It has often struck me as being a remarkable circumstance that, in nine cases out of ten, a man's success in life is not found in the career he originally chose for himself, but in another and totally different one. That mysterious power, "force of circumstances," is doubtless responsible for this, and no better illustration for my argument could be found than my own case. I believe my father intended that I should follow the medical profession, while my mother hoped I would enter the Church. My worthy uncle, Clutterfield, the eminent solicitor of Lincoln's Inn Fields, offered me my Articles, and would possibly have eventually taken me into partnership. But I would have none of these things. My one craving was for the sea. If I could not spend my life upon salt water, existence would have no pleasure for me. My father threatened, my mother wept, Uncle Clutterfield prophesied all sorts of disasters, but I remained firm.
"Very well," said my father, when he realized that further argument was hopeless, "since you must go to sea, go to sea you certainly shall. But you mustn't blame me if you find that the life is not exactly what you anticipate, and that you would prefer to find yourself on dry land once more."
I willingly gave this promise, and a month later left Liverpool as an apprentice on the clipper shipMaid of Normandy. Appropriately enough the captain's name was Fairweather, and he certainly was a character in his way. In fact the whole ship's company were originals. Had my father searched all England through he could not have discovered a set of men, from the captain to the cook's mate, who would have been better calculated to instil in a young man's heart a distaste for Father Neptune and his oceans. In the number of the various books of the sea I have encountered, was one entitled,A Floating Hell. When reading it I had not expected to have the misfortune to be bound aboard a vessel of this type. It was my lot, however, to undergo the experience. We carried three apprentices, including myself, each of whom had paid a large sum for the privilege. I was the youngest. The eldest was the son of a country parson, a mild, decent lad, who eventually deserted and became a house-painter in the South Island of New Zealand. The next was washed overboard when we were rounding the Horn on our homeward voyage. Poor lad, when all was said and done he could not have been much worse off, for his life on board was a disgrace to what is sometimes erroneously called, "Human Nature." In due course, as we cleared for San Francisco, and long before we crossed the Line, I was heartily tired of the sea. In those days, few years ago as it is, sailors were not so well protected even as they are now, and on a long voyage aboard a sailing ship it was possible for a good deal to happen that was not logged, and much of which was forgotten before the vessel reached its home-port again. When I returned from my first voyage, my family inquired how I liked my profession, and, with all truth, I informed them that I did not like it at all, and that I would be willing to have my indentures cancelled and to return to shore life once more, if I might be so permitted. My father smiled grimly, and seemed to derive considerable satisfaction from the fact that he had prophesied disaster from the outset.
"No," he said, "you have made your bed, my lad, and now you must lie upon it. There is still a considerable portion of your apprenticeship to be served, and it will be quite soon enough for us at the end of that time to decide what you are to do."
A month later I was at sea again, bound this time for Sydney. We reached that port on my nineteenth birthday, and by that time I had made up my mind. Articles or no Articles, I was determined to spend no more of my life on board that hateful ship. Accordingly, one day having obtained shore leave, I purchased a new rig-out, and leaving my sea-going togs with the Jewish shopman, I made tracks, as the saying goes, into the Bush with all speed. Happen what might, I was resolved that Captain Fairweather should not set eyes on George Fairfax again.
From that time onward my career was a strange one. I became a veritable Jack-of-all-Trades. A station-hand, a roust-about, shearer, assistant to a travelling hawker, a gold-miner, and at last a trooper in one of the finest bodies of men in the world, the Queensland Mounted Police. It was in this curious fashion that I arrived at my real vocation. After a considerable period spent at headquarters, I was drafted to a station in the Far West. There was a good deal of horse and sheep-stealing going on in that particular locality, and a large amount of tact and ingenuity were necessary to discover the criminals. I soon found that this was a business at which I was likely to be successful. More than once I had the good fortune to be able to bring to book men who had carried on their trade for years, and who had been entirely unsuspected. Eventually my reputation in this particular line of business became noised abroad, until it came to the ears of the Commissioner himself. Then news reached us that a dastardly murder had been committed in the suburbs of Brisbane, and that the police were unable to obtain any clue as to the identity of the person accountable for it. Two or three men were arrested on suspicion, but were immediately discharged on being in a position to give a satisfactory account of their actions on the night of the murder. It struck me that I should like to take up the case, and with the confidence of youth, I applied to the Commissioner for permission to be allowed to try my hand at unravelling the mystery. What they thought of my impudence I cannot say, but the fact remains that my request, after being backed up by my Inspector, was granted. The case was a particularly complicated one, and at one time I was beginning to think that I should prove no more successful than the others had been. Instead of deterring me, however, this only spurred me on to greater efforts. The mere fact that I had asked to be allowed to take part in the affair, had aroused the jealousy of the detectives of the department, and I was aware that they would receive the news of my failure with unqualified satisfaction. I therefore prosecuted my inquiries in every possible direction, sparing myself neither labour nor pains. It would appear that the victim, an old man, was without kith or kin. He was very poor, and lived by himself in a small villa on the outskirts of the city. No one had been seen near the house on the night in question, nor had any noise been heard by the neighbours. Yet in the morning he was discovered lying on the floor of the front-room, stabbed to the heart from behind. Now every detective knows—indeed it is part of his creed—that, in an affair such as I am describing, nothing is too minute or too trivial to have a bearing upon the case. The old gentleman had been at supper when the crime was committed, and from the fact that the table was only laid for one, I argued that he had not expected a visitor. The murderer could not have been hungry, for the food had not been touched. That the motive was not robbery was also plain from the fact that not a drawer had been opened or a lock forced, while the money in his pocket was still intact. The doctors had certified that the wound could not have been self-inflicted, while there was plenty of evidence to show that there had not been a struggle. From the fact that the front-door was locked, and that the key was in the murdered man's pocket, it was certain that the assassin must have left the house by the back. There was one question, however, so trivial in itself that one might have been excused for not taking note of it, that attracted my attention. As I have said, the old man had been stabbed from behind, and when he was discovered by the police next day, his overturned chair was lying beside him. This, to my mind, showed that he had been seated with his back to the door when the crime had been perpetrated. When I had examined everything else, I turned my attention to the chair. I did not expect it to tell me anything, yet it was from it that I obtained the clue that was ultimately to lead to the solution of the whole mystery. The chair was a cheap one, made of white wood, and had the usual smooth strip of wood at the top. On the back of this piece of wood, a quarter of an inch or so from the bottom, on the left-hand side, was a faint smear of blood. The presence of the blood set me thinking. When found, the chair had been exactly eighteen inches from the body. The mere fact that the man had been stabbed from behind and to the heart, precluded any possibility of his having jumped up and caught at the back of the chair afterwards. Placing my left hand upon the back, I clasped my fingers under the piece of wood above-mentioned, to discover that a portion of the second finger fell exactly upon the stain.
