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Roy Glashan's Library
Non sibi sed omnibus
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This work is out of copyright in countries with a copyright
period of 70 years or less, after the year of the author's death.
If it is under copyright in your country of residence,
do not download or redistribute this file.
Original content added by RGL (e.g., introductions, notes,
RGL covers) is proprietary and protected by copyright.
RGL e-Book Cover
Based on an image created with Microsoft Bing software
"COME on, Bob," said Tom Colvin impatiently, but young Robert Sefton paid no attention. He stood with his nose flattened against the dirty window of a little second-hand shop.
"Come on, you ass," said Tom again.
"Wait!" said Bob. "Look at that lovely truncheon."
"Truncheon! The fellow's crazy," growled Tom, but Bob was already inside and bargaining with the crook-nosed old Hebrew behind the counter.
"Just what I was looking for," said Bob gleefully, as the old fellow handed over a short staff or club of dark polished wood, with a leather loop at the thinner end. Tom frowned.
"What is it?"
"A policeman's truncheon. A jolly fine specimen."
"And who are you going to bash with it?" asked Tom as the two left the shop.
"I'm not going to bash anybody, you juggins. It's a present for old Winter."
"To keep off burglars?"
"No, for his museum."
"Ah, now we're beginning to understand," remarked Tom, with a grin that brought a slight flush to Bob's smooth cheeks.
"I've got to do something," Bob protested. "That blighter, Worrall, simply lives at the Winter's."
"The hated rival," suggested Tom.
"Not with Pen," Bob answered. "Worrall doesn't cut any ice with her, but he's making himself solid with her father. Being in the Prison Service gives him a big pull with the old man."
"Seems a rum kind of recommendation," said Tom Colvin.
"Not with Pen's father. The old lad is simply loony on crime. He's got the biggest library of books on the subject in the South of England, and now he's started a museum of criminal relics. Worrall has just given him a piece of the rope with which they hung Peter Pace, the Okestock murderer, and he's awfully bucked. But this"—he held up the paper-wrapped truncheon—"this is going to do me a bit of good."
"You'll have to hang a yarn to it," said Tom. Bob grinned.
"I'll do that all right. Here's the club. Let's go in and have a drink and work out a good story. I'm dining with the Winter's to-night."
HOLLY LODGE, the residence of Sir Ambrose Winter, was a large, comfortable house, standing among the pines of Branxton, the fashionable suburb of Salport. Bob Sefton was careful to arrive some minutes before eight, and, as he had hoped, Pen was waiting for him in the drawing-room. He stopped opposite her.
"Pen, darling, you look so lovely I hardly dare kiss you." Penelope Winter, a small, slim girl, whose pale green, lacey frock was an admirable foil to her spun-gold hair and beautifully clear skin, smiled at him.
"If you don't, you won't have another chance," she retorted. "There's Mr. Worrall at the door."
He took his chance without any delay.
"What's the parcel?" asked Pen, looking with interest at the brown paper-wrapped object which Bob had laid on a chair.
"A present for your father, Pen. You wait. I'll be one up on Worrall before the night's out." There was no time to say more, for George Worrall was shown in. He was a sallow, dark-eyed young man with sleek, black hair, a complete contrast to Bob, who was blue-eyed and brown as a berry. Pen greeted him civilly. Bob with a politeness that was distinctly chilly. Then Sir Ambrose came in and almost at once dinner was announced.
If Sir Ambrose was a little mad on prisons and their occupants, his madness did not go so far as a preference for prison fare. The dinner was excellent, so was the wine. Worrall did most of the talking, but Bob was content to wait. Afterwards, just as Bob had expected, their host suggested a visit to his museum which was a large room built at the back of the house. Sir Ambrose proudly pointed out his latest treasure, a black cap said to have once belonged to Mr. Justice Hawkins, and that gave Bob his cue.
"I picked up something to-day which might be worth a place in your collection, Sir Ambrose," he said, as he unwrapped his parcel. "It is the truncheon used by Inspector Frewin when he arrested the famous Smasher Soames, of Greek Street." Sir Ambrose took it eagerly.
