1-05“THE WOMAN BEGAN TO BELABOUR THE INVADERS ABOUT THE SHOULDERSAND HEAD FROM ABOVE.”
Then there was a heavy thump, andhishead was withdrawn; the broom was probably responsible. The inspector shouted impatiently for the front door to be opened, and in a minute or two the bolts were shot, and it swung back. The placid Johnson stood in the passage, and as we passed in he said, “I’ve locked ’er in the back room upstairs.” As a matter of fact we might have guessed it. Volleys of screeches, punctuated by bangs from contact of broom and door, left no doubt.
“It’s the bottom staircase, of course,” the inspector said; and we tramped down into the basement. A little way from the stairfoot Hewitt opened a cupboard door, which enclosed a receptacle for coals. “They still keep the coals here, you see,” he said, striking a match and passing it to and fro near the sloping roof of the cupboard. It was of plaster, and covered the under-side of the stairs.
“And now for the fifth dancer,” he said, throwing the match away and making for the staircase again. “One, two, three, four, five,” and he tapped the fifth stair from the bottom. “Here it is.”
The stairs were uncarpeted, and Hewitt and the inspector began a careful examination of the one he had indicated. They tapped it in different places, and Hewitt passed his hand over the surfaces of both tread and riser. Presently, with his hand at the outer edge of the riser, Hewitt spoke. “Here it is, I think,” he said; “it is the riser that slides.”
He took out his pocket-knife and scraped away the grease and paint from the edge of the old stair. Then a joint was plainly visible. For a long time the plank, grimed and set with age, refused to shift; but at last, by dint of patience and firm fingers, it moved, and in a few seconds was drawn clean out from the end, like the lid of a domino-box lying on its side.
Within, nothing was visible but grime, fluff, and small rubbish. The inspector passed his hand along the bottom angle. “Here’s a hook or something, at any rate,” he said. It was the gold hook of an old-fashioned earring, broken off short.
Hewitt slapped his thigh. “Somebody’s been here before us,” he said “and a good time back too, judging from the dust. That hook’s a plain indication that jewellery was here once, and probably broken up for convenience of carriage and stowage. There’s plainly nothing more, except—except this piece of paper.” Hewitt’s eyes had detected—black with loose grime as it was—a small piece of paper lying at the bottom of the recess. He drew it out and shook off the dust. “Why, what’s this?” he exclaimed. “More music! Why, look here!”
We went to the window, and there saw in Hewitt’s hand a piece of written musical notation, thus:—
1-6
Hewitt pulled out from his pocket a few pieces of paper. “Here is a copy I made this morning of the ‘Flitterbat Lancers,’ and a note or two of my own as well,” he said. He took a pencil, and, constantly referring to his own papers, marked a letter under each note on the last-found slip of music. When he had done this, the letters read:—
“You are a clever cove whoever you are but there was a cleverer says Jim Snape the horney’s mate.”
“You see?” Hewitt said handing the inspector the paper. “Snape, the unconsidered messenger, finding Legg in prison, set to work and got the jewels for himself. He either had more gumption than the other people through whose hands the ‘Flitterbat Lancers’ has passed, or else he had got some clue to the cipher during his association with Shiels. The thing was a cryptogram, of course, of a very simple sort, though uncommon in design. Snape was a humorous soul, too, to leave this message here in the same cipher, on the chance of somebody else reading the ‘Flitterbat Lancers.’”
“But,” I asked, “why did he give that slip of music to Luker’s father?”
“Well, he owed him money, and got out of it that way. Also he avoided the appearance of ‘flushness’ that paying the debt might have given him, and got quietly out of the country with his spoils. Also he may have paid off a grudge on old Luker—anyhow, the thing plagued him enough.”
The shrieks upstairs had grown hoarser, but the broom continued vigorously. “Let that woman out,” said the inspector, “and we’ll go and report. Not much good looking for Snape now, I fancy. But there’s some satisfaction in clearing up that old quarter-century mystery.”
We left the place pursued by the execrations of the broom wielder, who bolted the door behind us, and from the window defied us to come back, and vowed she would have us all searched before a magistrate for what we had probably stolen. In the very next street we hove in sight of Reuben B. Hoker in the company of two swell-mob-looking fellows, who sheered off down a side turning at sight of our group. Hoker, too, looked rather shy at sight of the inspector. As we passed, Hewitt stopped for a moment and said, “I’m afraid you’ve lost those jewels, Mr. Hoker; come to my office to-morrow, and I’ll tell you all about it.”