"Now I think I understand the situation," I said to myself. "The old man was seated at the table, about to commence his meal, when the murderer entered very quietly by the door behind him. He rested his left hand upon the chair to steady himself while he aimed the fatal blow with his right."
But in that case how did the knife touch the middle finger of his left hand? From the fact that the body was discovered lying upon its back just as it had fallen, and that the chair was also still upon the floor, it was evident that the blood must have got there before, not after, the crime was committed. Leaving the room I went out to the yard at the back and studied the paling fence. The partition which separated the yard from that of the house next door, was old, and in a very dilapidated condition, while that at the bottom was almost new, and was armed at the top with a row of bristling nails. Bringing the powerful magnifying-glass I had brought with me for such a purpose, to bear upon it, I examined it carefully from end to end. The result more than justified the labour. A little more than half way along I discovered another small smear of blood. There could be no doubt that the man had cut his finger on a nail as he had climbed over on his murderous errand. The next and more important thing was to decide how this information was to be made useful to me. Since nothing had been taken from the house, and the old man had been quite unprepared for the attack that was to be made upon him, I set the whole crime down as being one of revenge. In that case what would the assassin be likely to do after his object was obtained? Would he vanish into the Bush forthwith, or get away by sea?
After I had finished my inspection of the fence I visited every public-house in the neighbourhood in the hope of finding out whether a man with a wounded hand had been seen in any of them on the night of the murder. I was totally unsuccessful, however. No one recollected having seen such a man. From the hotels I went to various chemists' shops, but with the same result. Next I tried the shipping-offices connected with the lines of steamers leaving the port, but with no more, luck than before. The case seemed rapidly going from bad to worse, and already it had been suggested that I should give it up and return to my duty without further waste of time. This, as you may naturally suppose, I had no desire to do.
I worried myself about it day and night, giving it a great deal more attention in fact than I should bestow upon such a matter now, or even upon cases of twice the importance. If there had been nothing else in my favour, my attention to duty should have been sufficient to have commended me to my superiors. It was the other way round, however. The Press were twitting the authorities concerning their inability to discover the murderer, and more than hinted at the inefficiency of the Detective Force. When I had been engaged upon the matter for about a fortnight, and with what success I have already informed you, the Commissioner sent for me, and told me that he did not think my qualifications were sufficiently marked to warrant my being employed longer on the task in hand. This facer, coming upon the top of all the hard work I had been doing, and possibly my nerves were somewhat strained by my anxiety, led me to say more than I intended. Though a man may have the bad luck to fail in a thing, he seldom likes to be reminded of it. It was certainly so in my case. Consequently I was informed that at the end of the month my connection with the Queensland Police would terminate.
"Very well, sir," I said, "in the meantime, if you will give me the opportunity, I will guarantee to catch the murderer and prove to you that I am not as incapable as you imagine."
I have often wondered since that I was not ordered back to the Bush there and then. The fact remains, however, that I was not, and thus I was permitted to continue my quest unhindered.
Ever since I had first taken the affair in hand I had had one point continually before my eyes. The mere fact that the man had been stabbed in the back seemed to me sufficient proof that the assassin was of foreign origin, and that the affair was the outcome of a vendetta, and not the act of an ordinary bloodthirsty crime. The wound, so the doctors informed me, was an extremely deep and narrow one, such as might very well have been made by a stiletto. Assuming my supposition to be correct, I returned to the house, and once more overhauled the dead man's effects. There was little or nothing there, however, to help me. If he had laid himself out to conceal the identity of his enemy he could scarcely have done it more effectually. Baffled in one direction, I turned for assistance to another. In other words, I interviewed his left-hand neighbour, a lady with whom I had already had some slight acquaintance. Our conversation took place across the fence that separated the two properties.
"Do you happen to be aware," I asked, when we touched upon the one absorbing topic, "whether the unfortunate gentleman had ever been in Europe?"
"He had been almost everywhere," the woman replied. "I believe he was a sailor at one time, and I have often heard him boast that he knew almost every seaport in the world."
"I suppose you never heard him say whether he had lived in Italy?" I inquired.
"He used to mention the country now and again," she said. "If it was a fine morning he would sometimes remark that it was a perfect Italian sky. But nothing more than that."
I was about to thank her and move away when she stopped me with an exclamation.
