A REALLY GOOD THING

I am innocent, innocent, innocent.

   The words echoed inside my head and, for a moment, I was afraid I had shouted them aloud.  Not that it would matter, I thought; I suppose they all proclaim their innocence up to the last moment.  Briefly I visualised a march to the scaffold, with the criminal singing his song of innocence to the accompaniment of a movement from a Berlioz symphony, and I had an insane desire to giggle.  But I controlled myself thinking: That way madness lies; a form of reproach I had often found effective.

   Yet it was true.  If anyone was guilty it was Muggsy.  If only he had shown a little more patience, or if, maybe, he had not been so threatening.  But what was the use?  If, if, if.  If pigs had wings.  In a way it was ironical.  Here was I, in a prison cell, awaiting trial for murder, and I hadn't been within two hundred miles of the crime.

   It all started last week when Muggsy issued his ultimatum . . . or perhaps it really started last month when I first met him in the Pink Python Club.  Graham introduced us.

   "This is Mr Benson," he said.  "But everyone calls him Muggsy.  Muggsy, I want you to say hello to Jim Farrell, a good friend of mine.  He's all right."  This with the faintest of winks.

   Graham and I had been at school together.  Now he was in business, though nobody quite knew what his business was.  When asked he would reply that he was "something in the City."  I was also in business - buying and selling.  Anything, anywhere.  Building up connections; finding short-term demands and satisfying them.  Frequently selling short and then hastily using my connections to obtain - at a discount - the material I'd sold.  Nothing very brilliant, but I had been able to make ends meet for a number of years.

   Now I suddenly had the opportunity to clear a cool five thousand pounds on a deal.  Legal, of course; but only just.  The snag was that I had to finance it in advance and I needed a thousand pounds quickly.  So I contacted Graham.  As I said, nobody quite knew how he made his money, but what was certain was that he made it.  Enough, that is, to run a Bentley, a flat in Mayfair, a house on the upper reaches of the Thames.  You must know the type.  He would end up in prison or the House of Lords.  It had been Graham who had suggested meeting at the Pink Python.

    It's amazing how often the people who seem to have the money are those most loath to part with it.  Graham was no exception.  Even in the case of a friend - and I had always regarded myself as his friend - and even when the proposition put up to him was really sound and a reasonable amount of collateral offered from my side.  Unfortunately, although I had the collateral, it was not a proposition I would have liked to discuss with my bank manager.  Not to mention the Government's credit squeeze which had made the possibility of a bank loan as remote as a Soviet affirmative.

    Graham had oozed charm, but his "Sorry, old boy," was final: the door closed, the key turned, the bolt pushed home.  He went on talking, but only half of me was listening; the other half was compiling a mental list of alternative sources of funding.  Unfortunately I was unable to think of a single candidate for the honour.  In the meantime Graham had been mumbling his apologies: the credit squeeze . . . money is so tight . . . dearly love to help, old boy, but . . .  Then something he said shook me out of my semi-stupor to demand, rather curtly I regret, "What was that you said?"

    Whatever Graham's faults, discourtesy was certainly not numbered amongst them.  My question might have been couched in the politest of terms, to judge by his reply.

    "Excuse me if my suggestion should have been offensive or ill-considered, old boy, but I assure you he's the soul of discretion.  A bit of a rough diamond, of course, but if any man can help you, it is he."

    "You mean," I asked, "that you know someone who might put up the money?"

    He smiled, a cat at the cream smile, not too condescending, and rather more pitying than smug.  Unquestionably a House of Lords' type.

    "I can't guarantee it, old boy.  Still he's probably your best bet and that's why I suggested meeting you here."

    That was when he introduced me to Muggsy.

    A rough diamond, Graham had said, and while the adjective seemed appropriate, any similarities with the qualities of the precious stone were not immediately apparent.

