The Victorian Rogues MEGAPACK ™: 28 Classic Tales

by Maurice Leblanc

  “I won’t bargain with you, Blackie,” he said.

  “You’re afraid to risk an even break?”

  “You know I’m not,” Sherwood answered, his gaze turning once more to the woman who stood by the door, staring panic-stricken. It was plain that the issue to be decided in that room was life or death to her as well as to the men.

  Boston Blackie reached toward his gun, hoping the Deputy Warden would do likewise and end, in one quick exchange of shots, the strain he knew was breaking his nerve. Sherwood let Blackie recover his weapon without moving a muscle. Once more the convict’s revolver rose till it covered Martin Sherwood’s heart. They stood again as they had been, the Deputy at the mercy of the escaped prisoner.

  Seconds passed, then minutes, without a word or a motion on either side of the table over which the triangular tragedy was being settled not at all as any of those concerned had planned. The strain was unbearable. The muscles of the convict’s throat twitched. His face was drawn and distorted.

  “Pick up that gun and defend yourself,” he cried.

  “No,” shouted Sherwood, the calm which his mighty will had until then sustained snapping like an over-tightened violin-string.

  “You want to make me feel myself a murderer,” cried Blackie in anguish. “Why didn’t I give you bullet for bullet when you came in the door? I could have killed you then. Now I can’t unless you’ll fight. Once more I ask you, will you take an even break?”

  “No,” cried Sherwood again.

  With a great cry—the cry of a strong man broken and beaten—Boston Blackie threw his gun upon the floor.

  “You win, Sherwood,” he sobbed, losing self-control completely for the first time in a life of daily hazards. “You’ve beaten me.”

  He staggered drunkenly toward Mary and folded her in his arms.

  “I tried to force myself to pull the trigger by thinking of the life we hoped for together, dear, but I couldn’t do it,” he moaned brokenly. “I’ll go back with him now. Everything is over.”

  “I’m glad now you didn’t, dear,” she cried, clinging to him. “It would have been murder. I don’t want you to do that, even to save our happiness. But I’ll wait for you, dear one, wait till your time is done and you come back to me again.”

  Boston Blackie straightened his shoulders and turning to Sherwood, held out his wrists for the hand-cuffs.

  “Come, come,” he urged. “For God’s sake, don’t prolong this. Don’t stand there gloating. Take me away.”

  Martin Sherwood, with something strangely new transfiguring the face Boston Blackie knew and hated, reached to the table and picked up his gun slowly. Just as slowly he dropped it into his pocket. He looked into the two grief-racked faces before him, long and silently.

  “I’m sorry to have disturbed you folks,” he said quietly at last. “I came here looking for an escaped convict named Boston Blackie. I have found only you, Miss Collins, and your mother. I’m sorry my misinformation has subjected you both to annoyance. The police officers who are outside”—the Deputy Warden opened a crack in the window curtain and pointed out to the dim shapes in the darkness—“and who surround this house, will be withdrawn at once. Had Boston Blackie been in this room, and had he by some mischance killed me, his shot would have brought a dozen men armed with sawed-off shotguns. Escape for him was absolutely impossible. I saw to that before I entered here alone to capture him. But it all has been a blunder. The man I wanted to take back to prison is not here, and I can only hope my apology will be accepted.”

  Blackie stared at him with blazing, unbelieving eyes. From Mary came a cry in which all the pent-up anguish of the lifetime that had been lived in the last half-hour found sudden relief.

  “Good night, folks,” said Martin Sherwood, offering Boston Blackie his hand. The convict caught it in his own, and the men looked into each other’s eyes for a second. Then the Deputy Warden went out and closed the door behind him.

  Mary sprang into Blackie’s arms, and they dropped together into a chair, dazed with a happiness greater than either had ever known.

  “He is a man,” said Blackie. “He is a man even though he’s a copper.”

  Martin Sherwood let himself out of the house and beckoned the cordon of police to him as he looked back at the windows of the attic rooms and spoke softly to himself.

  “He is a man,” he said. “He is a man, even though he is a convict.”

  It was the greatest praise and the greatest concession either had ever made to another man.

  Three days later a steamer passed out through the Golden Gate. On the upper deck were a man and a woman, hand in hand, with eyes misty with happiness—Boston Blackie and his Mary.

  ABOUT THUBWAY THAM

  Thubway Tham is a thief—a pickpocket, to be precise—who plies his trade in New York City subways. But he’s a good-hearted sort, which may explain why he always manages to elude Detective Cranston, his nemesis. (His real name is Subway Sam, but due to his lisp, everyone calls him Thubway Tham.)

  The Thubway Tham stories were penned by Johnston McCulley, most famous for his Zorro character. Tham first appeared in Detective Story Magazine on June 4, 1918—every so slightly outside of the Victorian era, but these stories are a personal favorite of the publisher, so he’s making us put one in anyway. (We’re sure you’ll enjoy it. It certainly fits the theme!)

  Wildside Press has published two collections of Thubway Tham stories, Tales of Thubway Tham and Adventures of Thubway Tham.

