More Rivals of Sherlock Holmes

by Nick Rennison

  ‘What is Mr Booth?’ enquired Mr Barrington, as George departed on his errand.

  ‘What is he?’ I repeated, not seeing the drift of the question.

  ‘He isn’t a lawyer, I suppose. I won’t have anything to do with lawyers,’ said Barrington, for the first time showing a slight symptom of uneasiness.

  ‘No, he isn’t a lawyer. He is a private gentleman; a boarder here,’ I answered.

  I suppose there was a little hesitation in my tone, though I was not conscious of any intention to deceive, for it did not enter my mind that my friend’s occupation was the least material. Barrington, however, looked at me sharply and seemed a trifle disturbed, until Mr Booth made his appearance, following on the heels of the lad who brought the ink. I noticed that my visitor seemed relieved at the aspect of the mild, benevolent-looking gentleman who entered, with his half-consumed cigar in his hand, bowing politely as he beheld the stranger. The latter, when the footman had left, dipped his pen into the ink with a reassured air, and was evidently proceeding to fill his real name into the blank space when I said, with assumed carelessness, which doubtless did not conceal my suppressed excitement:

  ‘I want you to witness my signature to a document, Mr Booth.’

  ‘I should like to see it first,’ said he, glancing at Barrington over his spectacles.

  Barrington immediately withdrew his pen, and looked annoyed, while I handed the paper silently across the table to my friend, who read it through between the whiffs of his cigar. Then he said quietly but decidedly:

  ‘I shouldn’t sign this, if I were you, Perkins; it wants considering.’

  ‘Mr Perkins has considered,’ said Barrington, quickly.

  ‘What is it all about?’ enquired Booth, strolling round the table, and dropping carelessly into a chair by my side.

  I explained, and it is unnecessary to repeat the conversation that ensued, because it was practically a repetition of my previous questions put in more ingenious forms by Mr Booth, and of Barrington’s guarded answers. But I soon perceived that the latter realised he had a very different person to deal with in my friend, and if he did not actually suspect Mr Booth’s late occupation, he at least manifested considerable distrust of him. But he maintained his resolute bearing and would not budge an inch from his terms, though my friend tried to tempt him with alternative proposals, such as various percentages on the amount recovered, and finally, to my dismay, he commenced making deliberate offers to purchase the information for money down. He started with £100, and got as far as £200, then £300. Finally, he said:

  ‘Come, Mr Barrington. £350! It is the last time!’

  ‘No,’ said Barrington, resolutely, to my secret relief. ‘It is sign or nothing.’

  ‘Well, well, there’s no hurry, I suppose?’ said Mr Booth, who seemed amused. ‘The property won’t run away.’

  ‘It is in the hands of somebody who won’t keep it long. What’s more,’ added Barrington, with an angry gleam in his eyes, ‘if Mr Perkins won’t decide tonight I’ll sell my information to the other side.’

  At this I nudged my friend warningly under the table, for I had worked myself into a foolish state of nervous excitement. It had become quite evident to me, from Barrington’s refusal to be tempted by the large sums offered to him, that the money at stake was considerable, and I was fairly carried away by his resolute attitude.

  But Mr Booth took not the slightest notice of my hint, and merely said:

  ‘We will turn the matter over in our minds. Perhaps tomorrow I may be disposed to advise Mr Perkins to sign the document.’

  He was proceeding to take it up, when Barrington pounced upon it, tore it across with an emphatic gesture, and threw the pieces on the fire. They were caught in a lingering blaze and instantly consumed, while Barrington stood by buttoning up his coat.

  ‘Will you leave your address in case we wish to communicate with you?’ asked Mr Booth, innocently.

  At this Barrington laughed scoffingly, and made no answer.

  ‘Perhaps you would prefer a message in the first column of the Times,’ suggested Mr Booth, quite unmoved.

  ‘As you please,’ said Barrington indifferently.

  ‘Will you write a form of advertisement?’ said Mr Booth.

  ‘You can write, I’ll dictate,’ replied Barrington, with a glance of contempt.

  ‘Have you a slip of paper?’ enquired Mr Booth, a little sharply, as he felt in his own pocket.

