CHAPTER VIII.
"It's a conspiracy!" thundered Mr. McEachern.
He stood in the doorway, breathing heavily. It has been shown that the
ex-policeman was somewhat prone to harbor suspicions of those round
about him, and at the present moment his mind was aflame. Indeed, a
more trusting man might have been excused for feeling a little
doubtful as to the intentions of Jimmy and Spike. When McEachern had
heard that his stepson had brought home a casual London acquaintance,
he had suspected the existence of hidden motives on the part of the
unknown. Spennie, he had told himself, was precisely the sort of youth
to whom the professional bunko-steerer would attach himself with
shouts of joy. Never, he had assured himself, had there been a softer
proposition than his stepson since bunko-steering became a profession.
When he found that the strange visitor was Jimmy Pitt, his suspicions
had increased a thousandfold.
And when, going to his dressing room to get ready for dinner, he had
nearly run into Spike Mullins, Red Spike of shameful memory, his frame
of mind had been that of a man to whom a sudden ray of light reveals
the fact that he is on the very brink of a black precipice. Jimmy and
Spike had been a firm in New York. And here they were, together again,
in his house in Shropshire. To say that the thing struck McEachern as
sinister is to put the matter baldly. There was once a gentleman who
remarked that he smelt a rat and saw it floating in the air.
Ex-constable McEachern smelt a regiment of rats, and the air seemed to
him positively congested with them.
His first impulse had been to rush to Jimmy's room there and then; but
Lady Jane had trained him well. Though the heavens might fall, he must
not be late for dinner. So he went and dressed, and an obstinate tie
put the finishing touches to his wrath.
Jimmy regarded him coolly, without moving from the chair in which he
had seated himself. Spike, on the other hand, seemed embarrassed. He
stood first on one leg and then on the other, as if he were testing
the respective merits of each, and would make a definite choice later
on.
"Ye scoundrels!" growled McEachern.
Spike, who had been standing for a few moments on his right leg, and
seemed at last to have come to a decision, hastily changed to the
left, and grinned feebly.
"Say, youse won't want me any more, Mr. Chames?" he whispered.
"No; you can go, Spike."
"Ye stay where y'are, ye red-headed limb."
"Run along, Spike!" said Jimmy.
The Bowery boy looked doubtfully at the huge form of the ex-policeman,
which blocked access to the door.
"Would you mind letting my man pass?" said Jimmy.
"Ye stay----" began McEachern.
Jimmy got up, and walked round him to the door, which he opened. Spike
shot out like a rabbit released from a trap. He was not lacking in
courage, but he disliked embarrassing interviews, and it struck him
that Mr. Chames was the man to handle a situation of this kind. He
felt that he himself would only be in the way.
"Now we can talk comfortably," said Jimmy, going back to his chair.
McEachern's deep-set eyes gleamed, and his forehead grew red; but he
mastered his feelings.
"An' now," said he, "perhaps ye'll explain!"
"What exactly?" asked Jimmy.
"What ye're doin' here."
"Nothing at the moment."
"Ye know what I mane. Why are ye here, you and that red-headed devil?"
He jerked his head in the direction of the door.
"I am here because I was very kindly invited to come by your stepson."
"I know ye."
"You have that privilege."
"I know ye, I say, and I want to know what ye're here to do."
"To do? Well, I shall potter about the garden, don't you know, and
smell the roses, and look at the horses, and feed the chickens, and
perhaps go for an occasional row on the lake. Nothing more. Oh, yes, I
believe they want me to act in these theatricals."
"An' I'll tell ye another thing ye'll be wanted to do, and that is to
go away from here at wance!"
"My dear old sir!"
"Ye hear me? At wance."
"Couldn't think of it," said Jimmy decidedly. "Not for a moment."
"I'll expose ye," stormed McEachern. "I'll expose ye. Will ye deny
that ye was a crook in New York?"
"What proofs have you?"
"Proofs! Will you deny it?"
"No. It's quite true."
"I knew it."
"But I'm a reformed character, now, Mr. McEachern. I have money of my
own. It was left me. I hear you had money left you, too."
"I did," said McEachern shortly.
"Congratulate you. I'm glad I know, because otherwise I might have
formed quite a wrong impression when I came here and found you with
money to burn. Quite the old English squire now, Mr. McEachern, what?"
"Ye'll lave the house to-morrow."
"All the more reason why we should make the most of this opportunity
of talking over old times. Did you mind leaving the force?"