III
“The meaning of the thing was so very plain,” Hewitt said to me afterwards, “that the duffers who had the ‘Flitterbat Lancers’ in hand for so long never saw it at all. If Shiels had made an ordinary clumsy cryptogram, all letters and figures, they would have seen what it was at once, and at least would have tried to read it; but because it was put in the form of music, they tried everything else but the right way. It was a clever dodge of Shiels’s, without a doubt. Very few people, police officers or not, turning over a heap of old music, would notice or feel suspicious of that little slip among the rest. But once one sees it is a cryptogram (and the absence of bar-lines and of notes beyond the stave would suggest that) the reading is as easy as possible. For my part I tried it as a cryptogram at once. You know the plan—it has been described a hundred times. See here—look at this copy of the ‘Flitterbat Lancers.’ Its only difficulty—and that is a small one—is that the words are not divided. Since there are on the stave positions for less than a dozen notes, and there are twenty-six letters to be indicated, it follows that crotchets, quavers, and semiquavers on the same line or space must mean different letters. The first step is obvious. We count the notes to ascertain which sign occurs most frequently, and we find that the crotchet in the top space is the sign required—it occurs no less than eleven times. Now the letter most frequently occurring in an ordinary sentence of English ise. Let us then suppose that this representse. At once a coincidence strikes us. In ordinary musical notation in the treble clef the note occupying the top space would be E. Let us remember that presently. Now the most common word in the English language isthe. We know the sign fore, the last letter of this word, so let us see if in more than one place that sign is preceded by two others identical in each case. If so, the probability is that the other two signs will representtandh, and the whole word will bethe. Now it happens in no less than four places the signeis preceded by the same two other signs—once in the first line, twice in the second, and once in the fourth. No word of three letters ending inewould be in the least likely to occur four times in a short sentence exceptthe. Then we will call itthe, and note the signs preceding thee. They are a quaver under the bottom line for thet, and a crotchet on the first space for theh. We travel along the stave, and wherever these signs occur we mark them withtorh, as the case may be. But now we remember thate, the crotchet in the top space, is in its right place as a musical note, while the crotchet in the bottom space meansh, which is no musical note at all. Considering this for a minute, we remember that among the notes which are expressed in ordinary music on the treble stave, without the use of ledger lines,d eandfare repeated at the lower and at the upper part of the stave. Therefore, anybody making a cryptogram of musical notes would probably use one set of these duplicate positions to indicate other letters, and ashis in the lower part of the stave, that is where the variation comes in. Let us experiment by assuming that all the crotchets abovefin ordinary musical notation have their usual values, and let us set the letters over their respective notes. Now things begin to shape. Look toward the end of the second line: there is the wordtheand the lettersf f t h, with another note between the twofs. Now that word can only possibly befifth, so that now we have the sign fori. It is the crotchet on the bottom line. Let us go through and mark theis. And now observe. The first sign of the lot isi, and there is one other sign before the wordthe. The only words possible here beginning withi, and of two letters, areit,if,isandin. Now we have the signs fortandf, so we know that it isn’titorif.Iswould be unlikely here, because there is a tendency, as you see, to regularity in these signs, andt, the next letter alphabetically tos, is at the bottom of the stave. Let us tryn. At once we get the worddanceat the beginning of line three. And now we have got enough to see the system of the thing. Make a stave and put G A B C and the higher D E F in their proper musical places. Then fill in the blank places with the next letters of the alphabet downward,h i j, and we find thathandifall in the places we have already discovered for them as crotchets. Now take quavers, and go on withk l m n o, and so on as before, beginning on the A space. When you have filled the quavers, do the same with semiquavers—there are only six alphabetical letters left for this—u v w x y z. Now you will find that this exactly agrees with all we have ascertained already, and if you will use the other letters to fill up over the signs still unmarked you will get the whole message:—
“‘In the Colt Row ken over the coals the fifth dancer slides says Jerry Shiels the horney.’
1-07“THE FIFTH DANCER SLIDES.”
“‘Dancer,’ as perhaps you didn’t know, is thieves’ slang for a stair, and ‘horney’ is the strolling musician’s name for a cornet player. Of course the thing took a little time to work out, chiefly because the sentence was short, and gave one few opportunities. But anybody with the key, using the cipher as a means of communication, would read it as easily as print. Snape used the same cipher in his jocular little note to the next searcher in the Colt Row staircase.
“As soon as I had read it, of course I guessed the purport of the ‘Flitterbat Lancers.’ Jerry Shiels’s name is well-known to anybody with half my knowledge of the criminal records of the century, and his connection with the missing Wedlake jewels, and his death in prison, came to my mind at once. (The police afterwards, by the way, soon identified his old house in Colt Row from their records.) Certainly here was something hidden, and as the Wedlake jewels seemed most likely, I made the shot in talking to Hoker.”
“But you terribly astonished him by telling him his name and address. How was that?”
