Chapter VI“Can't hear of Brooklyn Terrace anywhere, sir.” The speaker was Mr. Steadman's chauffeur.He had been going slowly the last few minutes, making ineffectual inquiries of the passers-by. Inside the car Mr. Steadman had Inspector Furnival seated beside him.“Better drive to the nearest post-office and ask there. They will be sure to know.”“Call this North Kensington, do they?” the barrister grumbled, as the car started again. “Seems to me in my young days it used to be called Notting Hill.”The inspector laughed. “Think North Kensington sounds a bit more classy, I expect. Not but what there are some very decent old houses hereabouts. Oh, by Jove! Is this Brooklyn Terrace?” as the car turned into a side street that had apparently fallen on evil days. Each house evidently contained several tenants. In some cases slatternly women stood on the doorsteps, shouting remarks to their neighbours, while grubby-faced children played about in the gutter or crawled about on the doorsteps of their different establishments. It scarcely seemed the place in which would be found the missing managing clerk of Messrs. Bechcombe and Turner's establishment.No. 10 was a little tidier than its neighbours, that is to say the door was shut and there were no children on the doorstep.The chauffeur pulled up.“This is it, sir.”Mr. Steadman eyed it doubtfully.“Well, inspector, I expect this really is the place.”“It is the address in Mr. Bechcombe's book right enough, sir. As to whether Mr. Amos Thompson lives here—well, we shall soon see.”He got out first and knocked at the door, the barrister following meekly. The car waiting at the side was the object of enormous interest to the denizens of the street. There was no response to the knock for some time. At last a small child in the next area called out:“You'll have to go down, they don't never come to that there door!”Mr. Steadman put up his glass and peered over the palings. A slatternly-looking woman was just looking out of the back door.“Can you let us in, my good woman?” the barrister called out. “We want Mr. Thompson.”The woman muttered something, probably scenting a tip, and presently they heard her clattering along the passage.“Mr. Thompson, is it?” she said as she admitted them. “His room is up at the top.”“Is he at home?” Inspector Furnival questioned.The woman stared at him. “I don't know. If you just like to walk up you will find out.”The stairs were wide, for the house had seen better days, but indescribably dirty. Up at the very top it was a little cleaner. There were several doors on the landing but nothing to show which, if any, was Thompson's. As they stood there, wondering which it could be, an old man came up behind them.“Were you looking for anyone, gentlemen?” he asked, in a weak, quavering voice that told that, like the house, he had fallen on evil times.The inspector turned to him. “I want Mr. Amos Thompson.”The old man pointed to the door just in front of them.“That is his door, but I doubt if you will find him in. I haven't seen him since yesterday morning. I don't think he slept here.”“Do you often see him?” the inspector questioned as he applied his knuckles to the door.The old man looked surprised at the question. “Why, yes, sir, I have only been here a month, but I have found Mr. Thompson a remarkably pleasant gentleman. He always passes the time of day with me and often stops for a word over the day's news. An uncommonly nice man is Mr. Thompson. It has often crossed my mind to wonder why he stayed here, where there is no comfort to speak of for the likes of him.”The inspector and Mr. Steadman wondered too, as they waited there, while no answer came to the former's repeated knocking.A room in No. 10 Brooklyn Terrace certainly seemed no fitting home for Amos Thompson with his handsome salary.“We must get in somehow,” the inspector said to Mr. Steadman. Then he turned to the old man opposite who was watching them with frightened eyes. “Has anyone else a key to these rooms, a charwoman or anybody?”The man shook his head.“We all do for ourselves, here, sir. We don't afford charwomen and such-like. As for getting in—well, I expect the landlord has keys. He is on the first floor. But I do not think he would open Mr. Thompson's door without——”“Is this landlord likely to be at home now?” the inspector interrupted.“He is at home, sir. I saw him as I came upstairs.”The inspector took out his card. “Will you show him this and say that Mr. Thompson cannot be found. He disappeared under peculiar circumstances yesterday and, since he is not here, we must enter his room to see whether we can find any clue to his whereabouts.”The man visibly paled as he read the name on the card. Then he rapidly disappeared down the stairs. Mr. Steadman looked across at the inspector.