That night Logan spent a bit more of his booty than he intended. Cards, dice, more ale, and a rather foolish sense of false invulnerability all combined to leave him penniless by the time he returned to his flat in the early hours of the morning. He had often been in this position and it caused him no great concern. A new day would bring new opportunities! He did, however, take special care as he passed his landlady’s door; he would just have to avoid her for a few more days.
It was almost ten when he woke from a sound sleep. The dreary March clouds showed signs of trying to break up, allowing a few rays of sun to push through. But a steady north wind blew as if to warn that the lull in the weather would be short-lived.
As Logan swung his feet out of bed, his first thought was of food; his stomach was sending out reminders that he’d have been wiser to do more eating than gambling the night before. But even a cursory glance about his flat would have told anyone that the last thing they’d expect to find there was a decent meal. It boasted but one room, which was reasonably tidy if only because there was so little present to clutter it up. Save for sleeping, Logan did very little in these quarters. His meals he either took with Skittles and Molly or in any of a dozen public houses of which he was a frequent visitor.
His prospects for breakfast were slim if he remained where he was. In fifteen minutes he was dressed and on his way over to Skittles’ place. Besides the thought of a cup of tea with something solid to go with it, he wanted to confer with his friend on a new money-making scheme, made all the more imperative by his imprudent behavior the night before after they had parted.
Skittles’ flat in Shoreditch was a hearty walk for a man with benefit of neither cab fare nor breakfast. And when he reached it, the climb up the tenement’s three steep flights of stairs left him panting as he gave several short raps on the door. The exercise had sharpened his appetite more than ever, but the moment Molly Ludlowe opened the door all thought of food vanished.
“Molly, what is it?” Logan exclaimed.
“’Tis Skittles,” she replied. “He got ’imself beaten an’ robbed last night—Ow! He’s all right,” she added quickly, seeing the look of panic that crossed Logan’s face. “Came in about midnight—dragged ’imself all the way up these curs’d stairs!”
“Has he seen a doctor?”
“Ow, he’d ’ave none of that—stubborn bloke that he is! He’d ’ave t’ be at death’s door t’ let a doctor go pokin’ aroun’ ’im—an’ that’s a fact!” Logan could see the pain hidden in Molly’s face behind her helpless outburst of frustration.
“Did he talk to the police?”
“An’ when might he ’ave done that, I ask you, Logan? He just come ’ome last night an’s been in bed ever since.”
She paused a moment and looked toward the floor, averting Logan’s gaze, embarrassed for her shortness with her husband’s friend. But she was afraid for her man, and could not help thinking that perhaps it was because of his association with Logan and others like him that Skittles got into these jams.
“Well, don’t just stand there,” she added at length, “come on in.”
Notwithstanding the occasional rough edges around Molly’s demeanor, the interior of her cheap little flat gave ample evidence that beneath her gruff cockney exterior beat the heart of a lady. Here was the kind of room anyone would count it a privilege to call home. Without the least hint of affluence, it was, even through the unmistakable signs of poverty, a place where the love that had gone into its arrangement could be felt. Crochet doilies lay on the threadbare arms of the sofa. A shelf of nic-a-bric and a few books sat against the far wall. And the pictures on the other walls—a few photos and a print or two of idyllic country scenes—had all clearly been chosen with care. It was hardly surprising that Logan felt more comfortable here than in his own flat.
“Did he lose much?” asked Logan after Molly closed the door behind him.
“Won’t say. He’s bein’ close about the whole thing. Said the bla’arts got away clean so wouldn’t do nothin’ to call a bobbie.”
“That’s not like Skittles,” replied Logan, pondering Molly’s words. His friend loved a good story. And if it was true, all the better. Even if he had to embellish the actual facts, it gave him no less pleasure in the retelling. A good street mugging, especially if it was his own personal adventure, should have provided him with story material for weeks and be worth all the temporary pain. There must be some reason why he was being so tight-lipped. The moment the thought crossed his mind, Logan suspected what that reason undoubtedly was.
