“Oh – and who was that, Mr Lyman?”
“William Hazelhurst – clear proof they’re in this together.”
“I thought you said that this man was a lawyer?”
“He’s obviously found richer pickings on the other side of the law,” said Lyman, thinking it through. “My guess is that he chooses the targets very carefully. They’re wealthy men like Mr Culver who are first given a warning then a beating. Since they know that Hazelhurst hires a bodyguard, they’re likely to turn to him for advice, and what does he do?”
“He recommends Lovell’s firm.”
“And the victims pay up without realizing that their money is going to the very people responsible for the attack on them. As for keeping an eye on their properties at night, Lovell doesn’t bother to do that. He withdraws the threat by standing one of his men – O’Gara, probably – down. It’s easy money. I wonder how many frightened men are paying up.”
“Are you going to report all this to the police, Mr Lyman?”
“No, Matt, we don’t have enough evidence yet. Hazelhurst is a slippery customer and so is Lovell, by the sound of him. We need to catch them red-handed.”
“How do we do that?”
“I think I know a way,” said Lyman, thoughtfully. “We’ll bide our time. We’ll wait until they play right into our hands.”
Steen beamed. “We’ll do just that,” he said, obediently, “but, while we’re waiting, is there any chance I could have another shot of that whiskey?”
Henry Culver was not a man to hide his injuries. As soon as he felt well enough to get up again, he returned to work and braved both the physical discomfort and the horrified stares of his employees at the bank. Less than a fortnight after the attack, he was sufficiently recovered to accept an invitation to dine with some of the bank’s directors. His wife Maria pleaded with him not to go but Culver was not dissuaded by her tears. He insisted on joining the others at a leading restaurant in the city.
“But the brute who attacked you might still be out there,” said Maria with concern. “I’d hoped that Mr Lyman would have caught him by now but he has no notion of who the man can be.”
“Don’t lose faith in Mr Lyman, dear,” cautioned her husband. “I have the greatest confidence in the fellow.”
“Come home early,” she begged, “and travel with someone else.”
He gave her a farewell kiss. “Goodbye, Maria. There’s no cause for alarm. I intend to return safe and sound.”
It was an enjoyable meal. The food was delicious, the wine flowed freely, and Culver joined his companions in a cigar as they traded anecdotes about the financial world. When he left the convivial atmosphere of the restaurant, he was in a buoyant mood. He did not even see the horseman who was watching him from nearby and who waited until Culver had climbed into his cab before he kicked his mount into a canter.
Arriving in the street minutes before the cab, the man had time to tether his horse and take up his position. He pulled his hat down low and tightened his grasp on the cudgel. He heard the approaching cab well before it came into sight as the horse’s hooves echoed down the long, empty thoroughfare. The vehicle pulled up outside the Culver residence and the passenger got out, tottering slightly. He paid the driver and the cab pulled slowly away. It was the moment to strike. The man rushed out of the shadows with his weapon held high.
But the assault was anticipated. Swinging round to face his attacker, the intended victim threw off his top hat and raised his cane to defend himself. Even in the half-dark, O’Gara could see that the man was not Henry Culver.
“Who the divil are ye?” he demanded, closing in.
“I’m an old friend of yours, Mr O’Gara,” said Matthew Steen, slashing him across the face with the cane then kicking him hard in the crotch. “Remember me?”
Doubling up in pain, O’Gara cursed aloud then found the strength to swing his cudgel with murderous force. Steen ducked quickly beneath it and, dropping his cane, used both fists to deliver a relay of punches to the head and body. Dazed and bloodied, O’Gara staggered backwards. He was grabbed firmly from behind by Jeb Lyman, who’d been posing as the cabman and had stopped his vehicle a short distance away so that he could run back. In no time at all, the detective snapped a pair of handcuffs on to the Irishman’s wrists, pinning his arms behind his back.
“I know ye,” growled O’Gara, glaring at Steen.
“There’s something else you’ll know,” retorted Steen with grim satisfaction. “You’re going to know what it’s like on the other side of the bars at the Tombs – because that’s where you and your friends will end up.”
By the time that Culver returned much later in another cab, it was all over. Liam O’Gara was in police custody and warrants had been issued for the arrest of William Hazelhurst and Barnard Lovell. The banker lapsed into a rare moment of generosity, praising Lyman for his expertise and paying him twice the agreed fee. Because it was Steen who tackled the man responsible for Culver’s beating, he was given a sizeable reward. A protection ring had been smashed and the streets of the neighbourhood were safe once more.
“I can’t thank you enough, Mr Lyman,” said Culver, pumping his hand. “I’d recommend you to anybody.”
“Thank you, sir,” said the detective. “Matt and I are always ready to take on any assignment. Just remember that prevention is better than the cure.”
The banker frowned. “I don’t follow.”
“You should’ve come to me when you received that first warning letter. Then we could’ve taken steps to ensure that you were never given that beating. It’s always much more satisfying to nip a crime in the bud. That way,” said Lyman, pointedly, “the only person who gets hurt is the villain.”
CONFESSION by Paula Williams
THIS IS THE full written confession of Trevor Montgomery Pringle, aged fifty-five, of – well, there’s not a lot of point me putting my address down because Trevor Montgomery Pringle is going away for a long, long time.
It’s funny but I never really thought of what I was doing as stealing, more a question of building up my pension fund. It was, after all, the only one I was likely to get, in spite of the fact I’d worked for Fraddon and Son (Construction) Ltd for most of my adult life.
So I preferred to think of what I did more along the line of a redistribution of assets. And if that sounds like accountant-speak, that’s because I am one. Or rather I was, for thirty-six tedious years.
But to be honest – and, in spite of everything, I am an honest chap – I’m not exactly an accountant. I’m what you’d call “qualified by experience”. But I never took any exams or had any letters after my name, which was Roger Fraddon’s excuse for paying me peanuts all those years.
“Let’s face it, Trev,” he said, back in the early days when I was still naive enough to believe him when he promised that next year my rise would be The Big One. “I pay you a fair wage considering you’re nothing more than a glorified bookkeeper. And, of course,” he jingled the loose change in his pocket, narrowed his eyes and looked challengingly at me, “if you don’t like it, you can always leave.”
Funny he should say that because my wife, Sandra, was always on at me to leave Fraddon’s.
“Why don’t you get yourself a job that pays a decent wage?” she grumbled when I got home, late as usual, one evening. “What you earn isn’t enough to keep me in shoes and handbags.”
I stopped myself from pointing out that David Beckham probably didn’t earn enough to keep her in shoes, handbags and anything else that took her fancy. It would only have caused an argument and Sandra doesn’t like arguments when she’s having one of her heads.