    "Pleased to meetcha," said Muggsy.  "Any friend of Mr Graham's a friend of mine."  A tender if rather banal sentiment.  Momentarily I was tempted to reply, "Mutual," but Mr Muggsy Benson was "my best bet" and even he might not have been insensitive to irony, so I contented myself with a speech of "Delighted to make your acquaintance, Mr Benson," and tried to look as if I meant it.

    "Call me Muggsy," invited my potential benefactor, a smile revealing a missing front tooth and spreading still further across his face the nose which had evidently gone walkabout at some time in the past, possibly assisted by a carefully placed fist.

    "Thank you, I will . . . Muggsy."  I returned his smile, but was as yet unwilling to return the invitation of familiarity he had extended to me.  Graham broke in to make his excuses; he had another pressing engagement and was sure Muggsy would look after me.  When he had departed, Muggsy suggested that we seat ourselves at a table, in a booth, where our conversation would be at once more private and less liable to interruption.  He then promptly informed me that he understood I required to be financed.  It appeared that Graham had already acquainted him with my predicament.

    "That's quite right, Muggsy," I said.  "All I need is a thousand pounds and I should be able to repay it within ten days, plus whatever you consider to be a reasonable amount of interest."

    "Oh no, Mr Farrell," Muggsy grinned.  "You and me ain't quite understandin' each other.  I can't lend you the money."

    "But Graham said . . . "

    "Yerss, yerss, I know. He told you I could probably 'elp you, and so I can.  But you know what they say, the Lord 'elps 'im as 'elps 'imself.  Now then, if you need a farsand quid I can put you onto a really good fing at 'Arringay tonight."

    I interrupted him hastily.  "Mr Benson . . . er Muggsy . . . I don't want to gamble for the money."

    His face creased in a look of pain.  "Mr Farrell, Mr Farrell, 'oo said anyfing about a gamble?"  He was plainly aggrieved at the suggestion.  

    Enlightenment struck.  I had heard of certain things. "Oh," I said, "you mean . . ."

    "Now, now, Mr Farrell, no names, no pack drill, eh?  Now look, you wanna make a farsand, right?"

    "Right."

    "Well the odds on Fearless Fred in the third, at the moment stand at five to one. There's only one other dog to touch 'im, Lucky Strike, and I 'appen to know Lucky Strike'll come in last."

    "That means," I said excitedly, "that I can put two hundred pounds on Fearless Fred and win a thousand."

    He shook his head sadly.  "It's easy to see, Mr Farrell, that you don't understand the dogs.  The money won't go on until just before the race and by that time the odds may be a lot less.  Ter make absolutely sure you've got to put on as much as you 'ope to win, since we know they won't shorten to less than evens.  See what I mean?  If you want to win a farsand, you've got to stake a farsand.  An' you may end up winnin' a lot more."

    My joy was short-lived.  "I'm sorry, Muggsy," I said, "if I had a thousand to stake I wouldn't be bothering you in the first place.  All I can raise is two-fifty."

    He waved his hands at me.  "That's okay, Mr Farrell.  That's where I come in.  I'll stake you and you can pay me back out of yer winnin's."

    "Well," I offered, "if that's the case I can give you a cheque right now for two hundred and fifty pounds."

    He looked offended.  "Please," he complained, "you don't want to 'urt my feelings, do you?"  It was nice to know he had feelings.  "Yer a friend of Mr Graham's ainchya?  You just leave it to me and tomorrow you'll 'ave a cool farsand in yer pocket."

    He politely refused my invitation to a drink and we arranged to meet in the Pink Python again the following evening.

    It was in the newspaper next morning.  I spotted it long before I had turned to the greyhound results.  The headline said: DRUG PLOT FOILED AT HARRINGAY.  There was really no need for me to read any further.  A sick feeling in the pit of my stomach already told me all I wanted to know, but I forced myself to continue:

"Acting on information received, officers of the Criminal Investigation Department were last night posted at Harringay Arena and were instrumental in foiling an attempt to drug the favourite in the third race.  Lucky Strike was odds-on to win the race, although a considerable amount of last minute betting had shortened the odds of the second favourite, Fearless Fred, to two to one.  In the race itself Fearless Fred came second to Lucky Strike by a short head.  Later two men were taken . . . "

    I read no further; I was feeling too weak.  Now I was not only as far as ever from obtaining my thousand pounds, but I owed a thousand to Muggsy Benson.