“Queer affair this! What the deuce does the fellow mean by putting up at a place like this?”“Well, he isn't extravagant in the living line!” the inspector said with a grin.John Steadman raised his eyebrows. “Not here!”At this moment the landlord arrived with the keys. Quite evidently his curiosity had been excited by the advent of the visitors to his lodger. Probably he had been expecting his summons. He held Inspector Furnival's card in his hand.“I understand I have no choice, gentlemen.”“None!” the inspector said grimly.The landlord made no further demur, but unlocking the door he flung it open and stood back. The others waited for a minute in the doorway and looked round. At first sight nothing could have been less likely to give away the occupier's secrets than this room. It was quite a good size with a couple of windows, and a small bed in a recess with a curtain hung over it; an oil lamp stood before the fireplace. The floor was covered with linoleum, there was no carpet, not even a rug. A solid square oak table stood in the middle of the room and there were three equally solid-looking chairs. The only other piece of furniture in the room was a movable corner cupboard standing at the side of the window. The inspector went over and threw the door open. Inside there was a cup and saucer, a teapot and tea-caddy, a bottle of ink, and a book upon which the inspector immediately pounced. He went through it from end to end, he shook it, he banged it on the table; a post card fell from it; the inspector stared at it, then with a puzzled frown he handed it to Mr. Steadman. The barrister glanced at it curiously. On the back was a portrait of a girl—evidently the work of an amateur.“Do you know who that is?” questioned the inspector.Mr. Steadman shook his head. “It is no one that I have ever seen before. Do you mean that you do?”“That is a likeness—very badly taken, I grant you—but an unmistakable likeness of Miss Hoyle, the late Mr. Bechcombe's secretary.”Mr. Steadman was startled for once. “Good Lord! Do you mean that he was in love with her too?”“Oh, I don't know,” said the inspector, taking possession of the post card once more. “Elderly men take queer fancies sometimes, but I haven't had any hint of this hitherto. However, I will make a few inquiries with a view to ascertaining whether Mr. Tony Collyer has a rival.”“Poor Tony!” said the barrister indulgently.He took up the book which the inspector had thrown down. It was a detective novel of the lightest and most lurid kind, and it bore the label of a big and fashionable library. He made a note of it at once. The inspector went on with his survey. Beside the bedstead, behind the curtain, there stood a small tripod washing-stand with the usual apparatus. The bed in itself was enough to arouse their curiosity. Upon the chain mattress lay one of hard flock with one hard pillow, and an eiderdown quilt rolled up at the bottom. Of other bedclothing there was not a vestige, neither was there any sign of any clothing found about the room, with the exception of a pair of very old slippers originally worked in cross stitch, the pattern of which was now indecipherable. The inspector peered round everywhere. He turned over the top mattress, he felt it all over. He moved the wash-stand and the corner cupboard, he looked in the open fireplace which apparently had not been used for years, but not so much as the very tiniest scrap of paper rewarded him. At last he turned to the barrister.“Nothing more to be done here, I think, sir.” He took up the book and the slippers and moved to the door.John Steadman followed him silently. His strong face bore a very worried, harassed expression.Outside the landlord stopped them.“Gentlemen, I hope it is understood that I have no responsibility with regard to this raid on Mr. Thompson's property?”“Quite, quite!” assented the inspector. “Refer Mr. Thompson to me if you should see him again.”“Which I hope I shall,” the landlord pursued, following them down the stairs. “For a better tenant I never had; punctual with his rent, and always quiet and quite the gentleman.”Inspector Furnival stopped short. “How long has he lived with you?”The man scratched his head. “A matter of four years or more, and always brought the rent to me, I never had to ask for it. I wish there were more like him.”“Did you see much of him?”“Only passing the time of day on the stairs, and when he came to pay his rent which he did regularly every Saturday morning.”“That room does not look as if it had been slept in or eaten in,” John Steadman said abruptly.The landlord stared at him.“Well, we don't bother about our neighbour's business in Brooklyn Terrace, sir. But, if he didn't want the room to sleep in or live in, why did he rent it?”