"Wait one moment," she said, "now I come to think of it, I remember that about three months ago he received a letter from Italy. I'll tell you how I came to know it. I was standing in the front verandah when the postman brought up the letters. He gave me mine, and then I noticed that the top letter he held in his hand had a foreign stamp. Now, my little boy, Willie, collects stamps; he's tired of them now, but that doesn't matter. At that time, however, he was so taken up with them that he could talk of nothing else. Well, as I was saying, I noticed this stamp, and asked the postman what country it came from. He told me it was from Italy, and that the letter was for the gentleman next door. 'The next time I see him,' I said to myself, 'I'll ask him for that stamp for Willie.' I had my opportunity that self-same minute, for, just as I was going down the garden there to where my husband was doing a little cabbage-planting, he came into his front verandah. He took the letter from the postman, and as he looked at the envelope, I saw him give a start of surprise. His face was as white as death when he opened it, and he had no sooner glanced at it than he gave a sort of stagger, and if it hadn't been for the verandah-rail I believe he'd have fallen. He was so taken aback that I thought he was going to faint. I was standing where you may be now, and I called out to him to know whether I could do anything for him. I liked the man, you see, and pitied him for his loneliness. What's more, he and my husband had always been on friendly terms together. Well, as I was going on to say, he didn't answer, but pulling himself together, went into the house and shut the door. When next I saw him he was quite himself again."
At last the case was beginning to look more hopeful. I thought I could see a faint spark of light ahead.
"Did you happen to say anything about this to the other detectives when they were making inquiries after the crime had been committed?" I asked, with a little anxiety.
"No, I did not," she replied. "I never gave it a thought. It was such a long time before the murder, you see, and to tell the truth I had forgotten all about it. It was only when you began to talk of Italy and of his having been there, that I remembered it. You don't mean to say you think that letter had something to do with the man's death?"
"That is a very difficult question to answer," I observed. "I think, however, it is exceedingly likely it may have had some connection with it. At any rate we shall see. Now will you think for one moment, and see whether you can tell me the exact day on which that letter arrived?"
She considered for a few moments before she answered.
"I believe I can, if you will give me time to turn it over in my mind," she said. "My husband was at home that morning, and Willie, that's my little boy, was very much upset because I would not let him stay away from school to help his father in the garden. Yes, sir, I can tell you the exact date. It was on a Monday, and the third of June."
I thanked her for the information she had given me, and then went off to see what use it was likely to prove to me. The letter from Italy had been delivered in Brisbane on the third of June. The murder was committed on the night of the nineteenth of July, or, in other words, forty-six days later. With all speed I set off to the office of the Royal Mail Steamship Company, where I asked to be shown their passenger-list for the vessel that arrived on the nineteenth of July. When it was handed to me I scanned it eagerly in the hope of discovering an Italian name. There were at least a dozen in the steerage, and one in the first-class. I was relieved, however, to find that all but the first-class passengers had disembarked at Cairns, further up the coast. The name of the exception was Steffano Gairdi, and he was a passenger from Naples.
"You can't tell me anything more definite about this gentleman, I suppose?" I said to the clerk who was attending to me. "Did you happen to see him?"
"He was in here only this morning," the man replied.
"Here, when?" I inquired, with such surprise that the other clerks looked up from their books at me in astonishment. "Do you mean to tell me that the gentleman I am asking about was here this morning?"
"I do," he replied. "He came in to book his return passage to Italy. He only undertook the voyage for the sake of his health."
"Then it's just possible you may know where he is staying now?" I asked, not however with much hope of success. "If you can tell me, I shall be under an obligation to you."
"I can tell you that also," the young man answered. "He is staying at the Continental Hotel in Adelaide Street."
"I am more obliged to you than I can say," I returned. "You have rendered me a great service."
"Don't mention it," said the clerk. "I am very glad to have been able to give you the information you required."
I thanked him once more and left the office. Now if Mr. Steffano Gairdi happened to have a cut or the mark of one upon the inside of his left hand, I felt that I should be within measurable distance of the end of the affair. But how was I to get a view of his hands? If he were the man I wanted, he would probably be on his guard, and he had already proved himself to be sufficiently acute to make me careful how I went to work with him. I had no time to lose, however. The next boat sailed for Europe in two days' time, and he had booked his passage in her. For that reason alone, I knew that I must be quick if I wished to accumulate sufficient evidence against him to justify the issue of a warrant for his arrest. I accordingly walked on to the Continental Hotel, and asked to see the manager, with whom I had the good fortune to be acquainted. I was shown into his private office, and presently he joined me there. He was familiar with my connection with the police force, and laughingly remarked that he hoped I had not called upon him in my official capacity.
"As a matter of fact that is just what I am doing," I replied. "I want you to give me some information concerning one of your guests. I believe I am right in saying that you have an Italian gentleman, named Gairdi, staying at your hotel?"
"That is certainly so," he admitted. "I hope there is nothing against him?"
"It is rather soon to say that," I said. "I am suspicious of the man—and I want to ask you a few questions concerning him."
"As many as you like," he returned. "I cannot say, however, that I know very much about him. He has been up the country, and only returned to Brisbane yesterday."
"Is this the first occasion on which he has stayed here?"
"No," the manager replied. "He was here nearly a month ago for a couple of nights, and he had had his room reserved for him while he was away."
"Perhaps you can tell me if he slept here on the night of July the nineteenth?"
"If you will excuse me for a moment I can soon let you know," said the manager, and then crossed the room to go into an outer office. A few moments later he returned and nodded his head. "Yes, he slept here that night, and went to Toowoomba next day."
"One more question, and then I have done. Did you happen to notice that night, or before he left next day, whether he had hurt his left hand?"
"It's strange that you should speak of that," said the manager. "He had cut his left hand rather badly with a broken glass, so he told us. We gave him some sticking-plaster to do it up with."
"That will do beautifully," I said. "And now perhaps you will add to the kindness you have already done me by letting me see the gentleman in question. I don't want to speak to him, but I want to impress his countenance upon my mind."
