Sergeant Verity and the Swell Mob.

by Francis Selwyn

  Joe clutched the velvet shape of the clasp and hurried onward. He was alone now, alone despite the pretty bonnets and swinging crinolines along the rails of the promenade, despite the men in their shallow straw hats, primrose gloves and clay pipes. Last night, on an impulse, he had become the protector of the little dancing-girl, Jane Midge. Now it was she who offered the sole hope of protection to him.

  Outside the Ship and the other hostelries of the old town the carriage steps were being let down as the first visitors of the day arrived. An elderly gentleman in high humour chortled to his companion, 'Come on, my old Ten-and-a-half-per-cent! Out with the tin!'

  Other voices called for devilled kidneys or hock and soda in coffee rooms, the dark interiors stocked with Gorgona anchovies, old bottled sherry, French mustard, plovers' eggs, Bombay mangoes and Emmenthaler cheeses. Joe walked through the sunshine, among the good humour and rich smells of food, like a leper tainted by his disease. Two men got down from a smart Queen's coloured brougham, outside the Royal Albion. Their velvet and silk, chains, lockets and puffy, pink-tinted shirts were a match for their easy, fatuous conversation.

  'Stay long?'

  'Don't know.'

  'Long as it's agreeable, p'raps?' 'Just so.' 'Nice place.' 'That it is.’

  Joe in his misery cursed the world. He came at last to the tavern near the foot of the Race Hill, quite expecting that the girl would have gone. But she sat on the bed in the dusty little room, as if she had never moved. Now, instead of the dancing costume, she wore a drab brown dress and there was a little pork-pie bonnet beside her.

  'See?' said Joe, more cheerful than he felt. 'Told you I’d come back, didn't I?'

  She nodded and he went to call for an ink and dip.

  While Jane Midge sat silent on the bed behind him, Joe perched at the little wooden table and wrote in his scrawling laboured hand. By the end of an hour he had covered two sheets and reached the limit of endurance. Then he folded them together and put them in an envelope. He turned to the girl, studying the firm features, the last fading liveliness of her brown eyes which had once animated her face in easier times.

  'From now on,' he said softly, 'neither of us is going to be alone. We'll be together, you and me. Understand?' She nodded doubtfully.

  'Anyone asks, you got a protector. I can't say how we shall

  manage things but we shall somehow. Do what you can with your dancing and 111 see you don't go hungry nor cold. Where d'yer live?'

  'Lodging kens mostly,' said Jane softly. ''s twopence a night in the public ward. Not in summer, though. Waste of tin, ain't it? Just as soon sleep in the parks or on the pebbles. And there's the viaduct arches, come to that, where the railway goes out to Clayton tunnel on the London line.'

  Joe nodded impatiently.

  'You got any sort of hiding-place?'

  'Only in me clothes.'

  'That'll do,' he said quickly, holding out to her the envelope with the two sheets of writing. 'Take this and keep it. I’ll ask for it back if I need it. But if ever I'm missing and I ain't said why, if ever you can't find me, you go to the police office and you tell 'em it's a letter from Stunning Joe. All right?'

  She slipped the envelope into the bosom of her dress.

  'Stunning Joe,' she said thoughtfully. 'That's a funny sort of a name.' And then Jane Midge put her arms about him and leant her head against his breast.

  'Dancer,' said Jack Strap, his jowls taut with disapproval. 'Goes as Jane Midge.'

  Old Mole nodded as the two men stood at the promenade rails and watched the little yachts bucking in a sunlit swell.

  'There's work to be done, Strap. Work to be done by you and me. Mr Kite ain't in it. Fact is, Strap, you never met Mr Kite. See?'

  ' 'oo's Mr Kite?' asked Strap, and grinned horribly at his own facetiousness.

  Old Mole nodded again and took out a paper packet. He counted out fifty sovereigns, fresh and yellow from the mint.

  'That's for now, Mr Strap. There's five hundred more up for auction. Savvy?'

  'Five hundred?' The contortion of Jack Strap's heavy face reduced the eyes to pig-like points of brightness in the pouched flesh.

  'One hundred when Jane Midge is took to safe-keeping. One hundred likewise for Cosima Bremer. Two hundred when Stunning Joseph is sent to his last long home. Got it?'

  ' 's only four hundred,' said Strap suddenly.

  'Yes,' said Mole, 'and there's one hundred more for a little piece of business involving another young person. You'll be told.'