Hewitt laughed aloud. “That,” he said; “why, that was the thinnest trick of all. Why, the man had it engraved at large all over the silver band of his umbrella handle. When he left his umbrella outside, Kerrett (I had indicated the umbrella to him by a sign) just copied the lettering on one of the ordinary visitors’ forms, and brought it in. You will remember I treated it as an ordinary visitor’s announcement. Kerrett has played that trick before, I fear.” And he laughed again.
On the afternoon of the next day Reuben B. Hoker called on Hewitt and had half an hour’s talk with him in his private room. After that he came up to me with half a crown in his hand. “Sir,” he said, “everything has turned out a durned sell. I don’t want to talk about it any more. I’m goin’ out o’ this durn country. Night before last I broke your winder. You put the damage at half a crown. Here is the money. Good-day to you, sir.”
And Reuben B. Hoker went out into the tumultuous world.
IT is a good few years ago now that a suicide was investigated by a coroner’s jury before whom Martin Hewitt gave certain simple and direct evidence touching the manner of the death, and testifying to the fact of its being a matter of self-destruction. The public got certain suggestive information from the bare newspaper report, but they never learnt the full story of the tragedy that led up to the suicide that was so summarily disposed of.
The time I speak of was in Hewitt’s early professional days, not long after he had left Messrs. Crellan’s office, and a long time before I myself met him. At that time fewer of the police knew him and were aware of his abilities, and fewer still appreciated them at their true value. Inquiries in connection with a case had taken him early one morning to the district which is now called “London over the border,” and which comprises West Ham and the parts there adjoining. At this time, however, the district was much unlike its present self, for none of the grimy streets that now characterize it had been built, and even in its nearest parts open land claimed more space than buildings.
Hewitt’s business lay with the divisional surgeon of police, who had, he found, been called away from his breakfast to a patient. Hewitt followed him in the direction of the patient’s house, and met him returning. They walked together, and presently, as they came in sight of a row of houses, a girl, having the appearance of a maid-of-all-work, came running from the side door of the end house—a house rather larger and more pretentious than the others in the row. Almost immediately a policeman appeared from the front door, and, seeing the girl running, shouted to Hewitt and his companion to stop her. This Hewitt did by a firm though gentle grasp of the arms; and, turning her about, marched her back again. “Come, come,” he said, “you’ll gain nothing by running away, whatever it is.” But the girl shuddered and sobbed, and cried incoherently, “No, no—don’t; I’m afraid. I don’t like it, sir. It’s awful. I can’t stop there.”
She was a strongly-built, sullen-looking girl, with prominent eyebrows and a rather brutal expression of face; consequently her extreme nervous agitation, her distorted face and her tears were the more noticeable.
“What is all this?” the surgeon asked as they reached the front door of the house. “Girl in trouble?”
The policeman touched his helmet. “It’s murder, sir, this time,” he said, “that’s what it is. I’ve sent for the inspector, and I’ve sent for you too, sir; and of course I couldn’t allow anyone to leave the house till I’d handed it over to the inspector. Come,” he added to the girl, as he saw her indoors, “don’t let’s have any more o’ that. It looks bad, I can tell you.”
“Where’s the body?” asked the surgeon.
“First-floor front, sir—bed-sittin’-room. Ship’s captain, I’m told. Throat cut awful.”
“Come,” said the surgeon, as he prepared to mount the stairs. “You’d better come up too, Mr. Hewitt. You may spot something that will help if it’s a difficult case.”
Together they entered the room, and, indeed, the sight was of a sort that any maid-servant might be excused for running away from. Between the central table and the fireplace the body lay, fully clothed, and the whole room was in a great state of confusion, drawers lying about with the contents spilt, boxes open, and papers scattered about. On a table was a bottle and a glass.
“Robbery, evidently,” the surgeon said as he bent to his task. “See, the pockets are all emptied, and partly protruding at the top. The watch and chain has been torn off, leaving the swivel in the button-hole.”
“Yes,” Hewitt answered, “that is so.” He had taken a rapid glance about the room, and was now examining the stove, a register, with close attention. He shut the trap above it and pushed to the room door. Then very carefully, by the aid of the feather end of a quill pen which lay on the table, he shifted the charred remains of a piece or two of paper from the top of the cold cinders into the fire shovel. He carried them to the sideboard, nearer the light from the window, and examined them minutely, making a few notes in his pocket-book, and then, removing the glass shade from an ornament on the mantel-piece, placed it over them.
“There’s something thatmaybe of some use to the police,” he remarked, “or may not, as the case may be. At any rate, there it is, safe from draughts, if they want it. There’s nothing distinguishable on one piece, but I think the other has been a cheque.”