"Why not go into lunch?" the manager inquired. "You will then be able to study him to your heart's content, without his being any the wiser. You're not in uniform, and no one would take you for a detective."
"An excellent idea," I replied. "By the way, while I am upon the subject, I suppose I can rely upon your saying nothing about the matter to him, or to any one else?"
"You may depend upon me implicitly," he answered. "I should be scarcely likely to do so, for my own sake. I trust the matter is not a very serious one. I should not like to have any scandal in the hotel."
"Well, between ourselves," I observed, "I am afraid it is rather a serious affair. But you may be sure I will do all I can to prevent your name or the hotel's being mixed up in it."
Then, as he had proposed, I followed him into the dining-room and took my place at a small table near the window. At that adjoining me, a tall, swarthy individual, with close-cropped hair, an Italian without doubt, was seated. He glanced at me as I took my place, and then continued his meal as if he were unaware of my presence in the room.
By the time I had finished my lunch I had thoroughly impressed his face and personality upon my memory, and felt sure that, if necessary, I should know him anywhere again. My labours, however, were by no means over; in fact they were only just beginning. What I had against him so far would scarcely be sufficient to justify our applying for a warrant for his arrest. If I wanted to bring the crime home to him, it would be necessary for me to connect him with it more closely than I had yet done. But how to do this in the short space of time that was at my disposal I could not see. The murderer, as I have already said, was no ordinary one, and had laid his plans with the greatest care. He had taken away the knife, and in all probability had got rid of it long since. No one had seen him enter the house on the night in question, nor had any one seen him leave it again. I was nearly beside myself with vexation. To be so near my goal, and yet not be able to reach it, was provoking beyond endurance. But my lucky star was still in the ascendant, and good fortune was to favour me after all.
As I have already observed, when the crime had become known, the permanent detective force had been most assiduous in the attentions they had given it. The only piece of valuable evidence, however, that they had been able to accumulate, was a footprint on a flower-bed near the centre of the yard, and another in the hall of the house itself. Now it was definitely settled, by a careful comparison of these imprints, that the murderer, whoever he might have been, wore his boots down considerably on the left heel, and on the inside. Now, as every bootmaker will tell you, while the outer is often affected in this way, the inner side seldom is. I noticed, however, that this was the case with the man I suspected. The heel of his left boot was very much worn down and on the inside. The right, however, was intact.
On leaving the Continental Hotel, I made my way to the Police Commissioner's office, obtained an interview with him, and placed the evidence I had gleaned before him. He was good enough to express his approval of my endeavours, but was doubtful whether the case against the Italian was strong enough yet to enable us to definitely bring the crime home to the man.
"At any rate it will justify our issuing a warrant for his arrest," he said, "and that had better be done with as little delay as possible. Otherwise he will be out of the country."
A warrant was immediately procured and an officer was detailed to accompany me in case I should need his assistance. When we reached the Continental Hotel I inquired for Señor Gairdi, only to be informed that he had left the hotel soon after lunch.
"It is only what I expected," I said to my companion. "His suspicions are aroused, and he is going to try and give us the slip."
"I think not," said the manager. "I fancy you will find that he is on board the steamer. You must remember that she sails at daybreak."
We accordingly hastened to the river, and made our way to where the steamer was lying. On arrival on board I inquired for the head-steward, and when he put in an appearance inquired whether Señor Gairdi had come aboard yet.
"He brought his luggage on board, and inspected his cabin about three o'clock," that official replied, "and then went ashore again."
There was nothing for it therefore but for us to await his return. Though we did not know it, we were in for a long spell, for it was not until nearly nine o'clock that our man reappeared on board. He had just crossed the gangway and was making his way along the promenade deck, when I accosted him.
"May I have a word with you, Señor Gairdi?" I asked.
"Yes, certainly," he replied, speaking with only a slight foreign accent. "What is it you want?"
I drew him a few paces further along the deck, so that, if possible, the other passengers, who were standing near, should not hear what I had to say to him.
"I have to tell you," I said, "that I hold a warrant for your arrest on the charge of murdering one, Joseph Spainton, on the night of July the nineteenth of this year. I must caution you that anything you may say will be used as evidence against you."
The nearest electric light shone full and clear upon his face, and I noticed that a queer expression had suddenly made its appearance upon it. Apart from that, he did not seem at all surprised at his arrest.
"So you have found it out after all," he said. "I thought I was going to evade suspicion and get away safely. You would not have caught me then. It is Fate, I suppose."
He shrugged his shoulders and said something under his breath in Italian.
"Must I go ashore with you?" he asked.
"If you please," I answered, marvelling that he should take it so coolly.
Then turning his dark eyes upon me, he continued—
"Señor, in Italy I am a gentleman, and my name, which is not Gairdi, is an honoured one. What I am accused of, and what I admit doing, was no crime. The dead man was a traitor, and I was deputed to kill him. I did it, and this is the end."
"HE FELL WITH A CRASH AT MY FEET."
"HE FELL WITH A CRASH AT MY FEET."
The words had scarcely left his lips before he took a revolver from his coat-pocket, placed it to his right temple and, before I could prevent him, had pulled the trigger. He fell with a crash at my feet, and before the ship's doctor could be brought to his side, he was dead. Who he really was, or to what Secret Society he belonged—for his last words to me warranted the belief that he was a member of some such organization—we were never able to discover. He was dead, and there was an end to it. Such is the story of the first big case in which I was engaged, and one that led me step by step to the position I now hold. I have told it perhaps at somewhat greater length than I need have done, but I trust the reader will forgive me. As a matter of fact I am rather proud of it; more so perhaps than I have any reason to be.
