‘No, sir, we have never heard of Mr Farquhar Barrington, as he calls himself,’ said the old gentleman. ‘We have never had a clerk of that name or answering his description during the fifty-two years I have been here.’
‘That is quite conclusive,’ said Mr Booth, smiling.
‘And you say that this individual is passing himself off as a member of our staff? Really, sir, I am indebted to you – my principals will be indebted to you – for your friendly warning. We will be on our guard, sir, we will be on our guard.’
Mr Booth accepted these expressions of thanks with becoming modesty, and by degrees drifted into an amicable conversation on general subjects until, to my surprise, the name of Mr Halstead was introduced. How it came about I really cannot exactly remember; I think my friend made a casual reference to somebody he knew, who had once lived in the Albany; and so, insensibly as it were, the old clerk was led to speak of the firm’s client.
Without manifesting any curiosity, and in the most natural way in the world, my friend became possessed of all the information he required about Mr Halstead. We learnt that he was an old bachelor, who had formerly been a clerk in one of the government offices; that he was eminently respectable, and fairly well off; that his family came from Leicestershire, and that there was no kind of mystery about him or his affairs.
‘Well, Perkins,’ said my friend quietly, as we parted on the pavement in front of Messrs Talbot & Black’s office, at the conclusion of our visit, ‘I think we need not pursue the matter any further; it is a false scent.’
‘Then what is to be done?’ I asked.
‘We must consider. Barrington must be unearthed. Anyhow, we’ve got a week,’ said Mr Booth, hopefully, in allusion to the period of grace so contemptuously accorded.
But during this interval, which quickly slipped by, I began to observe in my friend signs of gloomy irritation. He said very little to me about what he was doing, and, as I felt convinced that he was making unremitting efforts on my behalf, I forbore to question him. Curiously enough, as time went on, I felt much more concerned on his account than on my own. It would be affectation to pretend that I did not experience some disappointment as I instinctively realised the failure of his attempts to discover my mysterious visitor, but it grieved me to see how he took the matter to heart, and I dreaded to think of his bitter humiliation at having to confess himself baffled.
However, the apparently inevitable moment arrived, and one morning he came up to me after breakfast, and silently handed me a slip of paper.
‘What is this?’ I enquired nervously, knowing full well.
‘Tomorrow is the last day. That young fellow is too clever for me,’ he replied quietly.
‘You advise me to insert the advertisement and to sign the bond?’ I said.
‘I dare not advise the contrary. Mind you, I think, in course of time, I might find everything out. But it is a hard nut to crack. At present I have been able to do nothing.’
He turned aside as he spoke, with such an air of dejection and annoyance that I made, on the spot, a reckless resolve. Of course, I was influenced in some measure by his suggestion that he only needed time; but at the moment I felt in a mood to hazard everything rather than cause my friend pain.
My first impulse was simply not to insert the advertisement; but, on second thoughts, a better plan occurred to me. I took up a pen, and on a fresh slip of paper I wrote the words:
‘Mr Barrington is informed that he is beaten.’
It was a mere piece of harmless bravado, designed to gratify my friend rather than to cause annoyance to his adversary. Still, I could not help chuckling at Mr Barrington’s mystification when he beheld it, and I experienced quite a thrill of gleeful satisfaction when I handed the message across the desk at the Times office.
I kept my secret from Mr Booth, and next morning I watched with considerable amusement to see the effect upon him of my little manoeuvre. He was very late down – I think purposely – and when he arrived he distinctly avoided opening his private copy of the Times, which lay by the side of his plate. But at length, catching my eye, he unfolded the sheet with a studied air of indifference. I saw him glance at the ‘agony’ column, and then give a start of surprise, while his bald forehead grew rosy over the top of the page. The next moment he jumped up from his seat with a beaming countenance, and came round to the back of my chair.
‘You old ass,’ he murmured in my ear, giving me at the same time a friendly dig in the ribs.
After which little ebullition of feeling, he resumed his place at the table, and went on with his breakfast as though nothing had happened. For my part, between satisfaction at the evident gratification which I had caused him and an Englishman’s nervous dread of being thanked, I made haste to despatch my meal, and hurried off to the office without giving him an opportunity of speaking to me.
I was in unaccountably good spirits all that day and felt rather relieved that my duties kept me mostly out of doors. I sometimes had a good deal of running about to do, and it happened that it was my turn to go the round of the various branches, so that I had little leisure to reflect upon the possible consequences of the step I had taken. I did not get back to my desk till after the doors of the establishment had been closed to the general public; and I then learnt that a lad had called during the afternoon with a note for me, but that, just before closing time, he had returned and asked to have the note handed back to him on the ground that, owing to my continued absence, it was now useless. I was annoyed to find that this request had been complied with, so that I had absolutely no idea who my correspondent was.
I naturally associated this rather mysterious incident with my advertisement in the day’s Times, and hastened back to Elvira House as soon as I could to tell my friend about it.
