An ominous London fog drifted slowly in over the city from Southend as dusk made its appearance. Before another hour had passed, the streets and sidewalks would be slippery wet from the drizzle; residents walking home from their day’s employment brandishing their trusty umbrellas, all the while flatly denied that this heavy mist was actually rain.
The young man striding purposefully down Hampstead Road behind Euston Station seemed unconcerned about the weather, for he was nearing his destination, a pub known as Pellam’s, about a block away. He did, however, touch the rim of his new felt fedora a bit protectively, hoping he’d escape the drenching which was inevitable on nights such as this.
Looking across the street, he hailed a lad selling newspapers, removing a coin from his pocket as he did so. A newspaper should serve the purpose as well as an umbrella, which he did not happen to have.
“Here you go, lad,” he said, flipping the coin to the boy, who caught it deftly as he ran toward him from the street.
“Thank’ee, sir,” he replied with a grin as he handed him the paper. “Lemme gi’ ye yer change.”
“Don’t trouble yourself,” said the older of the two magnanimously. The boy grinned again and skipped off to peddle more of his wares. He clearly believed himself to have encountered one of London’s elite, and would repeat many times over how a lord had given him a shilling for a newspaper.
The generous Logan Macintyre would be the last to refute the lad’s misconception. And, dressed in a well-tailored cashmere pinstripe suit, silk necktie, and expensive wool overcoat, and, of course, the new fedora, he looked less the son of a ne’er-do-well Glasgow laborer than of a London lord. It was a ruse he was content to perpetuate as long as there were folks naive enough to accept it.
He also liked to pass himself off as thirty and, though in reality but twenty-two, he was usually as successful with this chicanery as with the other hoaxes he had pulled off in his young life. His boyish features, softly rounded about the chin with a slightly upturned nose and a thick crop of unruly brown wavy hair, might have helped dispel doubt as to his age to the more discerning. But most were fooled by his finely honed air of sophistication.
Logan paused at a corner to allow an auto to pass, then crossed the street. Glancing at his watch, he decided it was just about time. He’d soon have his shilling back—nearly the last bit of cash he had to his name, except his stake for the game—and much more along with it. For by now his partner Skittles would have everything set up to perfection.
Logan thought of his friend with an unmistakable touch of pride—like the devotion of a son for his father, though in truth he had never harbored similar feelings for his real father who had been in and out of one Glasgow jail after another. Whether Logan resented him because of what he was, or because he wasn’t good enough at it to elude the police, would be difficult to determine. For his friend and mentor could hardly lay claim to an upright life of veracity and virtue. Somehow though, Logan admired him, even loved him.
Old Skittles—whose given name was the less colorful Clarence Ludlowe—was recognized in the circles of those who knew such things as the best sharp in the business. He had earned his peculiar nickname some thirty-odd years ago, before the turn of the century when the old Queen, as he called her, was still on the throne; he ran the most lucrative Skittles racket in London. He had been able to maneuver the pins with such nimble precision that even the wariest fool could not tell he was being taken. And if the game of skittles was somewhat outmoded in this modern and sophisticated era of stage plays, talkies, cafeterias, and high fashion, the old con man still maintained the status of a legend among his compatriots.
But the Depression had hit the confidence business, too. People were now more reluctant than ever to part with their money, and it took a more astute strategy to make a scheme succeed than in the old days. You had to choose not only your mark but also your partners with caution. But with the right decoy in place, it could still be like taking candy from a baby when a master such as Skittles went to work.
Perhaps it was due to their mutual respect for each other’s finesse at the game that allowed Skittles and Logan to work so well together. Logan’s one regret in life was that he hadn’t been with his old friend in his early days. “What times we would have had!” he remarked more than once. For in his later years, Skittles had legitimized his enterprises somewhat, earning most of his income bookmaking, a practice—as long as he kept to the rules—that allowed him to operate inside the law. He was, however, known to take cash bets upon occasion, a procedure forbidden by law. For the most part the local constabulary did not scrutinize Skittles’ improprieties too closely, although Logan had been stung a time or two by carelessly getting too close to a couple of cash deals. Cooling his heels twice in the neighborhood tollbooth and once in Holloway for several days taught him more than all Skittles’ remonstrations about keeping his eyes open in front of him, and guarding his flank as well. At twenty-two, he had begun to learn that important lesson and had not seen the inside of a jail in more than a year. He now left the cash bookmaking to others who might want to risk it. For himself, he would stick to what he enjoyed most. And besides, swindling another man was not strictly recognized as a criminal offense. Most magistrates based their lenient decisions on the old adage, “A fool and his money are soon parted,” believing that the world will never be purged of dishonesty or swindling, and that a victim had only himself to blame for his folly. Thus, Logan committed to memory the famous quotation of eighteenth-century Chief Justice Holt—“Shall we indict one man for making a fool of another?”—to be pulled out and recited should he encounter any unenlightened bobbies who gave him a hard knock, and in the meantime he went about his activities with relish and spirit.