  I hastened to feel in mine, but my friend kicked me under the table. Barrington, meanwhile, had instinctively commenced to unbutton his coat, but, desisting suddenly, he said with a sneer:

  ‘I have none.’

  Considering that the bulging of his coat plainly showed that his inner breast-pocket was full of letters, &c., it was obvious that his reply was untrue. However, Mr Booth only smiled, and said good-humouredly:

  ‘I’ll fetch some.’

  He walked quickly from the room, and when he had gone, Barrington immediately turned upon me.

  ‘Your friend isn’t so clever as he thinks. He is causing you to make a fool of yourself, Mr Perkins.’

  ‘I am satisfied to leave myself in his hands,’ I replied angrily.

  ‘Very well. Fortunately, you’ll never know what it has cost you,’ said Barrington, with a shrug.

  I did not respond, for I was not best pleased at the turn of events, and was afraid of showing it. During Mr Booth’s brief absence Barrington sat on the end of the table, frowning at the fire; he rose when my friend returned, and, strolling to the hearthrug, said sarcastically:

  ‘Shall I dictate the advertisement?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Mr Booth, placing a sheet of notepaper before him on the table and taking up a pen.

  ‘If you will put this in the first column of the Times any morning this week, I will call here at 9 o’clock on the evening of the same day, understanding that Mr Perkins will sign the document.’

  ‘Well?’ said Mr Booth, pen in hand.

  ‘Mr B admits that he is beaten,’ dictated Barrington, sneeringly.

  My friend grinned as he wrote this down, and then carefully blotted it.

  ‘The initial might mean either of us,’ he observed slyly.

  ‘You forget that Barrington isn’t my name,’ said the stranger, moving round the table to the door.

  ‘No, I shan’t forget,’ laughed Mr Booth.

  Our visitor, I could see, did not feel at all at his ease with my friend in spite of his pretended assurance, and without another word, except a muttered ‘Goodnight’, he strode from the room, and presently we heard the hall-door bang behind him.

  Mr Booth and I sat looking at one another for a few moments across the table, and, no doubt, my expression conveyed my sentiments of mingled disappointment and anxiety, for Mr Booth suddenly burst out laughing,

  ‘My dear fellow, don’t look so glum,’ he cried. ‘I wonder you can resist laughing. That is one of the cleverest young fellows I’ve ever met. I’ve been at him for half an hour, and yet I don’t know his name, his address, his handwriting, his occupation, his nationality – I haven’t succeeded in eliciting a solitary shred of a clue. I’m a much older hand than he is, too.’

  ‘I must confess I don’t think it is a laughing matter,’ I said ruefully. ‘What about the money?’

  ‘I’m firmly convinced, Perkins, that you are entitled to a fortune,’ he replied, evidently quite in earnest.

  ‘Good heavens! But where is it?’ I exclaimed, my natural feeling of elation struggling with misgivings.

  ‘I think it perfectly possible that, at present, he alone knows,’ replied Mr Booth, lighting another cigar.

  ‘And he has disappeared?’ I murmured.

  ‘Yes,’ he nodded.

  ‘I expect we shall have to insert the advertisement, after all,’ I said tentatively.

>   ‘What, this?’ he exclaimed, crushing up the slip of paper in his hand rather viciously, and jerking it into the fireplace. ‘I would almost sooner you lost your fortune, Perkins, than give that fellow such a triumph. No, no! It was only a little dodge of mine to get a scrap of his handwriting, if possible. I hoped, too, he might have given me an old envelope with an address upon it, to write upon.’

  ‘But he didn’t,’ I said shortly.

  ‘No, he was pretty cute – yet he is not so clever as he thinks,’ replied Mr Booth, unconsciously repeating Barrington’s words about him. ‘I set George to follow him.’

  ‘When you went out of the room?’

  ‘Yes; George is an intelligent lad. He may bring us some information; and now, old fellow, let us seriously consider your side of the question. Come up to my room and talk it over.’

  Mr Booth occupied one of the largest of the private apartments in the house, which, by the way, consisted, strictly speaking, of two houses communicating with one another. He had partly furnished it himself, and, by an ingenious contrivance of curtains, had practically divided it into a sitting-room and bedroom. The fireplace was in the former, and seated on a couple of comfortable armchairs in front of it, with a genial blaze leaping up the chimney, and the table spread with glasses and decanters from his private store, my friend and I settled down to a private confabulation.