“Oh,” said the barrister warily, “that is just what we should like to know.”With a nod of farewell the two men went on. They got into the waiting car in silence. With a glance at the inspector John Steadman gave the address of the library from which Thompson's book had been procured. Then as the car started and he threw himself back on his seat he observed:“Admirably stage-managed!”The inspector raised his eyebrows. “As how?”“Do you imagine those people know no more than they say of Thompson?”“They may. On the other hand it is quite possible they do not,” the inspector answered doubtfully.“That room had been arranged for some such emergency as has arisen,” Steadman went on. “Thompson has never lived there. But he came there for letters or something. He has some place of concealment very likely quite near. I have no doubt that either of those men could have told us more. I expect they will give the show away if a reward is offered.”“If——” the inspector repeated. “I don't quite agree with you, Mr. Steadman. I think those men were speaking the truth, and I doubt whether they knew any more of Thompson than they said. The man, who as you say, has so admirably stage-managed that room would hardly be likely to give himself away by making unnecessary confidants. But now I wonder for whose benefit this scene was originally staged?”The barrister drew in his lips. “Don't you think Luke Bechcombe's murder answers your question?”“No, I don't!” said the inspector bluntly. “Thompson was a wrong 'un, but at present I do not see any connexion with the murder at all! They are at it now, full swing!” For as they neared Notting Hill Gate they could hear the voices of the newsboys calling out their papers—“Murder of a well-known Solicitor. Missing Clerk!” Up by the station the newsboys exhibited lurid headlines.They bought a handful of papers and unfolded them as they bowled swiftly across to the library. In most cases the murder of the solicitor occupied the greater part of the front page. The disappearance of the managing clerk was made the most of. But in several there were hints of the mysterious visitor, veiled surmises as to her business and identity. Altogether the Crow's Inn Tragedy, as the papers were beginning to call it, seemed to contain all the materials for a modern sensational drama.At the library they both got out. The section devoted to T's was at the farther end. A pleasant-looking girl was handing out books. Seizing his opportunity the inspector went forward and held out the volume.“I have found this book under rather peculiar circumstances. Can you tell me by whom it was borrowed?”For a moment the girl seemed undecided; then, murmuring a few unintelligible words, she went round to the manager's desk. That functionary came back with her.“I hear you want to know who borrowed this book, but it is not our custom to give particulars——”“I know it is not.” The inspector held out his card. “But I think you will have to make an exception in my case.”The manager put up his pince-nez and glanced at the card, and then at the inspector. Then he signed to an assistant to bring him the book in which subscribers' names were entered, and spoke to her in a low tone. She looked frightened as she glanced at the inspector.“It was borrowed by a Mr. Thompson, sir, address 10 Brooklyn Terrace, North Kensington. He is an old subscriber.”“Did he come for the books himself?” the inspector questioned. “Can you describe him?”“There—there wasn't much to describe,” the girl faltered. “He had a brown beard and some of his front teeth were missing, and he nearly always wore those big, horn-rimmed glasses.”“Height?” questioned the inspector sharply.“Well, he wasn't very tall nor very short,” was the unsatisfactory reply.“Thin or stout?”“Not much of either!” The girl twisted her hands about, evidently wishing herself far away.The inspector deserted the topic of Mr. Thompson's appearance. He held up the book.“When was this taken out?”The manager glanced at a list of volumes opposite the subscribers' names.“Last Thursday. I may say that Mr. Thompson always wanted books of this class—detective fiction, and he literally devoured them. He always expected a new one to be ready for him, and he was inclined to be unpleasant if he had for the time being exhausted the supply. He generally called here every day. This is an unusually long interval if he has not called since Thursday.”“Um!” The inspector glanced at Mr. Steadman. Then he turned back to the manager. “I am obliged by your courtesy, sir. Would you add to it, should Mr. Thompson call or send again, by ringing me up at Scotland Yard? The book we will leave with you.”
“Can't hear of Brooklyn Terrace anywhere, sir.” The speaker was Mr. Steadman's chauffeur.
