THE WHODUNIT COLLECTION: British Murder Mysteries (15 Novels in One Volume). Charles Norris Williamson
"What's the game, Isaacstein? What are you hanging around for?" he demanded. And because he had been trained not to take risks, his hand gripped the greasy collar of the nondescript and administered a slight warning shake.
One hundred and eighty pounds of trained policeman took the pavement with a thud. He sat up ruefully and with wrath. One does not expect a rickety, middle-aged tramp to have a working knowledge of ju-jitsu. And it astonished him still more that his assailant remained instead of taking advantage of the opportunity and making a dash for freedom.
"All right," he growled and advanced cautiously.
"Don't make a fool of yourself, my man," said the tramp authoritatively. "I'm C. I. Walk on quietly to the corner and I'll show you my warrant card."
The constable hesitated. He was young and this was beyond his experience. But the authority of the voice shook him and he obeyed the order. Within five minutes he learned how near he had been to committing a bad mistake.
"I'm sorry, sir," he apologised. "I didn't know."
"That's all right," said Menzies. "Of course you didn't. I'm not blaming you. Now you hang on to this corner for half an hour. I'll be responsible to your superiors. Just stand here and keep your eyes and ears open in case I should want you."
He had straightened up during the conversation, but now he became again the shambling hobo. A clock somewhere had just chimed six, and he judged that there might be a chance to commence operations. He moved furtively up to the door of number one hundred and forty and rang the bell. Twice he had to repeat the summons before there was any movement within. Then a window was flung up above and a woman's voice demanded the business of the intruder.
Menzies' answer was to press the bell again. He had no very definite plan in his mind. His was merely a reconnoitring expedition. He wanted the door opened and had no intention of carrying on a conversation with the lady upstairs, whoever she was, at the top of his voice. He was shielded from her sight by the porch and he did not offer to step out.
The window closed with a bang and there were sounds of someone moving. Presently the door opened, and the pleasant-faced woman who had met Hallett confronted the detective.
"'Ave you got a bite you could spare a pore man, lidy," he whined. "I've been walkin' all night an' nothin' 'as passed my lips since yesterday."
The pleasant-faced lady frowned. She had a dogged chin and a wide mouth and was quite obviously not the sort of person to be played with. "I've got nothing for you," she snapped, perhaps with excusable viciousness for one who had been dragged out of bed by a beggar. She flung the door to forcefully. Menzies' foot, however, was a shade the quicker as he thrust it in the opening.
"Why, Gwennie," he said smilingly, in his natural voice; "this is a nice welcome for an old friend. "Don't you remember me? I'm Weir Menzies."
She gave a quick exclamation and pulled the door back. Her face did not for a moment bear any very noticeable expression of delight at the reunion. That, however, was only for a second. The next instant she had thrust out her hand with a bright smile.
"Why, so it is. Who'd have thought of seeing you here and in a rig like that. Come right in, Mr. Menzies. I am glad to see you."
"After you, Gwennie," said Menzies politely but firmly. "Lead the way. Never mind the door. I'll shut it."
Chapter XI
Gwennie Lyne was a lady with a reputation or without one. It depended on the point of view. As far back as Menzies could remember she had been a notable figure in the little coterie of master criminals who know no nation and to whom the world is a hunting ground. Long, long ago, in the days when bank robbery in the United States had been a profitable pastime, she had organised and even played an executive part in exploits any one of which ought to have made her fortune.
Menzies knew her record almost by heart, for she was one of the very few "Classic "criminals who brought to bear on an undertaking an ingenuity, enterprise, and audacity that had won her through in a score of tight places. At ten years of age she had assisted her mother to pick pockets in Philadelphia. At twenty she had married Jim Lyne, bank burglar and gunman. At twenty-one she had effected a particularly daring escape from Sing Sing. At twenty-five she had held a pistol to a watchman's head at a bank in New Jersey while her companions ransacked the vaults. At thirty she had probably more experience in every grade of professional crime short of murder, which is not professional crime than any person of her own age, male or female. Opportunely enough, her husband, always too much of a swashbuckler for his trade, was shot in a drunken brawl in Wisconsin at this time. Thereafter she held her way undisputed, always ready to become a partner in any department of the higher walks of crime, from receiving, to organising a bogus bank.
She had of course met with checks. There were few civilised countries where she had not tasted prison for longer or shorter periods. All that was in the day's work.
It is a myth that there is a distinctive criminal physiognomy. Fifty years or more of crime had left Gwennie Lyne untouched by any outward mark. Hers was a face which none could dream of distrusting on sight she had been a handsome and was still a comely woman. The mouth was perhaps a trifle wide and it curved downwards at the edges. Her hazel eyes were shrewd, but with the apparent shrewdness of years, not the cunning of the outcast. She spoke softly, with a slight drawl, but her voice was the voice of a cultivated woman.
Menzies had recognised her with something of a thrill. Her presence in the combination against him was singularly unwelcome, for he knew her fertility of resource and her daring. On the other hand, the mere fact that he knew she was with the other side was something gained.
His right hand dropped to his trousers pocket as he followed her, to make sure that the little baton he had placed there before leaving home was in place. He rarely carried a pistol for fear that he might be tempted to use it before it was absolutely necessary.
She took him into one of the two small front rooms of the house and pulled up the blinds to admit the now growing daylight. He observed "The Stag at Bay" and a "View of Naples "on the vivid yellowish-green wall-paper, and it needed not the faded, worn horsehair Victorian furniture, the pile of books on a table in the window, to tell him that Gwennie had had no hand in furnishing the house. She had the virtue of taste, at any rate, and probably the place had been taken already furnished and for a purpose. He wondered whether its purpose had been entirely fulfilled or not.
"Sit you down, Mr. Menzies," she said briskly. "It's early hours for a call, but I guess you've got some reason at the back of your head. You'll have some breakfast. I'll go and see about it and make myself tidy."
The detective's broad figure blocked the doorway. He smilingly shook his head and with one hand behind him felt for the key. There was none in the lock. He jerked a chair towards him with his foot, placed it against the door, and sat down.
"No breakfast for me, Gwennie, thank you. And you look very charming as you are. Suppose we talk."
She made a graceful gesture of resignation and sat down, her hands in her lap. "I guess I wouldn't poison you," she said.
"Aren't you a deportee, Gwennie?" countered the man. "Surely my memory isn't playing me tricks. Wasn't an order of deportation made against you let me see six years ago now? You will remember a diamond tiara in Bond Street."
She faced him placidly. "You've got a good memory. What are you going to do about it?"
"Mind if I smoke?" he asked. "Oh, nothing much. I needn't tell a lady of your experience it would have been wiser to stay where you belong."
"See Section 4, Vagrancy Act, 1824," she laughed. "That's it, isn't it. Oh, I've been there before. You can't alarm me any by talking." And Menzies knew the astute old lady was trying to make him lose his temper.
He lifted his clay pipe from his lips. "I've always admired