"ADMIT ONE”

Star (Christchurch), Volume XLIV, Issue 197, 20 August 1931, Page 16

"ADMIT ONE”

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Horler

CHAPTER XVIII. Abe Goldschmidt at Home. Perhaps the most curious of all the curious things appertaining to Abe Goldschmidt was the fact that scarcely anyone in London knew of his exigence; no one, that is, moving about the leisured and supposedly cultured classes.' As regards the Underworld, that was an entirely different matter. For a man like Abe Goldschmidt to be living in one of London’s busiest streets, and for the fact to go unchronicled in the Argus-eyed newspaper press was certainly remarkable. For only five years previously the name of Goldschmidt had been blazoned in screaming headlines throughout the world. He had been called “the amazing crook-lawyer,” as well as many other tilings; and he had issued no writs for libel for the very simple reason that the appellation had been strictly correct. For twenty years prior to that this curious personality had been one of the best-known figures in America. On that famous street, Broadway, lie was so familiar that scarcely an issue of any journal priding itself on an appeal to the populace missed printing his name. He was the criminal’s best friend. Thief, murderer, blackmailer, crook of any description, male or female—when in trouble they all went to Abe. And, pulling a string here, and another one there, Abe, the marvellous, somehow or other got them out of the difficulty. the very jaws of Sing-Sing and the New York County Penitentiary he could pluck them. A very strange but powerful man, Abe, of whom had been written with truth: “He was not a great criminal, as the description is usually understood, but a man who stood behind and profited by the vices of others. As an office hoy, serving a famous divorce lawyer, his shrewdness gave him the opportunity that many seek but few find. Almost before he had reached legal manhood he was called to the Bar and became, later, the partner of his old employer—sought after, flattered, feared. A light of the Tenderloin, a prominent figure at every first night, the friend and confidant of the great stars of the stage, familiar to all habitues of every race track and gambling house, this little man with the very big head was for years one of the sights of New York City.” But, even in America, an end was bound to come to this astonishing career. A great scandal arose out of a divorce suit, and Goldschmidt became heavily involved. Charged with having instigated a certain witness to commit perjury, he was indicted and brought to trial. The world loves a “character”—and Abe Goldschmidt certainly came under this description. Now that everyone knew that lie was in dire trouble, he received hundreds of letters and telegrams urging him to keep his spirit up in the fight that lay before him. But, in spite of his legal chicanery, he was eventually sentenced to a term of imprisonment. After ten months he was released. But Abe had had enough. There were to be no more appearances in Court for him — not even as counsel for the defence. Slipping away from his native country so unostentatiously that few, except one or two intimate friends, knew that he had gone, he arrived in London, took a flat just off Baker Street and lived there, so far as the great world was concerned, in the strictest seclusion. There were two entrances to this flat of Goldschmidt’s. One was the orthodox way, and through this came a few of his friends and acquaintances—the doctor who attended him, his banker, and so on; but at the back there passed through a shabby, unpainted door that would have escaped notice to any but the searching eye, a succession of men whose manner was furtive as they disappeared into the building. These came not only by day, but* at all hours of the night, for Abe, although in retirement, had found it impossible to break his old habits. Although now in had health, he-persisted in sleeping in fitful starts; and, providing that the people who came had something sufficiently interesting to tell him, he never turned his back upon a visitor. For that was the nature of the man; he had lived so long with excitement at his elbow that, though his nerves were shattered, he felt compelled to keep up an illicit acquaintance with the underworld. In spite of the fact that thousands of miles separated him from his old haunts, many scraps of information dealing with the New York streets and the criminals who infested them were whispered into his ear. There was a bearer of tidings with him now—a big, upstanding man who did not descend to stealth, hut spoke like one whose every word was a challenge. And yet Tim Hogan was “wanted” for three murders—the police called them murders —back in America. “I tell you I saw it with my own ej'es, Abe,” he was saying for the second time; “there was I”—a hint of Irish brogue now that he was becoming excited—“standing on the very kerb. And they got the fellow into the car between them. One of them was Grosner, the fellow who works with Stevens-

