The Beating of the Middle-Weight

by Edgar Wallace

THE BEATING OF THE MIDDLE-WEIGHT

By EDGAR WALLACE

THERE is a sixth sense which all criminals acquire, and which, whilst it is of the greatest value to them in the active pursuits of their profession, must invariably bring their careers to a disastrous finish. It is the sense of immunity. The ostrich is popularly supposed to share this characteristic, but even if it were true that the ostrich, when hotly pursued, dives his head into the sand, he at least does not adopt this suicidal policy except as a last desperate resort.

Mr. Jagg Flower, who had described himself as a gentleman at large, had been in the habit, throughout his chequered life, of hiding one crime by committing another, and when, as it occasionally did, the strong hand of the law came upon his collar and he was retired to a place where, in the argot of his class, "the dogs did not bite," he regarded his punishment as both a penance and an atonement, which wiped out all his earlier indiscretions and produced him to the world, at the conclusion of his sentence, more or less spotless.

A certain burglary, which had been accompanied by murder, had disfigured his earlier career; but, thanks to the assistance of friends, a swift voyage to the other side of the Atlantic, and his subsequent arrest and punishment for a breach of the European laws, he had forgotten that Vermont, Virginia, was on the map until, in the solitude of his Toulouse cell, he had read that the Marquis of Pelborough had acquired a country seat, that his name was originally Beane, and he was the nephew of Dr. Josephus Beane.

"Whereupon Mr. Flower had remembered that an erstwhile companion of his, one who, indeed, had been a fellow-adventurer in the Vermont enterprise, was the son of Dr. Josephus Beane, and therefore, had he lived, would be the holder of the title. Unfortunately, Joe Beane had not lived. The outraged laws of Virginia had been vindicated, and that dissolute young man had been jerked to death, regretted by none.

To resurrect him was an easy matter to a man of Mr. Flower's plausibility, and, having failed in his object to extract money from Chick Pelborough by a promise of silence, he had accepted his defeat, and there the matter might have ended.

"That girl was surely a queen," he thought, on his way to Town.

He harboured none of the malice against her which had brought him in stealth to Anita Pireau, in Marseilles, to impress upon her the enormity of the offence she committed when she stood up in the courts and testified against him. He was so philosophical a man that he could admire the force which had beaten him. His sense of immunity, however, had received a jar. He had been uncomfortably reminded that there was at least one offence which had not been erased by various imprisonments, and he decided that, on the whole, Holland, in the rôle of an American tourist, might offer him a successful livelihood.

For a week he lay low, enjoying the hospitality of a private hotel in Bloomsbury, and then one of his fraternity, a London "confidence man," gave him the first hint that the police were searching for him. He had only hidden in case Lord Pelborough had communicated with the police, and when he received the first warning, he attached only that importance to the search.

Nevertheless, he decided to leave England. He had taken his place in a first-class carriage on the Harwich boat train, when there appeared at the open door a thick-set man, whom Mr. Flower recognised before he spoke.

"Say, Jagg, come a little walk with me, will you?"

Behind the American detective were two obvious London policemen.

"Sure," said Jagg, rising slowly and taking down his bag from the rack. "I guess you've been having a talk with dear little Gwenda."

The detective had his foot on the carriage floor to enter, when the bag struck him in the face and sent him floundering back upon the platform. The next second Jagg Flower pulled open the door on the other side of the carriage, crossed the rails, mounted a further platform, and was racing through the goods yard at Liverpool Street Station before the alarm was raised.

He slackened his pace to a walk as he came to an open gateway, at which, in his windowed lodge, a station policeman was sitting. He came out into High Street, Shoreditch, and mounted a tram which was on the move. At Islington he changed cars and reached King's Cross. Here a train was on the point of leaving for the North, and he had time to take a first-class ticket before it moved out.

So that queen of a girl had set them on to him! Jagg Flower smiled. Women had betrayed him before, and had been sorry. Given the leisure and the opportunity, Gwenda—that was her name; he had heard the Marquis address her—would be sorry, too.