"This is very good of you, Sefton—very kind indeed. It will be a great addition to my collection." He put on his glasses and examined it. "Yes, I remember the case clearly. Collins mentions it in his book on "Famous Forgeries." And so the great Frewin actually used this staff."
"Yes, sir. When Soames attacked him he hit him over the head with this. He was only just in time for Soames was in the act of pulling a pistol."
"It shall have a case to itself," declared Sir Ambrose warmly. "I'm very much obliged to you, Sefton."
"It is certainly an interesting relic," said Worrall smoothly. "May I look at it, Sir Ambrose?"
He took it and examined it closely. He frowned slightly and shook his head.
"What's the matter?" asked Sir Ambrose testily. Worrall spoke.
"You say that this truncheon belonged to Inspector Frewin, Sefton?"
"Yes," Bob answered.
"Who told you so?"
"The man I got it from." Worrall shook his head again and Bob began to feel a little uncomfortable. What had this black-haired blighter got up his sleeve?
"I'm afraid he was deceiving you," said Worrall.
"What do you mean?" demanded Bob.
"This isn't a policeman's truncheon."
"Not a truncheon. Don't talk rot."
"I'm not talking rot." Worrall's voice a was still smooth, but Bob thought his manner distinctly offensive. "This is a warder's staff—what is commonly called a 'cosh.'" He turned to Sir Ambrose. "It is longer than a policeman's truncheon, and somewhat heavier, and—yes—if you look, you will see two letters stamped on it, 'D.P.' meaning Dartmoor Prison." Sir Ambrose looked and frowned.
"You are right, Worrall. I am only grateful you were here to expose this fraud."
Pen broke in.
"Come now, Dad, that's not kind. Bob didn't know it wasn't genuine."
"Where did you get it, Sefton?" demanded Sir Ambrose.
"From a friend, sir."
"Was his name by any chance Lazarus?" asked Worrall.
"Lazarus!" exclaimed Sir Ambrose. "Do you mean that Jew fellow who keeps the second-hand shop in Rigby Row?"
"That's the man, Sir Ambrose. The reason I know is that I saw this truncheon in his window a couple of days ago, and went in to look at it. I recognised it this evening the moment I had it in my hands." Sir Ambrose positively bristled, and there was a very nasty look in his eyes as he swung on Bob.
"And you bought it and invented this story, Sefton, and but for Worrall would have made me the victim of an abominable fraud. I never heard anything more scandalous, and, under the circumstances, I shall consider my acquaintance with you to be closed.
"Dad," began Pen, but he cut her short.
"Not a word,Penelope," he snapped, as he handed the truncheon to Bob.
"You had better take this with you," he added sarcastically.
"That's torn it," said Bob to himself, as he got into his two-seater. He was thoughtful as he drove home, and when he reached his room sat down and wrote to Pen.
Dear old thing. I am seventeen kinds of fool. And if you turned me down cold it would serve me jolly well right, but, praise be, I know you won't do that. I can't ask you to chuck Holly Lodge and share my four hundred a year, so the only scheme seems to be to clear out and see if I can't make a bit on the side. Just keep that blighter G.W. off the grass and hang on for a while. Don't worry, I've still got something up my sleeve.
Yours ever, Bob.
P.S.—All letters will be forwarded.
Pen, being a modern young woman, shed no tears over this letter. She knew her Bob, knew that under his casual, slangy exterior there was good stuff. She answered his letter appropriately, then set herself to wait. Like a sensible girl she did not blame her father, but George Worrall had plenty of cause to repent his triumph over Bob. Pen couldn't keep him out of the house, but she could keep him at arm's length, and she did.
George, to do him justice, was a sticker, and, having her father on his side, carried on, and hoped for the best. The weeks ran into months and the museum grew apace. Worrall was very busy and his official position, that of a clerk under the Prison Commission, gave him a big pull in the matter of getting hold of genuine stuff. Fresh trophies were constantly added, and new cases ordered almost every week. Paragraphs appeared, even in the London papers, describing the criminal relics of Sir Ambrose Winter. Worrall. himself, wrote them. Pen wrote to Bob.
