CHAPTER XXIX.

FLASH FRED’S STORY

“Now I’m going to give it to you straight, governor,” said Fred, settling himself comfortably in bed. “I won’t say that I couldn’t tell a lie--that’s the one saying of Napoleon’s that I’ve never believed.”

“The same period, but another man,” said Larry, concealing a smile; “but don’t worry about your history, Fred. I want you to get this story off your mind as quickly as you can.”

“I’ve done a lot of reading in my time,” said the sick man reminiscently. “Histories and high-class novels--they’ve got a pretty good library in Portland Prison, but they’re not so good as the books you get in Wormwood Scrubs. Anyway, I am going to tell you the truth, Mr. Holt. I might as well start at the beginning, and I know I’m going to put myself in wrong, but you’ll have to forget a lot of the things I tell you, because they make me look as if I was a dishonest person.”

“I should hate that impression to get abroad,” said Larry without a smile, “and I promise you that anything which doesn’t relate directly to the murder of Gordon Stuart will be discreetly forgotten.”

“Cheerio!” said Fred, visibly brighter. “Well, this story begins about four or five years ago in Montpellier. You don’t know Montpellier, perhaps?”

“I know it,” said Larry. “You can cut out all the topographical details. I know it from the Coq d’Or to the Palace.”

“I happened to be there,” said Fred, “looking round and enjoying myself, and I drifted into a little game that was run by a man named Floquart on the quiet. It was baccarat, and I’m very lucky at baccarat, especially when I’ve made friends with the dealer. But this time the dealer and me weren’t on speaking terms, as you might say, and for three days I never felt money that wasn’t my own. And each day there was less of my own to feel. Then one night they cleaned me out proper, and I left Floquart’s with just enough to get me home to the hotel if I walked.

“I was turning out of the rue Narbonne when I heard a shot, and, looking across the place, I saw a man lying on the ground and another fellow walking away pretty slick. In those days the police arrangements at Montpellier weren’t all they could have been, and there wasn’t a gendarme in sight. The fellow who was walking must have thought he’d got away with it, when I suddenly came up to him. There was just enough light, for the day was breaking, for me to distinguish his face. A fine-looking fellow he was, with a big yellow beard, and I think he was scared sick when I suddenly stepped out and claimed him as my own. It was not my business to butt into private disturbances, but you understand that I was broke, and I thought that here was a chance of helping a fellow creature in distress to get rid of any incriminating money he might have in his possession. He told me a yarn that the man he’d shot had done him a very bad injury, which I won’t refer to in front of the young lady, and then he slipped me about sixteen thousand francs and I let him go, because I was sorry for him.”

He glanced slyly up at Larry and grinned.

“Well,” he went on, “seeing that no gendarme had appeared, I walked over and had a look at the lad who was shot, though I knew I was taking a risk by being seen in the company of a soon-to-croak. They say he was shot and must have died immediately, but that isn’t true: he was alive when I got to him, and when I was bending over him, it was to find out if I could do anything for the poor devil before he passed out. I asked him who had shot him, and he replied”--he paused impressively--“‘David Judd.’”

Larry’s eyebrows went up.

“David Judd?” he asked. “Is he any relation to the doctor?”

“His brother,” said Fred. “That’s how I came to know him. I’ve always told Judd that I recognized him in the street; as a matter of fact, it was the poor guy on the ground who gave him away. I was trying to find out why he was shot, when he croaked. I knew there was nothing to be gained by being found attached to a murdered man, though fortunately I hadn’t a gun in my possession and could have proved an alibi. Then I heard a gendarme’s heavy feet coming down one of the side turnings, and I got away as quickly as I could. But the swine recognized me, though, and I had to go before an examining magistrate and prove that I had nothing to do with the murder and that I was going for a doctor when I was spotted. I had the good sense to go for a doctor,” he added, “the moment I realized that the copper had seen me.”

He paused, finding it rather difficult to explain subsequent action in language which would be wholly creditable to himself.

“When I got back to London I thought it my duty to call on Mr. David Judd,” he said. “He wasn’t in his office--he used to have a room at the Greenwich Insurance--but I saw his brother, and I unloaded my trouble.”

“Your trouble being to discover how much they’d ‘drop’ for keeping your mouth shut, I suppose,” said Larry.