The train's first stop was at Grantham, and there were an unusually large number of policemen on the platform.

"Gwenda!" said Mr. Jagg Flower softly, as he dropped on to the line on the side opposite to the platform. He was in one of the last carriages, and the ground was clear for him. Again he made use of the goods yard and succeeded in getting clear of the town.

"These English police are surely maligned," said Mr. Flower, as he took to the open road.

The quietude of Kenberry House was not disturbed by news of Mr, Flower's peril.

After his unsuccessful attempt at blackmail, he passed out of Chick's life and his thoughts, representing no more than an exciting interlude. At one time it seemed that the news he had brought would reshape the life of the youthful Lord of Pelborough. Chick almost wished it had.

"Chick is a curious man," said Mrs. Phibbs, his housekeeper.

Gwenda's thoughts were running on the same lines, but she was not ready to agree even with the criticisms offered by such a good friend of theirs as Mrs. Phibbs.

"Why?" she asked.

"He has so many unexpected moods," said Mrs. Phibbs, putting down her book and polishing her pince-nez, "He came here in the depth of gloom. Really he was most depressing, Gwenda. And then the day that very nice American called I found him capering round the library like a demented child. And now——"

"Now?" said Gwenda inquiringly.

"Now he's neither one thing nor the other. He's just quiet. I don't suppose he has spoken a dozen words in the last three meals."

Gwenda had noticed that, too. The time was coming for her departure, but the situation had changed so often that to be consistent now would mean perpetuating her inconsistency.

Chick's avoidance of any discussion of her future she could understand. He was trying to help her, but somehow she did not want help in the way he intended.

"Where is he?" she asked.

"He's fishing."

Gwenda took her mackintosh over her arm and walked across the sloping meadows toward the river. Chick, she knew, would be in his favourite spot, a hollow in the river-bank secluded by a screen of trees from wind and rain and observation.

He turned his head, as she came stumbling down the bank, and reached up his hand to help her.

"Fishing, Chick?" she asked unnecessarily.

"Fishing," agreed Chick, his eyes on the stream.

They sat for a long time without speaking.

"What is the matter with you, Chick?" she demanded.

"Nothing," he said, not turning his head.

"Don't be silly, Chick. Of course there's something the matter. Are you angry with me?"

He looked at her and smiled. "No, dear, I'm not angry with you," he said. "Why should I be?"

There was a glint of a silver-grey body, a snap of vociferous jaws, and the fly went under. She watched him curiously as he played the trout.

Chick seemed to have aged in the past two or three months, she thought. The boy had become a man. He had thickened a little, and the face, which in other days carried a hint of indecision, had grown stronger.

"You have become quite a fisherman," she smiled, as he landed the struggling trout.

"Haven't I?" he said.

His reply piqued her.

"Don't you want to talk to me, Chick?"

He put down his rod and turned to her, clasping his knee in his hands.

"Gwenda, the last time we were here I talked to you about marriage," he said quietly, "and you refused because I was a marquis, and people might think that you were after my title. And then, when I thought I was losing that title, I talked to you, and you said you would marry me if I kept it. I dare not talk to you now, Gwenda, because"—he hesitated—"I know you only said that to make me go after that American fellow and prove he was wrong."

She was silent.

"There is only one thing I can talk to you about, Gwenda, and that is you and I," said Chick, and took her hand from her lap and patted it. "You used to be so much older than I, Gwenda, and now you're so much younger I feel quite grown-up beside you, but not grown-up enough to do what I want."

"What is that, Chick?" she said in a voice a little above a whisper.

His arm slipped round her and her head dropped upon his shoulder.

"Just to hug you like this," he said huskily, "and hold you until—until you behave!"

"This isn't behaving, Chick," she murmured.

His fishing rod slipped into the water, and he watched it float in the swift stream.

"You'll lose it," whispered Gwenda, her face against his.

"I can buy another," said Chick, "but I can't buy the minute I'd lose."