The surgeon had concluded his first rapid examination, and rose to his feet. “A very deep cut,” he said, “and done from behind, I think, as he was sitting in his chair. Death at once, without a doubt, and has been dead seven or eight hours I should say. Bed not slept in, you see. Couldn’t have done it himself, that’s certain.”
“The knife,” Hewitt added, “is either gone or hidden. But here is the inspector.”
The inspector was a stranger to Hewitt, and looked at him inquiringly till the surgeon introduced him and mentioned his profession. Then he said, with the air of one unwillingly relaxing a rule of conduct, “All right, doctor, if he’s a friend of yours. A little practice for you, eh, Mr. Hewitt?”
“Yes,” Hewitt answered modestly. “I haven’t had the advantage of any experience in the police force, and perhaps I may learn. Perhaps also I may help you.”
This did not seem to strike the inspector as a very luminous probability, and he stepped to the landing and ordered up the constable to make his full report. He had brought another man with him, who took charge of the door. By this time, thinly populated as was the neighbourhood, boys had begun to collect outside.
The policeman’s story was simple. As he passed on his beat he had been called by three women, who had a light ladder planted against the window-sill of the room. They feared something was wrong with the occupant of the room, they said, as they could not make him hear, and his door was locked; therefore they had brought the ladder to look in at the window, but now each feared to go and look. Would he, the policeman, do so? He mounted the ladder, looked in at the window, and saw—what was still visible. He had then, at the women’s urgent request, entered the house, broken in the door, and found the body to be dead and cold. He had told the women at once, and warned them, in the customary manner, that any statement they might be disposed to volunteer would be noted and used as evidence. The landlady, who was a widow, and gave her name as Mrs. Beckle, said that the dead man’s name was Abel Pullin, and that he was a captain in the merchant service, who had occupied the room as a lodger since the end of last week only, when he had returned from a voyage. So far as she knew, no stranger had been in the house since she last saw Pullin alive on the previous evening, and the only person living in the house, who had since gone out, was Mr. Foster, also a seafaring man, who had been a mate, but for some time had had no ship. He had gone out an hour or so before the discovery was made—earlier than usual, and without breakfast. That was all that Mrs. Beckle knew, and the only other persons in the house were the servant and a Miss Walker, a school teacher. They knew nothing; but Miss Walker was very anxious to be allowed to go to her school, which, of course, he had not allowed till the inspector should arrive.
2-1“HE MOUNTED THE LADDER AND LOOKED IN AT THE WINDOW.”
“That’s all right,” the inspector said. “And you’re sure the door was locked?”
“Yes, sir, fast.”
“Key in the lock?”
“No, sir. I haven’t seen any key.”
“Window shut, just as it is now?”
“Yes, sir; nothing’s been touched.”
The inspector walked to the window and opened it. It was a wooden-framed casement window, fastened by the usual turning catch at the side, with a heavy bow handle. He just glanced out and then swung the window carelessly to on its hinges. The catch, however, worked so freely that the handle dropped and the catch banged against the window frame as he turned away. Hewitt saw this, and closed the casement properly, after a glance at the sill.
The inspector made a rapid examination of the clothing on the body, and then said, “It’s a singular thing about the key. The door was locked fast, but there’s no key to be seen inside the room. Seems it must have been locked from the outside.”
“Perhaps,” Hewitt suggested, “other keys on this landing fit the lock. It’s commonly the case in this sort of house.”
“That’s so,” the inspector admitted, with the air of encouraging a pupil. “We’ll see.”
They walked across the landing to the nearest door. It had a small round brass scutcheon, apparently recently placed there. “Yale lock,” said the inspector. “That’s no good.” They went to the third door, which stood ajar.
“Seems to be Mr. Foster’s room,” the inspector remarked; “here’s the key inside.”
They took it across the landing and tried it. It fitted Captain Pullin’s lock exactly and easily. “Hullo!” said the inspector, “look at that!”
Hewitt nodded thoughtfully. Just then he became aware of somebody behind him, who had arrived noiselessly. He turned and saw a mincing little woman, with a pursed mouth and lofty expression, who took no notice of him, but addressed the inspector. “I shall be glad to know, if you please,” she said, “when I may leave the house and attend to my duties. My school has already been open for three-quarters of an hour, and I cannot conceive why I am detained in this manner.”
“Very sorry, ma’am,” the inspector replied. “Matter of duty, of course. Perhaps we shall be able to let you go presently. Meanwhile perhaps you can help us. You’re not obliged to say anything, of course, but if you do we shall make a note of it. You didn’t hear any uncommon noise in the night, did you?”
“Nothing at all. I retired at ten, and I was asleep soon after. I know nothing whatever of the whole horrible affair, and I shall leave the house entirely as soon as I can arrange.”
“Did you have any opportunity of observing Mr. Pullin’s manners or habits?” Hewitt asked.