    I kept the appointment that night expecting to find Muggsy a much sadder man.  Not that I was prepared to spare any sympathy for him; I was too full of self-pity over my own plight.  To my utter amazement, however, he appeared to be as cheerful as ever.  He could have made a fortune rather than lost one, to judge from his greeting.

    "Well, well, Mr Farrell, y've 'eard the news I suppose?  Yerss, I can see from yer face that you 'ave.  Never mind, eh?  Luck of the game.  Rahndabahts and swings. Could of bin a lot worse."

    "Not for me, I'm afraid, Muggsy.  I now owe you a thousand pounds."

    "That's all right, Mr Farrell.  Yer among friends.  You take yer time.  'Ow long do yer want?  Seven days?  Ten days?"

    I gulped.  "Could you make that weeks?"

    Muggsy's face seemed to freeze instantly and a tight knot of wrinkles appeared above the squashed nose.  Then, just as quickly, his face cleared and the familiar ear-to-ear smile reappeared.  "Well, Mr Farrell, it's 'ighly unusual, but wot say we compromise on one month?  Okay?  An' you can always find me 'ere.  Any evening."

    For the next four weeks I spared no efforts to obtain the money.  I investigated ceaselessly all possible business deals that might produce quick returns, but the net result was a loss of a further fifty pounds.  I approached Graham again.  And others.  I got a lot of sympathy.  Sympathy is fine, but hardly negotiable.  Finally, one month later, I went to see Muggsy again, considerably richer in experience and advice, fifty pounds poorer in liquid resources.  And this time Muggsy seemed different; the parallel to a rough diamond more apparent.  At least so far as the quality of hardness was concerned.

    "Nar then, Mr Farrell, what's all this?  You can't pay?  Come, come, come, Mr Farrell, that's 'ardly the way to conduct a business deal, an' you a businessman an' all."

    "Look, Muggsy," I pleaded, "I can give you two hundred pounds now.  Just give me a little longer to raise the rest."

    "Sorry, Mr Farrell, no dice!  I really am sorry.  You know, Mr Farrell, I like you.  I've liked you from the first moment we met.  An' what's more, I trust you.  But business is business, Mr Farrell, and I'll 'ave to report it to my associates.  They're a good lot of boys, but 'oly terrors wiv the razors.  But I'm sure you understand.  If I let you off, what 'appens to my reputation?  I'll tell you.  Every Tom, Dick and 'Arry will immediately fink 'Muggsy Benson's gorn soft'.  And if the news gets out that I've gorn soft, I'm going to lose some of me best clients.  You see what I mean?  I've gotta protect my reputation.  Believe me it's gonna 'urt me a lot more than it will you, and if you'll take my advice, Mr Farrell, you'll keep off the streets at night, an' don't let anyone creep up be'ind you."

    Suddenly the club felt unbearably hot, and my shirt collar felt too tight.  I ordered another round of drinks.

    "Now Muggsy," I said, "you would obviously prefer the money to my neck, so let's discuss ways and means like civilized men.  Look, I'll tell you what, take my car in part payment."

    "Forgive me, Mr Farrell, but in our game it's cash only.  But why don't you sell the car?"

    "I could, of course, but I'd probably get no more than four hundred and fifty for it in today's economic climate, and it's worth a hell of a lot more than that.  It's insured for nine hundred."

    "Is it?"  Muggsy look thoughtful, then he said, "See 'ere, Mr Farrell.  As I said, I like you and I'd like to try and 'elp you to get the money.  D'you know the Royal Eagle just down the road?  Well you go along there and ask for the Weasel.  You can't go wrong; everyone knows 'im and besides 'e looks just like 'is name.  Now, when you see 'im . . ."  and Muggsy proceeded to give me a series of elaborate instructions.

