Death at the Excelsior, and Other Stories

  MISUNDERSTOOD

  The profession of Mr. James ("Spider") Buffin was pocket-picking. Hishobby was revenge. James had no objection to letting the sun go down onhis wrath. Indeed, it was after dark that he corrected his numerousenemies most satisfactorily. It was on a dark night, while he wassettling a small score against one Kelly, a mere acquaintance, that hefirst fell foul of Constable Keating, whose beat took him through theregions which James most frequented.

  James, having "laid for" Mr. Kelly, met him in a murky side-street downClerkenwell way, and attended to his needs with a sand-bag.

  It was here that Constable Keating first came prominently into hislife. Just as James, with the satisfying feeling that his duty had beendone, was preparing to depart, Officer Keating, who had been a distantspectator of the affair, charged up and seized him.

  It was intolerable that he should interfere in a purely privatefalling-out between one gentleman and another, but there was nothing tobe done. The policeman weighed close upon fourteen stone, and couldhave eaten Mr. Buffin. The latter, inwardly seething, went quietly, andin due season was stowed away at the Government's expense for the spaceof sixty days.

  Physically, there is no doubt that his detention did him good. Theregular hours and the substitution of bread and water for his wonteddiet improved his health thirty per cent. It was mentally that hesuffered. His was one of those just-as-good cheap-substitute minds,incapable of harbouring more than one idea at a time, and during thosesixty days of quiet seclusion it was filled with an ever-growingresentment against Officer Keating. Every day, as he moved about hisappointed tasks, he brooded on his wrongs. Every night was to him butthe end of another day that kept him from settling down to the seriousbusiness of Revenge. To be haled to prison for correcting a privateenemy with a sand-bag--that was what stung. In the privacy of his cellhe dwelt unceasingly on the necessity for revenge. The thing began totake on to him the aspect almost of a Holy Mission, a sort of Crusade.

  * * * * *

  The days slipped by, bringing winter to Clerkenwell, and with it Mr.Buffin. He returned to his old haunts one Friday night, thin but inexcellent condition. One of the first acquaintances he met was OfficerKeating. The policeman, who had a good memory for faces, recognisedhim, and stopped.

  "So you're out, young feller?" he said genially. When not in the activedischarge of his professional duties the policeman was a kindly man. Hebore Mr. Buffin no grudge.

  "Um," said Mr. Buffin.

  "Feeling fine, eh?"

  "Um."

  "Goin' round to see some of the chaps and pass them the time of day, Ishouldn't wonder?"

  "Um."

  "Well, you keep clear of that lot down in Frith Street, young feller.They're no good. And if you get mixed up with them, first thing youknow, you'll be in trouble again. And you want to keep out of thatnow."

  "Um."

  "If you never get into trouble," said the policeman sententiously,"you'll never have to get out of it."

  "Um," said Mr. Buffin. If he had a fault as a conversationalist, it wasa certain tendency to monotony, a certain lack of sparkle and varietyin his small-talk.

  Constable Keating, with a dignified but friendly wave of the hand, asone should say, "You have our leave to depart," went on his way; whileMr. Buffin, raging, shuffled off in the opposite direction, thinking ashard as his limited mental equipment would allow him.

  His thoughts, which were many and confused, finally composed themselvesinto some order. He arrived at a definite conclusion, which was that ifthe great settlement was to be carried through successfully it must bedone when the policeman was off duty. Till then he had pictured himselfcatching Officer Keating in an unguarded moment on his beat. This, henow saw, was out of the question. On his beat the policeman had nounguarded moments. There was a quiet alertness in his poise, adanger-signal in itself.

  There was only one thing for Mr. Buffin to do. Greatly as it would goagainst the grain, he must foregather with the man, win his confidence,put himself in a position where he would be able to find out what hedid with himself when off duty.

  The policeman offered no obstacle to the move. A supremeself-confidence was his leading characteristic. Few London policemenare diffident, and Mr. Keating was no exception. It never occurred tohim that there could be an ulterior motive behind Mr. Buffin'sadvances. He regarded Mr. Buffin much as one regards a dog which onehas had to chastise. One does not expect the dog to lie in wait andbite. Officer Keating did not expect Mr. Buffin to lie in wait andbite.

  So every day, as he strolled on his beat, there sidled up to himthe meagre form of Spider Buffin. Every day there greeted him theSpider's "Good-morning, Mr. Keating," till the sight of Officer Keatingwalking solidly along the pavement with Spider Buffin shuffling alongat his side, listening with rapt interest to his views on Life and hishints on Deportment, became a familiar spectacle in Clerkenwell.