He had been going slowly the last few minutes, making ineffectual inquiries of the passers-by. Inside the car Mr. Steadman had Inspector Furnival seated beside him.
“Better drive to the nearest post-office and ask there. They will be sure to know.”
“Call this North Kensington, do they?” the barrister grumbled, as the car started again. “Seems to me in my young days it used to be called Notting Hill.”
The inspector laughed. “Think North Kensington sounds a bit more classy, I expect. Not but what there are some very decent old houses hereabouts. Oh, by Jove! Is this Brooklyn Terrace?” as the car turned into a side street that had apparently fallen on evil days. Each house evidently contained several tenants. In some cases slatternly women stood on the doorsteps, shouting remarks to their neighbours, while grubby-faced children played about in the gutter or crawled about on the doorsteps of their different establishments. It scarcely seemed the place in which would be found the missing managing clerk of Messrs. Bechcombe and Turner's establishment.
No. 10 was a little tidier than its neighbours, that is to say the door was shut and there were no children on the doorstep.
The chauffeur pulled up.
“This is it, sir.”
Mr. Steadman eyed it doubtfully.
“Well, inspector, I expect this really is the place.”
“It is the address in Mr. Bechcombe's book right enough, sir. As to whether Mr. Amos Thompson lives here—well, we shall soon see.”
He got out first and knocked at the door, the barrister following meekly. The car waiting at the side was the object of enormous interest to the denizens of the street. There was no response to the knock for some time. At last a small child in the next area called out:
“You'll have to go down, they don't never come to that there door!”
Mr. Steadman put up his glass and peered over the palings. A slatternly-looking woman was just looking out of the back door.
“Can you let us in, my good woman?” the barrister called out. “We want Mr. Thompson.”
The woman muttered something, probably scenting a tip, and presently they heard her clattering along the passage.
“Mr. Thompson, is it?” she said as she admitted them. “His room is up at the top.”
“Is he at home?” Inspector Furnival questioned.
The woman stared at him. “I don't know. If you just like to walk up you will find out.”
The stairs were wide, for the house had seen better days, but indescribably dirty. Up at the very top it was a little cleaner. There were several doors on the landing but nothing to show which, if any, was Thompson's. As they stood there, wondering which it could be, an old man came up behind them.
“Were you looking for anyone, gentlemen?” he asked, in a weak, quavering voice that told that, like the house, he had fallen on evil times.
The inspector turned to him. “I want Mr. Amos Thompson.”
The old man pointed to the door just in front of them.
“That is his door, but I doubt if you will find him in. I haven't seen him since yesterday morning. I don't think he slept here.”
“Do you often see him?” the inspector questioned as he applied his knuckles to the door.
The old man looked surprised at the question. “Why, yes, sir, I have only been here a month, but I have found Mr. Thompson a remarkably pleasant gentleman. He always passes the time of day with me and often stops for a word over the day's news. An uncommonly nice man is Mr. Thompson. It has often crossed my mind to wonder why he stayed here, where there is no comfort to speak of for the likes of him.”
The inspector and Mr. Steadman wondered too, as they waited there, while no answer came to the former's repeated knocking.
A room in No. 10 Brooklyn Terrace certainly seemed no fitting home for Amos Thompson with his handsome salary.
“We must get in somehow,” the inspector said to Mr. Steadman. Then he turned to the old man opposite who was watching them with frightened eyes. “Has anyone else a key to these rooms, a charwoman or anybody?”
The man shook his head.
“We all do for ourselves, here, sir. We don't afford charwomen and such-like. As for getting in—well, I expect the landlord has keys. He is on the first floor. But I do not think he would open Mr. Thompson's door without——”
“Is this landlord likely to be at home now?” the inspector interrupted.
“He is at home, sir. I saw him as I came upstairs.”
The inspector took out his card. “Will you show him this and say that Mr. Thompson cannot be found. He disappeared under peculiar circumstances yesterday and, since he is not here, we must enter his room to see whether we can find any clue to his whereabouts.”
The man visibly paled as he read the name on the card. Then he rapidly disappeared down the stairs. Mr. Steadman looked across at the inspector.
