CHAPTER XVII

WHITEY HAS A PLAN

Whitey met Lambaire by appointment at the Whistlers. Lambaire was the sole occupant of the card-room when the other entered. He was sitting at one of the green baize-covered tables dressed in evening kit, and was enlivening his solitude with a game of Chinese Patience. He looked up.

“Hullo, Whitey,” he said lazily, “aren’t you going to dress for dinner?”

Whitey closed the door carefully.

“Nobody can hear us?” he asked shortly.

Lambaire frowned.

“What’s wrong?” he asked.

“Everything’s wrong.” Whitey was unusually vehement. “I’ve seen Amber.”

“That doesn’t make everything wrong, does it?” It was a characteristic of Lambaire’s that alarm found expression in petulance.

“Don’t bark, Lambaire,” said Whitey, “don’t get funny--I tell you that Amber knows.”

“Knows what?”

“That we didn’t find the mine.”

Lambaire laughed scornfully.

“Any fool can guess that,--how’s he going to prove it?”

“There’s only one way,” replied Whitey grimly, “and he’s found it.”

“Well,” demanded Lambaire as his friend paused.

“He’s located the real mine. Lambaire, I know it. Look here.”

He pulled up a chair to the table.

“You know why Amber came out?”

“With the girl, I suppose,” said Lambaire.

“Girl nothing--” said Whitey. “He came out because the Government thought the mine was in Portuguese territory--your infernal compasses puzzled ’em, Lambaire; all your cursed precautions were useless. All our schemin’ to get hold of the plan was waste of time. It was a faked plan.”

“Fake! Fake! Fake!”

Whitey thumped the table with his fist. “I don’t attempt to explain it--I don’t know whether old Sutton did it for a purpose, but he did it. You gave him compasses so that he couldn’t find his way back after he’d located it. Lambaire--he knew those compasses were wrong. It was tit for tat. You gave him a false compass--he gave you a spoof plan.”

Lambaire rose.

“You’re mad,” he said roughly, “and what does it matter, anyway?”

“Matter! Matter!” spluttered Whitey. “You great lumbering dolt! You blind man! Amber can turn us down! He’s only got to put his finger on the map and say ‘Our mine is here,’ to bring our Company to ruin. He’s takin’ the first step to-morrow. The Colonial Office is going to ask us to locate the River of Stars--and we’ve got to give them an answer in a week.”

Lambaire sank back into his chair, his head bent in thought. He was a slow thinker.

“We can take all the money that’s come in and bolt,” he said, and Whitey’s shrill contemptuous laugh answered him.

“You’re a Napoleon of finance, you are,” he piped; “you’re a brain broker! You’ve got ideas that would be disgustin’ in a child of fourteen! Bolt! Why, if you gave any sign of boltin’ you’d have half the splits in London round you! You’re----”

“Aw, dry up, Whitey,” growled the big man. “I’m tired of hearing you.”

“You’ll be tireder,” said Whitey, and his excitement justified the lapse.

“You’ll be tireder in Wormwood Scrubbs, servin’ the first part of your sentence--no, there’s no bolt, no bank, no fencing business; we’ve got to locate the mine.”

“How?”

“Somebody knows where it is--that girl knows, I’ll swear. Amber knows--there’s another party that knows--but that girl knows.”

He bent his head till his lips were near Lambaire’s ear.

“There’s another River of Stars Company been floated,” he whispered, “and it’s the real river this time. Lambaire, if you’re a man we’ve got the whole thing in our hands.” Whitey went on slowly, emphasizing each point with the thrust of his finger at Lambaire’s snowy shirt-front till it was spotted with little grey irregular discs.

“If we can go to the Colonial Office and say, ‘This is where we found the mine,’ and it happens to be the identical place where Amber’s gang say they found it, we establish ourselves and kill Amber’s Company.”

The idea began to take shape in Lambaire’s mind.

“We’ve announced the fact that we’ve located the mine,” Whitey went on. “Amber’s goin’ to make the same announcement. We jump in first--d’ye see?”

“I don’t quite follow you,” said Lambaire.

“You wouldn’t,” snarled Whitey. “Listen--if we say our mine is located at a certain place, the Colonial Office will ask Amber if there is a diamond mine there, and Amber will be obliged to say, Yes--that’s where my mine is! But what chance has Amber got? All along we’ve claimed that we have found a mine; it’s only an eleventh hour idea of Amber’s; it is his word against ours--and we claimed the mine first!”

Lambaire saw it now; slowly he began to appreciate the possibilities of the scheme.