    Two days later, while I was sitting in my office during the afternoon, my secretary announced that two gentlemen wished to see me, and I asked her to show them in.  The taller of the two removed his hat as he entered the room and asked:

    "Mr Farrell?"

    I said, "Yes."

    "Mr James Farrell?" he persisted.

    Again I said "Yes."

    "I am Detective Inspector Aitken of the CID and this is Sergeant Hastings."

    "Ah," I said, "you've come to see me about the car.  Has it been found?"

    "Yes," he replied.  "Your car was found in south Cornwall, at a spot known as Smugglers' Cove.  It had evidently gone over the cliffs, a seventy foot drop.  A Mr Harold Arbuthnot, otherwise known as the Weasel, was also found - dead, in the driver's seat."

    "Good God!" I exclaimed.  My shock was genuine.

    "James Farrell, I am here to arrest you on suspicion of the murder of Harold Arbuthnot, and I must caution you that anything you say will be taken down in writing and may be used in evidence."

    "Good God!" I repeated.  Again my shock was genuine.

    And that was how, one hour later, I came to be locked in a prison cell, charged with a murder committed over two hundred miles from where I was at the time.

    You see, that morning I had reported to the police that my car had been stolen during the night.  According to Detective Inspector Aitken, the Weasel, who was known to the police as a small time crook and blackmailer, was carrying in his pocket a cheque from me, made out to cash, for the sum of fifty pounds.  Their assumption was that he was blackmailing me and that I had killed him.

    Some time later the Inspector came to by cell.

    "Now, Mr Farrell," he said, "you have been far from helpful so far.  You must realise that you are only making things more difficult for yourself.  Why not be sensible and tell us the whole story."

    He was right, of course.  So I did.

    "You see, Inspector," I said, "I needed money and somebody introduced me to this man Arbuthnot.  I gave him a duplicate key to my car and a cheque for fifty pounds.  He was to pick up my car last night, drive it to south Cornwall, and dump it in the sea.  Then he had to make his own way back to London.  I was supposed to report the theft this morning and collect the insurance money in due course.  But as to his death, why I am as much in the dark as you."

    Aitken smiled.  "Thank you, Mr Farrell.  We suspected as much.  I take it you have no objection to giving me a signed statement to that effect?  Fine."

    And so the statement was duly written and signed.  Later I asked Inspector Aitken how he had been so quick to accept my story and prepared to believe I had not killed the Weasel.

    A charming man, this inspector.  He smiled again.  "Well, Mr Farrell, we knew all along that Arbuthnot had not been murdered.  You see, the slope up to the cliffs is too steep for the car to be pushed.  The rear doors and the nearside front door of the car were all locked on the inside, so it was impossible for anyone to have jumped out of them.  Arbuthnot himself had been at the wheel and his doorlock was jammed.  There were signs that he had tried to open the door with the obvious intention of jumping out before the car went over.  There was only one thing that had us puzzled.  There had to be a reason why he was driving your car and carrying a cheque from you.  We guessed it wasn't blackmail, for he would have insisted on cash.  But it was obvious you had to know a lot about it and we decided that the best way to get the information was to arrest you on suspicion of murder.  There was enough evidence to incriminate you."

    Something still bothered me and I asked, "But how were you able to get onto it so quickly?"

    He gave me a startled look.  "Surely you know the answer to that.  Didn't you telephone us last night and report the loss of the car?  I must confess that I don't see why you should have risked having the Weasel apprehended before he had disposed of the car."

    Now I was really bewildered.  I had certainly not telephoned the CID the previous night.  It was obvious, too, that Detective Inspector Aitken knew nothing of my visit to my local police station in the morning.  But who could have telephoned them?  The only other person who knew of the arrangement had been Muggsy.  Of course, Muggsy . . .  Instinct suddenly warned me I would do better to play dumb.  I said, "Of course.  Silly of me.  Well, it was still a smart piece of work on your part.  Tell me, Inspector, what happens to me next?"