Mrs. Phibbs saw them strolling back hand in hand, and did not see anything extraordinary in the circumstance. And when she detected them holding hands under the table-cloth at dinner, she thought no more than that some little quarrel which had occurred, unknown to her, had been patched up. But when she walked into the library to find a book, and a sepulchral voice said from the window recess, "Don't turn on the light; it hurts my eyes, Mrs. Phibbs," she very wisely withdrew, realising that something had happened—something for which she had prayed.

At the moment the interruption came. Chick was talking about boxing, although Mrs. Phibbs would never have guessed this, had the light been turned on, for amateur champions, when they lecture upon the noble art, do not find it necessary to sit so close to their audience.

"I'll build a gym. when I can afford it," he said.

"One day I'd like to see you box, Chick," she whispered. There was no need to speak louder; her ordinary speaking voice would have deafened him—in the circumstances.

"I don't think you'd like it," he said. He did not shake his head, because it would have meant shaking two heads—in the circumstances.

"But I should really. Lord Mansar said—please don't shudder, Chick; it shakes me—Lord Mansar said that you had a 'miraculous left'; your left arm doesn't feel any different to the other. It is terribly hard, but so is the right arm. Do you mind me pinching you, or don't you feel it?"

"I'm supposed to hit harder with the left," said Chick, "but I hope you'll never see me hit with either. Boxing is wonderful for boys. That is why people shouldn't sneer at these big champions who fight for money. It seems degrading, but it isn't. It stimulates the little people, the schoolboys and chaps like that, to do a little better."

"What is the use of boxing, Chick? I know it is splendid to be able to defend yourself, but there's nothing—spiritual in it."

Chick laughed softly.

"Gwenda, the man who loses his temper in the ring is beaten before he starts; the man who doesn't fight fair is beaten by the people who see him. Discipline and respect for the laws are spiritual—what's the word?——"

"Qualities?" suggested the girl.

"Yes, spiritual qualities. But, darling, let's talk of Monte Carlo. I never want you to see me fighting; I'd be scared to death."

So they talked about something else until the hall clock struck midnight.

In the midst of the third day of his sublime happiness came a stocky man whom Chick had seen before. He was not exactly in the same state of repair as he had been when he had left Kenberry House, for his eye was a dark purple and the bridge of his nose was heavily plastered.

"Just as I thought I'd got him," he explained to Chick bitterly, "he threw a forty-pound bag in my face and bolted."

"What makes you think he will come here?" asked Chick.

The interview took place behind the closed doors of his library.

"That's Jagg's way. He's got an idea that you or the lady squealed to the police," said Detective Sullivan, "and he's a pretty dangerous man. You've heard of Jagg Flower, my lord? I understand you take an interest in boxing."

"Jagg Flower!"

Chick frowned.

"I don't remember his name."

"He'd have made a fortune in the ring if he'd only gone straight—the finest light-middle we ever had in America, and a dead shot, too," he added significantly. "He carries a gun. We know that, because when the English police searched his lodgings in Bloomsbury we found the remains of a box of cartridges. Now, I'll tell you, my lord, why I've come to you." He drew his chair nearer to the desk and lowered his voice. "I'm as sure as anything that he'll return here. The country is closed to him, and he can't get out, and, naturally enough, he'll come after the people who have squealed—I mean who have betrayed him. He did the same thing in France, and he did it once in America. There isn't a meaner fellow in the world than Jagg."

"He seemed quite nice," said Chick dubiously.

The detective laughed, and related briefly what had happened to Anita Pireau, a companion of his who had given information to the police.

Chick listened and shivered.

"So you see, sir," said Sullivan, "it is not safe for you to be living in this house, the only man here."

"How did you know that?" smiled Chick.

"I've a tongue in my head," said the detective good-humouredly. "What I want to know, Lord Pelborough, is, will you let me sleep in this house for the next week?"

Chick hesitated.

"I'll have to consult my—my fiancée," he blurted, cherry-red.