  THUBWAY THAM, by Johnston McCulley

  Subway Sam it was not; it was Thubway Tham. Because the certain individual who bore the title, and who was known to the underworld and the police as a gentleman of some prominence in his line, lisped when he spoke, and so called himself Thubwav Tham, and did not take it as an insult when other persons did the same. Anybody seeking an underworld title might have called himself Subway Sam or Elevated Elmer; only an unusual man and a genius could be called Thubway Tham.

  Just now, Thubway Tham stood close to the door, as the train roared into the station at Columbus Circle. Thubway Tham generally stood close to a door, where the jam was greatest, and those who knew best his mode of existence knew that he stood there only when it was one of those periods of the day during which everybody seems to want to get to the same place at the same time and in the same manner. When it came to business, Thubway Tham had no use for the silent places Of solitude, for they were not profitable.

  The guard threw open the doors, and the jam through them began, as if each individual there was afraid those doors would close again in the twinkling of an eye, and cut him off forever from his fellows and the world in general.

  Thubway Tham jammed with the others, then skipped lightly up the stairs to the street, When he reached it he had in a side pocket of his coat, a watch and a fat wallet, and was calling himself unfortunate and slow because he had made only two “touches” while getting to the street level.

  He walked rapidly across the Circle, toward a certain bar of questionable repute. It was a little, evil-smelling, dingy place, crowded between two respectable establishments, with only a narrow entrance, that would have been unseen by the uninitiated.

  Inside, a man found a smoke-filled room, long and narrow, in which there were two rows of tables against the walls—old, greasy tables, that could have spoken histories could they have talked. Between each pair of tables was a partition about as high as an ordinary man’s head when he was sitting down. At the end of each table was an enormous, battered, heavy brass cuspidor. Whenever the proprietor wanted to break in a new porter by giving him all the work possible to do, these cuspidors were cleaned. Sometimes the proprietor did not change porters frequently.

  A tall waiter with an evil face and an apron that had not seen a laundry except on the outside, presided over the place. He had been there for years and recogn
ized two classes of customers—those who were regular and approved patrons, and those who dropped into the place, through accident, for the first time. In accordance with his policy of safety first, he saw to it that strangers got such poor service that they did not return.

  This was the place toward which Thubway Tham made his way after reaching the street. He was a regular patron there, and also at half a dozen other places in the city, each of them near a subway entrance, and each presided over by a waiter or proprietor who lowered one eyelid when he saw Thubway Tham, and afterward treated him as if he never had seen him before; and did not care to see him again.

  Thubway Tham came within ten feet of the door and started to turn in from the curb toward it. A hand fell upon his shoulder. It did not fall heavily, yet Thubway Tham knew by the touch that it was the hand of the law. Mentally, he shivered; physically, he merely turned around with a questioning took in his face. Before him was a certain headquarters detective named Craddock.

  Craddock was of the new order of detectives. He was no giant of bone and muscle, flat-footed, red-faced, ignorant, gruff, brutal. He was a man of medium size, well dressed, and would have passed, in a crowd, for an unassuming bookkeeper or clerk. But intelligence gleamed from his eyes, and he was of the type that persons of the underworld had learned to fear. Craddock did not use a club; he got his results in a polite and businesslike manner that horrified evildoers.

  “Good evening, Tham,” quoth he.

  “Evening, Mr. Craddock. What you doin’ in thith part of town. Theein’ the thights?”

  “Just wandering around, Tham, merely wandering around. What are you doing up here, if a gentleman might ask without presuming too much? Going to prayer meeting?”

  “No, thir! I’m juth gettin’ off by mythelf, to think. I ain’t been feelin’ well lately. I wath thinkin’ of buyin’ out a thigar th-thore and thettlin down, but now I’m thcared the physical-culture fad ith goin’ to ruin buthineth.”

  “Um!” said Detective Craddock, looking at Thubway Tham closely, and making that gentleman feel mighty uncomfortable. Thubway Tham was remembering that he had watch and wallet in his pocket. “Why do you hand me this string of talk, Tham? Am I an infant in long dresses? Am I an innocent maiden from the country, alone in the big, big town? Do I look, Tham, like Uncle Si Perkins, from Cozy Corners?”

  “No, thir!”

  “Think I’m getting old, or anything like that, and that perhaps my brain is taking a vacation? Thinking of buying a cigar store and settling down, are you? Better not try it, Tham. There are enough ‘fences’ in town now.”

  “Thir? That ith alwayth the way! Give a dog a bad name. You don’t want a man to be honeth. Onth he ith down, give him another kick. If he feelth thorry and trith to do right—”

  “Good!” Craddock exclaimed, slapping him on the back. “I haven’t heard anything as good, in that particular line, since I was a kid and used to eat melodrama alive. You ought to go on the stage, Tham. But, putting this excellent acting aside, what are you drifting around this part of town for?”

  “I wath goin’ in here and get me a drink, and then goin’ back downtown. Thince you are kind enough to athk, let me thay that I been thquare for thome time. I ain’t been feelin’ well.”

  “If you got your meals regular, and got good, substantial food, like they hand out up the river, maybe you’d feel better.”

  “That ith nothin’ to joke about!” Tham said.

