SV - 05 - Sergeant Verity and the Swell Mob. (7 page)

'Now, you see 'ere, my man. . .'

'No longer!
’
insisted Lavengro desperately.
'No longer does the fair charmer waggle her voluptuous hips before an audience
of costers. . .'

Verity's incoherent roar of
rage on Bella's behalf filled the confines of the canvas booth. All his
gratitude for the hints of robbery to come was now forgotten. He could think
only of the foulnesses about his beloved wife which were spouting from the
mouth of the obscene little man with his black and gold headscarf. The table
was between them, but Verity smashed it aside, wrenching the clairvoyant to his
feet with two ham-like fists grasping the man's lapels. Terror filled
Lavengro's dark little eyes.

'Flashing her arse
in a penny gaff!' he squealed desperately.

'Oh
gawd! You must a-known! Haymarket! Regent Circus! Ma Hamilton's Night 'ouse!'

Verity
withdrew a right hand in order to deal vengeance. But the Great Lavengro,
awakening suddenly to the inevitability of suffering, kicked him sharply on
the shins. A dull agony invaded the bone. Verity lost his footing and blundered
back against the canvas wall of the little tent. It bulged under his weight but
held firm.

He lunged away from it,
clawing for the elusive Lavengro. His foot trod on the fallen crystal ball and
he felt the cheap glass crunch to powder under his boot.

'I’ll bleedin' have you in the
infirmary for this!' he roared. Never in all his dealings with the most
hardened criminals had he felt such a degree of fury. To hear his pure and
beloved Bella — the mother of his children — spoken of in such a manner drove
him almost demented.

The
cheap furniture and the two men's bodies seemed to fill almost every available
space in the booth. But Lavengro, in his frenzy to avoid serious injury, was
scrambling for the door. Verity blocked the way. The scrawny clairvoyant
snatched a chair and raised it in an attempt to smash the frame down on his
antagonist's head. Verity's tall hat had long ago vanished into the debris and
he was now unprotected against such a blow. But as Lavengro raised the chair
with both hands, Verity bunched his right hand into a hamlike fist again and
delivered a meaty smack to the clairvoyant's jaw.

The Great Lavengro sagged. Yet
in doing so he brought the chair down gently but firmly. Imprisoned under it in
the narrow space, Verity struggled to fight clear. He stepped back against the
single pole of the tent and, to his dismay, heard a loud crack. Swathes of
canvas began to enfold him until he was kneeling under the mass of it. Those
outside, who had gathered when the tent walls began to bulge with the impact of
hurtling bodies, now watched the flimsy structure subside like a deflated
balloon.

Staggering about in the folds Verity found a tiny gap
where the top of the tent should have been. It was too small to escape through,
but large enough to give him a view of the Great Lavengro. Blood was trickling
from a corner of the clairvoyant's mouth as he scrambled away in his torn
clothes, racing across the shingle in the direction of Shoreham.

At last he found the hem of
the canvas, struggled under it, threw it clear, and stood up. He was surrounded
by a ring of spectators. Looking round for Bella and the others, his eye fell
first of all on a stern figure. In its tall hat and long belted tunic,
handcuffs and rattle at the side, it was unmistakeable. Worse still, its face
was unfamiliar, not one of the uniformed constables of Brighton with whom
Verity had so far struck up an acquaintance.

'Well then,' said the figure aggressively. 'What's all
this?'

'Quick!'
Verity gasped. 'Him! Running away over there! He's the one you want!'

The constable looked at him disdainfully.

'We
can find him any time,' he said gruffly. 'It's you I want!'

Verity shook his head.

'I’m police officer,' he panted.

'Oh
yes!' said the constable. 'Forget your uniform? Get them hands behind your
back! You're a bloody hooligan, that's what!'

Verity was too winded to
resist the handcuffs. In any case two stalwart volunteers from the crowd had
his arms behind him and the metal cuffs bit into his wrists.

'Listen!'
howled Verity. 'I gotta warrant card somewhere! I'm here to keep the peace,
same as you!'

The
uniformed constable looked round at the crumpled tent and its shattered
contents.

'Oh
yes?' he said again with the same casual disdain. 'This your idea of peace, is
it? Get walking!'

And then, to crown Verity's
wretchedness, there was a cry as Bella pushed her way through the crowd with
the rest of his little family following sheepishly behind her.

The procession to the Market
Street lock-up was a public humiliation which lived long in his mind. Behind
him and his captor walked an interested crowd. Bella a few paces away was
weeping silently. Billy in his leading-reins and little Vicki in Ruth's arms
were bawling in unison, as if divining their father's disgrace by their
mother's tears. Ruth, her pretty brown eyes wide with dismay, followed with
Stringfellow. Of all the family, it was the old cabman who took the reverse of
their fortunes most calmly. From time to time he fetched out the half sovereign
and looked at it thirstily as it lay in his palm. Presently he turned to Ruth
beside him. Finger and thumb took a soft fold of her face gently and shook it
with roguish familiarity. He glanced back for the last time at the ruins of the
Great Lavengro's premises. Then he patted Ruth forward again.

'No good do come of these
things as a rule,' he said philosophically. 'No good whatsoever!'

5

'Aggravated
assault!' Inspector Henry Croaker looked up from the chair in which he sat.
With his small dark eyes, his face yellow as a fallen leaf, his leather stock
buttoned up tight, he almost laughed in his glee. Verity, bare-headed and
red-faced, stood rigidly at attention before the desk. The room, in the police
office of Brighton Town Hall was unfamiliar, but the routine was one which he
had undergone a dozen times during Croaker's command of the Private-Clothes
Detail.