In another five minutes Logan reached Pellam’s, and he turned into the establishment now crowded with workmen having a drink or two before boarding trains home. The setup was perfect! He glanced quickly around with pleasure. Not only was the swelling crowd suitable, but in addition, many appeared to be businessmen whose fat wallets and large egos concerning their intellectual prowess would play right into their hands. They would, no doubt, egg each other on in the emptying of their pound notes onto the bar better than Logan himself could.
Skittles, with his slick-combed hair, bulbous nose, florid cheeks, and altogether friendly countenance, sat at the bar with a frothing pint of ale in his hand, his workman’s trousers and grimy leather vest completing the illusion that he was just off a hard day’s work on the job. The checkered cap sitting far back on his head seemed about to topple off as a result of the animated discussion in which he was engaged with one of his neighbors. Logan passed by, and without so much as a side-glance or the least hesitation in his voice, Skittles knew he was there. The only indication he gave of his friend’s presence was a momentary flash in his eyes which his companion took for the prelude to one more intoxicated tale of dubious factual content. Logan ordered a pint and seated himself in an adjacent booth.
Soon Skittles’ voice rose slightly above the general din of the place. His cockney accent contained a purposefully noticeable drunken slur, but Logan knew the man was as sober as an undertaker. For far from laboring in London’s streets all day, Skittles had only just now begun his night’s work.
“Gawd’s troth!” he said, lowering his glass to the counter with a resounding thud to emphasize his words.
“The Queen herself?” asked the man seated to Skittles’ right, half incredulous, half concealing a laugh at the lunacy of the thought of this old drunk at Buckingham Palace.
“Dear old Vicky—Gawd rest ’er sowl!” exclaimed Skittles. “’Course I were but a lad then, an’ much better lookin’, if I do say so m’sel’.”
“Incredible!” said another.
“Why, ’tis as true as Jonah slayin’ Goliath!” returned Skittles in a wounded tone, but hardly had the words had time to sink in than a great laugh broke out behind him. He turned sharply around, glaring toward the source of the merriment being made at his expense.
“Hey, young fella!” he called out with feigned anger. “Are you dispargin’ the word of a gent’man?”
Logan dabbed the corners of his eyes with his handkerchief and tried to look apologetic. “I’m terribly sorry,” he said at length. “I couldn’t help myself.”
“An’ you think I’m lyin’, or maybe too drunk t’ know me own words, is that it?” he challenged.
“In actuality I did not hear your story at all but only caught your last remark.”
“An’ wot of that?” Skittles had just the right edge to his voice and Logan was reminded once more of what a true pro his friend was. By now those in the immediate vicinity had begun to turn their heads in the direction of the conversation, which was steadily increasing in volume.
“Well, sir, it was, as a matter-of-fact, David who slew Goliath. Jonah was swallowed by the whale.”
“He’s right there, gov!” chimed in one of the men behind Logan, who was now listening intently.
“Ow, is ’e now?” said Skittles with animated gesture. “Excuse me! I must say I didn’t know as we ’ad a bleedin’ parson in our midst!”
His barbed ridicule of the dapper young know-it-all pleased the crowd, whose chuckles now began to spread out in increasing ripples throughout the room.
Unperturbed, Logan humbly shored up his defense. “I am by no means of such lofty repute, my good man. I have only a layman’s knowledge in matters of a religious nature.”
“Then you don’t claim t’ know everythin’?”
“Well . . .” and here Logan looked away for a moment and tried to show interest in his ale, “it would be a bit foolish of me to make such a claim, wouldn’t you say?”
“So you don’t know everythin’,” probed Skittles further, “but you think you’re a lot smarter than me, is that it?”
“I did not say that, nor would I, old man,” returned Logan, taking a sip of his brew. “And as I have been something of a student in these matters, it would hardly be fitting for me to boast of my knowledge over a man who’s already had—”
“So! We gots a prodigy in our midst!” declared Skittles mockingly.
“What’s the matter, old man?” interjected Skittles’ neighbor, himself a good pint past what was good for him, and still thinking about the sharp’s churlish claims before Logan happened in, “Are you afraid this young man knows more’n you, an’ you bein’ Queen Vicky’s friend ’at ye are?”
“I ’appen t’ be a church-goin’ man,” boasted Skittles, “an’ I been doin’ so longer’n this wee laddie ’ere’s been alive.”
“Here! here!” chimed in someone from across the room.
Another laughed.
“I didn’t mean to imply—” began Logan, but Skittles brashly interrupted him.
“Why, if you’re such a knowin’ young fella,” he said, “I gots five quid in me pocket ’ere that says you can’t tell me the name o’ who it was wot gave Adam the apple t’ eat.”
