that they were hauling downstairs now with the darbies on, full steam for the condemned cell.[18]
I almost cried from relief in that stuffy closet as I heard them clattering down and out to the Black Maria; the street door slammed, I listened, but there wasn’t a sound. Very cautiously I peeped out; all was still as sleep, so I tiptoed carefully down to the first landing, and leaned on the banisters to still my racing heart and get my breath back. Selly was safe, Moran was scuppered, and—
The creak of a door overhead gave me such a start I nearly pitched headlong into the stairwell—dear God, there was someone still up there!
'But of course, my dear fellow, you shall hear all about it—come along.' It was the high-pitched voice again, and at the sound of it I was scuttling frantically down the last flight, into the lane, and wheezing at high speed towards the arch when I came to a shuddering stop plumb ahead, in the archway, was the unmistakeable silhouette of a police constable, feet planted, guarding my only escape. If I’d had the wind left I’d have squealed aloud—then I saw his back was to me, unsuspecting. But behind me, in the empty house, voices were descending the stairs; in two seconds they’d be in view, and I was trapped, helpless, in the alleyway between them and the Law!
I suppose, if I’d had time for reflection, I could have told myself that I was doing no wrong, had committed no offence, and could have faced anyone with a clean conscience. Aye, but there was the pistol in my pocket, and the likelihood that those interfering bobbies would have wanted to know who I was, and what business I had there— God, what a to-do there would be if it was discovered that the celebrated Sir Harry Flashman was creeping about disguised as a scarecrow, with a shooting iron in his pocket, at the scene of an attempted murder! How could I hope to explain—avoid scandal … oh, anyway, when you go about feeling as permanently guilty as I do, you don’t waste time over niceties. At all costs I must avoid detection; there was only one thing for it—I was dressed like a soup-kitchen derelict, and in a twinkling I had poured the rest of my flask down my coat-front, sprawled down against a convenient grating, and was lying there wheezing like an intoxicated grampus, trying to look like a stupefied down-and-out who has crept in to doss for the night, when the footsteps turned out of the house and came towards me.
If they’ve any sense they’ll just pass by, thinks I—well, don’t you, when you see some ragged bummaree sleeping it off in the gutter? But no, curse their nosiness, they didn’t. The footsteps stopped beside me, and I chanced a quick look at ’em through half-closed lids—a tall, slim cove in a long coat, bare-headed and balding, and a big, hulking chap with a bulldog moustache and hard hat. They looked like a poet and a bailiff.
'What’s this?' says the bailiff, stooping over me.
'A tramp,' says the poet. 'One of the flotsam, escaping his misery in a few hours of drunken slumber.'
'Think he’s all right?' says the bailiff, rot him, and blow me if he wasn’t fumbling for my pulse. 'Going at full gallop,' says he, and blast his infernal impudence, he put a hand on my brow. 'My goodness, but he’s feverish. D’you think we should get help for him?'
'You’ll get no thanks beyond a flood of curses if you do,' says the poet carelessly. 'Really, doctor, even without close examination my nose can tell me more than your fingers. The fellow is hopelessly under the influence of drink—and rather inferior drink, at that, I fancy,' says he, stooping and sniffing at the fumes which were rising from my sodden breast. 'Yes, American bourbon, unless I am mistaken. The odour is quite distinctive—you may have remarked that to the trained senses, each spirit has its own peculiar characteristics; I believe I have in the past drawn your attention to the marked difference between the rich, sugary aroma of rum, and the more delicate sweet smell of gin,' says this amazing lunatic. 'But what now?'
The bailiff, having taken his confounded liberties with my wrist and brow, was pausing in the act of trying to lift one of my eyelids, and his next words filled me with panic.
