After leaving Chez Simone, James and Peter walked through the streets of Soho. They’d talked longer than planned and it was later than they’d intended: they would have to go to the second show at the music hall. But they didn’t care since they were young and often stayed up late, and the shows were always great at any time.
They were still talking about the difference between the North and South of England and how the North seemed to continue to prosper no matter what, when Peter exclaimed, “Look! That little street over there. It’s a shortcut. I’ve taken it before. It will save us time, and we’ll get to the music hall much quicker.”
James followed the direction of his gaze. “You know best, since you frequent this area more than I do. So come on then, let’s go.”
The two men crossed the road and entered the street. James realized at once that it was dark, more like an alley, narrow and quite long. He wished there were street lamps.
There were no other pedestrians; it was empty. They walked on at a steady pace, managing to maneuver it, despite the pitch darkness.
Suddenly Peter grabbed James’s arm. “Don’t look round. Keep walking. I believe there’s somebody following us.”
“Why follow us? It could be someone walking slowly, that’s all,” James replied. However, his mind instantly went on total alert. He became fully aware of his surroundings.
“Two men,” Peter said in a low voice. “It might be ordinary folk or it could be thieves thinking we’re an easy target. When I say now, I want you to swing around to face them with your hands up, as if you’re ready to punch them. Before they hit us.”
“I understand. Go on the attack at once.”
“Yes. And I’ll be in the same position. I’ve studied martial arts and I have a few good maneuvers.”
“Got it. We’ll take them by surprise.”
“Let’s walk a few more steps and then we’ll make our stand when I say the word.”
James did as Peter said, although inside he was now feeling nervous, remembering the bruisers who had attacked him and his childhood friend Dennis several years ago. Denny had died from his wounds.
“Now!” Peter hissed, and swung around.
James followed suit.
They were facing two men dressed entirely in black, barely visible in the dark alley. They were close on their heels. Probably ready to assault them but Peter’s unexpected swivel and his lurch forward had taken the men by surprise. He ran toward the bigger of the two men, shouting tauntingly, “Come on. Come and get it.”
The heavyset man took the bait and headed for Peter. The other assailant was not far behind but was panting heavily, seemed less robust.
Just as the first attacker drew closer, ready to punch Peter and start to fight, Peter kicked his right leg in the air. The front of his heavy boot hit the man in the crotch, and very hard. Right on the mark, Peter thought.
The man screamed and bent double, clutching himself, still crying out in pain.
His partner, infuriated, made a dash for James, who was standing to one side. But James had been taught how to fight by his uncles.
He moved swiftly, dodged the punches, and skipped out of range. The two men danced around each other. Then James saw his chance. He managed to give his assailant a sudden right-handed punch on the jaw. He kept on punching until the man went down. But the man jumped up quickly, so unexpectedly full of vigor, fighting mad.
He attempted to tackle James, but Peter intervened and pulled the mugger away, smashing him on his shoulders and the back of his neck and head. The man crumpled.
Just at that moment, there was the sound of a woman screaming, and then a man’s voice shouting, “Police! Police!”
James glanced down the alley toward the Soho end and saw the couple. They were agitated and gesturing wildly. Then the man ran toward James, obviously determined to help. Before he reached them the sound of police whistles heralded the arrival of the two coppers on the beat, doing their nightly rounds.
The bruiser Peter had kicked in the groin still lay in a huddled heap on the cobblestones, doubled over and holding himself, groaning. His partner in crime was slumped against a wall. At the sight of the bobbies carrying truncheons and running hell-for-leather down the alley, he slid down onto the cobbles and covered his face with one arm, endeavoring to protect himself.
When the policemen came to a stop, one of them looked intently at James. Frowning, he stared again, peering at him in the darkness.
“Mr. Falconer?” He spoke hesitantly, as if uncertain. “Surely it can’t be you? Surely not.”
James was as equally surprised as the police officer and stepped closer. “I’m afraid it is, Sergeant Owen. And here you are, come to my rescue yet again.” He stretched out his hand, and the sergeant shook it. It was the same officer who had dealt with a street attack on James three years before.
“This is my new partner, Constable Jerry Cookson. Soho is now my beat.”
James shook hands with Cookson and introduced Keller. “So, what’s happened here, Mr. Falconer? It looks as if there’s been something of an assault.” The sergeant raised a brow.