George opened the door to me in a state of suppressed excitement, and after briefly saying, in answer to my enquiry, that Mr Booth had not yet returned, he blurted out:
‘That there party is here, sir! I showed him in the smoking-room, as he said he would wait for you.’
‘Did he ask for me?’ I enquired, considerably startled.
‘No, sir, he asked for Mr Booth first, and it’s my belief he wouldn’t have come in if I hadn’t told him Mr Booth wasn’t coming back tonight,’ said George with a wink.
I felt exceedingly uncomfortable, for without my friend at my elbow I did not know what on earth I should say to my visitor. From Mr Booth’s opinion of the fellow, I knew that I was no match for him in cunning, and, with regard to the bond, I should have considered it an act of disloyalty to have signed it behind my friend’s back.
However, there was nothing to be done but to face the man, so, bidding George to warn Mr Booth if he returned before my visitor left, I hung up my greatcoat and hat in the hall, and walked into the smoking-room.
Barrington was standing on the hearth-rug with his back to the fire, looking much more prosperous than at our first interview. He was neatly dressed in a stout suit of blue serge, and on the table lay a brand new cloth-cap of the same material. He looked as though he were on the eve of a journey, and carried a railway rug across his arm.
‘Ah! Mr Perkins,’ he exclaimed, impatiently, as I entered. ‘I sent a note to your office, but you were out.’
‘You saw the advertisement, I suppose,’ I said, taking the bull by the horns.
‘Yes. I’m glad to find that you can do without me,’ he replied, looking at me keenly.
‘Thanks to my friend, Mr Booth,’ I observed, as calmly as I could.
‘He has found out everything, has he?’ enquired Barrington, rather nervously.
‘May I enquire,’ I said, stiffly, feeling unpleasantly conscious that the tell-tale blush was mounting to my cheeks, ‘the object of your visit?’
‘I am going abroad, and my train starts for Southampton in an hour,’ he said, still looking hard at me. ‘I am afra
id I must admit that I called simply out of curiosity.’
‘You don’t want me to sign that precious document then?’ I said, hastily, to conceal my dismay at the news of his departure from England.
‘Oh, no! It is too late. I made you a fair offer, Mr Perkins. I have sold my secret to somebody else,’ he replied, gravely.
‘You scoundrel!’ I exclaimed, exasperated by his coolness.
‘Strong language, Mr Perkins, won’t disguise the fact that, as I expected, your advertisement was bounce,’ he replied, in a tone of such evident satisfaction that I felt doubly annoyed with myself.
‘How about Mr Halstead?’ I exclaimed in desperation.
‘Mr Halstead!’ he repeated, pausing with an air of bewilderment in the act of taking up his hat from the table. ‘Oh! You mean the old gentleman who lives in the Albany,’ he added, after a few moments of puzzled reflection.
‘Yes,’ I said sullenly, perceiving that my chance shot had missed its mark.
‘Ha! ha! ha!’ he laughed boisterously. ‘So that is the extent of Mr Booth’s wonderful discoveries! Will you present my compliments to your friend and say that I knew that I was being followed that night. If I could spare the time I should like to see him to congratulate him upon his triumph.’
He took a step towards the door as he spoke, but before he could reach it I rushed forward and, with a desperate movement, turned the key. My action was so totally unexpected that Barrington at first looked simply amazed, while for my part, I was so carried away by excitement and anger at the thought of his quitting the country with his undisclosed secret that I had yielded to a desperate and unreasoning impulse.
‘Mr Perkins! What does this mean?’ exclaimed Barrington, quickly and sternly, when he realised the situation.
‘You must wait to see Mr Booth,’ I gasped, as I slipped the key into my pocket.
‘I understood Mr Booth was out of town,’ he said, in a startled tone.
‘He will be back in time for dinner,’ I answered.
‘Open that door immediately,’ cried Barrington, in a peremptory tone.
‘Not until –’
‘Mr Perkins, open that door, or –’
He did not conclude his sentence, but, with a determined air, produced suddenly a formidable revolver and levelled it straight at my head. I wish I could record that I displayed courage and firmness in this startling emergency. I am afraid I must admit that, on the contrary, I behaved with absolute pusillanimity. I endeavoured to convince myself that my assailant would not dare to carry out his threat, but it is not easy to reason calmly with the gleaming barrel of a revolver dazzling one’s eyes and understanding, and Barrington’s aspect was that of a desperate man. After a brief moment of hesitation, I sulkily threw the key on the table, and stepped out of range, while my visitor picked it up and, transferring the offensive weapon to his left hand, proceeded to unlock the door, keeping his eyes fixed, half sternly and half jeeringly, upon me.
We were both of us too much preoccupied, I suppose, in watching one another, to notice the sound of an approaching footstep in the hall outside; at all events it would be difficult to say which was the more startled – though with widely different emotions – when, the instant Barrington had turned the key, the door was quietly opened from the outside and Mr Booth, still wearing his hat and overcoat, quietly entered the room.
