Read Online SV - 01 - Sergeant Verity and the Cracksman by Francis Selwyn - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Francis Selwyn
Tags: Crime, Historical Novel
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"I mean it," said Cazamian sincerely, "I'm your man, whatever the jig may be."
"Obliged, I'm sure," said Dacre. "But one piece of advice, my dear chap. If you're going to speculate again, horses is a deuced long chance. Getting down to the pasties on the old green baize is more the style. Especially if you've got a good set of fingers for the cards."
It had to come next, but it was the only part of the whole scheme which left Dacre's mouth dry with fear. He rang for his servant and entrusted the beagle to him, to be returned to the house in Albemarle Street. Then, pushing his way through the noisy, lurching crowd in Cremorne Gardens, he called a cab off the rank in Cheyne Walk.
"Sealskin" Kite lived near Hammersmith Mall, in the new "Stock Exchange suburb" which ran north to Shepherds Bush, and from which professional men could now travel leisurely to the City by rail. Kite's was one of the detached villas, large enough to contain a wife, several children, a governess, a parlourmaid, a kitchenmaid, and a cook. Both the parlourmaid and the governess were required to provide certain discreet services for the pleasure of their employer.
Alone among his neighbours, Kite drew his income from a source other than the Exchange, or the Temple, or rack rent streets east of St Paul's and south of Waterloo. The turf had made Kite a rich man—so rich that now he had men who threatened and maimed and even killed on his behalf without even knowing his name. Kite himself was a merchant banker of the underworld, who could turn goods into gold, gold into notes of credit, and notes of credit into goods, bonds, or stock, with flawless dexterity and impunity. It was more than five years since Kite had even seen a racecourse. When he read of a stable-boy beaten half to death for refusing to wound a likely winner, or an awkward bookmaker garotted and robbed, he shook his head and wondered as emphatically as his neighbours what the world was coming to.
Kite never begrudged the cost to the parish rates of Poor Law institutions. He subscribed for the relief of "distressed trades" and dropped half a crown into the collection plate of a respectable chapel every Sunday morning. It was no hypocrisy on his part. Kite felt a genuine warmth of heart when helping the deserving poor. For the undeserving poor, and most of all for the petty pilferer and the mean sneak-thief, Kite harboured a disgust that frequently became an irrational fury. He would willingly raise the honest man who had fallen on hard times, and would as willingly have throttled with his own hands a thief who took the humblest man's cherished trinkets. Kite was extremely dangerous, but he was necessary to Dacre's scheme.
Dacre knew what must be done but, for all that, he still had half a mind to turn back as he walked past the railings of the spacious houses. The palms of his white, bony hands sweated and his heart seemed to be beating in his throat. To do what must be done, while facing the penalties of the law, was bad enough. To do it in the knowledge of what Kite or Kite's bullies would do if they caught him, left him almost sick with fright.
In a patch of deep shadow by the railings he unfastened his cloak. At least Kite himself would not be in the house. Not on Derby Night. There were several heavy objects in the lining of the cloak. Dacre chose a screwdriver, two short lengths of chain, and four metal clamps. He screwed two clamps to adjacent railings, a length of stout chain held taut between them. Reaching up, he repeated the operation at a higher point, so that the six feet of sharp-topped railings now had "stirrups" at two-foot intervals.
Dacre took off his cloak, rolled it up and tied it. Then he tossed it cautiously over the railings, where it fell with a muffled impact on the grass. Nothing for it now, the job was on. It took him one stride on to the low wall, two up the railings, two down the other side, and a jump to the grass. He listened carefully, but
"I mean it," said Cazamian sincerely, "I'm your man, whatever the jig may be."
"Obliged, I'm sure," said Dacre. "But one piece of advice, my dear chap. If you're going to speculate again, horses is a deuced long chance. Getting down to the pasties on the old green baize is more the style. Especially if you've got a good set of fingers for the cards."
It had to come next, but it was the only part of the whole scheme which left Dacre's mouth dry with fear. He rang for his servant and entrusted the beagle to him, to be returned to the house in Albemarle Street. Then, pushing his way through the noisy, lurching crowd in Cremorne Gardens, he called a cab off the rank in Cheyne Walk.
"Sealskin" Kite lived near Hammersmith Mall, in the new "Stock Exchange suburb" which ran north to Shepherds Bush, and from which professional men could now travel leisurely to the City by rail. Kite's was one of the detached villas, large enough to contain a wife, several children, a governess, a parlourmaid, a kitchenmaid, and a cook. Both the parlourmaid and the governess were required to provide certain discreet services for the pleasure of their employer.
Alone among his neighbours, Kite drew his income from a source other than the Exchange, or the Temple, or rack rent streets east of St Paul's and south of Waterloo. The turf had made Kite a rich man—so rich that now he had men who threatened and maimed and even killed on his behalf without even knowing his name. Kite himself was a merchant banker of the underworld, who could turn goods into gold, gold into notes of credit, and notes of credit into goods, bonds, or stock, with flawless dexterity and impunity. It was more than five years since Kite had even seen a racecourse. When he read of a stable-boy beaten half to death for refusing to wound a likely winner, or an awkward bookmaker garotted and robbed, he shook his head and wondered as emphatically as his neighbours what the world was coming to.
Kite never begrudged the cost to the parish rates of Poor Law institutions. He subscribed for the relief of "distressed trades" and dropped half a crown into the collection plate of a respectable chapel every Sunday morning. It was no hypocrisy on his part. Kite felt a genuine warmth of heart when helping the deserving poor. For the undeserving poor, and most of all for the petty pilferer and the mean sneak-thief, Kite harboured a disgust that frequently became an irrational fury. He would willingly raise the honest man who had fallen on hard times, and would as willingly have throttled with his own hands a thief who took the humblest man's cherished trinkets. Kite was extremely dangerous, but he was necessary to Dacre's scheme.
Dacre knew what must be done but, for all that, he still had half a mind to turn back as he walked past the railings of the spacious houses. The palms of his white, bony hands sweated and his heart seemed to be beating in his throat. To do what must be done, while facing the penalties of the law, was bad enough. To do it in the knowledge of what Kite or Kite's bullies would do if they caught him, left him almost sick with fright.
In a patch of deep shadow by the railings he unfastened his cloak. At least Kite himself would not be in the house. Not on Derby Night. There were several heavy objects in the lining of the cloak. Dacre chose a screwdriver, two short lengths of chain, and four metal clamps. He screwed two clamps to adjacent railings, a length of stout chain held taut between them. Reaching up, he repeated the operation at a higher point, so that the six feet of sharp-topped railings now had "stirrups" at two-foot intervals.
Dacre took off his cloak, rolled it up and tied it. Then he tossed it cautiously over the railings, where it fell with a muffled impact on the grass. Nothing for it now, the job was on. It took him one stride on to the low wall, two up the railings, two down the other side, and a jump to the grass. He listened carefully, but
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