Edgar Wallace

The Gambling Girl

Warsaw 2018

Contents

Chapter I. Billy and the Briscoes

Chapter II. If Billy Had Rung

Chapter III. A Shot in the Dark

Chapter IV. Billy Goes to Prison

Chapter V. The Mystery of Billy’s Room

Chapter VI. Mary Goes to Prison

Chapter VII. The Escape

Chapter VIII. The Solution

I. BILLY AND THE BRISCOES

TO write the true story of the two extraordinary crimes which placed first Billington Stabbat and then Mary Ferrera in a prison cell, is a comparatively easy matter. To know exactly where to begin is the bigger problem. I could, of course, start with the genealogy of Billington Stabbat–except that I am not quite certain as to his nationality.

He had been all over the world when I met him in France, and he certainty was serving with the American Army at G.H.Q., having been “loaned” by Canadian H.Q.

It was not new work for Billy. He had been a detective in Toronto, the smartest man in that corp, and he had his promotion fixed, when the war broke out, for his capture of the Briscoe gang.

What the Briscoes did not know about the mechanics of lock-making wasn’t worth learning. They were patient, far-seeing, diabolically brilliant criminal. It was Billy who trapped the crowd, caught Tom red-handed, and four of the gang. He took George, too, but the case against him fell through. Tom was sent to prison for twenty years, and hanged himself in his cell. I recall this achievement of Billy’s because few people in this country ever knew very much about the Briscoe case, even after George stood his trial at the Old Bailey.

I think this story starts when I met Levy Jones on the stairs going up to make a call on Billy. Levy is a little fellow, about five feet two in height, but so immensely broad across the shoulders that he looks shorter and almost deformed. His face is long, his nose pendulous, his mouth broad and uneven in the sense that when he is amused one corner lifts higher than the other.

His bushy eyebrows rose at the sight of me, and out came a hand of considerable size.

I was surprised and delighted to see him. He had been working with the Mosser Commercial Bureau in pre-War days–as Credit Investigator, I believe– and I had no idea at that moment that he had attached himself to Billy.

“Why, Levy,” said I, “this is a pleasant shock. I thought you were dead.”

“No, sir,” said Levy, with that lop-sided grin of his; “alive–happily. I’m with Mr. Billington Stabbat.”

“The devil you are!” I was a little taken back. “And how is it that one of the original Jones of Johannesburg comes to be in the private detective line of business? By the way, Levy, how did you get that Jones into your name?”

“It is a compromise, Mr. Mont. If I call myself Jivitzki, people think I am a Bolshivicki (sic) You’re not a Jew-hater, are you, Mr. Mont?”

“Not a scrap,” said I, in truth. “Some of the best pals I have ever had have been of your Royal and Ancient Faith.”

“That’s a new one”–Levy was interested–“sounds like football to me–or is it golf? I’m rather sorry you’re not a Jew-hater. I have a new argument for Judaism which I wanted to try on you. I tried it on our Rabbi, but he has no sense of humour. Have you heard the story about the Jew and the flour-bin?”

Levy, like most of his compatriots, had a large repertoire of stories digging slyly at the inherent shrewdness of his race, and this story was a good one.

“But Levy,” said I, “how did you get in touch with Billy–Mr. Stabbat?”

“Call him Billy,” said Levy. “I do, he insists upon it. I met him during the War. He’s just the same now as ever he was. I don’t suppose he has ever altered or ever will. He’d give away his shirt to a friend and go to the gallows to help some woman with a hard-luck story.”

Prophetic words. I remembered them afterwards.

“Kindness to women will be the ruin of Billy.” Levy shook his head. “We lost a fat commission last week because he trailed an erring female, and then when he’d got all the evidence, turned round, worked day and night to prove an alibi! Mind your back, Mr. Mont.”

He drew me on one side to allow a white-overalled workman to pass up the stairs.

“They finish decorating to-day,” he said. “That’s the electrician.”

I glanced idly at the workman in the white smock. He was a pale man with a short red beard.

“Well, so long,” said Levy. “I’m going to Whitechapel to nose around. We’ve got a fire case for one of the insurance companies. By the way, get Billy to tell you about our new client.”

He winked mysteriously, and I went up the stairs to meet his chief.

I saw Billington Stabbat described the other day in a usually well-informed journal as “a remarkably tall man.” That description is absurd. His height is about 5 ft. 10 in. His weight must be something under eleven stone. He was well-built–a type of man that never acquires or carries fat. He is, or was in those days, clean-shaven, with a wide somewhat bulging forehead, level blue- green eyes, and a rather square jaw.