Gwenda was inclined to treat the matter lightly, but she had no serious objections to offer. Mrs. Phibbs, on the other hand, who saw in this a sinister plot on the part of the detective to have a week's lodging in a pleasant country village, free of all charge, was sceptical.

In the end, Mr. Sullivan's one bag was taken to a room adjoining Chick's. To relieve them of the embarrassment of his presence, he asked that his meals might be set in the servants' hall, but Chick insisted upon his dining with the "family," and he proved to be an entertaining guest.

He had a fund of fascinating stories of crime and criminals, and Chick learnt of a world of which he had never dreamt, a world of human tigers that preyed alike upon the weaklings of their own species and upon the society which had offended them by its prosperity.

"Jagg had a friend named Beane," said Sullivan, on the third night of his visit, "a weak fool of a fellow. He was an Englishman, too. His father was a doctor in this country, and he could have occupied any position, but Joe Beane just naturally hated work. He was pulled in once or twice in New York for mean little crimes, and then he drifted down to Virginia and met this fellow Flower."

He went on to describe the erring Beane's career, and Chick listened to the story of his cousin's life and death without a muscle of his face moving.

It was a curious thought that far away in Virginia, in a neglected corner of a prison yard, lay one who, if Fate had been kinder, might have taken his seat in the House of Lords.

After the meal was over. Chick took the girl's arm and led her into the study.

"I was so sorry for you, dear," she said. "I tried to stop Mr. Sullivan."

Chick shook his head.

"It didn't matter a bit," he said. "Poor old Uncle Josephus! No wonder he was impatient with me. It must have broken his heart. You're marrying into a queer family, Gwenda," he said, his arm about her, his hand gently stroking her face.

Then he remembered a half-brother of hers, a slinking thief of a brother, and when he saw her smile he knew that she had remembered, too.

He went to bed a little later than usual. He had a number of letters to write, for Chick, since his adventures in the oil market, had acquired two directorships—he traced the hand of Lord Mansar in each appointment.

He did not go straight to bed, but wearing a dressing-gown over his pyjamas he sat on a seat in one of the windows looking out over the grounds. It was a moonlight night, and he could see almost to the stone wall that bounded the tiny park. He had not been disturbed by Mr. Sullivan's ominous prophecy, partly because he did not believe that the man held him responsible for the attentions of the police, and partly because he did not know Jagg Flower.

Chick said his prayers, and went to bed and was asleep in a minute. When he woke, the first grey of dawn was in the sky, and he wondered what had aroused him to instant wakefulness.

He listened. There was no sound but the distant faint tick of a clock in the hall below. And yet something must have awakened him. There was no sound coming from Sullivan's room, so he had evidently slept through the noise, whatever it was.

He slipped out of bed, pulled on his slippers, and opened the door softly. The corridor was in darkness, and there was a profound silence. Tightening the string of his pyjamas, he stepped noiselessly along the carpeted floor and stopped at Gwenda's room, listening.

He was on the point of returning to his own room, when he heard the faintest of whispers.

He tried the handle of the door gently, for fear of disturbing her if she were asleep, but it was locked, and he went along to the door of the bathroom, from which a second door communicated with Gwenda's room.

This was open, and the door of her room was ajar. He pushed it open with the same caution.

The room was in darkness, save for the faint light supplied by the dawn, and he saw standing by Gwenda's bed the figure of a man. His back was toward Chick, and he was bending over the bed, one hand over the mouth of the girl, who was lying motionless. There was an electric switch near the door, and Chick pressed it down.

Instantly the room was flooded with light. The man turned quickly, and Chick looked into the smiling face of Jagg Flower.

"You did hear, then," said Mr. Flower pleasantly.

Chick walked slowly toward him, heedless of the automatic pistol Flower held in his hand.

"Stop right where you are," said the intruder.

Chick looked at the girl. Her nightdress was torn at the neck, and there was a big ugly scratch on her white shoulder. His eyes went slowly from her to the man, and then down to the levelled pistol, and he spoke no word.