  * * * * *

  Mr. Buffin played his part well. In fact, too well. It was on theseventh day that, sidling along in the direction of his favourite placeof refreshment, he found himself tapped on the shoulder. At the samemoment an arm, linking itself in his, brought him gently to a halt.Beside him were standing two of the most eminent of the great FrithStreet Gang, Otto the Sausage and Rabbit Butler. It was the finger ofthe Rabbit that had tapped his shoulder. The arm tucked in his was thearm of Otto the Sausage.

  "Hi, Spider," said Mr. Butler, "Sid wants to see you a minute."

  The Spider's legs felt boneless. There was nothing in the words toalarm a man, but his practised ear had seemed to detect a certainunpleasant dryness in the speaker's tone. Sid Marks, the all-powerfulleader of the Frith Street Gang, was a youth whose company the Spiderhad always avoided with some care.

  The great Sid, seated in state at a neighbouring hostelry, fixed hisvisitor with a cold and questioning eye. Mr. Buffin looked nervous andinterrogative. Mr. Marks spoke.

  "Your pal Keating pinched Porky Binns this mornin'," said Sid.

  The Spider's heart turned to water.

  "You and that slop," observed Sid dreamily, "have been bloomin' thickthese days."

  Mr. Buffin did not affect to misunderstand. Sid Marks was looking athim in that nasty way. Otto the Sausage was looking at him in thatnasty way. Rabbit Butler was looking at him in that nasty way. This wasan occasion where manly frankness was the quality most to be aimed at.To be misunderstood in the circles in which Mr. Buffin moved meantsomething more than the mere risk of being treated with colddispleasure.

  He began to explain with feverish eagerness.

  "Strike me, Sid," he stammered, "it ain't like that. It's all right.Blimey, you don't fink I'm a nark?"

  Mr. Marks chewed a straw in silence.

  "I'm layin' for him, Sid," babbled Mr. Buffin. "That's true. Strike meif it ain't. I'm just tryin' to find out where he goes when he's offduty. He pinched me, so I'm layin' for him."

  Mr. Marks perpended. Rabbit Butler respectfully gave it as his opinionthat it would be well to put Mr. Buffin through it. There was nothinglike being on the safe side. By putting Mr. Buffin through it, arguedRabbit Butler, they would stand to win either way. If he _had_"smitched" to Officer Keating about Porky Binns he would deserve it. Ifhe had not--well, it would prevent him doing so on some futureoccasion. Play for safety, was Mr. Butler's advice, seconded by Ottothe Sausage. Mr. Buffin, pale to the lips, thought he had never met twomore unpleasant persons.

  The Great Sid, having chewed his straw for a while in silence,delivered judgment. The prisoner should have the benefit of the doubtthis time. His story, however unplausible, might possibly be true.Officer Keating undoubtedly had pinched him. That was in his favour.

  "You can hop it this time," he said, "but if you ever do startsmitchin', Spider, yer knows what'll happen."

  Mr. Buffin withdrew, quaking.

  Matters had now come to a head. Unless he very speedily gave proofof his pure and noble intentions, life would b
ecome extremely unsafefor him. He must act at once. The thought of what would happen shouldanother of the Frith Streeters be pinched before he, Mr. Buffin, couldprove himself innocent of the crime of friendliness with Officer Keating,turned him cold.

  Fate played into his hands. On the very next morning Mr. Keating, allunsuspecting, asked him to go to his home with a message for his wife.

  "Tell her," said Mr. Keating, "a newspaper gent has given me seats forthe play to-night, and I'll be home at a quarter to seven."

  Mr. Buffin felt as Cromwell must have felt at Dunbar when the Scotsleft their stronghold on the hills and came down to the open plain.

  The winter had set in with some severity that year, and Mr. Buffin'stoes, as he stood in the shadows close to the entrance of the villawhere Officer Keating lived when off duty, were soon thoroughly frozen.He did not dare to stamp his feet, for at any moment now the victimmight arrive. And when the victim weighs fourteen stone, against thehigh priest's eight and a half, it behooves the latter to becircumspect, if the sacrifice is to be anything like a success. So Mr.Buffin waited and froze in silence. It was a painful process, and headded it to the black score which already stood against OfficerKeating. Never had his thirst for revenge been more tormenting. It isdoubtful if a strictly logical and impartial judge would have held Mr.Keating to blame for the fact that Sid Marks' suspicions (and all thatthose suspicions entailed) had fallen upon Mr. Buffin; but the Spiderdid so. He felt fiercely resentful against the policeman for placinghim in such an unpleasant and dangerous position. As his thoughts ranon the matter, he twisted his fingers tighter round his stick.

  As he did so there came from down the road the brisk tramp of feet anda cheerful whistling of "The Wearing of the Green." It is a lugubrioussong as a rule, but, as rendered by Officer Keating returning home withtheatre tickets, it had all the joyousness of a march-tune.