“You’ve got it at once, Mr. Holt. What a mind!” said the admiring Fred. “He was terribly upset, was Dr. Judd, and said he would see his brother as soon as he came back from the country. And then happened an event which looked like spoiling all my beautiful prospects. Dr. David died. He caught a cold coming down from Scotland and died in twenty-four hours. I went to the funeral,” said Fred, “as a mourner, and I bet that nobody mourned more than I did. Anyway, I must say that Dr. Judd acted like a gentleman. He sent for me after his brother’s funeral and said that he wanted to save his brother’s memory from disgrace, and offered me a yearly income if I would keep my mouth shut.”

“The man who was killed was a clerk, was he not?” asked Larry.

“He was a clerk,” said Fred slowly, “a clerk in the employ of the Greenwich Insurance Company, who had blackmailed David Judd.”

Larry whistled softly.

“The Greenwich Insurance Company,” he said; “and blackmailed David! Why, what crime had David committed?”

Fred shook his head.

“I can’t tell you that, Mr. Holt. If I could, I would. But it was something pretty bad, you can bet. Dr. Judd said that this clerk had pinched a lot of money, and I think that’s true, because I remember his playing, and playing very high, at Floquart’s.

“Well, to cut this story short, I’ve drawn about four years’ income from Dr. Judd. I’m not apologizing or trying to prove to you that I acted like a little gentleman; that doesn’t interest you, anyway. The other day I met the doctor at a wedding. He was invited, but I wasn’t,” explained Fred shamelessly, “but that didn’t make any difference: I went. He asked me if I’d go to dinner with him last night at his house in Chelsea. He’s got a real fine house, has Dr. Judd, full of wonderful pictures and sparklers. And as he was going to pay me a lump sum to get rid of me, I decided to go.

“There is a man at the doctor’s,” he said after a pause, “a valet. I don’t want to give him away, Mr. Holt, but he’s an old lag and was in the next cell to me at Portland.”

“His name is Strauss,” said Larry. “He takes drugs, and has had three convictions.”

“Oh, you know that, do you?” said Fred in surprise. “Well, anyway, I know him. I met him in Piccadilly the other day. He was going to fence a few articles that he’d pinched from his boss, and he dropped me a pair of sleeve-links----”

Larry gasped.

“Oh, that is where they came from; they were Dr. Judd’s?”

“I ain’t so sure that they were Dr. Judd’s,” said Fred. “From what I have heard, the doctor has people who stay with him over week-ends, and Strauss may have pinched them from one of these. Anyway”--again he hesitated, finding it difficult to express his plans in such a manner as would save him from the charge of ingratitude--“I had an idea of helping myself to a few souvenirs of Dr. Judd before I went,” he explained, “and I’d fixed it up with Strauss so that I could just look over the premises and pick a few things that would remind me of my old friend. So when I was asked to dinner, naturally I jumped at the chance. I don’t say that I’d have gone alone to dinner, because the doctor and me aren’t quite bosom companions; but he told me that there was a lot of people coming, so I went. I was supposed to go at eight, which is well after dark, but to the opposite side of the street, because I was anxious to see Dr. Judd’s guests arrive before I got in. I waited till eight and nobody came. I waited till half-past eight, and then I saw the doctor come out and look up and down the road. I was so hungry that I nearly went over to him, but I didn’t see myself dining alone with a fellow that I’ve been swindling. So I waited and waited, and presently a motor-car drove up and went straight to the gates at the side of the house. I thought he was going to push them in, but the moment the head-lamps touched the gates they opened. ‘That’s funny,’ says I to myself, and I crossed the road and had a look over the top of the gate. It meant a bit of a climb, but I did it without making any noise; and the first fellow that got out of the car was that big stiff who tried to croak me in Jermyn Street.”

“Blind Jake?” said Larry.

“I’ve never been introduced,” replied the other sardonically. “I saw him plain for a minute because he passed in front of the head-lamps, and then the lights went out and I saw nothing more. At ten o’clock the gates opened--like magic it was, for there was nobody near them--and a car came out. It passed me, going slow, and I ran behind and jumped on to the luggage-carrier, which was down. I got off as it went into the King’s Road, Chelsea, because there is a lot of light there and a copper might have seen me and given me away. But there were plenty of taxis about, and I hired one and told him to keep the car in sight. I wanted to know where Blind Jake--that’s his name, is it?--was living, and I didn’t have much difficulty in keeping the car in sight. We went up past Victoria, along Grosvenor Place, up Park Lane. I was afraid the car would turn into the park, for private cars are allowed there but taxis aren’t, and I should have lost him. But, luckily or unluckily, it didn’t. The car went up Edgware Road--Tyburn Tree, where they hanged them in the old days, used to be there,” he said, apropos of nothing. “I read that in a book when I was in stir.”