“Indeed, no. I saw nothing of him. But I could hear him very often, and his language was not of the sort I could tolerate. He seemed to dominate the whole house with his boorish behaviour, and he was frequently intoxicated. I had already told Mrs. Beckle that if his stay were to continue mine should cease. I avoided him, indeed, altogether, and I know nothing of him.”
“Do you know how he came here? Did he know Mrs. Beckle or anybody else in the house before?”
“That also I can’t say. But Mrs. Beckle, I believe, knew all about him. In fact I have sometimes thought there was some mysterious connection between them, though what I cannot say. Certainly I cannot understand a landlady keeping so troublesome a lodger.”
“You have seen a little more of Mr. Foster, of course?”
“Well, yes. He has been here so much longer. He was more endurable than was Captain Pullin, certainly, thoughhewas not always sober. The two did not love one another, I believe.”
There the inspector pricked his ears. “They didn’t love one another, you say, ma’am. Why was that?”
“Oh, I don’t really know. I fancy Mr. Foster wanted to borrow money or something. He used to say Captain Pullin had plenty of money, and had once sunk a ship purposely. I don’t know whether or not this was serious, of course.”
Hewitt looked at her keenly. “Have you ever heard him called Captain Pullin of theEgret?” he asked.
“No, I never heard the name of any vessel.”
“There’s just one thing, Miss Walker,” the inspector said, “that I’m afraid I must insist on before you go. It’s only a matter of form, of course. But I must ask you to let me look round your room—I shan’t disturb it.”
Miss Walker tossed her head. “Very well then,” she said, turning toward the door with the Yale lock, and producing the key; “there it is.” And she flung the door open.
The inspector stepped within and took a perfunctory glance round. “That will do; thank you,” he said; “I am sorry to have kept you. I think you may go now, Miss Walker. You won’t be leaving here to-day altogether, I suppose?”
“No, I’m afraid I can’t. Good-morning.”
As she disappeared by the foot of the stairs the inspector remarked in a jocular undertone, “Needn’t bother abouther.She isn’t strong enough to cut a hen’s throat.”
Just then Miss Walker appeared again and attempted to take her umbrella from the stand—a heavy, tall oaken one. The ribs, however, had become jammed between the stand and the wall; so Miss Walker, with one hand, calmly lifted the stand and disengaged the umbrella with the other. “My eyes!” observed the inspector, “she’s a bit stronger than she looks.”
The surgeon came upon the landing. “I shall send to the mortuary now,” he said. “I’ve seen all I want to see here. Have you seen the landlady?”
“No. I think she’s downstairs.”
They went downstairs and found Mrs. Beckle in the back room, much agitated, though she was not the sort of woman one would expect to find greatly upset by anything. She was thin, hard, and rigid, with the rigidity and sharpness that women acquire who have a long and lonely struggle with poverty. She had at first very little to say. Captain Pullin had lodged with her before. Last night he had been in all the evening, and had gone to bed about half-past eleven, and a quarter of an hour later everybody else had done so, and the house was fastened up for the night. The front door was fully bolted and barred, and it was found so in the morning. No stranger had been in the house for some days. The only person who had left before the discovery was Mr. Foster, and he went away when only the servant was up. This was unusual, as he usually took breakfast in the house. What had frightened the girl so much, she thought, was the fact that after the door had been burst open she peeped into the room, out of curiosity, and was so horrified at the sight that she ran out of the house. She had always been a hard-working girl, though of sullen habits.
The inspector made more particular inquiries as to Mr. Foster, and after some little reluctance Mrs. Beckle gave her opinion that he was very short of money indeed. He had lost his ship sometime back through a neglect of duty, and he was not of altogether sober habits; he had consequently been unable to get another berth as yet. It was a fact, she admitted, that he owed her a considerable sum for rent, but he had enough clothes and nautical implements in his boxes to cover that and more.
Hewitt had been watching Mrs. Beckle’s face very closely, and now suddenly asked, with pointed emphasis, “How long have you known Mr. Pullin?”
Mrs. Beckle faltered, and returned Hewitt’s steadfast gaze with a quick glance of suspicion. “Oh,” she said, “I have known him, on and off, for a long time.”
“A connection by marriage, of course?” Hewitt’s hard gaze was still upon her.
Mrs. Beckle looked from him to the inspector and back again, and the corners of her mouth twitched. Then she sat down and rested her head on her hand. “Well, I suppose I must say it, though I’ve kept it to myself till now,” she said resignedly. “He’s my brother-in-law.”
“Of course, as you have been told, you are not obliged to say anything now; but the more information you can give the better chance there may be of detecting your brother-in-law’s murderer.”