  Strap chuckled at his own good fortune. Old Mole interrupted him.

  'Commissions to be executed when and where you're told. See?'

  The bully slapped his hands together and rubbed them eagerly.

  'Name 'em, Mr Mole. Name 'em!'

  ' 'nother thing,' said Mole. 'If all this comes safe through and Mr Kite's fancy should canter home in Brighton races for the Bristol Plate, that five hundred guineas doubles itself. One thousand guineas for yer trouble, Jack Strap!'

  Strap pocketed the sovereigns. Then, for all his stupidity, he rose to the occasion.

  'Why, Mr Mole, and 'oo might that gentleman be? I never had the pleasure o' meeting a party called Mr Kite. Never did!'

  He nudged his companion and let loose across the shingle a great whinnying guffaw. Old Mole nodded again and turned away from him, walking in the direction of the Bedford Hotel. Jack Strap rested his back against the promenade rails and watched the passing armada of crinolines. His mouth opened again, huge in its merriment. Then, in his anticipation of the jollity to come, he slapped one hand into the other with an impact which carried clear across the promenade.

  From the depths of his tapestried chair, Sealskin Kite twinkled at Old Mole like an indulgent bachelor uncle. In the lines of the shrewd, mousy little face the old man's excitement teased the sallow, scrub-haired mobsman who watched him across the table. He tossed a scrap of paper in Mole's direction.

  'What's this?' Mole's yellowed mouth hung vacantly as he read it.

  'List of cheques, Mr Mole. Banker's cheques written by persons of great consequence upon their accounts with Baron Lansing. Look at the names, Mr Mole! Old Sir Aylmer Byrd. Young Lord Stephen with his racing stables! Mr Thomas Crawley Esquire what keeps that fat doxy they calls the Female Hussar! All clients of the Lansing bank! Why, Mr Mole, who could bother himself with that heathen Shah Jehaney caper when he might have such clients as this?'

  Old Mole put down the paper.

  'Then, Mr Kite, we'd best have the truth of things before they go further.'

  Sealskin Kite sniggered like a schoolboy, beating his little fists up and down on his knees with excitement and triumph.

  'So we shall, my dear sir. Mr Mole asks the truth! And is there anything Mr Mole could ask which his friend Sealskin Kite might deny him? Why, the truth is that Banker Lansing — rest his cunning soul — was a bigger rogue than you or I! I knew 'im, Mr Mole! And I knew the damned old reprobate for what he was!'

  'Rogue?' said Mole cautiously. 'Over the Shah Jehan, you mean?'

  'Shah Jehaney-haney!' shrilled Kite impatiently. 'No, Mr Mole! Lord Lansing was banker to some of the greatest in the land. Specially he was banker to men who didn't want quite all their private doings made public. Nothing against the law, o' course. But Mr Crawley Esquire might choose to keep that Janet Bond, the Female Hussar for a few months. No need for Mrs Crawley to twig it. A nice discreet account with Baron Lansing and the whole affair goes smooth as oil. And I tell you, Mr Mole, if you never met Banker Lansing, you don't know what discreet was!'

  Mole looked blankly at Kite, still not catching the old man's drift.

  'You mean to blackmail 'em, Mr Kite, with your little list?'

  Kite shook his head in wondering disappointment at his crony.

  'Mr Mole! Do I look the poor wretch as must stoop to blackmailey? No, Mr Mole! 's their money as old Kite wants! Every penny.

  And then Kite explained the neatest caper that Mole had ever heard of.


  Banker Lansing had seemed to die rich but Kite, who knew him better than most, knew also how precarious were the affairs of the business in Pall Mall East. Lansing had seen the crash coming but his trick with the Shah Jehan clasp was the least of his misdemeanours. It had always been assumed that a banker could be trusted beyond all question. But suppose he could not? Men like Lord Stephen and Sir Aylmer Byrd wrote promissory notes, sometimes for as much as £5,000 or even £10,000. These notes changed hands, endorsed by each holder, with almost as much ease as Bank of England notes. Those who accepted them might take a small commission for their risk, but they knew that risk was tiny. The names signed to the bills were proof of their dependability.

  Eventually the notes would come home to the bank upon which the client had first drawn them. There they were cancelled and the account was settled.