“I wouldn’t want to take your money so easily,” replied Logan. “And besides, everyone knows it was the—”
“Say nothin’ without puttin’ your money on the table!” interrupted Skittles.
Logan hesitated a moment, seemingly mulling the proposition over in his mind. Then he reached a hand inside his coat, and saying, “All right, you’re on, you old fool! Here’s my five pounds that says it was the serpent!” he slapped a five-pound note onto the table in front of Skittles.
“I didn’t ask what it was,” said Skittles, reaching out to take Logan’s money. “I bet you couldn’t tell me the name!”
“Not so fast,” returned Logan. “His name was Satan. There’s the answer to your question! Satan . . . the devil . . . the serpent—whatever you want to call him. I think the ten pounds is mine!”
“Keep your ‘and from off the table!” said Skittles. “My five quid still says you be wrong!”
“He’s beat ye, old man!” cried someone from across the room. “He’s beat ye at yer own game! Give ’im the note an’ don’t be a sore loser.”
“Who’s talkin’ about losin’?” cried Skittles, spinning toward the voice. “I got another fiver I’ll lay ’gainst yours wot says you’re both wrong!”
The owner of the voice strode forward, placed his own note in front of Skittles and said, “The serpent’s name was Satan, like the young fella said. Everyone in this room knows it. But if ye be givin’ yer money away, then I’ll be happy t’ oblige an’ take it from ye.”
“Any other takers?” screamed Skittles, as if in a fit of passion. “Why can’t any of you dull-witted blokes tell me the right name?”
A momentary shuffling ensued, during which several near Logan looked to him with questioning glances as if to ask, “Are ye sure ye got the right name, mate?” His confirming nod of self-assurance and confidence sent several hands in search of wallets. One by one, pound- and five-pound notes began accumulating on the table in front of Skittles, who continued to drink his ale and act more inebriated all the time. When the table contained some twenty or twenty-five pounds, suddenly Logan jumped up.
“Wait just a minute! Something’s not right here. We’ve put our money on the table and have given our answer. But we still haven’t seen anything but that first five-pound note of yours! I don’t think you’ve even got this kind of money to cover these bets!”
A murmur of agreement and approval went through the crowd. By now the attention of everyone in the pub was focused in the drama with Skittles right in the middle of it.
Without saying a word, Skittles reached into his pocket and pulled forth a handful of notes, holding them aloft in a clenched fist that hid the fact that most of the bills were only flash notes. “Fifty quid, me doubting frien’s!” he said. “One month’s labor fit t’ break the back of any son of Adam!” Then as if producing his bankroll were tantamount to winning the questionable wager, with a self-satisfied expression of well-being, he raised his glass to his lips and swallowed down the remaining third of the pint.
Looks of amazement accompanied low whistles and “ah’s” as Logan slowly returned to his seat, looking around as he did so with glances to those around him which conveyed, “This old duffer’s loonier than I thought!”
“Now!” concluded Skittles, “I’ll put me whole wad up t’ prove I’m a smarter man than the parson here!”
Within ten minutes the table was piled with the full fifty pounds in bets.
“And now,” said a well-dressed man whose investment happened to be six pounds, “just where do you intend to find your proof? I don’t have all night to wait for my twelve pounds!”
“Proof . . . get me a Bible,” said Skittles.
A roar of laughter went up. “In this place!” yelled someone.
Logan stood and approached the bar. “My good man,” he said to the pubkeeper, “would you by chance have a Bible on the premises? I need to show this well-intentioned but ignorant man where he is in error.”
“The wife’ll have one up t’ the parlor,” the man replied.
“Would you be so kind as to let us borrow it for a moment?”
The man hesitated, but immediately received such prodding from his patrons that he turned and hastened up to his flat on the second floor. In two or three minutes he returned, and handed the old, black, leather-bound volume to Logan.
“Thank you,” said Logan, who immediately began flipping through the pages toward the beginning of the book.
“The Book of Genesis!” called out Skittles. “Who’s name were it wot gave Adam the apple?”
“I told you before,” replied Logan, all eyes upon him, “that the serpent’s name was Satan. Now, if I can just find it . . .” he added, almost to himself, continuing to turn over the leaves of the Bible.
“Chapter three . . . verse twelve,” said Skittles.
Logan turned another page, stopped, read for a few moments in silence, then sank back to his chair looking as one stunned. By now the room had grown quiet.
“Well, what does it say?” asked the six-pound investor.
“Tell ’im, parson!” said Skittles, a grin of fiendish delight spreading over his face. Then he burst into a great peal of riotous laughter. “Read it, laddie!” he taunted. “Or shall I tell ’em wot it says?”
Slowly and deliberately, and in measured tones so that there would be no mistaking his words, Logan began to read: “And the man said, The woman whom thou gavest to be with me, she gave me of the tree, and I did eat.”