“Well, I don’t mind, I’m sure. It was a bad day when he married my sister. He killed her—not at once, so that he might have been hung for it, but by a course of regular brutality and starvation. I hated the man!” she said, with a quick access of passion, which however she suppressed at once.
“And yet you let him stay in your house?”
“Oh, I don’t know. I was afraid of him; and he used to come just when he pleased, and practically take possession of the house. I couldn’t keep him away; and he drove away my other lodgers.” She suddenly fired up again. “Wasn’t that enough to make anybody desperate? Can you wonder at anything?”
She quieted again by a quick effort, and Hewitt and the inspector exchanged glances.
“Let me see, he was captain of the sailing shipEgret,wasn’t he?” Hewitt asked. “Lost in the Pacific a year or more ago?”
“Yes.”
“If I remember the story of the loss aright, he and one native hand—a Kanaka boy—were the only survivors?”
“Yes, they were the only two. He was the only one that came back to England.”
“Just so. And therewererumours, I believe, that after all he wasn’t altogether a loser by that wreck? Mind, I only say there were rumours; there may have been nothing in them.”
“Yes,” Mrs. Beckle replied, “I know all about that. They said the ship had been cast away purposely, for the sake of the insurance. But there was no truth in that, else why did the underwriters pay? And besides, from what I know privately, it couldn’t have been. Abel Pullin was a reckless scoundrel enough, I know, but he would have taken good care to be paid well for any villainy of that sort.”
“Yes, of course. But it was suggested that he was.”
“No, nothing of the sort. He came here, as usual, as soon as he got home, and until he got another ship he hadn’t a penny. I had to keep him, so I know. And he was sober almost all the time from want of money. Do you mean to say, if the common talk were true, that he would have remained like that without getting money of the owners, his accomplices, and at least making them give him another ship? Not he. I know him too well.”
“Yes, no doubt. He was just now back from his next voyage after that, I take it?”
“Yes, in theIolanthebrig. A smaller ship than he has been used to, and belonging to different owners.”
“Had he much money this time?”
“No. He had bought himself a gold watch and chain abroad, and he had a ring and a few pounds in money, and some instruments; that was all, I think, in addition to his clothes.”
“Well, they’ve all been stolen now,” the inspector said. “Have you missed anything yourself?”
“No.”
“Nor the other lodgers, so far as you know?”
“No, neither of them.”
“Very well, Mrs. Beckle. We’ll have a word or two with the servant now, and then I’ll get you to come over the house with us.”
Sarah Taffs was the servant’s name. She seemed to have got over her agitation, and was now sullen and uncommunicative. She would say nothing. “You said I needn’t say nothin’ if I didn’t want to, and I won’t.” That was all she would say, and she repeated it again and again. Once, however, in reply to a question as to Foster, she flashed out angrily, “If it’s Mr. Foster you’re after you won’t find ’im. ’E’s a gentleman, ’e is, and I ain’t goin’ to tell you nothin’.” But that was all.
Then Mrs. Beckle showed the inspector, the surgeon, and Hewitt over the house. Everything was in perfect order on the ground floor and on the stairs. The stairs, it appeared, had been swept before the discovery was made. Nevertheless, Hewitt and the inspector scrutinised them narrowly. The top floor consisted of two small rooms only, used as bedrooms by Mrs. Beckle and Sarah Taffs respectively. Nothing was missing, and everything was in order there.
The one floor between contained the dead man’s room, Miss Walker’s, and Foster’s. Miss Walker’s room they had already seen, and now they turned into Foster’s.
The place seemed to betray careless habits on the part of its tenant, and was everywhere in slovenly confusion. The bedclothes were flung anyhow on the floor, and a chair was overturned. Hewitt looked round the room, and remarked that there seemed to be no clothes hanging about, as might have been expected.
“No,” Mrs. Beckle replied; “he has taken to keeping them all in his boxes lately.”
“How many boxes has he?” asked the inspector. “Only these two?”
“That is all.”
The inspector stooped and tried the lids.
“Both locked,” he said. “I think we’ll take the liberty of a peep into these boxes.”
He produced a bunch of keys and tried them all, but none fitted. Then Hewitt felt about inside the locks very carefully with a match, and then taking a button-hook from his pocket, after a little careful “humouring” work, turned both the locks, one after another, and lifted the lids.
Mrs. Beckle uttered an exclamation of dismay, and the inspector looked at her rather quizzically. The boxes contained nothing but bricks.
2-2“THE BOXES CONTAINED NOTHING BUT BRICKS.”
“Ah,” said the inspector, “I’ve seen that sort of suits o’ clothes before. People have ’em who don’t pay hotel bills and such like. You’re a very good pick-lock, by the way, Mr. Hewitt. I never saw anything quicker and neater.”
“But Iknowhe had a lot of clothes,” Mrs. Beckle protested. “I’ve seen them.”