  But suppose the banker failed to cancel them? Suppose that he kept a dozen of these notes of the largest denomination as his own investment against hard times to come? He was the one man who could use them a second time, passing them fraudulently and then withdrawing abroad, taking the proceeds with him. A dozen carefully selected scraps of paper would yield him more than £100,000. The victims of the fraud would know nothing until the bills were presented for payment a second time. By then the dishonest banker would be far beyond their reach. If he was lucky, it might be a month or more before his dupes discovered the extent of their loss.

  'Now, Mr Mole!' sniggered Kite. 'Now then! Banker Lansing knew he'd have to do a bunk soon enough. The dear old reprobate meant to bolt from his creditors taking with him the Shah Jehaney nonsense and that young German naughtiness, Cosima. But, Mr Mole, what was confessed to me was this. In the velvet lining of the old blue box as held the clasp there was a slit made. And in that slit was tucked a dozen slips of paper. See?'

  'Yes!' said Mole, the yellow mouth in a rictus of glee, the dark little eyes gleaming. 'Why, Mr Kite, there ain't a word for it but genius! What a stroke you might pull!'

  'In good time, Mr Mole,' said the old man, the breath humming in his mouth. 'First the notes must be got, being held by that little vixen Cosima in the old jewel case. Then the names of various parties must be put to 'em, making it seem they changed hands all the time since Banker Lansing's death. Then, a week from now, the stroke is pulled, Mr Mole. The racing and the Bristol Plate. See?'

  'Not exactly, Mr Kite,' said Mole doubtfully.

  'Suppose,' said Kite wistfully, 'suppose there was heavy backing of the six runners in the Bristol Plate. A man like Lord Stephen might wager £10,000 on his fancy. The notes go to back four of the horses at best prices, in shops all over London. Just before the race the two other favourite horses is scratched, leaving only the four backed by the notes.'

  'What if they shouldn't be scratched, Mr Kite?' Sealskin Kite looked up with a sharp displeasure at Mole's obtuseness.

  'But they will be, Mr Mole. Arrangements is made. You never thought the old Sealskin went this far without knowing he could have the two nags scratched? Orders is given, Mr Mole! Whichever of our four fancies should win, that's where the dibs is collected. Nice odds too. Monday after, Tattersalls and the settling of bills. The firms who took ours pass them easy. A week or two more and several men of importance must find that they were robbed by Banker Lansing who put their notes of promise out a second time.'

  Old Mole chortled.

  'But well be far away by then, Mr Kite! Eh?' Kite looked shocked.

  'Away, Mr Mole? You won't catch Sealskin Kite going away, my young sir! Don't you get the beauty of it? There's no man can cast a glance at us. No man can put our names to the caper. Why, suspect us! You might as soon suspect the Prince Consort! No, sir. When the truth is out, who shall carry the blame for it? Banker Lansing, the rogue! Only Banker Lansing, being dead, may bear the load a bit more convenient than you and me!'

  The pouchy old face crinkled and the shrewd little eyes shone with the neatness of it all.

  'How's them notes to be got, Mr Kite?'

  For a long interval the buhl clock ticked time away while Kite's jaws moved in a slight chewing motion, as if he hesitated to commit himself at last. Then he spoke.

  'You and me, Mr Mole. And Jack Strap. The three of us must visit the little chit at Brunswick Square and come away with the notes. You do comprehendey, Mr Mole? You do comprehendey?'

  Mole nodded, though he was uncertain and uneasy as to just what the old man intended. But if Sealskin Kite was prepared to take part personally in one of his crimes, Mole reckoned that there was every bit of the £100,000 at stake, and probably a good deal more.

  'Now,' said Kite, 'as one man o' business to another, see what must be done. There's a jack still on the door of the house. He must be sweetened. There's one or two young persons must be put where they won't come to harm. It ain't a lot to ask, is it, Mole?'

  Mole shook his head.

  'And that squeak, Stunning Joseph, and his little whore Jane Mitch or Midge, or whatever she calls herself?'

  'Leave 'em to Strap,' said Kite soothingly. 'See to the German girl yourself. Miss Cosima. Lime your bird, Mr Mole. When we come to her door it must open for us. Make her willing, my dear sir. Lime your bird!'