“It were Eve!” shouted Skittles with triumph. “Eve gave the bloke the apple, not the serpent!”
“You said he!” objected one of the many victims.
“I said, ‘I say you can’t tell me the name o’ who it was wot gave Adam the apple.’ That’s wot I said, as the Lord an’ Queen Vicky be my witnesses. Your young frien’ there, the know-it-all parson, he said it were the serpent, an’ then I said, ‘I bet you couldn’t tell me the name.’”
Again Skittles burst out in uproarious laughter, then stood, clutching at his head; though the drunkenness was all part of the deception, he had still had a bit more ale than he was accustomed to.
With the pub about equally split between the gloomy set who had taken the bait and followed Logan into the trap, and those who were now congratulating themselves that they had kept out of it, Skittles gathered up his winnings, with the humility of a peacock in full feather. He gave Logan a condescending pat on the shoulder, and a smug, “Sorry, old chap . . . you should stick t’ your preachin’ an’ stay out of dens o’ iniquity like this,” and with that he half-strutted, half-staggered out of the pub.
Logan sat on for some time longer, ordering another pint and turning his dejected stares silently into the amber glass. His momentary newfound friends gave him cool glances, and the wan smile of apology on his lips whenever he did happen to look around did little to alleviate their reproachful looks. “Oh, well,” he said to himself, “a fool and his money are soon parted. You gullible dolts should have known better than to believe a good-for-nothing like me!”
This was always the most difficult part of this particular dodge—knowing the right time to make an exit. Natural instinct urged him to hurry out on Skittles’ heels. But that would be too obvious. However, if he waited too long, someone might eventually put two and two—or in this case five and five—together.
Therefore, he drained his drink in a leisurely fashion, glanced tiredly at his watch, and casually announced to no one in particular, “Just about time for the seven-ten.” He then rose, gathered up his newspaper, set his fedora back on his head, and exited. A number of stares followed him, but no one said anything or attempted to stop him. They all appeared glad enough to let him go.
He found Skittles at their preappointed rendezvous in front of a newsstand about four blocks away. He ran forward, slapping his old friend on the back.
“You did good, lad!” laughed Skittles.
“I can never believe how they fall for it!”
“They do every time,” replied the experienced sharp as he dug the wad of money from his pocket. As he did so he moved away from the stand to the darkness of an overhang at the edge of an alley. “An’ this time,” he went on in a subdued voice, “t’ the tune of fifty quid!”
Logan could hardly restrain the whoop he felt like making as Skittles began counting off from the stack of bills. “’Ere’s your ’alf, Logan. You earned it!”
Logan took the money and stood for a moment just admiring it. Most men had to work a month, sometimes two or three, at dirty, grueling labor for this kind of cash. He had gotten it all in less than an hour! Not bad, he thought as he pocketed the loot.
Business out of the way and the exchange settled amiably, the two men began walking, unperturbed by the darkness and the deepening foggy drizzle. Their conversation turned to what they’d do with their new-found wealth. Skittles mentioned a new dress or possibly that ornate plum hat he’d seen his wife Molly admiring in a store window the other day. Logan figured he’d better pay his long overdue rent.
Skittles stopped and laid an earnest hand on Logan’s arm. “Wot you need, my young frien’, is a good woman t’ spen’ your money on—that is, a good wife like my Molly.”
Logan laughed. “That’s just like a married man—wanting to wish their misery on everyone else.”
“I been with Molly thirty years now, an’ though there may ’ave been a bad day or two, there n’er were a bad week in the lot,” replied Skittles with a tone and look in his aging eyes that was deeply sincere.
“And there’s the point!” Logan slapped the newspaper he had been holding against his hand for emphasis. “How many gems like Molly do you suppose there are in this world? Not many, I’ll wager! No thank you,” he said, shaking his head. “I don’t care to take my chances.”
“Well, you’re a young strapper yet,” said Skittles, looking dreamily into the fog. “I ’spect the day’ll come when you’ll fin’ yoursel’ someone you’ll want t’ settle down with.”
“I doubt I’ll ever become an upstanding businessman like yourself, Skits.”
Now it was the older man’s turn to chuckle. “There are them wot consider certain aspects o’ my so-called upstandin’ business illegal, e’en though they’re pretty good about lettin’ you lay out bets if you do it all properlike.”
“Well, at least you run it like a gentleman.”
“’Ere’s where I turn for ’ome, Logan,” said Skittles as they reached a broad but deserted intersection. “Come with me an’ say ’ello t’ Molly. ’Ave some stew an’ tatties with us.”
“Plans?”
“Nah. It’s just too early for me to be in for the night.”
“Suit yoursel’.”
“Good night, Skits.”
“You did good at Pellam’s, lad.”