The first impression I had when I went into his big room was the impression of newness. It had the pungent varnishy-limey smell which new houses have. He was a fastidious man in the matter of comfort, and had chosen the decoration himself. It was, as I say, a big room, very high and light. Three windows overlooked Bond Street, and there was a fairly large sky-light. The floor was covered with a rich, blue carpet, and blue, a rather delicate blue, was employed in the scheme of panelling.

Undoubtedly the feature of the room was an enormous fireplace, a gorgeous affair in marble. I remember particularly that the two supports for the carved mantel-piece were two Assyrian lions, sejeant and regardant, as the heraldry books put it. They were really remarkable pieces of sculpture and though sheerly decorative, were astonishingly real, with their huge mouths agape, their thick lips drawn up in a snarl showing a teeth-rimmed cavity.

Billy looked up as I came in, and sprang to his feet with a broad smile of welcome.

“Why, Mont!” he almost shouted, as he gripped my hand. “Come in and sit on the new carpet–the chairs haven’t arrived yet. What do you think of it?”

He did not wait for me to reply.

I could not but notice that after greeting me he returned immediately, almost hastily, to his desk.

“Would you object, Mont, to sitting on the window-ledge? Where you are standing is exactly in my line of fire.”

“Your what?” I asked, scarcely believing.

“My line of fire,” said Billy, calmly. “It is a phrase employed by machine-gun officers, with or without lurid adjectives.”

I sat myself upon the broad window-ledge, feeling it very carefully, because window-ledges in newly decorated houses seem to be the last part of the decoration to dry. And then I saw the red silk handkerchief on Billy’s desk, and towards that red silk handkerchief his hand presently strayed. There was no need, even if it had been expedient to ask what that square of silk concealed. I knew at once that it was a revolver, and wondered why. As a rule, there is very little that is dramatic, and still less that is melodramatic, in the everyday life of a private detective.

I saw his eyes go from me to the door, and, looking round, I saw the white-coated workman with the little beard. He was standing looking up at the cornice, his hands fidgeting with a foot-rule, and then I heard Billington Stabbat speak.

“George,” he said, softly, and the man turned round. “Come over here, George,” said Billy, “and keep your hands where I can see ‘em, because if they go to your pockets I shall shoot you very dead, and that is a condition in which I am very sure you would find yourself horribly bored.”

The workman came slowly towards the desk, his large brown eyes fixed on Billy.

“Permit me to introduce you to Sergeant Mont, of Scotland Yard,” said Billy, with a little flourish of his hand. “This is Mr. George Briscoe, of Canada; and how is the world treating you, George?”

The workman licked his dry lips, and said nothing.

“I had the honour of putting George’s brother into prison for a life term, or was it twenty years?” said Billy, in a conversational tone, as though he were explaining the most commonplace event. “Naturally, George is a little sore with me, and has come over, I guess, to get even. You have not had many opportunities, have you, George?”

Still the workman said nothing.

“How is Tom, by the way?” asked Billington, in all innocence.

Then the man broke his silence.

“Tom is dead–you know that damn well!” he snarled, in a low voice, trembling with hate.

“Dear me, is that so?” said Billy. “Poor old Tom. He was a clever man, George. I’m not so sure that he wasn’t a cleverer man than you. Well, we can’t live forever, you know.”

The man dropped his eyes to the floor and again spoke.

“I’m going straight now, Mr. Stabbat,” he said, still in his low voice. “It is only a coincidence that I happened to be engaged in this work. I came from Canada two years ago to make a fresh start.”

“You came from Canada six months ago,” said Billy, gently, “and you got your job here by tipping the foreman a ten-pound note. In regard to making a fresh start, you were implicated last December in the robbery of Robberts’, the Regent Street jewellers, though I doubt whether our excellent friend, Mr. Mont, could bring it home to you.”

George rubbed his hand across his beard slowly.

“You are a wonderful fellow, Stabbat,” he said. His voice was that of an educated man. “Of course, I’ll get you sooner or later.”

“We shall see,” replied Billy. That phrase, a favourite of his, symbolised his attitude toward life–one of pleasurable curiosity. He was everlastingly eager for tomorrow and all that to-morrow brought, whether it be problem or reward, work or play, fun or danger. “I am not blaming you, George,” he went on, “for your very natural and proper desire to put me amongst the obituary notices. Far from it, if I were in your place I should do exactly the same thing. It is an act of fraternal piety, and the name of Tom demands my sacrifice.”

“You’d have made a good partner, Stabbat,” said George. “I hate doing it on you, but it’s got to be done.”

Billy nodded knowingly.

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