Then suddenly he leapt. One hand closed round the wrist of the hand that held the Browning, the other struck straight at the man's throat a blow which would have paralysed a less hardy mortal than Jagg Flower. As he staggered back, there was a crash of glass as Chick sent the pistol through the window. He never underrated an opponent, and a voice within him whispered a warning. The man was a middle-weight.

The lightning stab that the smiling Flower aimed at him missed his face. A second blow he lowered his head to meet, a third quick uppercut met the air.

Then the slim figure was on him, and in the heart of Chick Pelborough was cold murder.

The girl, leaning on her hand, watched in horror as Chick's arm swung left and right so quickly that she could not follow the blows.

"Hands up, Flower!" It was Sullivan in the open door of the dark bathroom, pistol in hand.

"Leave him alone!" snarled Chick. His lip was cut, and a great red bruise showed where Jagg Flower's fist had reached him.

"On the whole, I think I will put up my hands," drawled Flower. One eye was closed, and he bore the marks of his punishment conspicuously. "If I had known what I know now, I would have tackled you first, young man—with a hammer."

Chick walked to the table by the side of the girl's bed, and his hand closed over a blue bottle before she had realised it was there. Then he faced the man, about whose wrists Sullivan had snapped a pair of American handcuffs.

"The reason I haven't killed you, Flower," Chick said, his face as white as death, "is because you're going back to Virginia to be electrocuted. Mr. Sullivan says that the State will make it a point of honour to get you to the chair."

He showed the bottle in the palm of his hand, and Mr. Flower was no longer smiling.

Two people in their dressing-gowns watched through the library window the departure of Mr. Sullivan and his prisoner. It was six o'clock, and the house had not been aroused.

"What will happen to him?" asked Gwenda.

"He'll hang," said Chick. He bit his lip thoughtfully. "I should like to see it," he said.

"Chick," said the girl reproachfully, "how can you say such a thing?"

She had been wakened in the night by the pressure of Flower's hand on her face, and had screamed. It was the scream which had awakened Chick and which had even aroused the detective.

"I struggled a little. That's when he scratched me." She nursed her shoulder with a smile. "Oh, really, dear, it is nothing. And I did see you fight—you were terrifying!"

Chick smiled uncomfortably.

"Chick, what was that little blue bottle you took from the table by my bed?" she asked.

"That was nothing, either," smiled Chick.

"But, really, what was it? Did Flower bring it?"

"I brought it in myself," said Chick. "Didn't you see me put it down?"

"What was it?" she asked again.

"It was liniment. I thought Mr. Flower might want it."

Later he emptied the contents of the bottle in a secluded part of the grounds, and watched it smoke and steam, and the grass wither, and he shivered as he had when the detective had told him of the horrible vengeance which Jagg Flower had reeked upon the French girl who had betrayed him.

Chick really took the most unexpected views, thought Gwenda, when they were discussing plans in the library that night. She had thought that he, whose painful shyness had first awakened her interest in him, would prefer the quietest of weddings, but Chick, to her astonishment, had vetoed that suggestion.

It was to be at St. Margaret's, Westminster, and was to be a wedding of the most ostentatious character.

"I'm going to be married so that everybody knows that you're the Marchioness of Pelborough," he said firmly.

And so they were married one dull October day, and the church was filled with people in all stations of life, varying from the Lord Chancellor to the boxing instructor at the Polytechnic.

There was a crowd to see them go in and come out, and on the edge of the crowd was a very pretty girl who had figured alarmingly in Chick's life. Miss Farland, the lady in question, wept silently as the newly-married couple drove away.

"He was engaged to me once," she sobbed to her friends, "but you know what these lords are. When an actress gets after them——"

She attracted the attention of a press photographer who was just folding his camera.

"Excuse me," she said, "I was the young lady who was engaged to Lord Pelborough."

"Fine," said the photographer. "I hope it was a good job. How did you lose it?"