“Cut out those memories of Old London,” begged Larry.

“I followed up close behind, and then the machine turned into some side-streets,” said Fred, “and I took the risk of paying off the cabman and following on foot. I know that district pretty well, and I hadn’t been searching for ten minutes before I saw the car pulling up against a gate which was set into a high wall. The driver must have missed the way, because I was there almost as soon as the doctor.”

“Dr. Judd? Was he there?” asked Larry.

Flash Fred nodded, and was very sorry for himself that he had done so. It was some time before he could speak again.

“If I don’t keep my blinking head still,” he said good-humouredly, “I shall lose it. Yes, the doctor was there. I was close up to them; as a matter of fact, I was standing behind the car when they all three got out. Blind Jake was one; a fellow I didn’t recognize was another, and the doctor was the third. He had a bag in his hand, and he seemed to be a bit put out.

“‘I protest against being sent for at this hour of the night,’ he said.

“The other man, not Blind Jake, said something in a low voice which I didn’t catch.

“‘Why couldn’t you have got another doctor? Remember that you have forced me to come here, and I come under protest. Where is this woman?’ he asked, and I don’t think the reply was intended for my ears, for the big blind man said, ‘In the boiler-house,’ and laughed, and the other fellow turned to him with a curse and told him to keep quiet.

“They went through the gates, and presently the car moved on. I think it had to turn, and the street wasn’t wide enough. The gate was locked and it had been painted black, but I saw that the word ‘Laundry’ had been there before the new coat had been put on.”

“Did you notice the name of the street?” asked Larry.

“Reville Street,” said the other, to Larry’s surprise, and then he remembered.

“That is the street behind and running parallel with Lissom Lane,” he said. “Go on, Fred.”

“Well, I had to slip away; otherwise I should have been seen. I went all round the house and came back behind it, just as the doctor came out, and this time there were only two of them; the big blind man had gone. I couldn’t hear what they were talking about, but presently I heard the doctor say good-night and the car drove off. The other man was looking after the tail-lights, and I had nothing to do but to slouch past as though I had been coming along, walking all the time. If there’s one bad habit that’s worse than another,” said Fred reflectively, “it’s talking to yourself, whether you talk in your sleep or while you’re awake. But there are some men who can’t help it. There was a pal of mine in Barcelona--however, I won’t talk about him, Mr. Holt. Well, this man that was left standing was one of that kind. A brooder, I should think. And before I got opposite to him, I heard him muttering, as he stood stock-still, his hands behind him, looking after the car; and the words that I heard as I passed were these. I remember them--sort of committed them to memory. And the words were: ‘Clarissa’s nurse.’ He said it twice. I walked on, never dreaming that he’d spotted me, and as I walked I thought: ‘Now the best thing you can do, Fred, is to go straight to Mr. Holt and tell him what you’ve seen and what you’ve heard.’”

Larry nodded.

“I was only a few hundred yards from your house, so I made up my mind I’d do it. I hadn’t gone very far when I got an uncomfortable feeling that I was being followed. I couldn’t see anybody, but I had that creepy sensation that you get when the splits are after you, and I couldn’t shake it off. I got into your street and began looking for the block where your flat was. I passed it once and was directed back here; and I think that the people who were following me must have slipped in and got upstairs and were waiting for me when I came up. I remember putting my hand up to the knocker of your flat, and then I don’t remember anything more.”

The girl had been writing rapidly, and now she closed her book.

“I think that’s about all,” said Fred weakly. “I’d like a drink.”

Ten minutes later two motor-cars laden with plain-clothes officers were on their way westward, and the inhabitants of the little street upon which the laundry backed were interested spectators of another raid.

“What is this wall?” asked Larry of his assistant.

“It is the wall of the laundry building proper,” said Harvey. “I inspected it very carefully, but there was nothing there.”

“Did you see the boiler-house?”

“Yes, sir, it is a very ordinary underground room with one large boiler and a steam engine.”

“Get that door open,” said Larry. “You have got some men in Lissom Lane to watch the other gate?”

“Yes, sir,” reported the sergeant, and with an expert hand he manipulated the lock and presently the door swung wide.

The room into which the door directly led was in darkness. It proved, when lights were obtained, to be a long brick shed, with a concrete floor, and four rows of trestles down the centre, where, in the days of the laundry, the washerwomen worked. A flight of steps, guarded by a rail, went down to a lower floor, and Larry led the way into the boiler-house.