  Every muscle in Mr. Buffin's body stiffened. He gripped his stick andwaited. The road was deserted. In another moment....

  And then, from nowhere, dark indistinct forms darted out like rats. Thewhistling stopped in the middle of a bar. A deep-chested oath rang out,and then a confused medley of sound, the rasping of feet, a growlingalmost canine, a sharp yelp, gasps, and over all the vast voice ofOfficer Keating threatening slaughter.

  For a moment Mr. Buffin stood incapable of motion. The thing had beenso sudden, so unexpected. And then, as he realised what was happening,there swept over him in a wave a sense of intolerable injustice. It isnot easy to describe his emotions, but they resembled most nearly thoseof an inventor whose patent has been infringed, or an author whose ideahas been stolen. For weeks--and weeks that had seemed like years--hehad marked down Officer Keating for his prey. For weeks he had tortureda mind all unused to thinking into providing him with schemes foraccomplishing his end. He had outraged his nature by being civil to apoliceman. He had risked his life by incurring the suspicions of SidMarks. He had bought a stick. And he had waited in the cold till hisface was blue and his feet blocks of ice. And now ... _now_ ...after all this ... a crowd of irresponsible strangers, with no rightsin the man whatsoever probably, if the truth were known, filled withmere ignoble desire for his small change, had dared to rush in and jumphis claim before his very eyes.

  With one passionate cry, Mr. Buffin, forgetting his frozen feet, liftedhis stick, and galloped down the road to protect his property....

  "That's the stuff," said a voice. "Pour some more into him, Jerry."

  Mr. Buffin opened his eyes. A familiar taste was in his mouth. Somebodyof liberal ideas seemed to be pouring whisky down his throat. Couldthis be Heaven? He raised his head, and a sharp pain shot through it.And with the pain came recollection. He remembered now, dimly, as if ithad all happened in another life, the mad rush down the road, themomentary pause in the conflict, and then its noisy renewal on a moreimpressive scale. He remembered striking out left and right with hisstick. He remembered the cries of the wounded, the pain of his frozenfeet, and finally the crash of something hard and heavy on his head.

  He sat up, and found himself the centre of a little crowd. There wasOfficer Keating, dishevelled but intact; three other policemen, one ofwhom was kneeling by his side with a small bottle in his hand; and, inthe grip of the two were standing two youths.

  One was Otto the Sausage; the other was Rabbit Butler.

  The kneeling policeman was proffering the bottle once more. Mr. Buffinsnatched at it. He felt that it was just what at that moment he neededmost.

  * * * * *

  He did what he could. The magistrate asked for his evidence. He said hehad none. He said he thought there must be some mistake. With a twistedsmile in the direction of the prisoners, he said that he did notremember having seen either of them at the combat. He didn't believethey were there at all. He didn't believe they were capable of such athing. If there was one man who was less likely to assault a policemanthan Otto the Sausage, it was Rabbit Butler. The Bench reminded himthat both these innocents had actually been discovered in OfficerKeating's grasp. Mr. Buffin smiled a harassed smile, and wiped a dropof perspiration from his brow.

  Officer Keating was enthusiastic. He described the affair from start tofinish. But for Mr. Buffin he would have been killed. But for Mr.Buffin there would have been no prisoners in court that day. The worldwas full of men with more or less golden hearts, but there was only oneMr. Buffin. Might he shake hands with Mr. Buffin?

  The magistrate ruled that he might. More, he would shake hands with himhimself. Summoning Mr. Buffin behind his desk, he proceeded to do so.If there were more men like Mr. Buffin, London would be a better place.It was the occasional discovery in our midst of ethereal natures likethat of Mr. Buffin which made one so confident for the future of therace.

  The paragon shuffled out. It was bright and sunny in the street, but inMr. Buffin's heart there was no sunlight. He was not a quick thinker,but he had come quite swiftly to the conclusion that London was nolonger the place for him. Sid Marks had been in court chewing a strawand listening with grave attention to the evidence, and for one momentMr. Buffin had happened to catch his eye. No medical testimony as tothe unhealthiness of London could have moved him more.

  Once round the corner, he ran. It hurt his head to run, but there werethings behind him that could hurt his head more than running.

  * * * * *

  At the entrance to the Tube he stopped. To leave the locality he musthave money. He felt in his pockets. Slowly, one by one, he pulled forthhis little valuables. His knife ... his revolver ... the magistrate'sgold watch ... He inspected them sadly. They must all go.

  He went into a pawnbroker's shop at the corner of the street. A fewmoments later, with money in his pockets, he dived into the Tube.