“But to bend Hank to his will he had to have a hold on him. What was Mr. Halliday’s Achilles heel? Why, his passion for Katie Scott. So last night Whitey’s father, Weed Williams, I imagine — wasn’t he the jockey you chased from the American turf many years ago, Mr. Scott, and who had become a saddle-maker? — kidnapped Katie Scott, then communicated with Hankus-Pankus and told him just what to do today if he ever expected to see his beloved alive again. And Hankus-Pankus took the gun they provided him with, listened very carefully, agreed to do everything they told him to do, and promised he would not breathe a word of the truth afterward, even if he had to go to jail for his crime, because if he did, you see, something terrible would happen to his Katie.”
Mr. Halliday gulped, his Adam’s apple bobbing violently.
“And all the time this skunk,” growled John Scott, glaring at the cowering jockey, “and his weasel of a father, they sat back and laughed at a brave mon, because they were havin’ their piddling revenge on me, ruining me!” Old John shambled like a bear toward Mr. Halliday. “And I am a shamed mon today, Hank Halliday. For that was the bravest thing I ever heard of. And even if I’ve lost my chance for the Handicap purse, through no fault of yours, and I’m a ruined maggot, here’s my hand.”
Mr. Halliday took it absently, meanwhile fumbling with his other hand in his pocket. “By the way,” he said, “who did win the Handicap, if I may ask?”
“High Tor,” said somebody in the babble.
“Really? Then I must cash this ticket,” said Mr. Halliday with a note of faint interest.
“Two thousand dollars!” gasped Paula, goggling at the ticket. “He bet two thousand dollars on High Tor at fifty to one!”
“Yes, a little nest egg my mother left me,” said Mr. Halliday. He seemed embarrassed. “I’m sorry, Mr. Scott. You made me angry when you — er — kicked me in the pants, so I didn’t bet it on Danger. And High Tor was such a beautiful name.”
“Oh, Hank,” beamed Katie.
“So now, Mr. Scott,” said Hankus-Pankus with dignity, “may I marry Katie and set you up in the racing business again?”
“Happy days!” bellowed old John, seizing his future son-in-law in a rib-cracking embrace.
“Happy days,” muttered Ellery, seizing Miss Paris and heading her for the nearest bar.
Heigh, Danger!
Theodore Mathieson
Daniel Defoe, Detective
If Daniel Defoe failed to unravel the plot against him, more than his very life was at stake... Meet Tuffley playing “Watson” to Daniel Defoe’s “Sherlock Holmes.”
I, Samuel Tuffley, in the year of our Lord 1719, was awakened from my bed at an advanced hour by a loud and imperious knocking at the door of my house in Bury Street, London, and descended to discover my brother-in-law, Daniel Defoe, who at the sight of me clapped his hands upon my shoulders.
“I’m setting off at once for Edinburgh, Tuffley,” he said, “and I’m most wishful that you come with me.”
“But it is late, Daniel,” I said. “Cannot political matters wait until the light of day, or will they not bear it?”
“ ’Tis no political matter that calls me,” Daniel said. “I go to meet a man who calls himself Rogers. If I learn from him what I expect, the knowledge may change my life. And in truth, Tuffley, the secret advisor in my soul warns me to change it anon, else I may not live long. The ‘high fliers’ and the Jacobites would kill me if they could, and even my own Whigs no longer trust me!”
“ ’Tis true, Daniel,” I cried. “ ’Tis not safe for you to be abroad in London alone at this hour!”
“That is why I wish you to accompany me to Edinburgh, Tuffley. Your reliable sword at my side would set my mind at peace.”
I sighed, looking at Daniel’s broad, determined chin shining white in the moonlight, then bade him wait below while I retired to dress. All the while my wife Margaret scolded from her bed, wishing to Heaven my sister Mary had never married Defoe, or that I were not so pusillanimous as to accept what she termed his impositions.
I silenced her, reminding her how generous Daniel had been to us when his star was high, setting me up as a hose factor, in which trade I had prospered. Now that Daniel had thrice seen the inside of Newgate prison for writing seditious pamphlets, and was, it was rumored, losing favor in the minister Harley’s eyes, it was the least I could to do to succour him. Besides, I admired greatly his facile political genius, and always felt my own wits sharpened in his presence.
Daniel and I left London within the hour, not pushing our mounts, but at Daniel’s request, deliberately taking the most round-about way. I could see my brother-in-law was burdened with anxiety, and suggested that the man he went to Scotland to see must certainly, in spite of Daniel’s avowal otherwise, represent a significant political figure.
“I tell you no!” Daniel cried in sudden rage. ‘“Why should I lie to you, Tuffley? All the years I’ve spent in politics, writing in behalf of our party, have given me no rest nor surcease from worry. I cannot prolong it without danger to my self. Meeting and talking with this man may provide a way out of it for me!”
But poor Daniel was an opportunist, no matter how brilliant he might be, and I fear I did not altogether believe him.
We made but slow progress for several days, because the ground, being damp and sandy, offered much difficulty to our horses. After we crossed the Trent at Nottingham, we found the road much harder and made better time.
On the fifth evening, while Daniel and I sat in the public room of an inn in Newcastle, a tall, spare fellow with tortured brown eyes, looking like a fanatic, entered and engaged in conversation with the landlord.
Daniel, at the sight of him, flushed red; then he rose quietly and went above stairs to his chamber. After a bit, I followed him, knocking, since Daniel, in spite of his thrifty nature, always insisted upon engaging a chamber to himself whenever we travelled outside London.
Defoe stood in stockinged feet before the meager flames of the little fireplace, his hands clasped behind him, his head turned in a listening attitude. I realized how below middle-size he was, and how large his head in proportion to his body, even though he had removed his wig, and his brown hair was close-cropped. In profile, his nose appeared sharply hooked in a predatory way, and his clean-shaven chin more stubborn than ever.
“Is that gangling fanatic fellow the cause of your leaving?” I asked.
“I’ve seen him before,” he replied at last, rubbing the mole on his chin reflectively, “in London and at Whitehall, and just night before last, at the tavern in Leeds!” Then he sat himself at the table and surprised me by thumping it with his fists until the candle in its holder jumped crazily.
“Have I waited too long, Tuffley?” he exclaimed strangely distraught. “Am I doomed to die before my time?”
“Tell me about it, Daniel,” I said gently, laying my hand on his wrist and feeling his pulse race.
“A fortnight ago, in London,” he said, “someone entered my bedroom and tried to kill me. Only because I heard him in time, rolled off the bed and made an outcry, did the villain fail of his purpose. But first he leapt upon where I had been lying, and I heard the very bed-frame tremble with the weight of him. I’m sure he came to strangle me, but he got clean away.”
“Without a clue to who he was?”
“Only this,” Daniel said, throwing a metal disk upon the table. It was the size of a shilling piece, but common iron, and in relief upon either side appeared the simple figure of a cross.
“He was one of the Squadroni who carried this, a fanatic religious who fears that the English ministry is backing the pretender. You know, Tuffley, I am no Jacobite, but a certain publication of mine which I wrote in irony was notoriously misunderstood by many, and doubtless the Squadroni also took offence.”