“Can I see him?” he asked, glancing in the direction of the closed bedroom door.
“He might be sleepin’, but you’re welcome t’ try. He’d no doubt like t’ see you.”
“I won’t wake him.”
Logan walked to the door and opened it slowly. He could do nothing to silence the squeak of its rusty hinges, however, and even before he poked his head inside he heard a moan from the direction of the bed. He approached slowly, and even in the subdued light of the room, Logan could tell that Skittles had endured more than an ordinary mugging. His friend looked more like a prize-fighter the morning after a rough ten rounds than an aging bookmaker. His usually florid complexion had taken on a bluish-gray hue, his thick nose was cut and battered, and his eyes—nearly swollen shut—made his friendly features appear almost sinister. Without his cap he looked much older than usual, somehow shrunken from his usual stature.
At the sound of the door opening he turned his head, his eyes as wide as the swelling would permit. He glanced at the clock on the sideboard, tried to rise, then winced and fell back in pain.
“Wot does the woman think?” he bellowed—or rather snarled, for the actual sounds which emerged from his pain-thickened lips were subdued and forced. “The day’s nigh gone—I’ll end me days in the poor’ouse if I sleep away the bleedin’ day!”
“You’re feeling a mite better, I see?” said Logan hopefully.
“’Course I’m better!” And as if to substantiate the truth of his words, Skittles struggled to work his way into a sitting position, and thence to his feet. But before he could complete the undertaking, he fell back against the pillow once more. “Blimey!” he hissed in frustration.
“Won’t hurt you to take a day or two off, Skits,” said Logan, and as he spoke he reached down to try to rearrange one of the pillows.
“No need t’ make such a fuss!” he replied, trying to shove Logan’s hands away. “I’m not a baby! The only real loss is me ’at, wot fell off in the close by the shop where the bla’arts jumped me. Now,” he added, trying to clutch at Logan who was still trying to fiddle with the pillows, “just give a ‘and. That’s all I need, an’ I’ll be up an’ out of ’ere!”
“You just lie there!” said Logan firmly. “You should talk to a bobbie, Skits. Are you sure you didn’t see the blokes?”
“I’m sure,” Skittles mumbled, and turned his head away.
“Not a clue?”
Skittles only shook his head in reply.
“You’re sure?”
There was still no answer, and in his friend’s silence Logan perceived the answer he had suspected from the first.
“It was Chase Morgan, wasn’t it? Tell the truth, Skits.”
“Leave it be, Logan.”
“We can’t leave it be! Don’t you see—”
Logan cut off his words sharply as Molly entered carrying a tray.
“Thought you might be able to use some food,” she said to her husband. “An’ there’s plenty for you, too, Logan,” she added.
“Breakfast in bed!” grumbled Skittles. “Now, that’s takin’ it a mite too far!”
“An’ ’ere’s a cold damp cloth for that eye,” she went on, ignoring his grousing. “It’ll need stitches, I shouldn’t wonder.”
Skittles said nothing to her last remark, but appeared to soften as he detected the concern in her voice. He reached up and gave her hand a squeeze. The look which passed between them belied their verbal sparring and was filled with tenderness. A moment or two longer Molly fussed about the meal. Then, with a gentle admonition to Logan not to overtax the patient, she departed.
The moment the door closed, Skittles turned to his young friend and said, “Don’t you breathe so much as a word about Morgan t’ me Molly.”
“What do you take me for?” Logan replied. “But don’t you see, Skits? We can’t let him pull here what he did in America!”
“I’ve tried,” said Skittles. “But wot are a couple of no-account blokes like us goin’ t’ do? It’s cost me o’er fifty quid this week t’ try t’ resist ’im.”
“Fifty quid!”
