The Flashman Papers: The Complete 12-Book Collection. George Fraser MacDonald
before my little minx had removed more than her shoes and gloves.
She was trilling with laughter, and I was getting impatient, when a most unholy din broke out on the floor below. There was a pounding of feet, and shouting, whistles blowing and dogs barking, and then a voice yelled:
“Cut and run! It’s the traps!”
“Christ!” says Speed, grabbing for his breeches. “It’s a raid! Let’s get out of this, Flash!”
The whores squeaked with panic, and I swore and struggled into my clothes. It’s no joke trying to dress when the peelers are after you, but I had sense enough to know that there wasn’t a hope of escaping unless we were fully clad—you can’t run through St James on a fine evening with your trousers in your hand.
“Come on!” Speed was shouting. “They’ll be on us in a moment!”
“What shall we do?” wails the red-haired slut.
“Do what you dam’ well please,” says I, slipping on my shoes. “Good-night, ladies.” And Speed and I slipped out into the corridor.
The place was in uproar. It sounded like a battle royal down on the gaming-floor, with furniture smashing and the Cyprians screaming, and someone bawling: “In the Queen’s name!” On our landing there were frightened whores peeping out of the doorways, and men in every stage of undress hopping about looking for somewhere to run to. One fat old rascal, stark naked, was beating on a door bawling:
“Hide me, Lucy!”
He beat in vain, and the last I saw of him he was trying to burrow under a sofa.
People nowadays don’t realise that in the forties the law was devilish hot on gaming-hells. The police were forever trying to raid them, and the hell-owners used to keep guard-dogs and scouts to watch out for them. Most hells also had special hiding places for all gambling equipment, so that cards, dice, and boards could be swept out of sight in a moment, for the police had no right of search, and if they couldn’t prove that gaming had been going on they could be sued for wrongful entry and trespass.4
Evidently they had caught the Minor St James Club napping with a vengeance, and it would be police court and newspaper scandal for us if we couldn’t cut out pretty sharp. A whistle shrilled at the foot of the stairs, the trollops screamed and slammed their doors, and feet came pounding upwards.
“This way,” says I to Speed, and we darted up the next flight. It was another empty landing—the top one—and we crouched by the bannisters, waiting to see what happened. They were hammering on the doors below, and presently someone came scampering up. He was a fair, chinless youth in a pink coat.
“Oh, my God!” says he, “what will mother say?” He stared wildly round. “Where can I hide?”
“In there,” says I, thinking quickly, and pointed at a closed door.
“God bless you,” says he. “But what will you do?”
“We’ll hold ’em off,” says I. “Get out of it, you fool.”
He vanished inside, and I winked at Speed, whipped his handkerchief from his breast, and dropped it outside the closed door. Then we tip-toed to a room on the other side of the landing, and took cover behind its door, which I left wide open. From the lack of activity on this floor, and the dust-sheets in the room, it obviously wasn’t in use.
Presently the peelers came crashing up, spotted the kerchief, gave a great view halloo, and dragged out the pink youth. But as I had calculated, they didn’t bother with our room, seeing the door open and naturally supposing that no one could be hiding in it. We stood dead still while they tramped about the landing, shouting orders and telling the pink youth to hold his tongue, and presently they all trooped off below, where by the sound of things they were marshalling their prisoners, and being pretty rough about it. It wasn’t often they raided a hell successfully, and had a chance to mistreat their betters.
“By George, Flashy,” whispered Speed at last. “You’re a foxy one, and no mistake. I thought we were done.”
“When you’ve been chased by bloody Afghans,” says I, “you learn all there is to know about lying low.” But I was pleased at the way my trick had worked, just the same.
We found a skylight, and as luck had it there was a convenient flat roof close by over what proved to be an empty house. We prised up another skylight, crept down two flights of stairs, and got out of a back window into a lane. So far, excellent, but Speed thought it would be capital to go round the front and watch from a safe distance while the peelers removed their victims. I thought it would be fun, too, so we straightened our clothes and then sauntered round into the end of the street.
Sure enough, there was a crowd outside the Minor Club to see the sport. The bobbies were there in their high hats and belts, clustering round the steps while the prisoners were brought down to the closed carts, the men silent and shame-faced or damning their captors for all they were worth, and the trollops crying for the most part, although some had to be carried out kicking and scratching.
If we had been wise we would have kept well clear, but it was growing dusk, and we thought we’d have a closer look. We strolled up to the fringe of the crowd, and as bad luck had it, who should be brought out last, wailing and white-faced, but the youth in the pink coat. Speed guffawed at the woebegone look of him, and sang out to me:
“I say, Flashy, what will mother say?”
The youth must have heard; he twisted round and saw us, and the spiteful little hound gave a yelp and pointed in our direction.
“They were there, too!” he cries. “Those two, they were hiding as well!”
If we had stood fast we could have brazened it out, I dare say, but my instinct to run is too deep ingrained; I was off like a hare before the bobbies had even started towards us, and seeing us run they gave chase at once. We had a fair start, but not enough to be able to get out of view and duck into a doorway or area; St James is a damned bad district to fly from the police in—streets too broad and no convenient alleyways.
They were perhaps fifty yards behind for the first two streets, but then they began to gain—two of them, with their clubs out, yelling after us to stop. I could feel myself going lame in the leg I had broken earlier in the year at Jallalabad; the muscles were still stiff, and pains shot through my thigh at every stride.
Speed saw what was up and slackened his pace.
“Hallo, Flash,” says he, “are you done for?”
“Leg’s gone,” says I. “I can’t keep up any longer.”
He glanced over his shoulder. In spite of the bad name Hughes gives him in Tom Brown’s Schooldays, Speedicut was as game as a terrier and ready for a turn-up any time—not like me at all.5
“Oh, well, then,” says he, “the deuce with this. Let’s stand and have it out with ’em. There’s only two—no, wait though, there are more behind, damn ’em. We’ll just have to do the best we can, old son.”
“It’s no use,” I gasped. “I’m in no state to fight.”
“You leave ’em to me,” cries he. “I’ll hold ’em off while you get out of it. Don’t stand there, man; don’t you see it won’t do for the hero of Afghanistan to be dragged in by the traps? Hellish scandal. Doesn’t matter for me, though. Come on, you blue-bellied bastards!”
And he turned in the middle of the road, sparring away and daring them to come on.
I didn’t hesitate. Anyone who is ass enough to sacrifice himself for Flashy deserves all he gets. Over my shoulder I saw him stop one trap with a straight left, and close with the other. Then I was round the corner, hobbling away as fast as my game leg would carry me. It took me along that street and into the square beyond, and still no bobbies hove in view. I doubled round the central garden, and then my leg almost folded under me.
I