James nodded. He then stepped toward the man who had come to their aid after shouting for the police. “Thank you,” he said, glanced at him, offered his hand.
The young man took it. “It’s the least I could do. I wanted to get them.”
Turning back to Sergeant Mick Owen, James explained who the young man was and how he had come running down the alley wanting to assist, to help rescue them.
Sergeant Owen inclined his head. “Brave of you to do that,” he observed. “Not many would intervene in the middle of a melee like this one apparently was. May I have your name and address, please, sir? Just as a witness.” He pulled out his notebook as he spoke.
“My name’s Billy Watters, sir.”
Sergeant Owen was taken aback. “Not the Billy Watters, the lightweight boxing champion?”
“That’s me.” The young champion grinned.
“Good heavens!” the sergeant exclaimed.
James said, “I thought I knew your face, but I couldn’t quite place you. Nice to meet you.”
The young man said, “And you too, Mr. Falconer. Look, I left my wife standing at the far end of the alley. I’d like to go to her, take her home.” He gave Sergeant Owen a questioning look. “Is that all right?”
“Yes, go and look after your wife. You might be called as a witness at their trial. My constable will take your details.” He glanced at the two assailants, inert on the cobblestones. “And thank you for being a good citizen.”
“I’ll be available, Sergeant Owen.” He looked at Constable Cookson and smiled. The bobby nodded, his expression friendly. He had always admired the boxer.
“So what happened here, Mr. Falconer?” the sergeant asked.
“Keller and I had left a Soho restaurant, Chez Simone, and Keller, who knows the area, suggested we take a shortcut down this alley.” James glanced at Peter. “You can explain the rest, Keller.”
Peter did so. The two policemen listened carefully. When the story was told, Sergeant Owen asked, “And neither of you knows these two assailants?”
“I’ve never seen them before,” James answered.
“And I haven’t either,” Peter Keller said firmly. “They’re total strangers.”
Constable Cookson said, “Were you targeted?”
“I don’t believe so,” Keller answered.
“And I’m of the same opinion,” James agreed.
“So you were spotted leaving a good restaurant and followed by these two thieves, in all probability, who thought you were easy prey. Is that it?” Sergeant Owen asked, a worried look in his eyes.
There was a moment of silence. James shrugged. “I think that is the only scenario. We’re both well dressed, obviously had a bit of money on us, and they tracked us down here. That was our mistake and might have been a serious one, if Peter hadn’t sensed their presence and come up with a plan.”
“And there was great luck that Billy Watters saw the attack and was courageous enough to get involved,” Peter remarked.
Sergeant Owen nodded vehemently. “It was a woman screaming that caught our attention. We were nearby.”
“And we heard a man yelling for the police and so we ran,” Constable Cookson explained.
“We’d better cuff these two,” the sergeant announced. He and the constable did so.
The two attackers were then propped up against the wall, and the sergeant addressed them. “You’ll be taken to jail in the police wagon when it comes. You will be tried in a court of law. I am now charging you with assault and battery, with intent to rob. Give me your names.”
Neither man spoke. The sergeant stood waiting, notebook in hand. “Your names!” he finally shouted, a snarl in his tone.
“Sid Puller,” the heavyset man muttered.
His partner said, “Johnny Clark.”
“Give me your addresses,” Sergeant Owen demanded.
“We live o’nt bleeding streets,” Puller replied. “We ain’t rich, yer knows.”
The sergeant glared at them and stepped away. He beckoned to the constable and said, “Go to the station and come back with a police wagon. These two need to be behind bars. They’re not going to talk.”
“Right away, Sergeant.”
Mick Owen added, “I’ll wait here with Mr. Falconer and Mr. Keller. It’ll be nice to chat for a few minutes. But make it quick, Cookson.”
Once they were alone, Sergeant Owen frowned at James. “Don’t use this shortcut ever again, and don’t go down dark streets. They are dangerous. London is the greatest city in the world and it draws people. Good folk, yes. Come to enjoy it. But there are bad people, as well. A city like this is a magnet for people from all over the world these days.”
“We know that, Sergeant Owen,” James said. “We’ll be careful.”
“That’s good to know. Beware of those who are very bad, foreigners who head here, such as the crooks, criminals, and the anarchists out to make trouble, and especially look out for thieves.” He glanced at the two handcuffed assailants. “Like these two over there.”