“I ’ad me receipts from the shop with me besides what we picked up at Pellam’s,” explained Skittles. “All he wants is five quid a week for ’is so-called protection. Look at ’ow much I’d already ’ave saved if I’d paid ’im from the start.”
“It’s highway robbery, Skits!”
Skittles managed a hoarse chuckle at the words.
“An’ just wot do you call wot we do for a livin’, lad?” he queried. “I s’pose I’m gettin’ no more’n I deserve.”
“’Tis different with us,” argued Logan. “We don’t hurt anybody. And we don’t take from anyone who can’t willingly spare it.”
“An’ the blokes at Pellam’s? I’m sure we didn’t ask t’ see any of their bank balances.”
“We didn’t force so much as a farthing from any of them. We never even asked for their money. They took it out of their wallets and laid it on the table on their own. They were just as greedy to take your money as we were!”
Logan paused, frowned momentarily, and scratched his head. “Are you delirious or something, Skits? I’ve never heard you talk this way before.”
“I s’pose as a fellar gets on, he starts t’ give ’is life a bit more thinkin’ . . .”
“Well, there’s no comparing the likes of Chase Morgan with you,” said Logan intractably, brushing aside the more philosophical aspects of his friend’s pensive comment. “And,” he added hotly, “he’s not about to get away with it!”
“Just calm that Scottish blood of yours, Logan. You’re not going to—” His speech suddenly broke off as he was assailed by a fit of coughing.
This only intensified Logan’s rising anger.
“I’ll get your money back, Skits! And I’ll make sure—”
But at that moment Molly returned and Logan checked his tongue, for the present at least. Still simmering inside, he strode to the window so she wouldn’t be able to observe his distress.
Parting the curtains, he pretended to occupy himself with interest in the activities in the street down below, but in truth he was listening as Molly continued to stew over her husband, while the old con man persisted in telling her he was fine.
They were the best people Logan had ever known, except perhaps for his own mother. Hearing them now—her gentle, caring tone and his tired voice growing weaker with each word he uttered—only heightened his determination. They didn’t deserve any of this! As he looked out on the dingy alley below, a resolve began to grow within him.
He was not going to let them get hurt, ever again!
It was no more than they would have done for him, and had done for him, when, seven years ago, he had appeared practically on their doorstep. He had been fifteen and pretty cocksure of himself. But growing up in the Glasgow Gorbals, a street urchin from the time his father died when he was ten, Logan had learned to take care of himself. And even before his father’s death, the older Macintyre had been in and out of Barlinnie Prison so many times that his impact upon his son’s life had been minimal. His mother did her best by Logan, but her work as a cleaning lady to keep even the scant food they had in the cupboards from dwindling to nothing left Logan running free and wild, learning from a tender age to steal and pilfer food to augment his sparse diet at home.
From there it had been a short enough path to picking up the various street games—marbles, dice, cards—where he soon discovered he had some skill. He thought he fooled his mother by telling her that he had earned the money she found him bringing home by doing odd jobs in the neighborhood after school. But she had been married to one swindler too many years and knew her son was being caught in the gambling net at an early age. And she wanted no part of it.
“I’d be prood t’ take an honest shillin’ from ye, son,” she would say. But “honest money” was much more difficult to come by, and Logan was not exactly a patient young man. Besides, he rationalized, gambling wasn’t actually dishonest, just unreliable. And if he did occasionally slip in a loaded die or a marked card in the middle of a game . . . well, the other fellow would just as soon have done the same if he had been good enough to get away with it.
For all his rowdy lifestyle and bad company, however, Mrs. Macintyre’s son did manage to maintain a certain good-natured air and easygoing grin, which, combined with his cocky bravado, made it difficult for people to readily dislike him. Shopkeepers in the Barrows might shake a halfhearted fist his way as he occasionally dodged away from their stands with a bulging pocket. But somehow they always found it in their hearts to forgive him. After all, they said, look what a father he had. It was a wonder the boy turned out to be as nice a chap as he was! And his gambling friends were always willing to loan him a few shillings when he was down on his luck, for he was never stingy with them.