Having resigned my position in the police of the Northern Colony, I was not to be tempted to reconsider my decision. My liking for the life, however, and my interest in the unravelling of mysterious crimes, proved too strong, and I joined the Detective Staff in Melbourne, seeing in their service a good deal of queer life and ferreting out not a small number of extraordinary cases. The experience gained there was invaluable, and led me, after one particularly interesting piece of business in which I had the good fortune to be most successful, to entertain the notion of quitting Government employ altogether, and setting up for myself. I did so, and soon had more work upon my hand than I could very well accomplish. But I was too ambitious to be content with small things, and eventually came to the conclusion that there was not enough scope in the Colonies for me. After fifteen years' absence, therefore, I returned to England, spending a year in the Further Easten routein order to enlarge my experience, and to qualify myself for any work that might come to me from that quarter.
On a certain bitterly cold day in January I reached Liverpool from the United States, and took the train for my old home. My father and mother had long since died, and now all that remained to me of them was the stone slab that covered their resting place in the quiet little churchyard at the foot of the hill.
"Well, here I am," I said to myself, "thirty-three years old, and alone in the world. Nobody knows me in England, but it won't be my fault if they don't hear of George Fairfax before very long. I'll be off to London and try my fortune there."
Next day I made my way to the Great Metropolis, and installed myself at a small private hotel, while I looked about me preparatory to commencing business. To talk of gaining a footing in London is all very well in its way, but it is by no means so easy a task to accomplish as it might appear. Doubtless it can be done fairly quickly if one is prepared to spend large sums of money in advertising, and is not afraid to blow one's own trumpet on every possible occasion, but that is not my line, and besides, even had I so wished, I had not the money to do it. For a multitude of reasons I did not feel inclined to embark my hard-earned savings on such a risky enterprise. I preferred to make my way by my own diligence, and with that end in view I rented an office in a convenient quarter, furnished it, put a small advertisement in a few of the papers, and then awaited the coming of my clients.
As I have a long and curious story to tell, and this book is only intended to be the narration of a certain episode in my life, a detailed description of my first three years in London would not only be superfluous, but in every way a waste of time. Let it suffice that my first case was that of the now notorious Pilchard Street Diamond Robbery, my success in which brought me business from a well known firm in Hatton Gardens. As the public will doubtless remember, they had been robbed of some valuable gems between London and Amsterdam in a singularly audacious manner. My second was the case of the celebrated Russian swindler, who called herself the Countess Demikoff. This case alone took me nearly six months to unravel, but I did not grudge the time, seeing that I was well paid for my labours, and that I managed to succeed where the police had failed. From that time forward I think I may say without boasting that I have been as successful as any man of my age has a right to expect to be. What is better still, I am now in the happy position of being able to accept or decline business as I choose. It is in many respects a hard life, and at all times is attended with a fair amount of risk, but you cannot make omelets without breaking eggs, and if any one chooses to spend his life running to earth men who are waging war against Society, well, he must not grumble if he receives some hard knocks in return.
After these preliminaries I will proceed to show how I came to be mixed up in the most curious case it has ever been my good, or evil, fortune to encounter. It showed me a side of human nature I had not met before, and it brought me the greatest happiness a man can ever hope to find.
All business London, and a good many other people besides, must remember the famous United Empire Bank Fraud. Bonds had been stolen and negotiated, vast sums of money were discovered to be missing, and the manager and one of the directors were absent also. So cleverly had the affair been worked, and so flaring were the defalcations, that had it not been for the public-spirited behaviour and generosity of two of the directors, the position of the bank would have been most seriously compromised, if not shattered altogether. How the culprits had managed to slip through the fingers of the law in the first place no one could say, but the fact remains that they were able to get out of England, without, apparently, leaving a trace of their intentions or their whereabouts behind them. Scotland Yard took the matter up with its usual promptness, and at first were confident of success. They set their cleverest detectives to work upon it, and it was not until more than a month had elapsed that the men engaged were compelled most reluctantly to admit their defeat. They had done their best: it was the system under which they worked that was to blame. In the detection of crime, or in the tracing of a criminal, it is best, as in every other walk of life, to be original.
One morning on arriving at my office I found a letter awaiting me from the remaining directors of the bank, in which they inquired if I could make it convenient to call upon them at the head-office that day. To tell the truth I had been expecting this summons for nearly a week, and was far from being displeased when it came. The work I had expected them to offer me was after my own heart, and if they would only trust the business to me and give me a free hand, I was prepared on my part to bring the missing gentlemen to justice.
Needless to say I called upon them at the hour specified, and after a brief wait was conducted to the board room where the directors sat in solemn conclave.
The chairman, Sir Walter Bracebridge, received me on behalf of his colleagues.
"We wrote to you, Mr. Fairfax," he said, "in order to find out whether you could help us concerning the difficulty in which we find ourselves placed. You of course are aware of the serious trouble the bank has experienced, and of the terrible consequences which have resulted therefrom?"
I admitted that I was quite conversant with it, and waited to hear what he would have to say next.
"As a matter of fact," he continued, "we have sent for you to know whether you can offer us any assistance in our hour of difficulty? Pray take a chair, and let us talk the matter over and see what conclusion we can arrive at."
I seated myself, and we discussed the affair to such good purpose that, when I left the Boardroom, it was on the understanding that I was to take up the case at once, and that my expenses and a very large sum of money should be paid me, provided I could manage to bring the affair to a successful termination. I spent the remainder of that day at the Bank, carefully studying the various memoranda. A great deal of what I had read and heard had been mere hearsay, and this it was necessary to discard in order that the real facts of the case might be taken up, and the proper conclusions drawn therefrom. For three days I weighed the case carefully in my mind, and at the end of that time was in a position to give the Board a definite answer to their inquiries. Thereupon I left England, with the result that exactly twelve weeks later the two men, so much wanted, were at Bow Street, and I had the proud knowledge of knowing that I had succeeded where the men who had tried before me had so distinctly failed.