“Queer affair this! What the deuce does the fellow mean by putting up at a place like this?”
“Well, he isn't extravagant in the living line!” the inspector said with a grin.
John Steadman raised his eyebrows. “Not here!”
At this moment the landlord arrived with the keys. Quite evidently his curiosity had been excited by the advent of the visitors to his lodger. Probably he had been expecting his summons. He held Inspector Furnival's card in his hand.
“I understand I have no choice, gentlemen.”
“None!” the inspector said grimly.
The landlord made no further demur, but unlocking the door he flung it open and stood back. The others waited for a minute in the doorway and looked round. At first sight nothing could have been less likely to give away the occupier's secrets than this room. It was quite a good size with a couple of windows, and a small bed in a recess with a curtain hung over it; an oil lamp stood before the fireplace. The floor was covered with linoleum, there was no carpet, not even a rug. A solid square oak table stood in the middle of the room and there were three equally solid-looking chairs. The only other piece of furniture in the room was a movable corner cupboard standing at the side of the window. The inspector went over and threw the door open. Inside there was a cup and saucer, a teapot and tea-caddy, a bottle of ink, and a book upon which the inspector immediately pounced. He went through it from end to end, he shook it, he banged it on the table; a post card fell from it; the inspector stared at it, then with a puzzled frown he handed it to Mr. Steadman. The barrister glanced at it curiously. On the back was a portrait of a girl—evidently the work of an amateur.
“Do you know who that is?” questioned the inspector.
Mr. Steadman shook his head. “It is no one that I have ever seen before. Do you mean that you do?”
“That is a likeness—very badly taken, I grant you—but an unmistakable likeness of Miss Hoyle, the late Mr. Bechcombe's secretary.”
Mr. Steadman was startled for once. “Good Lord! Do you mean that he was in love with her too?”
“Oh, I don't know,” said the inspector, taking possession of the post card once more. “Elderly men take queer fancies sometimes, but I haven't had any hint of this hitherto. However, I will make a few inquiries with a view to ascertaining whether Mr. Tony Collyer has a rival.”
“Poor Tony!” said the barrister indulgently.
He took up the book which the inspector had thrown down. It was a detective novel of the lightest and most lurid kind, and it bore the label of a big and fashionable library. He made a note of it at once. The inspector went on with his survey. Beside the bedstead, behind the curtain, there stood a small tripod washing-stand with the usual apparatus. The bed in itself was enough to arouse their curiosity. Upon the chain mattress lay one of hard flock with one hard pillow, and an eiderdown quilt rolled up at the bottom. Of other bedclothing there was not a vestige, neither was there any sign of any clothing found about the room, with the exception of a pair of very old slippers originally worked in cross stitch, the pattern of which was now indecipherable. The inspector peered round everywhere. He turned over the top mattress, he felt it all over. He moved the wash-stand and the corner cupboard, he looked in the open fireplace which apparently had not been used for years, but not so much as the very tiniest scrap of paper rewarded him. At last he turned to the barrister.
“Nothing more to be done here, I think, sir.” He took up the book and the slippers and moved to the door.
John Steadman followed him silently. His strong face bore a very worried, harassed expression.
Outside the landlord stopped them.
“Gentlemen, I hope it is understood that I have no responsibility with regard to this raid on Mr. Thompson's property?”
“Quite, quite!” assented the inspector. “Refer Mr. Thompson to me if you should see him again.”
“Which I hope I shall,” the landlord pursued, following them down the stairs. “For a better tenant I never had; punctual with his rent, and always quiet and quite the gentleman.”
Inspector Furnival stopped short. “How long has he lived with you?”
The man scratched his head. “A matter of four years or more, and always brought the rent to me, I never had to ask for it. I wish there were more like him.”
“Did you see much of him?”
“Only passing the time of day on the stairs, and when he came to pay his rent which he did regularly every Saturday morning.”
“That room does not look as if it had been slept in or eaten in,” John Steadman said abruptly.
The landlord stared at him.
