The Shadow of Great Britain

97: Chapter 57: The Fantastic Drifting of the French 97: Chapter 57: The Fantastic Drifting of the French Outside the rented room, a group of young thugs, dressed in overalls and wearing newsboy caps, queued up and made their way up the narrow staircase.

As they walked, they discussed the strategy for the upcoming confrontation.

“James, Little Whiz said the fish we hooked this time is pretty strong and tall, so you go in first with a knife to test his reaction.

If he jumps out the window bare-assed or bolts through the door, let him go.

We get the money easily, and he keeps his dignity and honor.

Everybody’s happy,”

“If he fights back, you size him up first.

If you think you can’t handle him alone, just shout, and we’ll rush in right behind you.”

“Be careful when you make your move.

Don’t reveal the real relationship between us and Fiona.

Don’t push him too hard; if he gets too desperate, he might do something drastic.

If he takes Fiona hostage, things could get deadly.”

The thugs arrived outside the room and listened at the door, but there was no sound for a long time.

The one who looked like the leader frowned and asked in a low voice, “What’s going on?

Didn’t Fiona bring him here?”

“Impossible.

Hannie is using the other room.

Fiona couldn’t have taken him there.”

Just as the thugs were puzzled, a series of low moans suddenly came from inside the room.

“Ugh…

ugh…

help…

me…”

The thugs then relaxed, and one of them couldn’t help but curse, “Damn it!

All this time it was her getting off!

She took so long to signal, looks like she really likes this fish!”

“What now?

Do we wait for Fiona to finish?”

“Wait, my ass!

We still have to go to Hannie’s place later.

It’s the busy season for transport.

Customers at the docks come one after another.

Let’s wrap this up quickly so Fiona can do the next job.”

“Everybody step back!

James, we’ll wait outside, get ready to kick the door in.”

With that, the little thugs quickly hid in the hallway.

The thug named James took a butcher knife from his coat, took a deep breath, and recalled the classic script they had performed countless times.

Then, he kicked in the door, brandished the knife as he burst into the room, and roared.

“Damn it!

You whore, I knew you were sneaking men in here again.

Once or twice, I let it slide, but you keep on messing up.

Do you really think I have no temper!

Watch me not kill this stupid bastard today!”

Normally, as soon as James finished his lines, the room would erupt with the woman’s screams and the man’s pleas for mercy.

But strangely, today the opening act finished with no follow-up.

The room was silent, lacking the leading lady Fiona’s tearful plea for forgiveness, the leading man customer’s improvised begging on his knees, and even James, the supporting role, made no sound.

After a while, the thugs hiding in the hallway heard Fiona’s muffled moans again.

The thugs wondered, “Is it really that exciting?

Has James been stupefied?”

The ringleader slapped the back of their heads and cursed, “Damn it!

Can’t you see what’s happening?

This is a screw up, you idiots!

Guys, grab your weapons!”

They all pulled out knives hidden up their sleeves and charged towards the room with fierce momentum.

However, before they reached the door, they saw James backing out of the room with his hands raised high.

Following James out was the barrel of a flintlock pistol pressed against his forehead and a man at least a head taller than him.

Arthur glanced at the group of thugs in the hallway, and then tilted his head to the right towards the stunned James.

James swallowed and, taking the hint, let go of the butcher knife in his left hand.

A clang sounded as the knife hit the ground, sending sparks flying.

Almost the instant the butcher’s knife hit the ground, Arthur mercilessly kicked his stomach, sending him flying against the opposite wall.

James collapsed to the floor in agony, clutching his belly, unable even to muster the strength to rise.

Arthur didn’t bother with him anymore.

He raised his pistol and aimed it at the thugs in the corridor.

“Excuse me, are you ‘Cambridge’s Little Brothers’?”

The leading thug couldn’t help but step back half a step, but he quickly recovered.

Showing weakness was not an option if he wanted to survive in the East District—what mattered was ruthlessness.

Licking his lips, he feigned nonchalance, “Ha!

Looks like we’ve met our match today.

Just which woods do you claim, brother?

What brings you here to mess with our business?”

“Which woods?”

Remembering some information he had learned during a chat with Adam, Arthur bluffed, “You’re asking about my turf?

Black Thorn in West London, the crow’s nest with the bow and arrow, our respectable ‘Robinson Crusoe’.”

Upon hearing Arthur’s reputation, the other side’s eyes widened in disbelief, “You’re one of old Fagin’s men from Saint Giles?

Isn’t that decrepit old man known for harboring pickpockets, since when did he start recruiting desperadoes like you?”

Arthur remained cool, “There are too many thieves these days.

Old Fagin has decided to switch tracks and develop some new industries.

Heard you guys are doing well in the East District, so here I am to learn from you.”

Grinding his teeth, the gang leader forced a smile, “Friend, there’s no need to beat around the bush with us here.

Tell me straight, what do you really want?

There’s plenty of cheese in the East District for us rats to share, there’s no need for knives and guns.”

Arthur nodded slightly at this, “Alright, then I’ll tell you straight.

Have you guys taken any kidnapping gigs recently?

A curly-haired French fatso named ‘Robinson Crusoe’.”

“Oh…”

Upon hearing this, the gang leader’s voice dragged out, “Seems like you’ve also taken that job from Fred.

But you’re out of luck.

We’ve already handed that horny Frenchman over.”

“Horny?” Arthur acknowledged with a nod, “Sounds like a genuine Frenchman indeed.

Give a water pipe a short skirt, and they can’t control themselves.”

The thug agreed with a nod, adding, “And I need to correct you on one point—that Frenchman isn’t named ‘Robinson Crusoe.’ We had to give him a good beating before he gave up his real name.”

Arthur’s interest piqued at this, “Oh?

What’s his real name?”

“He said his name was ‘Friday’.”

Drawing a deep breath, Arthur realized he’d been misled and gradually understood what was going on.

If the one who reported the case hadn’t told him the truth, then it was the Frenchman who was the problem.

It was one thing for the Frenchman to use a fake name, but choosing such a casual one was as if pretending no one had ever read ‘Robinson Crusoe.’

Such a misdirection to the authorities meant that even after rescuing him, Tom and Tony were obliged to leave him with a lesson.

“Alright,” Arthur pocketed his gun, “so you’re saying you’ve delivered the guy to Fred?

75 Brick Lane, Whitechapel, Blackpool Detective Agency?”

This time, however, the gang leader didn’t respond.

Seeing Arthur holster his gun, the gang leader’s eyes reddened as he drew the knife strapped behind him in a moment, intending to leave Arthur with a parting gift.

“Damn it, kid, who do you think you are?

We have to answer your questions just because you ask them; do you think you’re God?”

Arthur wasn’t rattled as they charged at him.

Timing his move, he stepped on the gang leader’s shinbone, right above the ankle.

Under the pressure, the thug’s knee involuntarily bent, and he half-knelt in front of Arthur.

Taking advantage of the moment, Arthur calmly drew his pistol again and shoved the dark barrel into the man’s mouth.

Pistol in one hand, Arthur took the pipe from his mouth with the other and leaned in close, addressing the thug.

“Kid, let me tell you, don’t make me angry.

I really hate playing with violence.”