son. And the other, I think—damn it, I don’t think, I know—the other was the fellow they call ‘The Doctor.’ Hartley his name is, isn’t it?” The little shrunken figure of the retired lawyer twisted on the cushions of the big chair which was. now practically his prison-house. The news was like a breath of country air to a sick man. It was something akin to the memory of the roars of applause that brings a flush of excitement to a faded stage star. “What could Grosner be doing with Charlie Whittle?” he asked. But the words were merely an echo of his thoughts; that still keen brain was sifting the possibilities of the information that had been brought to him. . Tiin Hogan waved both his huge hands m a gesture of impatience. “You ask me that, Abe—you! Don’t you remember that Charlie Whittle’s been laying for Grosner for years? By rights, of course, I should be taking his side, he being a crook like meself; but, ach, the dirty snake!” And this view, unorthodox as it might have appeared to 75 per cent of the criminal underworld, was endorsed by the retired lawyer. “Dick or not,” lie said, "I shall have to get Whittle away.” “You’ve said it!”*declared Hogan, excitedly “and I’m the man to do it, don’t forget. ‘ ,J ?? y° u , knOW where he was taken? liiat s the first question.” “No—but I’ll soon find out. There’re ways and means.” “Of course.” “Little” Abe, as he had been affectionately known in years "one by> gave the merest nod. ° Grosner! WTiittle, groaning in mortification,. reflected how ironical it was that this old enemy should have appeared out of the blue in the way he had done. But. that sudden and successful attack on him, he was convinced, had been prompted by more than their oldtime feud. The more he thought of it, the more positive he was that this American crook with whom he had had so many brushes in the States had linked up with the Empress. That had been his first impression, and he was now certain it was correct. Grosner was not taking any chances. The man was determined that he should be put out of action. Even if he had possessed the strength of a dozen men, ho could not have freed himself: not only his hands and feet, but body as well, were strapped down. An eternity could pass without his being able to move more than an inch at a time. This waiting was hellish. Although Whittle had no illusions about what would eventually happen to him, he found himself mentally praying for something to break this fiendish monotony. The cellar—or whatever it was into which he had been thrown: the place was almost pitch-dark, So that he was not able to form any accurate guess —reeked with unpleasant odours; every few seconds, something wet dripped on to his face from above . . . Much more of this, and he felt he would, go mad. What was that? A step. . . Another . . . Then, from quite near, a cry that was bitten off at birth. . . Something was happening outside. But what? » He strained again at his bonds, but it was useless. Death seemed very near at that moment —nearer tlian it had ever, been before. And what an end—to be stuck between the ribs in that maddening gloom. . . Something creaked. Was it the door? Ho could not be sure, but there seemed a figure outlined, forming a darker patch than the rest of the room. Quiet, stealthy, sinister footsteps. Then: “Keep quiet,” came a tense whisper; 1 “it’s Hogan. Tim Hogan. And I’ve come to get you. away.” As an involuntary cry started from Whittle’s lips, a hand was placed over his mouth. CHAPTER XIX. The Police Visit. Down at “The White House,” a man raised a glass of wine and pledged himself. Simon Stevensson was sitting alone in his dining-room, indulging in a secret vice. Strange how it is that even the cleverest and shrewdest men have their vulnerable point: Stevensson’s liability was an unsuspected craving for alcohol. He had already finished one bottle, and was working his way steadily through a second. , After all, he might have argued, this was an occasion for drinking. On one hand, satisfaction had to be expressed over Ferguson, the resident forger, having just turned in a marvellous piece of work; but, on the other hand, trouble appeared to loom on the horizon. There were flaws in the universe—and, at such times in his criminal career, Stevensson resorted to the sparkling contents of the bottle. It was a period of tension. “A tremendous coup was nearing completion; but lie had to step warily. The fools 6ent on that job the night before had bungled. They should have brought back two, not one. Emptying his glass, he stretched out a right hand to the fireplace and pressed a bell. “Bring that fellow Crane to me,” he ordered. Three minutes later his narrow-set eyes were looking intently at the prisoner. “I’ve got some questions to ask you, Crane—if that’s your right name—and it’ll be advisable for you to give me correct answers,” he started. Still watching the young man closely, he noticed that the prisoner was holding himself well in hand. He quite evidently did not intend to tell too much. Well, if he didn’t there was always Badoglio. . .