Dearest boy.
I wish you'd hurry up. Dad's going crazy. He talks of engaging an ex-convict as curator for his museum. I suppose he thinks it would add to the local colour, but I'm not exactly keen on having a criminal on the premises. Even G.W. baulks at it, but you know what Dad is when he gets an idea in his head....There was more of it, but this is all that matters. It was three weeks before the reply came, for Bob was in America.
I'll come as soon as ever I can," he wrote, "but I've a six months' contract with my firm, and can't leave till the time is up. See here. I know of a chap who'll take on the job of curator to the museum, and who can be guaranteed not to sneak the family plate. He's still in quod, but will be out in about a month. Naturally you can't mention my name as recommending him, but you'll know how to put it. Get the old lad to hang on for another six weeks and I'll see the fellow turns up. Oh, I forgot to say that, though he's in an American prison, he's English by birth.
Pen thought she knew how to put it, but on this occasion disappointment awaited her.
"You're too late, my dear," said her father. "I have just engaged a man on Worrall's recommendation. An ex-convict named Samuel Griggs. He is just out of Parkhurst and has a very good character from the chaplain and governor."
Next day Griggs arrived. He was elderly, thickset and bald. More like a good type of butler than a burglar. He took up his duties at once, and for some weeks all went well. Sir Ambrose was delighted.
Then one morning Griggs was missing, and not only Griggs but a good deal besides, including Sir Ambrose's gold watch, a sum of thirty odd pounds filched from a drawer in his study table, and other valuable odds and ends. Pen was the only person who had lost nothing, for ever since Grigg's arrival she had kept her jewellery hidden in an old tea caddy instead of her jewel case. Sir Ambrose was furious, and for once Worrall got the rough edge of his tongue.
"You'd better have waited for my man," said Pen to her father.
"He's probably just as bad as Griggs," growled Sir Ambrose, but by the next day he had cooled down, and at breakfast mentioned to his daughter that he had had a letter from "her man" asking that he might be allowed to call.
"A very good letter," added Sir Ambrose. "It impressed me most favourably, and I shall tell him he may come to see me on Wednesday."
Pen wisely refrained from asking questions, but resolved to see this prodigy as soon as possible. He might be able to tell her something about Bob. Of late she had found herself missing Bob rather badly. One comfort, he was due back in another week or so. But when Wednesday came it brought an invitation to lunch with her aunt, Miss Susan Maitland.
Aunt Susan's invitations were commands and she lived at Gorsefield, nearly 20 miles away. By the time Pen got home it was nearly four. She left her little car standing out on the sunny drive and went in to find her father, but Esther, the parlourmaid, told her that he had gone out.
"He said he'd be in to tea, miss," added the maid. "Will you have it on the lawn?"
"Yes, Esther. Did that young man Sir Ambrose was expecting turn up?"
"Yes, miss, he came all right and I think the Master engaged him, for he's in the museum now."
"Well, I hope he won't behave like Griggs." said Pen, with a smile, and went to her room to take off her hat. When she came down her father was not yet back and curiosity drove her to the museum. The new curator was sitting on a chair tilted against the wall with a cigarette between his lips and a bored expression on his face. He jumped up at Pen's entrance and Pen, gazing at him, saw a very well-set up, dark-complexioned young man with black hair and a small, neat, black moustache. He returned her look and a smile crossed his face.
"Hulloa, Pen," he said, and Pen nearly jumped out of her skin, for though the face was that of a complete stranger, the voice was Robert Sefton's. He chuckled.
"I fooled your father all right, but I hardly thought I'd fool you, old thing." Pen took a step nearer.
"It—it's Bob," she said.
"Of course it's Bob. Who else did you think it was?" Pen stopped again.
"But you're crazy, Bob. What made you do such a thing? Dad's bound to find out. and then—"
"Of course he'll find out but don't worry about that." He came towards her. "Give me a kiss, old dear. If you only knew how badly I've been wanting one all these months past." He took her in his arms and she did not resist, yet after a moment she drew back a little.