"And ye'll take that blackguard Mullins wid ye."
"Judging from the stories one hears, it must be a jolly sort of life.
What a pity so many of them go in for graft. I could tell you some
stories about a policeman I used to know in New York. He was the
champion grafter. I remember hearing one yarn from a newspaper man out
there. This reporter chap happened to hear of the grumblings of some
tenants of an apartment house uptown which led them to believe that
certain noises they complained of were made by burglars who used the
flat as a place to pack up the loot for shipment to other cities. You
know that habit of ours, don't you? He was quite right, and when he
tipped off his newspaper they reported the thing to the police. Now, I
could have gone right up and made those men show up their hands by
merely asking them to.
"Not so the police. I wonder if you remember the case. You look as if
you were beginning to. The police went blundering at wrong doors, and
most of the gang got away. And while they were in the house after the
raid a woman was able to slip in and take away on an express wagon the
three trunks which were to have been held for evidence. And that's not
all, either. There was one particular policeman who held the case for
the prosecution in his hands. If he had played up in court next day,
the one man that had been captured would have got all that was coming
to him. What happened? Why, his evidence broke down, and the man was
discharged. It's a long story. I hope it hasn't bored you."
McEachern did not look bored. He was mopping his forehead, and
breathing quickly.
"It was a most interesting case," said Jimmy. "I've got all the
names."
"It's a lie!"
"Not at all. True as anything. Ever heard of that policeman--I've got
his name, too--who made a lot of money by getting appointments in the
force for men of his acquaintance? He used to be paid heavily for it,
and you'd hardly believe what a lot of scoundrels he let in in that
way."
"See here----" began McEachern huskily.
"I wonder if you ever came across any men in the force who made
anything by that dodge of arresting a person and then getting a lawyer
for them. Ever heard of that? It's rather like a double ruff at
bridge. You--I'm awfully sorry. I shouldn't have used that word. What
I meant to say was the policeman makes his arrest, then suggests that
the person had better have a bondsman. He gathers in a bondsman, who
charges the prisoner four dollars for bailing him out. Two dollars of
this goes to the sergeant, who accepts the bail without question, and
the policeman takes one. Then the able and intelligent officer says to
the prisoner: 'What you want is a lawyer.' 'Right,' says the prisoner,
'if you think so.' Off goes the policeman and gets the lawyer. Five
more dollars, of which he gets his share. It's a beautiful system. It
might interest the people at dinner to-night to hear about it. I think
I'll tell them."
"You'll----"
"And when you come to think that some policemen in New York take
tribute from peddlers who obstruct the traffic, tradesmen who obstruct
the sidewalk, restaurant keepers who keep open after one o'clock in
the morning, drivers who exceed speed limits, and keepers of pool
rooms, you'll understand that there's a good bit to be made out of
graft, if you go in for it seriously. It's uncommonly lucky,
McEachern, that you were left that money. Otherwise you might have
been tempted, mightn't you?"
There was a somewhat breathless silence in the room. Mr. McEachern was
panting slightly.
"You couldn't reconsider your decision about sending me away
to-morrow, I suppose?" said Jimmy, flicking at his shoes with a
handkerchief. "It's a lovely part of the country, this. I would be
sorry to leave it."
Mr. McEachern's brain was working with unwonted rapidity. This man
must be silenced at all costs. It would be fatal to his prospects in
English society if one tithe of these gruesome stories were made
public. And he believed Jimmy capable of making them public, being
guilty thereby of an error of judgment. Jimmy, though he had no
respect at all for Mr. McEachern, would have died sooner than spread
any story which, even in an indirect way, could reflect upon Molly.
Mr. McEachern, however, had not the advantage of knowing his
antagonist's feelings, and the bluff was successful.
"Ye can stay," he said.
"Thanks," said Jimmy.
"And I'll beg ye not to mention the force at dinner or at any other
time."
"I won't dream of it."
"They think I made me money on Wall Street."
"It would have been a slower job there. You were wise in your choice.
Shall we go down to the drawing-room, now?"
"Ye say y'are rich yerself," said McEachern.
"Very," said Jimmy, "so don't you worry yourself, my Wall Street
speculator."
Mr. McEachern did not worry himself. He had just recollected that in a
very short time he would have a trained detective on the premises. Any
looking after that James Willoughby Pitt might require might safely be
left in the hands of this expert.