As will be remembered, it was a case that interested every class of society, and Press and Public were alike united in the interest they showed in it. It is not, however, to the trial itself as much as another curious circumstance connected with it, that has induced me to refer to it here. The case had passed from the Magistrate's Court to the Old Bailey, and was hourly increasing in interest. Day after day the Court was crowded to overflowing, and, when the time came for me to take my place in the witness-box and describe the manner in which I had led up to and effected the capture of the offenders, the excitement rose to fever-heat. I can see the whole scene now as plainly as if it had occurred but yesterday; the learned Judge upon the Bench, the jury in their box, the rows of Counsels, and the benches full of interested spectators. I gave my evidence and was examined by the Counsels for the prosecution and for the defence. I described how I had traced the men from England to their hiding-place abroad, and the various attempts that had been made to prevent their extradition, and had just referred to a certain statement one of the prisoners had made to me soon after his arrest, when an interruption caused me to look behind at the rows of spectators. At the further end of the bench, nearest me, were two men; one was evidently tall, the other very short. The taller was the possessor of silvery white hair and a long and venerable beard. He was a handsome looking man of about forty, and my first glance at him told me that he was blind. As I have said, his companion was a much smaller man, with a smooth, almost boyish face, a pair of twinkling eyes, but a mouth rather hard set. Both were evidently following the case closely, and when on the next day I saw that they were in the same place, I took an even greater interest in them than before. It was not however until the trial had finished and the pair of miserable men had been sent to penal servitude for a lengthy term of years, that I made the acquaintance of the men I have just described. I remember the circumstance quite distinctly. I had left the Court and was proceeding down the Old Bailey in the direction of Ludgate Hill, when I heard my name pronounced.
Turning round I discovered to my astonishment the two men I had seen in the Court, and who had seemed to take such an interest in the case. The smaller was guiding his friend along the crowded pavement with a dexterity that was plainly the outcome of a long practice. When I stopped, they stopped also, and the blind man addressed me. His voice was deep and had a note of pathos in it impossible to describe. It may have been that I was a little sad that afternoon, for both the men who had been condemned to penal servitude had wives and children, to whose pitiful condition the learned Judge had referred when passing sentence.
"You are Mr. Fairfax, are you not?" inquired the taller of the men.
"That is my name," I admitted. "What can I do for you?"
"If we could persuade you to vouchsafe us an hour of your valuable time we should be more grateful than we could say," the man replied. "We have an important piece of business which it might possibly be to your advantage to take up. At any rate it would be worthy of your consideration."
"But why have you not come to me before?" I inquired. "You have seen me in Court every day. Why do you wait until the case is at an end?"
"Because we wanted to be quite sure of you," he answered. "Our case is so large and of such vital importance to us, that we did not desire to run any risk of losing you. We thought we would wait and familiarize ourselves with all that you have done in this affair before coming to you. Now we are satisfied that we could not place our case in better hands, and what we are anxious to do is to induce you to interest yourself in it and take it up."
"You pay me a very high compliment," I said, "but I cannot give you a decision at once. I must hear what it is that you want me to do and have time to think it over, before I can answer you. That is my invariable rule, and I never depart from it. Do you know my office?"
"We know it perfectly," returned the blind man. "It would be strange if we did not, seeing that we have stood outside it repeatedly, trying to summon up courage to enter. Would it be possible for you to grant us an interview to-night?"
"I fear not," I said. "I am tired, and stand in need of rest. If you care to come to-morrow morning, I shall be very pleased to see you. But you must bear in mind the fact that my time is valuable, and that it is only a certain class of case that I care to take up personally."
"We are not afraid of our case," the man replied. "I doubt if there has ever been another like it. I fancy you yourself will say so when you hear the evidence I have to offer. It is not as if we are destitute. We are prepared to pay you well for your services, but we must have the very best that England can supply."
My readers must remember that this conversation was being carried on at the corner of Ludgate Hill and the Old Bailey. Curious glances were being thrown at my companions by passers-by, and so vehement were the taller man's utterances becoming, that a small crowd was gradually collecting in our neighbourhood.
"Very well," I said, "if you are really desirous of consulting me, I shall be very glad to see you at my office at ten o'clock to-morrow morning. I must ask you, however, not to be late, as I have several other appointments."
"We shall not be late," the man answered, "you may rely upon that. We have too much at stake to run any risks of losing your assistance. We will be with you to-morrow morning at ten o'clock punctually."
He thereupon bade me good-bye and raising his hat politely was led along the street by his companion in an opposite direction to that I was taking. They seemed delighted that I had given them an appointment, but for my part I am afraid I was too absorbed by the memories of the day, and the punishment that had been allotted to the two principal members in the swindle, to think very much of them and their business. Indeed, although I made a note of the appointment, it was not until I had arrived at the office on the following morning that I recollected their promised visit. I had just finished my correspondence, and had dictated a few letters to my managing clerk, when a junior entered with two cards, which he placed before me. The first I took up bore the name of Mr. Septimus Codd, that of the second, Mr. George Kitwater. When I had finished the letter I was in the act of dictating, I bade the clerk admit them, and a moment later the blind man and his companion whom I had seen on Ludgate Hill the previous evening, were ushered into my presence. I cannot remember a more venerable appearance than that presented by the taller man. His was a personality that would have appealed forcibly to any student of humanity. It was decidedly an open countenance, to which the long white beard that descended almost to his waist gave an added reverence. His head was well shaped and well set upon his shoulders, his height was six feet two if an inch, and he carried himself with the erectness of a man accustomed to an outdoor life. He was well dressed, and for this reason I surmised that he was the possessor of good manners. His companion was as much below the middle height as he was above it. His was a peculiar countenance resembling that of a boy when seen at a distance, and that of an old man when one was close to him. His eyes, as I have already said, were small, and they were set deep in his head. This, in itself, was calculated to add to his peculiar appearance. He steered his blind companion into the room and placed him in a seat. Then he perched himself on a chair beside him and waited for me to open the debate.