•Stevensson’s assumption was correct. Crane’s first overwhelming fit of passion had passed. He was up against it and his common sense told him that he would be merely playing into the enemy’s hands by losing his temper. He had to be cool. Perhaps, if he were “simple” enough he would learn something that he could turn to account. In any event, precipitation would be fatal. It was in this ice-packed mood, therefore, that he stood facing the man he would willingly have killed. “Now for the questions,” resumed Stevensson. “In the first place I want to know why you are in this district at all?” That, in his assumed role of a Simple Simon, was fairly easy for Crane.

“The village was recommended to me. I came down here for a few days’ rest.’* “Indeed! Who recommended it, may I ask.?” “A friend of mine named Smith” '“Smith!” I have already warned you not to lie. The prisoner shrugged his shoulders. “It isn’t my fault if you don’t believe what I say,” he countered. Stevensson poured himself another glass of wine. “We’ll get on,” he said abruptly. “Granted that you came down here for —‘a few days’ rest’—why were you prowling round this house last night ? “I was out for a walk.” “And during that walk you broke into private property —the grounds of this house?” This took some answering, but, then, he remembered. “I heard a scream—and thought someone was being hurt or” —looking straight at his interrogator—“ill-treated.” “And you resolved to do a little rescuing—is that it?” “I hadn’t much time to think. I’m afraid I acted more or less on impulse.” Stevensson raised himself in his chair. His thin face now looked vulpine. “And the man who was with you — was he also actuated by these unselfish motives ?” Tliis was tricky ground. It would be useless to refuse to acknowledge the existence of Whittle; the only thing he could do was to pretend that the man was a stranger. “You don’t deny that you had a companion?” put in Stevensson swifUy. This gave him an opening, vMA fee eagerly seized. “A fellow certainly did come up and speak to me outside this house last night, but I didn’t know who he was.” “You know now, I believe?” “He told me he was an American.” The cross-examiner flung his empty wineglass with an oath into the grate. It smashed into a hundred pieces. “I’m not going to waste any more time with you, Crane,” he said: “you have certain information which I want, and unless you give it to me without this paltry fencing, you will regret it. You’ve just this one more chance before I call in someone whose influence on the matter you will find very effectual. “In order to refresh your apparent poor memory, let me put the case as concisely as possible. By a very curious coincidence,’ you became mixed up in my affairs. You were mistaken for a man who is very much like you in appearance, and brought to my house in London. Knowing quite well that an error had been made, why did you go?” “You’ll probably be amused by what I’am going to say,” was the reply; “but I did it for a lark.” “What?” “Yes, a lark. You see, I was fresh up from the country—Truro, I come from—and when I found myself in that extraordinary position, which was like a scene out of a book, I thought I’d carry on with it in order to discover what would happen. It promised to be exciting.” “It will be,” was the grim answer; “what’s happened to you so far is trifling compared to the future, unless you’re sensible—and stop this lying. It was through the girl ITiat you decided to go on with the affair. And a fine mug you were,” his words now ringing with contempt; “if you only knew how that girl bluffed you !” Before he could control himself, Philip had sprung forward, his manacled hands uplifted to strike. Stevensson merely smiled —he had good reason to, apparently, as, before Crane could reach hint, the would-be assailant was seized from behind and swept abruptly to the floor. (To be continued daily.)