  This consisted, mainly, of researches into my family history. I ransacked my memory to recall to mind all the relatives I had ever known or heard of, while Mr Booth laboriously constructed my pedigree on a slip of paper. Unfortunately, our occupation was not very encouraging in its results, for I was almost the only survivor of my own generation, and of my ancestors I could give but little information. I thought Mr Booth looked rather blue at the conclusion of our labours, though he said cheerfully:

  ‘One never can tell. Of course, that fellow may be on a false scent, but somehow I fancy he has found out something which we can’t at present. Come in!’

  The last words were uttered in response to a knock at the door, and the next moment the lad George presented himself, looking flushed and excited.

  ‘Well?’ queried Mr Booth.

  ‘Please, sir, I did as you told me. I slipped out and hired a hansom, and waited a few doors off till the party left this house,’ said George breathlessly. ‘He jumped on a passing ’bus and rode up to the end of Orchard Street.’

  ‘Did he notice you following in the hansom?’

  ‘No, sir… not then. He walked up Oxford Street to the Marble Arch. I got out of the cab, as you suggested, and hung on the step by the driver, who walked his horse as if he were plying for a fare.’

  ‘Good lad! Yes?’

  ‘The party took another ’bus at the Marble Arch, to the end of Hamilton Place.’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Then he strolled eastward along Piccadilly. I am afraid he twigged me then.’

  ‘Ah!’

  ‘Yes, sir, for he made a start into the roadway and jumped on a ’bus as quick as lightning, while I, as the traffic was blocked, followed on foot. It was lucky I did, for he suddenly slipped off the ’bus he was on and jumped upon the one in front.’

  ‘Lucky you saw him.’

  ‘Yes, sir, and being rather blown I got inside the same ’bus while he was mounting on the roof.’

  ‘Five shillings for that, George!’

  ‘Thank you, sir. Well, I kept a sharp look-out, and all of a sudden, just after we had passed the Egyptian ’All, I see’d him jump off.’

  ‘On which side of the road?’

  ‘Side he was agoing, sir; the left-hand side. I don’t think he knew I was in the ’bus, but he was precious quick. He turned up a turning and disappeared before you could say “knife”!’

  ‘You followed?’

  ‘Yes, sir, but only just in time. The turning wasn’t a street. There was a house at the end, with a flight of steps leading to it. I think they call it the Albany, sir?’

  ‘Quite right,’ said Mr Booth, with increased interest.

  ‘Well, sir, he said a word to the porter, and passed into the building along a sort of corridor. I followed, but the porter stopped me and asked my business. Well, of course I hadn’t got no business, nothing that I could tell. The porter wouldn’t let me go in; couldn’t persuade him anyhow, sir. I waited about for more than an hour, sir, but he never came out, so I returned.’

  ‘There is an entrance at the other end,’ observed Mr Booth, thoughtfully.

  ‘So I remembered afterwards, sir, and I didn’t think it worthwhile waiting any longer,’ said George, apologetically.

  ‘You did very well, George, and here is half-a-sovereign,’ said Mr Booth, producing the money.

  ‘Much obliged, sir, I’m sure, sir,’ said George, pocketing the coin with intense gratification at my friend’s commendation.

  ‘Sharp lad that,’ said Mr Booth, approvingly, when he had disappeared.

  ‘But nothing has come of it all,’ I exclaimed.

  ‘H’m. I’m not so sure it isn’t a clue. How did Barrington manage to get past the porter? He must have mentioned the name of someone in the building. It doesn’t follow, of course, that he called on anyone. Still, there is no knowing. Well, goodnight, Perkins,’ he added, suddenly rousing himself, after some minutes’ reflection, ‘I’m more hopeful than I was five minutes ago.’

