confidentially with an intimate friend in whose troubles he took a sympathetic interest. "Shows a trusting nature." Rufe glowered at him suspiciously. "Funny, though, isn't it? Here's the mob of you go out for a hatful and when you miss your jump who gets left behind? Why, Dago Sam, and Errol, and you. Gwennie isn't in the basket, I bet you. No, nor Ling, either. That's what I mean when I say they played you for a Rube."
Two deep vertical lines etched themselves in Rufe's forehead and his lower jaw dangled. It was part of the soundness of the detective's position that the other did not know how much he knew. He had instilled into Rufe a profound distrust of his confederates. The crook was being deftly provided with a new point of view calculated to stir the idea of reprisal in his mind. His hands opened and clenched.
"If I thought that," he said, and suddenly paused and raked the detective with his gaze. "How do I know you ain't stringin' me?" he demanded.
Menzies flung his hand out in a listless gesture. "It doesn't matter to me," he said. "I just hate to see folk double crossed, though." He leaned forward. "D'ye see, Rufe, you were due