“Very likely—very likely indeed,” the inspector answered. “But they’re gone now, and Mr. Foster’s gone with ’em.”
“But—but the girl didn’t say he had any bundles with him when he went out?”
“No, she didn’t; and she didn’t say he hadn’t, did she? She won’t say anything about him, and she says she won’t, plump. Even supposing hehadn’tgot them with him this morning, that signifies nothing. The clothes are gone, and anybody intending a job ofthatsort”—the inspector jerked his thumb significantly towards the skipper’s room—“would get his things away quietly first, so as to have no difficulty about getting away himself afterwards. No; the thing’s pretty plain now, I think; and I’m afraid Mr. Foster’s a pretty bad lot. Anyway, I shouldn’t like to be in his shoes.”
“Nor I,” Hewitt assented. “Evidence of that sort isn’t easy to get over.”
“Come, Mrs. Beckle,” the inspector said, “do you mind coming into the front room with us? The body’s covered over with a rug.”
The landlady disliked going, it was plain to see, but presently she pulled herself together and followed the men. She peeped once distrustfully round the door to where the body lay, and then resolutely turned her back on it.
“His watch and chain are gone, and whatever else he had in his pockets,” the inspector said. “I think you said he had a ring?”
“Yes, one—a thick gold one.”
“Then that’s gone too. Everything’s turned upside down, and probably other things are stolen too. Do you miss any?”
“Yes,” Mrs. Beckle replied, looking round, but avoiding with her eyes the rug-covered heap near the fireplace. “There was a sextant on the mantel-piece: it was his; and he kept one or two other instruments in that drawer”—pointing to one which had been turned out—“but they seem to be gone now. And there was a small ship, carved in ivory, and worth money, I believe—that’s gone. I don’t know about his clothes; some of them may be stolen or they may not.” She stepped to the bed and turned back the coverlet. “Oh,” she added, “the sheets are gone from the bed too!”
“Usual thing,” the inspector remarked; “wrap up the swag in a sheet, you know—makes a convenient bundle. Nothing else missing?”
The landlady took one more look round and said doubtfully, “No, no, I don’t think so. Oh, but yes,” she suddenly added, “uncle’s hook.”
“Oh,” remarked the inspector with dismal jocularity, “he’s took uncle’s hook as well as his own, has he? What was uncle’s hook like?”
“It wasn’t of much value,” Mrs. Beckle explained; “but I kept it as a memorial. My great-uncle, who died many years ago, was a sea-captain too, and had lost his left hand by accident. He wore a hook in its place—a hook made for him on board his vessel. It was an iron hook screwed into a wooden stock. He had it taken off in his last illness, and gave it to me to mind against his recovery. But he never got well, so I’ve kept it over since. It used to hang on a nail at the side of the chimney-breast.”
“No wounds about the body that might have been made with a hook like that, doctor, were there?” the inspector asked.
“No, no wounds at all but the one.”
“Well, well,” the inspector said, moving toward the door, “we’ve got to find Foster now, that’s plain. I’ll see about it. You’ve sent to the mortuary, you say, doctor? All right. You’ve no particular reason for sending the girl out of doors to-day, I suppose, Mrs. Beckle?”
“Icankeep her in, of course,” the landlady answered. “It will be inconvenient, though.”
“Ah, then keep her in, will you? We mustn’t lose sight of her. I’ll leave a couple of men here, of course, and I’ll tell them she mustn’t be allowed out.”
Hewitt and the surgeon went downstairs and parted at the door. “I shall be over again to-morrow morning,” Hewitt said, “about that other matter I was speaking of. Shall I find you in?”
“Well,” the doctor answered, “at any rate they will tell you where I am. Good-morning.”
“Good-morning,” Hewitt answered, and then stopped. “I’m obliged for being allowed to look about upstairs here,” he said. “I’m not sure what the inspector has in his mind, by the way; but I should think whatever I noticed would be pretty plain to him, though naturally he would be cautious about talking of it before others, as I was myself. That being the case, it might seem rather presumptuous in me to make suggestions, especially as he seems fairly confident. But if you have a chance presently of giving him a quiet hint, you might draw his special attention to two things—the charred paper that I took from the fireplace and the missing hook. There is a good deal in that, I fancy. I shall have an hour or two to myself, I expect, this afternoon, and I’ll make a small inquiry or two on my own account in town. If anything comes of them I’ll let you know to-morrow when I see you.”
“Very well, I shall expect you. Goodbye.”
Hewitt did not go straight away from the house to the railway station. He took a turn or two about the row of houses, and looked up each of the paths leading from them across the surrounding marshy fields. Then he took the path for the station. About a hundred yards along, the path reached a deep, muddy ditch with a high hedge behind it, and then lay by the side of the ditch for some little distance before crossing it. Hewitt stopped and looked thoughtfully at the ditch for a few moments before proceeding, and then went briskly on his way.