"But I hate that nasty little moustache of yours, Bob, and as for that black hair, it's perfectly horrid."
"I was rather proud of that moustache," said Bob. " Still, if you don't like it, off it shall come. As for my hair, six pen'orth of Budson's black did the trick, and about a ha'p'orth of washing soda will restore my locks to their pristine hue."
"What the devil?"
In their interest one in the other, neither had seen the door open or heard the entrance of Sir Ambrose. His voice positively quivering with fury and surprise brought them both round with one movement.
"It's Bob, Dad," explained Pen. Sir Ambrose's cheeks turned the colour of a ripe tomato, his prominent eyes looked as though they would pop out of their sockets.
"Of all the scandalous tricks!" he exploded. "First you palm off on me a faked curiosity, then you fob yourself on as an ex-convict."
"Pardon me, Sir Ambrose," Bob was perfectly cool and collected. "This time there's no delusion, for I am an ex-convict. I've shown you my papers already."
"Stolen from somebody else," sneered Sir Ambrose.
"Not a bit of it," Bob returned. "The papers I showed you are perfectly genuine. It's true they are made out in another name for the simple reason that I didn't want my family name to appear in any prison records. If you still doubt, read this letter I from the lawyer who defended me at my trial.
"I don t believe a word you say," growled Sir Ambrose. "Still—let me see the letter." Bob handed it over, and he and Pen watched Sir Ambrose's face as he read it. It seemed to have a cooling effect upon his temper, for the violent colour faded slowly from his cheeks, and his eyes no longer bulged.
"It seems genuine," he admitted reluctantly.
"Here's another," said Bob, "from the warder of Auburn Prison, where, as I told you, I spent six months. He knew who I was." Sir Ambrose read this, too, then handed it back.
"So you've spent six months in an American prison, and you think that is a recommendation in my eyes?" he asked harshly.
"It ought to be," Bob answered coolly. "I made five thousand pounds by it."
"You made five thousand pounds by going to prison! Are you crazy, or am I?"
"Neither, sir. I'll explain," said Bob frankly. "When you quite justly kicked me out I decided to try and make good in your eyes. My friend, Colvin, is junior partner in a distillery, and his firm wanted someone reliable to take a large consignment of spirits to certain Americans who had ordered it. I volunteered to do it, but was told that, if there was trouble with the Prohibition agents, I should have to stand the racket. I got my stuff through, but was caught. So I took my medicine and six months in Auburn prison. It was a pretty tough experience, but it taught me a lot. I've learned more about criminals and the underworld generally than most people could learn in a lifetime, and I made up my mind that, if you cared for it, you should have the benefit of my experience." The older man was silent for a while after Bob had finished speaking.
"H'm," he grunted. "I didn't think you had it in you, Sefton. But, as you say, it must have been an amazingly interesting experience. I have long wanted to hear about American prisons from the inside. Suppose you stay to tea and give us the story."
"I shall be very glad to, sir, and this time, if you'll allow me, I'll give you a real relic for your museum."
"What's that?"
"The plates used by the forger, Kalisch, for printing his five hundred dollar gold certificates. Here they are.
He took a small but heavy package from his pocket, and Sir Ambrose unwrapped the plates eagerly. "And these are genuine, Sefton?"
"As genuine as any forgeries can be," replied Bob with a grin. "Kalisch was my cell mate for three months."
"I must hear all about this, Sefton," said Sir Ambrose eagerly. "Come on." He turned and led the way out of the big room. Bob squeezed Pen's hand.
"I told you not to worry, old thing," he whispered. Pen returned the pressure.
"I'm not," she said, softly. "If there's any worrying to be done G.W. can do it."
Roy Glashan's Library
Non sibi sed omnibus
Go to Home Page
This work is out of copyright in countries with a copyright
period of 70 years or less, after the year of the author's death.
If it is under copyright in your country of residence,
do not download or redistribute this file.
Original content added by RGL (e.g., introductions, notes,
RGL covers) is proprietary and protected by copyright.