“How did you find all this out?” he asked.

“Saw Amber--he dropped a hint; took the bull by the horns and went to the Colonial Office. There’s a chap there I know--he gave me the tip. We shall get a letter to-morrow asking us to explain exactly where the mine is. It appears that there is a rotten law which requires the Government to ‘proclaim’ every mining area.”

“I forgot that,” admitted Lambaire.

“You didn’t know it, so you couldn’t have forgotten it,” said Whitey rudely. “Get out of these glad clothes of yours and meet me at my hotel in about an hour’s time.”

“I’ll do anything that’s reasonable,” said Lambaire.

An hour later he presented himself at the little hotel which Whitey used as his London headquarters.

It was situated in a narrow street that runs from the Strand to Northumberland Avenue--a street that contains more hotels than any other thoroughfare in London. Whitey’s suite occupied the whole of the third floor, in fine he had three small rooms. From the time Lambaire entered until he emerged from the swing door, two hours elapsed. The conference was highly satisfactory to both men.

“We shall have to be a bit careful,” were Lambaire’s parting words.

Whitey sniffed, but said nothing.

“I’ll walk with you as far as--which way do you go?” he asked.

“Along the Embankment to Westminster,” said Lambaire.

They walked from Northumberland Avenue and crossed the broad road opposite the National Liberal Club. Big Ben struck eleven as they reached the Embankment. An occasional taxi whirred past. The tramway cars, ablaze with lights and crowded with theatre-goers, glided eastward and westward. They shared the pavement with a few shuffling night wanderers. One of these came sidling towards them with a whine.

“... couple o’ ’apence ... get a night’s bed, sir ... gnawing hunger...!”

They heard and took no notice. The man followed them, keeping pace with his awkward gait. He was nearest Whitey, and as they reached an electric standard he turned suddenly and gripped the man by the coat.

“Let’s have a look at you,” he said.

For one so apparently enfeebled by want the vagrant displayed considerable strength as he wrenched himself free. Whitey caught a momentary glimpse of his face, strong, resolute, unshaven.

“That’ll do, guv’nor,” growled the man, “keep your hands to yourself.”

Whitey dived into his pocket and produced half a crown.

“Here,” he said, “get yourself a drink and a bed, my son.”

With muttered thanks the beggar took the coin and turned on his heel.

“You’re getting soft,” said the sarcastic Lambaire as they pursued their way.

“I dare say,” said the other carelessly, “I am full of generous impulses--did you see his dial?”

“No.”

Whitey laughed.

“Well?”

“A split,” said Whitey shortly, “that’s all--man named Mardock from Scotland Yard.”

Lambaire turned pale.

“What’s the game?” he demanded fretfully; “what’s he mean, Whitey--it’s disgraceful, watching two men of our position!”

“Don’t bleat,” Whitey snapped; “you don’t suppose Amber is leavin’ a stone unturned to catch us, do you? It’s another argument for doing something quick.”

He left his companion at Westminster, and walked back the way he had come. A slow-moving taxi-cab overtook him and he hailed it. There was nobody near to overhear his directions, but he took no risks.

“Drive me to Victoria,” he said. Half-way down Victoria Street he thrust his head from the window.

“Take me down to Kennington,” he said, and gave an address. He changed his mind again and descended at Kennington Gate. From thence he took a tram that deposited him at the end of East Lane, and from here to his destination was a short walk.

Whitey sought one named Coals. Possibly the man’s name had in a dim and rusty past been Cole; as likely it had been derived from the profession he had long ceased to follow, namely that of a coal-heaver.

Coals had served Whitey and Lambaire before and would serve them again, unless one of two catastrophes had overtaken him. For if he were neither dead nor in prison, he would be in a certain public-house, the informal club from which his successive wives gathered him at 12.30 a.m. on five days of the week, and at 12 midnight and 11 p.m. on Saturdays and Sundays.

Your small criminal is a creature of habit--a blessed circumstance for the police of our land.

Whitey was fortunate, for he had no difficulty in finding the man.

He was standing in his accustomed corner of the public bar, remarkably sober, and the boy who was sent in to summon him was obeyed without delay.

Whitey was waiting at some distance from the public-house, and Coals came to him apprehensively, for Whitey was ominously respectable.

“Thought you was a split, sir,” said Coals, when his visitor had made himself known, “though there’s nothing against me as far as I know.”

He was a tall broad-shouldered man with a big shapeless head and a big shapeless face. He was, for a man of his class and antecedents, extremely talkative.