"Good-morning, gentlemen," I said. "Allow me to congratulate you on your punctuality."
"We were afraid of missing you," observed Kitwater. "Our business is so particular that we did not want to run any risk of losing our appointment."
"Perhaps you will now be good enough to tell me what that business is?" I replied, taking my note-book out of a drawer preparatory to writing down what they had to say.
"In the first place, sir," the man began, "we of course understand that everything we have to tell you will be regarded by you as strictly private and confidential?"
"That goes without saying," I replied. "If I were to divulge what my clients tell me, my business would not be worth a day's purchase. You can rest assured that everything you may impart to me will be treated in strictest confidence."
"We thank you," said Kitwater. "The story I have to tell you is perhaps the strangest that has ever been told to mortal man. To begin with, you must understand that my companion and myself have but lately arrived in England. We have been for many years missionaries in China, sowing the good seed in the Western Provinces. I do not know whether you have ever visited that country, but even if you have not you must be aware to some extent of the dangers to which our calling is subjected. We carry our lives in our hands from the moment we leave civilization until we enter it again. There are times, however, that compensate one for all the trials that have to be undergone."
"You must excuse me," I said, "if I remind you that my time is valuable, and that, however interested I may be in the missionary work of China, I cannot allow it to interfere with my business. The sooner you tell me in what way you want me to help you, the sooner I shall be able to give you the answer you are seeking."
"I must implore your pardon," the man continued, humbly enough, "I am afraid our calling, however, is apt to make us a trifle verbose. If you will allow me, I will put what I have to say in as few words as possible."
I bowed and signed to him to proceed.
"Our case is as follows," he began. "As I have told you, we have been in China for several years, and during that time we have had the good fortune to enroll not a few well-known names among our converts. To make a long story short, we were so successful as to be able to persuade even the Mandarin of the Province to listen to our message. He was an enormously rich man, one of the richest perhaps in China, and was so impressed by the good news we brought to him that, on his death-bed, he left to us for the benefit of the mission all his wealth, in gold, silver, and precious stones. It was a princely legacy, and one that would have enabled us to carry on our mission with such success as we had never before dreamed of."
"But if you were so lucky and so much in love with your profession, how does it come about that you are in England now?" I inquired.
"I will tell you why," he answered, leaning towards me and tapping with his fingers upon the edge of my writing-table. "It is a sad story, and the mere telling of it causes me more pain than you would believe. You must understand that at the time of the Mandarin's death an English traveller, who had been passing through the Western Provinces, reached our city and took up his abode with us. Needless to say we were overwhelmed with grief at the loss of our patron. The treasure he had presented us with we took to the mission and deposited it in a safe place. We had no suspicion of any sort of treachery. I fear my companion and I are not men of the world, that is to say we do not go about suspecting evil of our neighbours."
"I think I understand," I said. "You brought the treasure home, put it in what you considered a safe place, and one day awoke to find your estimable guest missing and the treasure gone with him. Have I guessed correctly?"
"You have hit the mark exactly," Kitwater replied. "We woke one day not only to find the treasure gone, but also ourselves and our mission seriously compromised. The relations of the dead man not only accused us of having alienated him from the faith of his forefathers, but also of having robbed him of his ancestral treasure. We could not but admit that we had been presented with the wealth in question, and when it was demanded of us, we could only explain that we had lost it in our turn. You can imagine the position for yourself. At the best of times the foreigner is not popular in China, and our situation was particularly unpleasant. Situated as we were in one of the wildest portions of the empire, and accused of the basest sacrilege, that is to say of violating the home of a dead man, we could hope for but small mercy. The man who had robbed us had entirely disappeared and no trace of him could be discovered. To attempt to offer any explanation, or to incriminate him, was out of the question. We could only suffer in silence."
He paused and heaved a heavy sigh.
"And what form did your punishment take?" I inquired, for I was beginning to be interested in their story.
"Can you not see for yourself?" the man answered. "Can you not see that I am blind, while my companion is dumb? That was what they condemned us to. By that man's villainy I am destined never to look upon God's earth again, while my companion will never be able to converse with his fellow-men, except by signs. We are in the world, yet out of it."
I looked at them both in amazement. Their tale seemed too terrible to be true. And yet I had the best of evidence to show that it was correct.
"And why have you come to me? What do you want me to do? I cannot give you back your sight, nor your friend his power of speech."
"But you can help us to find the man who brought this misery upon us," Kitwater replied. "That is what we have come to ask of you. He must not be permitted to enjoy the wealth he stole from us. It is sacred to a special duty, and that duty it must perform. We are not overburdened with riches, in fact we are dependent upon the bounty of another, but if you can help us to recover the sum that was stolen from us, we will gladly pay whatever you may ask! We cannot say more than that."
"But this is a most unheard-of request," I said. "How do you know where the man may be at this moment?"
"We do not know, or we should scarcely have asked your assistance," Kitwater replied with some show of reason. "It is because we have heard of your wonderful powers in tracing people that we have come to you. Our only cause for attending the trial at which you saw us was to hear the evidence you gave and to draw our own conclusions from it. That those conclusions were complimentary to you, our presence here is evidence of. We know that we could not put our case in better hands, and we will leave it with you to say whether or not you will help us. As I said just now, my companion is dumb, while I am blind; we cannot do much ourselves. Will you not take pity upon us and help us to find the man who betrayed and ruined us?"