    "Well you are still under arrest, although no longer for suspicion of murder.  You may now apply for bail."

    I thought quickly.  If I were granted bail I would then be once more at large and exposed to the tender mercies of Muggsy's "associates", so, to the Inspector's evident amazement, I told him I had no intention of applying for bail.

    He told me that I would come up before a magistrate in the morning and left me.      

    I lay on the hard bench which appeared to be the sole provision for the prisoner's comfort, but which was equipped with blanket, pillow and a toilet accessory at one end.  Still, it was undoubtedly more comfortable than a hangman's noose, metaphorically speaking, and at least here, for a while, I was safe from Muggsy.

    Or so, in my ignorance, I believed.

    That evening I was informed that I had a visitor.  It was Muggsy.

    I permitted myself the luxury of a smile across the table that separated us and said, "You're making a big mistake, aren't you Muggsy?  You can't collect debts in gaol."

    He laughed.  "You are a one, Mr Farrell, and no mistake.  I'm glad to see you 'aven't lorst yer sense of 'umour.  I undestand they've booked you for attempted fraud."

    "That's right, Muggsy."

    He winked.  "You are a lad!  And all the time I thought you was simple.  'Ow you tumbled me I shall never know.  Mind you, I didn't fink you'd end up be'ind bars. But to be able to get away wiv . . ." he lowered his voice, "murder."

    "What?" I shouted, unable to credit my hearing.

    "Now then, Mr Farrell, you don't have to worry.  It's all between friends.  You were smart to realise that the Weasel was blackmailing us over the 'Arringay job. All wanted was to get him nicked for car stealing and out of circulation for a bit.  To teach 'im a lesson, you understand.  You'd of 'ad yer car back and I'd 'ave accepted whatever you could 'ave sold it for in settlement of yer debt.

    "But why am I telling you all this?  You obviously realised it and it took a man of yer genyuss to dispose of the Weasel permanently.  I must admit we're 'appier wiv him right out of the way.  Still it's a pity you gave 'im a cheque or you might 'ave got away wiv it altogether."

    "Well . . . "  I attempted a laugh which, even to my ears, sounded forced, but Muggsy seemed not to notice.  He continued to regard me with a look of rapt admiration.

    "Yerss, I've certainly got to 'and it to you Mr Farrell.  A neater job I 'ave never seen.  'Ow you managed it I shall never know, but . . . " and here he contrived a wink which transformed his face into so gruesome a mask that an involuntary shudder passed through me.  I hoped he had not noticed.  "But," he said, "it'll be a trade secret, I've no doubt.  Well, I know better than to ask questions.  Y'know," he added thoughtfully, "I'm not sure my associates couldn't use a man wiv your ability for - what should I say? - painless extraction?"  He guffawed at his little play on words and then continued, "At any rate, wot I really came to ask is: would you do me the great honour of considering yer debt as cancelled."

    I stared at him.  For a few moments the words failed to penetrate my consciousness and, obviously misunderstanding my silence, he hastily added, "Look, Mr Farrell, I know yer a man of honour and want to pay yer debts.  But please, please regard this as a favour to me, eh?  If you like, call it payment for services rendered.  Now then, wot d'you say?"

    "Well, Muggsy, I don't know what to say."

    "Then say nuffink.  We'll consider it settled.  And other fing.  I want you to see me when you get out.  I shouldn't fink you'll get more than three months for a first offence - two months wiv good behaviour - and it may even be a conditional discharge and a fine if you get yerself a good lawyer.  But you see me when you get out and I promise you I'll put you onto a really good fing."

    I could no longer control my laughter and, although I feared it would disturb Muggsy's finer sensibilities, I said, "You know, Muggsy, I think it might be safer for me to stay in prison."