“How are things going with you, sir?” he rattled on in a dead monotonous tone, without pause or emphasis. “Been pretty bad round this way. No work, it’s cruel hard the work’s scarce. Never seen so much poverty in me life; blest if I know what will happen to this country unless something’s done.”

The scarcity of work was a favourite topic with Coals; it was a pet belief of his that he was the victim of an economic condition which laid him on the shelf to rust and accumulate dust. If you asked Coals how it was with him he would reply without hesitation:

“Out of work,” and there would be a hint of gloom and resentment in his tone which would convince you that here was a man who, but for the perversity of the times, might be an active soldier in the army of commerce.

“Some say it’s the Government,” droned Coals, “some say it’s Germany, but something ought to be done about it, that’s what I say ... tramping about from early morn to jewy eve, as the good Book sez....”

Whitey cut him short. They had been walking all this time in the direction of the Old Kent Road. The street was empty, for it was close on half-past twelve, and the reluctant clients of the public-houses were beginning to form in groups about the closing doors.

“Coals,” said Whitey, “I’ve got a job for you.”

Coals shot a suspicious glance at him.

“I’m very much obliged to you, Mr. White, sir,” he said breathlessly, “an’ I’d be glad to take it if my leg was better; but what with the wet weather an’ hardships and trouble I’ve been in....”

“It’s a job that will suit you,” said Whitey, “not much risk and a hundred pounds.”

“Oh,” said Coals thoughtfully, “not a laggin’ job?”

“That’s your business.” Whitey was brusque to the point of rudeness. “You’ve done lagging for less.”

“That’s true,” admitted the man. Whitey searched his pocket and found a sovereign.

“In the course of the next day or two,” he said, “I shall send for you--you can read, can’t you?”

“Yes, sir, thank God,” said Coals, heartily for him, “I’ve had my schooling and good use I’ve made of it; I’ve always been a well-behaved man inside, and never lost a mark.”

“Indeed,” said Whitey, without enthusiasm. He did not like to hear men talk with such pride of their prison reputations.

They parted at the Kent Road end of the street, and Whitey went to the Embankment by a convenient tramway car. He went to his hotel, but only to get an overcoat, for the night was chilly. In a few minutes he was back on the Embankment, going eastward. He hoped to learn something from the Borough.

Near the end of the thoroughfare wherein Peter resided was a coffee-stall. The folks of Redcow Court were of irregular habits; rising at such hours as would please them and seeking sleep as and when required. Meals in Redcow Court were so many movable feasts, but there was one habit which gave to the Courtiers a semblance of regularity. Near the end of the court was a coffee-stall which took up a position at twelve midnight and removed itself at 7 a.m. At this stall the more affluent and the more Bohemian residents might be found in the neighbourhood of one o’clock. Whitey--he possessed a remarkable knowledge of the metropolis, acquired often under stress of circumstances--came to the stall hopefully, and was not disappointed.

With his coat buttoned up to his chin he ordered a modest cup of coffee and took his place in the circle of people that stood at a respectful distance from the brazier of glowing coke. He listened in silence to the gossip of the court; it was fairly innocent gossip, for though there were many in the circle who were acquainted with the inside of his Majesty’s prisons, the talk was not of “business.”

Crime was an accident among the poorer type of criminal, such people never achieved the dignity of being concerned in carefully planned coups. Their wrong-doing synchronizes with opportunity, and opportunity that offers a minimum of immediate risk.

So the talk was of how So-and-So ought to take something for that cold of his, and how it would pay this or that person to keep a civil tongue in her head.

“Old Jim’s got a job.”

“Go on.”

“Wonderful, ain’t it--he’s got a job....”

“See the fire engine to-night?”

“No--where?”

“Up the High Street, two.”

“Where they going?”

“New Cut--somewhere.”

“What time?”

“About--what time is it, Charley?”

“I dunno. Just when old Mr. Musk was going.”

“’S he gone?”

“Went in a four-wheeler--gave Tom a bob for carrying his birds.”

“Goo’law! Old Musk gone ... in a cab ... I bet he’s an old miser.”

“I bet he is too ... very close ... he’s not gone away for good.”

“Where’s he gone?”

Whitey, sipping his coffee, edged nearer the speaker.

“Gone to a place in Kent--Maidstone ... where the hopping is.”

(Oh, indiscreet Peter! bursting with importance!)

“No, it ain’t Maidstone--it’s a place called Were.”

“Well, that’s Maidstone--anyway, Maidstone’s the station.”

Whitey finished his coffee and went home to bed.