Then he had encountered the earl’s son, and from that point on everything seemed to go downhill.
Logan was a mere fifteen at the time, and the spoiled, arrogant Charles Fairgate III but a year older. The card game had been completely honest. Unfortunately for Logan, however, he was in the middle of a legitimate run of good luck. Fairgate insisted the game was rigged, and went so far as to bring his adversary up before the magistrate. With his father’s support, the young heir seemed likely to win his case, especially once Logan’s reputation and own paternal pedigree came to light. While Logan sat in custody awaiting the outcome, he would never have guessed the agony his mother was suffering as she saw her son on his way down the same path his father had taken. But children in the midst of their own growing pains and struggles rarely have any depth of insight into the feelings of their parents on their behalf. It takes their own parenthood, perhaps ten, fifteen, or even twenty years later to open their eyes to the true inexhaustibility of a parent’s love.
For his part, Logan would have disdained any remark pointing out a similarity between himself and his no-account father; the last thing he wanted to do was follow in his footsteps. But when the magistrate finally dropped the case with a “not proven” verdict, he did pause to rethink a few things—not so deeply as his mother may have liked, perhaps, but sufficiently to realize that his life in Glasgow was going nowhere, at least toward a destination of dubious result. Nor was his announced solution to her liking, but she wisely kept her own counsel. These things took time, she tried to console herself. Perhaps he would find a better life in London.
The first thing to come Logan’s way upon stepping off the platform in Euston Station was a crooked back-alley dice game. He should have known better, but his cocky Scots independence thought he could beat the slick London sharpies at their own game.
He soon discovered his folly; he was fleeced for all he had.
Few things are worse than finding oneself friendless and penniless in a strange city—especially a city as huge and insensitive as London. But even there, one can find occasional pockets of warmth and human kindness if one is persistent enough.
It was quite by accident that Logan stumbled upon just such a place, drifting through just the sort of neighborhood he should have been trying to avoid. From time to time he had done some running for a Glasgow bookmaker, so he was familiar with at least the rudiments of the business. Hearing his dice-playing companions mention a street in a place called Shoreditch, he decided to try his luck and see if he might find something to alleviate his desperate need of cash. There were two or three list shops on the street. Without much reason, he picked one, and walked in—trying to assume his most confident manner. It was a tiny place, hardly larger than a cigar box, and in fact had originally been used in conjunction with a tobacconist’s, where one could still get a fairly decent Havana to enjoy while placing his bets.
Skittles was hardly in a position to afford another assistant, especially one as green as this kid, who looked like he would have to be reminded to wash behind his ears. But he didn’t have the heart to turn the poor Scottish lad away; something inside the old man’s heart took an instant liking to the runabout. Thus the seven-year friendship had begun. It had proven mutually beneficial in a number of ways. But deep inside, Logan knew he owed more to Skittles Ludlowe than he could ever possibly repay.
Molly’s voice broke through the silence of his thoughts—
“Logan, we better let the ol’ boy ’ave his bit of rest.”
“Ol’ boy is it now!” broke in Skittles. “Wot kind of thing is that t’ say about your man?” The labor behind his irrascible tone only made his weakness the more pathetic.
“Come along, Logan,” Molly continued, adding to her husband in the same unruffled tone, “An’ you take care, or you’ll fin’ me callin’ you worse than ol’ boy!”
An hour later Logan and Molly sat together at the table, having just finished with tea and a few biscuits. Molly rose to clear away the plates and cups, and as Logan watched, his thoughts returned to his conversation with her husband the previous day. She was indeed the kind of woman men in their sometimes shady profession dreamed of having, but seldom encountered. Despite her long involvement with Skittles—and in her early years she had participated more actively in his schemes and ploys—there had yet remained a certain purity about her. She never developed the hard core that so often formed around the hearts of women in her position. Perhaps it was because her motive was a deep and abiding love for her husband rather than personal greed. Perhaps, too, it had to do with the kind of man Skittles himself was toward her.