  After his conversation with Sealskin Kite, Old Mole sat by himself for half an hour and considered the scheme. He was not sure that it was not the most perfect fraud he had ever heard of. The crime of concealing the promissory notes for use a second time had been committed by Baron Lansing before his death. Even if it was discovered that Kite and his friends had passed them through betting offices during Brighton races, it would be assumed that they were as much victims of Lansing's fraud as anyone else. True, if Cosima Bremer were to confess or complain, the scheme might be in danger. But Old Mole knew that such confession or complaint would never be permitted.

  First of all he set out to follow Kite's instructions. This time, they must go through the front door of Brunswick Square, opened to them by the German girl who now lived there alone. To ensure admittance, Mole must appear as an acquaintance, even as a friend. Liming the bird was not always easy, and now it had to be done fast.

  By watching her movements, Mole knew that every afternoon Cosima went down to the beach, where the little caravans of the bathing-machines were drawn up at the water's edge. It was an area of the shingle reserved exclusively for women, as the stretch east of the Chain Pier was kept for men. Between two of the wooden groins which ran down from the promenade wall to the sea, canvas screens protected the girls from observation as they bathed. A stalwart bathing attendant, once a fish-wife in Market Street, presided over the arrangements.

  Old Mole smiled as he looked at the candy-stripes of the canvas screen. He had not been in Brighton two days before discovering what half a crown in the palm of the attendant would buy for any well-dressed gentleman. The woman was easily persuaded to turn her back while the telescopes and cameras of admirers focussed on the pretty bathers from convenient points around the wooden groins. Sometimes the bribes came from girls who wished for an opportunity to meet secretly with lovers where the wooden partition marked the limit of the beach.

  Old Mole was short of time. He decided that a camera, rather than a spy-glass, was the best means of gaining the young woman's acquaintance. By the time that he sauntered down to the shingle beach at the end of the afternoon, he was carrying the varnished wooden box of a Scott-Archer self-developing camera, and a neat little stand. Despite the lines of his sallow face and the look of decay about his mouth, Mole had tricked himself out with yellow kid-gloves, suiting in duck-egg blue and a silk hat to match. At a distance he might pass for a gentleman of fashion.

  It was still warm, the heat shimmering from the pebbles and the wavelets rippling ashore with the glitter of broken glass. But to his satisfaction he saw that Cosima was alone on the stretch of beach. Perhaps the fish-wife, well-paid for her trouble, had hurried her other customers on their way. At his leisure, Old Mole studied his prey.

  Now that he had time to
watch her carefully, Ccsima appeared to be no more than about seventeen years old. She was pretty enough with firm regular features and blue eyes crinkling against the sun. Her fair hair, brushed from its central parting, waved loosely down either side of her face but was trimmed just above her shoulders.

  Her bathing costume seemed to belong to different outfits. The top was a red singlet which showed the twin weight of her breasts. The pants below were of a white cotton web which fitted with suggestive tightness over her hips and thighs. The long agile legs were lightly suntanned, as she walked acrobatically along the narrow top of a groin. Jumping down, Cosima began to draw with her toe in a patch of wet sand. Mole saw that she was writing her own name. Then she kicked up her feet and began to walk nimbly on her hands. Mole waited his chance. Two small boys bounced a ball across the groin and clambered over to retrieve it, earning the pretext to view the ladies' bathing beach. Cosima joined them energetically, pushing her way to the ball and kicking it with as much vigour as they.

  Mole stepped on to the deserted beach and set up the camera. He aimed it here and there. Once Cosima ducked her head, as though fearing she had interrupted his view. He thought at first that she had performed her antics for his benefit, but she was moving far too quickly for the camera to capture them. Then he saw, or rather heard, that there was a boy of her own age beyond the further groin, to whom she had been talking casually. The boy stood, his chin level with the top of the groin, and admired her across the partition.

  Cosima posed herself with all the nonchalance of an artist's model. Perhaps, Mole thought, she had once done so professionally. In her bathing costume the girl sat along the top of the groin, leaning back on one arm, the agile suntanned legs drawn up, her profile turned slightly away, as if inviting the camera's attention. Old Mole began to uncap the lens with a genuine enthusiasm.

  Presently the girl slipped down on to the sand and stood facing the afternoon sun. She shook back the fair hair where it had strayed across her forehead and then she leant back against the wooden structure behind her. Mole, pretending to take his views of the sea, saw her image in the aperture of the lens. The firm features were clear and the shape of her breasts was perfectly mapped by the tightened singlet. He uncapped the lens again. After all, he told himself, it was necessary to his plan that there should be several photographs of her available.