Tales of the Old London Slum – Complete Series. Morrison Arthur
‘We won’t tip ‘im the whistle this time,’ whispered Bill Rann, with a smothered chuckle. ‘Over!’
He bent his knee, and Josh straddled from it over the rickety fence with quiet care, and lowered himself gingerly on the other side. ‘Clear ‘ere,’ he whispered. ‘Come on.’ Since Bill’s display of the tools Josh had scarce spoken a word. Bill wondered at his taciturnity, but respected it as a business-like quality in the circumstances.
It was but a matter of four or five yards to the wash-house window, but they bent and felt their way. Josh took up an old lemonade-case as he went, and planted it on the ground below the window, stretching his hand for the knife as he did so. And now he took command and foremost place.
It was an old shoemaker’s knife, with too long a handle; for there was a skew-joint in the sash, and the knife would not bend. Presently Bill Rann, below, could see that Josh was cutting away the putty from the pane, and in five minutes the pane itself was put into his hand. He stooped, and laid it noiselessly on the soft ground.
Josh turned the catch and lifted the sash. There was some noise, but not much, as he pushed the frame up evenly, with a thumb at each side. They waited; but it was quite still, and Josh, sitting on the sill, manœuvred his legs, one at a time, through the narrow opening. Then, turning over, he let himself down, and beckoned Bill Rann to follow.
Bill Rann had a small tin box, with an inch of candle on the inside of one end, so that when the wick was lit the contrivance made a simple but an effective lantern, the light whereof shone in front alone, and could be extinguished at a puff. Now a match was struck, and a quick view taken of the wash-house.
There was not much about; only cracked and greasy plates, jars, tins, pots and pans, and in a corner a miscellaneous heap, plainly cheap pilferings, covered with a bit of old carpet. The air was offensive with the characteristic smell of Weech’s—the smell of stale pickles.
‘There ain’t nothin’ to waste time over ‘ere,’ said Josh, aloud. ‘Come on!’
‘Shut up, you damn fool!’ exclaimed Bill Rann, in a whisper. ‘D’jer want to wake ‘im?’
‘Umph! Why not?’ was the reply, still aloud. Bill began to feel that his pal was really drunk. But, silent once more, Josh applied himself to the door of the inner room. It was crank and old, worn and battered at the edges. Josh forced the wedge end of the jemmy through the jamb, splintering the perished wood of the frame, and, with a push, forced the striking-box of the lock off its screws. There was still a bolt at the top; that at the bottom had lost its catch—but this gave as little trouble as the lock. Bill Rann strained the door open from below, the jemmy entered readily, and in a few seconds the top bolt was in like case with the bottom.
They entered the room behind the shop, and it was innocent and disappointing. A loo table, four horse-hair-covered chairs, a mirror, three coloured wall-texts, two china figures and a cheap walnut sideboard—that was all. The slow step of a policeman without stopped, with a push at the shop-door, to test its fastenings, and then went on; and stronger than ever was the smell of stale pickles.
To try the shop would be mere waste of time. Weech’s pocket was the till, and there could be no other prize. A door at the side of the room, latched simply, gave on the stairs. ‘Take auf yer boots,’ Bill whispered, unlacing his own, and slinging them across his shoulder by the tied laces.
But Josh would not, and he said so, with an oath. Bill could not understand him. Could it be drink? Bill wished him a mile away. ‘Awright,’ he whispered, ‘you set down ‘ere w’ile I slip upstairs an’ take a peep. I bet the stuffs in the garret. Best on’y one goes, quiet.’
Josh sat, and Bill, taking his lantern, crept up the stairs noiselessly, save for one creak. He gained the stair-head, listened a moment, tip-toed along the small landing, and was half-way up the steep and narrow garret-stairs, when he heard a sound, and stopped. Somebody was on the lower flight.
There was a heavy tread, with the kick of a boot against stair or skirting-board; and then came noisy steps along the landing. Josh was coming up in his boots! Bill Rann was at his wits’ end. He backed down the garret-stairs, and met Josh at the foot. ‘Are ye balmy?’ he hissed fiercely, catching Josh by the collar and pulling him into the turn of the stairs. ‘D’ye want another five stretch?’
A loud creak and a soft thump sounded from behind the door at the other end of the landing; and then a match was struck. ‘Keep back on the stairs,’ Bill whispered. ”E’s ‘eard you.’ Josh sat on a stair, perfectly still, with his legs drawn up out of sight from the door. Bill blew out his light. He would not venture open intimidation of Weech now, with Josh half muzzy, lest some burst of lunacy brought in the police.
A soft treading of bare feet, the squeak of a door-handle, a light on the landing, and Aaron Weech stood at his open door in his shirt, candle in hand, his hair rumpled, his head aside, his mouth a little open, his unconscious gaze upward; listening intently. He took a slight step forward. And then Bill Rann’s heart turned over and over.
For Josh Perrott sprang from the stair, and, his shoulders humped and his face thrust out, walked deliberately across the landing. Weech turned his head quickly; his chin fell on his chest as by jaw-break; there were but dots amid the white of his eyes; his head lay slowly back, as the candle tilted and shot its grease on the floor. The door swung wider as his shoulder struck it, and he screamed, like a rabbit that sees a stoat. Then, with a wrench, he turned, letting drop the candle, and ran shrieking to the window, flung it open, and yelled into the black street. ”Elp! ‘Elp! P’lice! Murder! Murder! Murder! Murder!’
‘Run, Josh—run, ye blasted fool!’ roared Bill Rann, bounding across the landing, and snatching at his arm.
‘Go on—go on! I’m comin’!’ Josh answered without turning his head. And Bill took the bottom flight at a jump. The candle flared as it lay on the floor, and spread a greasy pool about it.
‘Murder! Murder! Mu-r-r—’
Josh had the man by the shoulder, swung him back from the window, gripped his throat, and dragged him across the carpet as he might drag a cat, while Weech’s arms waved uselessly, and his feet feebly sought a hold on the floor.
‘Now!’ cried Josh Perrott, glaring on the writhen face below his own, and raising his case-knife in the manner of a cleaver, ‘sing a hymn! Sing the hymn as’ll do ye most good! You’ll cheat me when ye can, an’ when ye can’t you’ll put me five year in stir, eh? Sing a hymn, ye snivellin’ nark!’
From the street there came the noise of many hurrying feet and of a scattered shouting. Josh Perrott made an offer at slashing the slaty face, checked his arm, and went on.
‘You’ll put down somethin’ ‘an’some at my break, will ye? An’ you’ll starve my wife an’ kids all to bones an’ teeth four year! Sing a hymn, ye cur!’
He made another feint at slashing. Men were beating thunderously at the shop door, and there were shrill whistles.
‘Won’t sing yer hymn? There ain’t much time! My boy was goin’ straight, an’ earnin’ wages: someone got ‘im chucked. A man ‘as time to think things out, in stir! Sing, ye son of a cow! Sing! Sing!’
Twice the knife hacked the livid face. But the third hack was below the chin; and the face fell back.
The bubbling Thing dropped in a heap, and put out the flaring candle. Without, the shouts gathered to a roar, and the door shook under heavy blows. ‘Open—open the door!’ cried a deep voice.
He looked from the open window. There was a scrambling crowd, and more people were running in. Windows gaped, and thrust out noisy heads. The flash of a bull’s-eye dazzled him, and he staggered back. ‘Perrott! Perrott!’ came a shout. He had but glanced out, but he was recognised.
He threw down his knife, and made for the landing, slipping on the wet floor and stumbling against the Heap. There were shouts from behind the house now; they were few, but they were close. He dashed up the narrow stairs, floundered through the back garret,