Suddenly his eyes came back into focus on the present. He jumped up from his seat, saying, “Here, let me give you a hand, Molly!”
“Just fancy such a thing!” she replied, laying a restraining hand on his arm. “You’re a well-meanin’ lad, but I shudder t’ think ’ow many of my dishes I’d lose afore you ’ad done with the job.”
Then she paused in the midst of her efforts, with the teapot still in her hand, and turned to Logan with a grave look in her soft, brown eyes.
“He’s real sick, he is, Logan,” she said, setting down the teapot and sinking back into her chair.
“Oh, the old cove’ll be fine,” Logan assured confidently, his tone almost good enough to convince himself. “He’ll be jumping out of bed and roaring like a lion by tomorrow.”
“You’ve got t’ promise me somethin’, Logan,” she said, her voice serious.
“Anything, dear girl.”
“I don’t want you gettin’ yersel’ ’urt too,” she said.
“What in the world makes you think I’d get hurt?”
“Ow, Logan! I know all about ’at bloke Chase Morgan,” she said flatly. “That Skittles may be one of London’s best sharps, but he can’t fool me. I ’ear the talk. I knew somethin’ was goin’ on. But I ought t’ crown ’im for not tellin’ me wot it were.”
Logan knew it was no use persisting in the ruse. “You couldn’t have done anything, Molly,” he said.
“That may be,” she replied, “but if a woman’s ’usband’s goin’ t’ come home lookin’ like a piece of steak, well, she’d just like t’ have some warnin’, that’s all.”
Logan opened his mouth to reply, but she quickly cut him off.
“But the point I was tryin’ to make is that I don’t want anyone else gettin’ ’urt. An’ that means you, Logan Macintyre! I’ve ne’er ’ad the good fortune t’ meet your mother. But so long’s you’re ’ere in London, I gots me own responsibility to you. An’ I’d ne’er be able t’ forgive myself if anythin’ was t’ happen to you, nor could your mother forgive me either.”
“Ease your mind, Molly,” he replied with a great show of earnestness. “I’m not fool enough to go getting mixed up with Morgan.” He probably wouldn’t have bothered lying to the wise old woman, but he had already forgotten her previous declaration that she could not be so easily misled. And the habit of trying to cover his tracks with defenses and excuses was too deeply ingrained by this time to allow any sudden changes in what were already conditioned responses.
Molly was no less fooled by Logan than she had been by her husband. Yet what more could she say? If he intended to try to get even with Morgan on behalf of his old mentor and friend, she doubted anything she might say would make him change his mind. Besides, if she pursued it he’d vehemently deny his intentions anyway, thinking all the while that he was protecting her. Well, she thought, maybe it’s for the best. At least he won’t be worrying about me.
Walking home that afternoon, Logan became more sure of what he had to do. Like Molly, he wanted no one else to get hurt. But his conception of how to eliminate the problem was drastically different than hers. The specifics may have still been blurry. But he was certain of one thing—Chase Morgan had to be stopped.
He took a brief detour to the neighborhood of Skittles’ shop. He searched each of the back streets until suddenly he stumbled upon just what he was looking for, his friend’s black and white checkered cap, hardly visible between two cans of garbage. He reached down and picked it up, dusted it off, and then before tucking it into his coat, ran his finger affectionately along the visor.
Yes, something had to be done about that low-life scum Morgan!
And Logan figured he was as good as any man to do it.
For the remainder of the day he wandered aimlessly about the streets, concentrating his thoughts on a plan which he had been toying with now and then for some time. Now, with his mark chosen, the pieces began to fit into place more quickly. His mind continued to work most of the night as he lay awake in bed. By morning he was ready to jump to his feet, hardly feeling his lack of rest.
He was ready to do what had to be done.