'Good Lord!' he exclaimed. 'I believe I know this chap—but no, it can’t be, surely! Only he’s uncommonly like that old general … oh, what’s-his-name? You know, made such a hash of the Khartoum business, with Gordon … yes, and years ago he won a great name in Russia, and the Mutiny—V.C. and knighthood—it’s on the tip of my tongue—'
'My dear fellow,' says the high-pitched poet, 'I can’t imagine who your general may be—it can hardly be Lord Roberts, I fancy—but it seems likely that he would choose to sleep in his home or his club, rather than in an alley. Besides,' he went on wearily, stooping a little closer—and damned unnerving it was, to feel those two faces peering at me through the gloom, while I tried to sham insensible—'besides, this is a nautical, not a military man; he is not English, but either American or German—probably the latter, since he has certainly studied at a second-rate German university, but undoubtedly he has been in America quite lately. He is known to the police, is currently working as a ship’s steward, or in some equally menial capacity at sea—for I observe that he has declined even from his modest beginnings—and will, unless I am greatly mistaken, be in Hamburg by the beginning of next week —provided he wakes up in time. More than that,' says the know-all ignoramus, 'I cannot tell you from a superficial examination. Except, of course, for the obvious fact that he found his way here via Piccadilly Circus.
'Well,' says the other doubtfully, 'I’m sure you’re right, but he looks extremely like old what’s-his-name. But how on earth can you tell so much about him from so brief a scrutiny?'
'You have not forgotten my methods since we last met, surely?' says the conceited ass, who I began to suspect was some kind of maniac. 'Very well, apply them. Observe,' he went on impatiently, 'that the man wears a pea-jacket, with brass buttons, which is seldom seen except on sea-faring men. Add that to the patent fact that he is a German, or German-American—'
'I don’t see,' began the bailiff, only to be swept aside.
'The duelling scars, doctor! Observe them, quite plain, close to the ears on either side.' He’d sharp eyes, all right, to spot those; a gift to me from Otto Bismarck, years ago. 'They are the unfailing trade-mark of the German student, and since they have been inexpertly inflicted—you will note that they are too high—it is not too much to assume that he received them not at Heidelberg or Gottingen, but at some less distinguished academy. This suggests a middle-class beginning from which, obviously, he has descended to at least the fringes of crime.'
'How can you tell that?'
'The fine silver flask in his hand was not honestly acquired by such a seedy drunkard as this, surely. It is safe to deduce that its acquisition was only one of many petty pilferings, some of which must inevitably have attracted the attention of the police.'
'Of course! Well, I should have noticed that. But how can you say he is a ship’s steward, or that he has been in America, or that he’s going to Hamburg—'
'His appearance, although dissipated, is not entirely unredeemed. Some care has been taken with the moustache and whiskers, no doubt to compensate for the ravages which drink and evil living have stamped on his countenance.' I could have struck the arrogant, prying bastard, but I grimly kept on playing possum. 'Again, the hands are well kept, and the nails, so he is not a simple focsle hand. What, then, but a steward? The boots, although cracked, are of exceptionally good manufacture—doubtless a gratuity from some first-class passenger. As to his American sojourn, we have established that he drinks bourbon whisky, a taste for which is seldom developed outside the United States. Furthermore, since I noticed from the shipping lists this morning that the liner Brunnhilde has arrived in London from New York, and will leave on Saturday for Hamburg, I think we may reasonably conclude, bearing in mind the other points we have established, that here we have one of her crew, mis-spending his shore leave.'
'Amazing!' cries the bailiff. 'And, of course, quite simple when you explain it. My dear fellow, your uncanny powers have not deserted you in your absence!'
'I trust they are still equal, at least, to drawing such obvious inferences as these. And now, doctor, I think we have spent long enough over this poor, besotted hulk, who, I fear, would have furnished more interesting material for the meeting of the Inebriation Society than for us. I think you will admit that this pathetic shell has little in common with your distinguished Indian general.'
'Unhesitatingly!' cries the other oaf, standing up, and as they sauntered off, leaving me quaking with relief and indignation—drunken ship’s dogsbody from a second-rate German university, indeed!—I heard him ask:
'But how did you know he got here by way of Piccadilly?'
'He reeked of bourbon whisky, which is not easy to obtain outside the American Bar, and his condition suggested that he had filled his flask at least once since coming ashore …'
I waited until the coast was clear, and then creaked to my feet and hurried homeward, stiff and sore and stinking of brandy (bourbon, my eye!—as though I’d pollute my liver with that rotgut) and if my 'besotted shell' was in poor shape, my heart was rejoicing. It had all come right, for little Selly and me, and as I limped my way towards Berkeley Square I was in capital fettle. I was even whistling to myself as I loitered past the end of Hay Hill, and