The
inspector was swallowing greedily, in anticipation of his triumph. This time,
at least, the matter was beyond doubt. The Great Lavengro had been beaten by
the fat sergeant before a crowd of witnesses, including a member of the local
constabulary.

‘Dismissal!'
cried Croaker. 'Proceedings on a charge of felony!' In his total rapture, he
almost sang the words to his victim. Verity struggled to retain his composure,
though he knew well that his future in the detail had never seemed as black as
now.

'Wasn't like that,
sir. With respect, sir.'

'No?' said Croaker softly.
'Then tell me how it was, sergeant.'

'He
said things about Mrs Verity, sir. Things about her having behaved in a
indecent manner before marriage, sir! Dancing in them penny gaffs, sir!'

'Indeed?' The words were
almost chuckling from the inspector's lips. 'And was he right, sergeant?'

Verity's flushed cheeks darkened to a port-wine shade.

'Mrs Verity is a pattern of
purity and womanhood, sir. And anyone who says or thinks otherwise is a
foul-mouthed scoundrel, sir. With respect, sir.'

Croaker paused, with the air
of one who has committed a tactical error but for whom victory remains assured.

'As to
that, sergeant, the matter will no doubt be fully aired when the public
proceedings are brought. And since Mr Lavengro will presently be here, he may
enlighten us even before then.'

'He got nothing to enlighten
anyone about, sir. And if he knows what's good for him, he'll stay away! Else.
. .'

'Or else, sergeant, you will
give him another good drubbing, will you? That is what you were about to say,
is it not? I strongly advise you, before the charge comes to court, to keep a
tight rein on your tongue. Mr Lavengro will be here, have no fear. He is this
moment being fetched by two uniformed constables.'

Verity stood at
attention, as smartly as on parade. In his mind were the other two items of
information which he had received in the clairvoyant's booth on Sunday
afternoon. The two crimes to be committed upon the following day. It had first
occurred to him that he ought to mention these prophecies to Mr Croaker. But
then he thought that Lavengro might now deny having made them. In that case,
they would appear merely as his own falsehoods, the last measures of a
desperate man.

From
outside the room there came a sound of approaching voices. Two of these were
the calm insistent tones of the escorting officers. The third, high and shrill,
was evidently that of the outraged clairvoyant himself. There was a tap at the
door. Croaker barked out a challenge and the door opened. Verity had his back
to it but he saw Croaker rise and heard the other men come in.

'Mr Lavengro!' said Croaker
unctuously. It is indeed so good of you to come here and assist us in so
distressing an affair. Permit me, my dear sir, to offer you the profoundest
apologies on behalf of the Private-Clothes Detail for the ruffianly assault to
which you have been subjected.'

Like a
trusted companion offering assistance to an invalid, Croaker took the Great
Lavengro's arm and led him round the desk so that they both faced Verity from
the far side.

'There!' said Croaker,
gesturing with a finger which would have done credit to the Hoxton melodrama.
'There is your attacker, sir! Lay what charges you please! You shall make no
enemies here for doing so!'

In the
morning light, Lavengro looked less sallow than he had done in the canvas
booth. His hair, released from the black and gold skull cap, now formed a short
tumble of dark, oiled curls. He looked malignantly at Verity, and also at the
others in the room. Then he shrugged.

‘Never saw him in my life before.'

'Look again!' yapped Croaker.
This is the man who brutally assaulted you in the middle of yesterday
afternoon and brought down your tent into the bargain!' Lavengro shrugged a
second time.

‘I'f you say so. Only thing
is, I was out cock-fighting at the Dog and Duck in Preston village, and there's
a dozen gents or more that was with me. Bleeding ask 'em!'

Croaker's sickly yellow
features were immobile in a moment of terrible realisation. The dark little
eyes froze with a deep, unfathomable agony.

'
'nother thing,' said Lavengro irritably. 'There was dancing. That Janet Bond,
the Female Hussar. Her with the dark hair done up in a top-knot and that big
bum. Split 'er fleshings when she kicked her legs. I was there all right.'

'Your tent!'
shouted Croaker. 'It was destroyed!'

'Nothing wrong with it Monday
morning, however. Tents don't destroy easy. They falls down and you puts 'em up
again. P'raps someone put mine up again.'

'Why
weren't you there on Sunday afternoon?' Croaker's tone was almost pleading in
his exasperation.

' 'Cos
the watch-committee don't approve of the magical arts being exercised on the
sabbath. Even young Janet can only flash about before a audience of private
gents. Any case, I likes a day to meself. Me and Janet got a bit of an
understanding just now, and that takes up a man's time rather.'

Inspector
Croaker's lip quivered, as though he might weep. His voice sank to a softer,
imploring tone.

'Then who was telling fortunes
in your tent on Sunday afternoon?'

'Dunno, do I? That's your bloody silliness.'

At last Croaker turned on the Great Lavengro.

'Very
well, my man,' he breathed. 'You think yourself clever. Yes you do. But let me
tell you this. My eye is upon you from this moment. Infringe one by-law, cause
one complaint, and I shall be upon you like the wrath of God! I neither know
nor care why you practise this present deceit. But you shall hear more of me,
sir! Depend upon it!'

'Tell you what,' said Lavengro reasonably, Tm going
from here to swear an affadavy of all this. And then, if so much as the shadow
of one of your tall hats falls on my tent, I’ll be round the watch-committee
with a copy. Saying how I was brought here forcible to perjure meself over
things that never happened. They'll have your privates off you and mounted over
the Town 'all porch.'

There was an ill-suppressed
snort of mirth from one of the uniformed constables behind Verity. The Great
Lavengro, with a sense of theatrical dignity, swept from the room. Verity
decided that the time had come to disclose the other predictions of the man who
had posed as Lavengro on the previous afternoon.