"But he may be at the other end of the world at this moment?" I said.
"That does not matter," he returned. "We know that wherever he may be, you will find him. All we ask you to do is to bring us face to face with him. We will manage the rest. It will be strange then if we are not able to get him to a proper way of thinking."
This was the most unusual case I had had to do with, and for the moment I scarcely knew what to say. I turned to the blind man once more.
"Have you any idea where the man went after he robbed you?"
"He crossed the province of Yunnan into Burmah," he replied. "After that he made his way through Mandalay to Rangoon, and shipped on board the steamerJemadarfor London."
"When did theJemadarreach London?"
"On the twenty-third of June," he answered. "We have made inquiries upon that point."
I made a note of this and then continued my inquiries.
"One other question," I said. "While we are on the subject, what do you suppose would be the total value of the treasure of which he robbed you?"
"That is very difficult to say," Kitwater replied, and then turned to his companion and held out his hand. The other took it and tapped upon the palm with the tips of his fingers in a sort of dot-and-telegraph fashion that I had never seen used before.
"My friend says that there were ninety-three stones, all rubies and sapphires; they were of exquisite lustre and extraordinary size. Possibly they might have been worth anything from a hundred and seventy thousand pounds to a quarter of a million."
I opened my eyes on hearing this. Were the men telling me the truth? I asked myself, or were they trying to interest me in the case by exaggerating the value of the treasure?
"What you say is almost incomprehensible," I continued. "I trust you will forgive me, but can you substantiate what you say?"
"When we say that we are willing to pay your expenses in advance if you will try to find the man, I think we are giving you very good proof of ourbona fides," he remarked. "I am afraid we cannot give you any other, seeing as I have said, that we are both poor men. If you are prepared to take up our case, we shall be under a life-long gratitude to you, but if you cannot, we must endeavour to find some one else who will undertake the task."
"It is impossible for me to decide now whether I can take it up or not," I said, leaning back in my chair and looking at them both as I spoke. "I must have time to think it over; there are a hundred and one things to be considered before I can give you a direct reply."
There was silence for a few moments, and then Kitwater, who had been holding his usual mysterious communications with his friend, said—
"When do you think you will be able to let us have an answer?"
"That depends upon a variety of circumstances," I replied. "It is a matter difficult to average. In the first place there is no knowing where the man is at present: he may be in London; he may be in America; he may be in any other portion of the globe. It might cost five hundred pounds to find him, it might cost five thousand. You must see for yourselves how uncertain it all is."
"In that case we should be prepared to give security for the first-named amount, or pay you half in advance," Kitwater replied. "I hope you do not think, Mr. Fairfax, that we are endeavouring to play you false? You can see for yourself that our injuries are permanent, and, as far as they go, are at least evidence concerning the truth of our story. You can also see for yourself how this man has behaved towards us. He has robbed us of all we hold valuable, and to his act of treachery we owe the mutilations we have suffered. Can you wonder that we are anxious to find him?"
"I do not wonder at that at all," I said. "My only feeling is that I must regard it as an entirely business matter."
"We cannot blame you," Kitwater replied. "Yet you must surely understand our anxiety for a definite and immediate answer. The man has had a considerable start of us already, and he has doubtless disposed of the jewels ere this. At whatever price he sold them, he must now be in possession of a considerable fortune, which rightly belongs to us. We are not vindictive men; all we ask is for our own."
"I quite agree with you there," I replied. "The only question in my mind is, who shall get it for you? Let me explain matters a little more clearly. In the first place I have no desire to offend you, but how am I to know that the story you tell me is a true one?"
"I have already told you that you will have to take our word for that," he said. "It will be a great disappointment to us if you cannot take the matter up, but we must bear it as we have borne our other misfortunes. When we realized the way you managed those bank people we said to each other—'That's the man for us! If any one can catch Hayle he's that person.' It naturally comes to us as a disappointment to find that you are not willing to take up the case."
"I have not said that I am not willing," I answered; "I only said that I am not going to commit myself until I have given the matter due consideration. If you will call here at four o'clock to-morrow afternoon, I shall be able to give you a definite answer."
"I suppose we must be content with that," said Kitwater lugubriously.
They thereupon thanked me and rose to go.
"By the way," I said, "does this man Hayle know that you are in England?"
The blind man shook his head.
"He thinks we are lying dead in the jungle," he said, "and it is not his fault that we are not. Did he suspect for a moment that we were alive and in the same country as himself, he'd be out of it like a rat driven by a ferret from his hole. But if you will give us your assistance, sir, we will make him aware of our presence before very long."
Though he tried to speak unconcernedly, there was an expression upon the man's face that startled me. I felt that, blind though he was, I should not care to be in Mr. Hayle's place when they should meet.
After they had left me I lit a cigar and began to think the matter over. I had had a number of strange cases presented to me in my time, but never one that had opened in such a fashion as this. A man robs his friends in the centre of China; the latter are tortured and maimed for life, and come to me in London to seek out their betrayer for them, in whatever part of the globe he might be. The whole thing seemed so preposterous as to be scarcely worth consideration, and yet, try how I would to put it out of my mind, I found myself thinking of it continually. The recollection of the blind man's face and that of his dumb companion haunted me awake and asleep. More than once I determined to have nothing to do with them, only later to change my mind, and vow that I would see the matter through at any cost to myself.
Next morning, however, saner counsels prevailed. An exceedingly remunerative offer was made me by a prominent Trust Company, which, at any other time I should have had no hesitation in immediately accepting. Fate, however, which is generally more responsible for these matters than most folk imagine, had still a card to play upon Messrs. Kitwater and Codd's behalf, and it was destined to overthrow all my scruples, and what was more to ultimately revolutionize the conduct of my whole life.