“Well, we don't bother about our neighbour's business in Brooklyn Terrace, sir. But, if he didn't want the room to sleep in or live in, why did he rent it?”
“Oh,” said the barrister warily, “that is just what we should like to know.”
With a nod of farewell the two men went on. They got into the waiting car in silence. With a glance at the inspector John Steadman gave the address of the library from which Thompson's book had been procured. Then as the car started and he threw himself back on his seat he observed:
“Admirably stage-managed!”
The inspector raised his eyebrows. “As how?”
“Do you imagine those people know no more than they say of Thompson?”
“They may. On the other hand it is quite possible they do not,” the inspector answered doubtfully.
“That room had been arranged for some such emergency as has arisen,” Steadman went on. “Thompson has never lived there. But he came there for letters or something. He has some place of concealment very likely quite near. I have no doubt that either of those men could have told us more. I expect they will give the show away if a reward is offered.”
“If——” the inspector repeated. “I don't quite agree with you, Mr. Steadman. I think those men were speaking the truth, and I doubt whether they knew any more of Thompson than they said. The man, who as you say, has so admirably stage-managed that room would hardly be likely to give himself away by making unnecessary confidants. But now I wonder for whose benefit this scene was originally staged?”
The barrister drew in his lips. “Don't you think Luke Bechcombe's murder answers your question?”
“No, I don't!” said the inspector bluntly. “Thompson was a wrong 'un, but at present I do not see any connexion with the murder at all! They are at it now, full swing!” For as they neared Notting Hill Gate they could hear the voices of the newsboys calling out their papers—“Murder of a well-known Solicitor. Missing Clerk!” Up by the station the newsboys exhibited lurid headlines.
They bought a handful of papers and unfolded them as they bowled swiftly across to the library. In most cases the murder of the solicitor occupied the greater part of the front page. The disappearance of the managing clerk was made the most of. But in several there were hints of the mysterious visitor, veiled surmises as to her business and identity. Altogether the Crow's Inn Tragedy, as the papers were beginning to call it, seemed to contain all the materials for a modern sensational drama.
At the library they both got out. The section devoted to T's was at the farther end. A pleasant-looking girl was handing out books. Seizing his opportunity the inspector went forward and held out the volume.
“I have found this book under rather peculiar circumstances. Can you tell me by whom it was borrowed?”
For a moment the girl seemed undecided; then, murmuring a few unintelligible words, she went round to the manager's desk. That functionary came back with her.
“I hear you want to know who borrowed this book, but it is not our custom to give particulars——”
“I know it is not.” The inspector held out his card. “But I think you will have to make an exception in my case.”
The manager put up his pince-nez and glanced at the card, and then at the inspector. Then he signed to an assistant to bring him the book in which subscribers' names were entered, and spoke to her in a low tone. She looked frightened as she glanced at the inspector.
“It was borrowed by a Mr. Thompson, sir, address 10 Brooklyn Terrace, North Kensington. He is an old subscriber.”
“Did he come for the books himself?” the inspector questioned. “Can you describe him?”
“There—there wasn't much to describe,” the girl faltered. “He had a brown beard and some of his front teeth were missing, and he nearly always wore those big, horn-rimmed glasses.”
“Height?” questioned the inspector sharply.
“Well, he wasn't very tall nor very short,” was the unsatisfactory reply.
“Thin or stout?”
“Not much of either!” The girl twisted her hands about, evidently wishing herself far away.
The inspector deserted the topic of Mr. Thompson's appearance. He held up the book.
“When was this taken out?”
The manager glanced at a list of volumes opposite the subscribers' names.
“Last Thursday. I may say that Mr. Thompson always wanted books of this class—detective fiction, and he literally devoured them. He always expected a new one to be ready for him, and he was inclined to be unpleasant if he had for the time being exhausted the supply. He generally called here every day. This is an unusually long interval if he has not called since Thursday.”
“Um!” The inspector glanced at Mr. Steadman. Then he turned back to the manager. “I am obliged by your courtesy, sir. Would you add to it, should Mr. Thompson call or send again, by ringing me up at Scotland Yard? The book we will leave with you.”