  “I’ll just go in here with you, Tham, and I’ll buy that little drink. And then, since I’m not feeling any too well either this evening, I’ll just walk around with you and take the air until you feel inclined to leave this part of town. This is my pet, particular district, and I’d hate to have reports go in that any of the good citizens around here have been annoyed. I just saw you come out of the subway in an awful hurry.”

  Tham knew that there was no help for it. He knew Detective Craddock both personally and by reputation. He knew, also, for it had been whispered about the underworld, that Craddock was out to get him. Tham was a bit afraid of Craddock and he still had the loot in his pocket.

  He turned in at the little door, Craddock at his heels, and led the way to the nearest table. Craddock sat across from him, watching every move that Tham made. The tall waiter drooped one eyelid and wondered a great deal. Was Tham pinched? Was Tham turning stool pigeon? What did Tham mean by bringing a fly cop in here and disturbing the regular customers, making them nervous and all that?

  The tall waiter took their order, receiving also the glance that Craddock gave him, and which seemed to penetrate even his rhinoceroslike hide. He went for the drinks, and he took occasion to whisper to the proprietor:

  “Thubway Tham’s in there, and Detective Craddock is with him. They came through the door, acting like twin brothers that don’t hate each other.”

  “Pinch?” the proprietor asked.

  “Don’t look like it, boss.”

  “Then Craddock is just trying to make him nervous. That’s Craddock’s way, you know. Give them their beer and try to act natural. If, that man Craddock takes a notion to hang around here a lot we won’t have enough business to pay for ice.”

  Back at the table, Thubway Tham was listening to the detective.

  “A gentleman of your activities is liable to get into serious trouble, sooner or later,” Craddock was saying. “You can’t reform, I suppose, but at least you can stay away from my part of town. To speak plainly, my dear Tham, this is a little farewell party between us; I do not expect to see you in this district again, ever. ’Tis sad to part, Tham, but folks are old-fashioned in this burg, and don’t like to have their pockets picked.”

  “Now—” Tham began.

  “You heard me!” Craddock, said. “Don’t try to argue. I always get riled when I have to argue, and when I get riled I want to arrest somebody. You get me, Tham?”

  “Yeth, thir.”

  Thubway Tham deliberately pulled the heavy brass cuspidor toward him with one foot, and spat into it, also deliberately. He reached forward, with his left hand grasped the glass of beer before him.

  “To your complete understanding of the situation, my dear Tham!” Craddock said, grinning.

  They lifted their glasses and drank—and Thubway Tham’s right hand, moving like a streak of lighting, jerked that wallet from his coat pocket and dropped it deftly into the mouth of the tall brass cuspidor.

  Well, he was rid of that piece of damaging evidence, at least. Even Craddock, unless something made him suspect, would not think to look into the cuspidor. But Tham still had the watch in his pocket.

  It was a heavy watch, and Tham knew that it was valuable. He had “lifted” it from a prosperous-looking elderly gentleman, who gave off an atmosphere of money as a flower gives off perfume. Even if he could drop the watch into the cuspidor without Craddock noticing the movement, it would make a noise when it dropped, and that might bring disaster.

  Glancing across the aisle, Tham saw three men of his ilk. He rubbed at his forehead with one hand, making the “noise sign.” The men caught it, and immediately two of them began bellowing at each other in altercation, the third trying to pacify them.

  Tham merely turned his head, and Craddock did the same, but the detective’s eyes rolled back to see whether this was some game. Craddock did not see Thubway Tham’s lightninglike movement as he dropped the watch, and, because of the row six feet away, he did not hear the sound the watch made when it struck the bottom of the cuspidor.

  Tham inwardly gave a sigh of relief. No evidence could be found on him now, if Craddock decided to search. He would get rid of the detective and recover the property.

  “You thee,” he said, “if that ith the way you feel about it, I gueth I’ll have to thay I’ll keep away from here.”

  “That’s a sensible decision, Tham,” Craddock r
eplied.

  “But I ain’t been doin’ nothin’, anyway.”

  “I didn’t like the way you came out Of the subway.”

  “You can thearch me,” said Tham.

  “Watch out! I may take you up on that!”

  “Thith ain’t a bluff! Thearch me!”

  “If that is the way you feel about it, I suppose you haven’t anything on you. So we’ll just call it square if you obey orders, Tham. Get away from this neck of the woods within the half hour, and stay away. You gather that in?”

  “Yeth, thir!”

  “We’ll have another beer, and then we’ll go.”

  Craddock called the waiter. Thubway Tham knew that Craddock didn’t want that beer; he hadn’t downed the other, but had let it go flat. Craddock was merely making certain gentlemen in the room uncomfortable by sitting there; his presence was having a better effect than a “pinch.” A “pinch” settled a thing—it meant disaster for one man and relief for the others; but as long as Craddock loitered around and did not make a “pinch,” it meant that he might be going to make one, and that it was a big and interesting question upon whose shoulder his hand would fall.

  Tham didn’t want to go out with Craddock. He wanted to remain long enough to recover his swag. And now he beheld something that almost made him ill.

  Down the aisle came a hungry-looking individual who was collecting the big brass cuspidors. The proprietor had engaged a new porter.