  I took the hint and returned to my own room, somewhat cheered by my friend’s last words, but feeling, upon the whole, rather depressed than otherwise. My head was a little turned by the vague expectations which had been aroused by the mysterious Barrington; and I was possessed by a sort of feverish impatience which made me inclined to blame Mr Booth for his interference. I passed an almost sleepless night in building castles in the air on the very unsubstantial foundation of Barrington’s visit. But by slow degrees I became calmer; my common sense reasserted itself; the extreme improbability of an unexpected inheritance appealed to my sober judgment; and though I did not close my eyes till dawn, I awoke at the usual hour without a trace of my recent excitement. Nay, more, I can honestly assert that those short hours of mental disturbance had completely discounted the effect of any future development, however startling, and from that time forward I watched the progress of events with philosophical calmness, almost amounting to indifference.

  ‘Well, Perkins, what do you think about it all this morning?’ was my friend’s greeting when we met at breakfast.

  ‘I think it is all nonsense,’ I replied quietly. ‘And you?’

  ‘I agree. Nevertheless, as a mere matter of curiosity, I propose to make an enquiry of the porter at the Albany. Will you come?’

  So far from feeling disappointed at Mr Booth’s reply, I was disposed to regard the suggestion as a waste of time and energy. However, I did not wish to appear ungracious, and curiosity, if nothing stronger, caused me to acquiesce in his proposal. I was rather surprised to find that my friend seemed to regard the affair more seriously than he pretended, but even this discovery failed to render me the least enthusiastic.

  The porter at the Albany, a pompous individual in a red waistcoat, displayed a very defective memory at first, but the magical effect of five shillings was that he recalled the circumstance of the incident which George had recounted, and recognised Barrington by our description.

  ‘Why did you let him pass?’ enquired Mr Booth, when relations between us had been established on this friendly footing.

  ‘He said he had a message for Mr Halstead from his lawyers.’

  ‘Mr Halstead resides here then?’

  ‘Yes, last house but one.’

  ‘Did you notice whether he called there?’ enquired Mr Booth.

  ‘No, sir, I didn’t. The fact is that other impudent chap comes up at the moment and gives me a lot of his cheek. It was all I could do to turn him away.’

 
‘Is Mr Halstead at home now?’

  ‘I suppose so. He ain’t often out so early as this,’ said the porter, glancing at his watch.

  ‘I think my friend and I will call upon him,’ observed Mr Booth.

  The porter politely made way for us, and we strolled up the corridor while Mr Booth said:

  ‘I expect it was only a blind. Still, we will call, and enquire if Mr Halstead knows him. It is worthwhile.’

  On arriving at the house indicated, however, we learnt from Mr Halstead’s servant that his master was out of town; and further enquiry elicited the fact that no one answering to the description of Barrington had called the preceding evening. The valet, who seemed to be well informed about Mr Halstead’s affairs, and was evidently in his confidence, had never seen or heard of such a person.

  ‘Is he a wrong ’un, this Mr – what is his name – Barrington?’ enquired the valet.

  ‘That is just what I want to find out,’ replied Mr Booth cautiously. ‘He knows your master’s name, at all events. By the way, who are Mr Halstead’s lawyers?’

  ‘Messrs Talbot & Black, of Lincoln’s Inn Fields,’ said the man promptly.

  ‘Thanks,’ said Mr Booth, as we turned away. ‘Possibly he may be one of their clerks.’

  The valet, who, no doubt, imagined that we were a couple of detectives on the track of a malefactor, manifested his discretion by refraining from asking any further questions, and we walked away to the Vigo Street entrance of the Arcade.

  ‘It is quite clear he isn’t known there,’ said Mr Booth, thoughtfully. ‘I should like to find out how he got hold of Mr Halstead’s name, though I expect he only used it as a means of escaping through the Albany corridor. No doubt he was sharper than George imagined, and saw that he was being shadowed.’

  ‘Why did you ask the name of Mr Halstead’s solicitors?’ I enquired.

  ‘Because, although I don’t think that anything will come of it, we may as well call upon them,’ replied Mr Booth, hailing a passing hansom.

  A short drive, during which my companion sat silent and thoughtful, brought us to our destination, and, as neither of the principals had arrived, we had an interview with the managing clerk of the firm. I envied and admired the easy self-possession which my friend displayed in obtaining the information he required. Instead of appearing to ask a favour, he contrived, by his tact and pleasant manners, to convey an impression of conferring an obligation, and caused the cautious old head clerk to produce his snuff-box with a deferential air, and to become quite friendly and confidential.