That evening’s papers were all agog with the mysterious murder of a ship’s captain at West Ham, and in next morning’s papers it was announced that Henry Foster, a seafaring man, and lately mate of a trading ship, had been arrested in connection with the crime.
II
That morning Hewitt was at the surgeon’s house early. The surgeon was in, and saw him at once. His own immediate business being transacted, Hewitt learned particulars of the arrest of Foster. “The man actually came back of his own accord in the afternoon,” the surgeon said. “Certainly he was drunk, but that seems a very reckless sort of thing, even for a drunken man. One rather curious thing was that he asked for Pullin as soon as he arrived, and insisted on going to him to borrow half a sovereign. Of course he was taken into custody at once, and charged, and that seemed to sober him very quickly. He seemed dazed for a bit, and then, when he realised the position he was in, refused to say a word. I saw him at the station. He had certainly been drinking a good deal; but a curious thing was that he hadn’t a cent of money on him. He’d soon got rid of it all, anyhow.”
“Did you say anything to the inspector as to the things I mentioned to you?”
“Yes, but he didn’t seem to think a great deal of them. He took a look at the charred paper, and saw that one piece had evidently been a cheque on the Eastern Consolidated Bank, but the other he couldn’t see any sort of sign upon. As to the hook, he seemed to take it that that was used to fasten in the knot of the bundle, to carry it the more easily.”
“Well,” Hewitt said, “I think I told you yesterday that I should make an inquiry or two myself? Yes, I did. I’ve made those inquiries, and now I think I can give the inspector some help. What is his name, by the way?”
“Truscott. He’s a very good sort of fellow, really.”
“Very well. Shall I find him at the station?”
“Probably, unless he’s off duty; that I don’t know about. But I should call at the house first, I think, if I were you. That is much nearer than the station, and he might possibly be there. Even if he isn’t, there will be a constable, and he can tell you where to find Truscott.”
Hewitt accordingly made for the house, and had the good fortune to overtake Truscott on his way there. “Good-morning, inspector,” he called cheerily. “I’ve got some information for you, I think.”
“Oh, good-morning. What is it?”
“It’s in regard tothatbusiness,” Hewitt replied, indicating by a nod the row of houses a hundred yards ahead. “But it will be clearer if we go over the whole thing together and take what I have found out in its proper place. You’re not altogether satisfied with your capture of Foster, are you?”
“Well, I mustn’t say, of course. Perhaps not. We’ve traced his doings yesterday after he left the house, andperhapsit doesn’t help us much. But what do you know?”
“I’ll tell you. But first can you get hold of such a thing as a boat-hook? Any long pole with a hook on the end will do.”
“I don’t know that there’s one handy. Perhaps they’ll have a garden rake at the house, if that’ll do?”
“Excellently, I should think, if it’s fairly long. We will ask.”
The garden rake was forthcoming at once, and with it Hewitt and the inspector made their way along the path that led towards the railway station and stopped where it came by the ditch.
“I’ve brought you here purely on a matter of conjecture,” Hewitt said, “and there may be nothing in it; but if there is it will help us. This is a very muddy ditch, with a soft bottom many feet deep probably, judging from the wet nature of the soil hereabout.”
He took the rake and plunged it deep into the ditch, dragging it slowly back up the side. It brought up a tangle of duckweed and rushes and slimy mud, with a stick or two among it.
“Do you think the knife’s been thrown here?” asked the inspector.
“Possibly, and possibly something else. We’ll see.” And Hewitt made another dive. They went along thus very thoroughly and laboriously, dragging every part of the ditch as they went, it being frequently necessary for both to pull together to get the rake through the tangle of weed and rubbish. They had worked through seven or eight yards from the angle of the path where it approached the ditch, when Hewitt stopped, with the rake at the bottom.
“Here is something that feels a little different,” he said. “I’ll get as good a hold as I can, and then we’ll drag it up slowly and steadily together.”
He gave the rake a slight twist, and then the two pulled steadily. Presently the sunken object came away suddenly, as though mud-suction had kept it under, and rose easily to the surface. It was a muddy mass, and they had to swill it to and fro a few times in the clearer upper water before it was seen to be a linen bundle. They drew it ashore and untied the thick knot at the top. Inside was an Indian shawl, also knotted, and this they opened also. There within, wet and dirty, lay a sextant, a chronometer in a case, a gold watch and chain, a handful of coins, a thick gold ring, a ship carved in ivory, with much of the delicate work broken, a sealskin waistcoat, a door key, a seaman’s knife, and an iron hook screwed into a wooden stock.