He appeared to take in the situation at a glance, and, before Barrington could recover from his surprise, closed the door behind him and stood with his back against it.
‘You had better put that thing away,’ he said, addressing my companion, referring contemptuously to the revolver.
‘I’m in a hurry,’ said Barrington, taking a step forward.
‘You were thinking of starting on a journey?’ enquired Mr Booth, blandly.
‘Abroad,’ I interposed, significantly.
‘Will you be good enough to ring the bell, Perkins?’ said Mr Booth.
‘Stop!’ exclaimed Barrington, as I was proceeding mechanically to obey. ‘What for?’ he added, turning fiercely upon my friend.
‘I propose to give you in charge for threatening Mr Perkins – and also myself – with a revolver,’ said Mr Booth, smiling at the fellow’s manifest discomfiture. ‘What the ultimate result may be I can’t say, but you will pass this night, at all events, in a police cell.’
‘What is the object of this tomfoolery?’ cried Barrington, angrily.
‘That’s my affair, but I can guarantee this much – that in twelve hours from now, you being safe under lock and key, I shall, with the assistance of the police, have discovered everything I wish to know – your name, your recent address, your present destination, the persons you have been in communication with, the nature of your business with them – in a word, everything.’
‘You know nothing at present, at all events,’ said Barrington, with an attempted sneer, though he could not disguise his consternation at my friend’s words.
‘You are going to tell me a good deal,’ said Mr Booth, grinning with satisfaction, ‘unless the prospect of having to put off your journey will not inconvenience you.’
‘I was a d----d fool to come here,’ exclaimed Barrington, half involuntarily.
‘Oh, no. You needn’t blame yourself too much,’ said Mr Booth, condescendingly, ‘you naturally wished to find out what the advertisement meant. You feared the money which is to be paid to you by certain parties might have been withheld at the last moment if everything had been discovered.’
‘That is right enough,’ replied Barrington, who seemed somewhat relieved by my friend’s altered manner.
‘Now the question is,’ said Mr Booth, strolling from the door to the fireplace, a circumstance of which our visitor showed no disposition to take advantage in his evident perplexity, ‘will it suit you better to be detained in a police cell for a night, and run the risk of getting nothing after all, or to be allowed to proceed on your journey with – say – twenty-four hours’ grace?’
‘Confound you! You’ve won after all!’ exclaimed Mr Barrington, after an agitated silence, smiling in spite of his vexation.
‘You see, you are in a cleft stick!’ laughed Mr Booth, gleefully.
‘Well, I suppose I must accept your terms,’ said Barrington, hastily producing a well-filled pocket-book and extracting an advertisement cut from a newspaper, ‘you must have discovered this for yourself, you know. I’ve told you nothing.’
‘Not a word,’ said Mr Booth gravely. ‘Is this right, Perkins?’ he enquired, passing on the newspaper cutting to me, after glancing at it.
‘Yes!’ I exclaimed excitedly, a moment later. ‘Henry Eustace Barker was my father’s first cousin. He went to Australia many years ago, and – well, to tell the truth, I had forgotten all about him.’
‘Then we need not detain Mr Barrington,’ said Mr Booth, bowing ironically.
* * * * * *
I have terminated the story at this point because I have no desire to weary my readers by detailing the legal formalities which resulted in my successfully establishing my claim as heir-at-law of my father’s cousin. Mr Booth acted throughout as a zealous and shrewd adviser, and it was chiefly owing to his assistance that I recovered the greater part of the property. It turned out that Barrington – whose real name I charitably refrain from mentioning – had been a clerk in the office of the firm of solicitors who had some years previously inserted the advertisement which had escaped my notice at the time. How he discovered me was never clearly ascertained, for I am pleased to say that my existence was never suspected either by the solicitors referred to or by the distant relative who wrongfully inherited the fortune. It was this circumstance which caused me to overlook my relative’s weakness in having yielded to temptation by purchasing Barrington’s silence for a very large sum after the latter had revealed to him that I – the real heir – was still living. It i
s an episode in my family history which I prefer not to dwell upon. Suffice it to say, that I recouped him this outlay, and agreed to a compromise which did not leave him penniless; while, on the other hand, I became possessed of a handsome competence, which enabled me to retire from the office, and to present the capital sum I became entitled to in lieu of a pension, to the Monarchy Clerks’ Benevolent Fund.
MAX CARRADOS
Created by Ernest Bramah (1868-1942)
Ernest Brammah Smith, whose writings all appeared under the name Ernest Bramah, began his working life as a farmer. Indeed, his first published book was about farming but he soon realised that a life on the land was not for him. He took a job as secretary to the humourist Jerome K Jerome and worked as an editor on several magazines before his own writing career took off. Bramah wrote in a variety of styles and genres. During his lifetime, his best-known creation was probably Kai Lung, an itinerant storyteller in Ancient China whose tales, sometimes fantastical in nature, were collected in volumes published over a forty-year period. (The Kai Lung stories are rarely read today and they are undoubtedly dated, although they have had some unlikely admirers, including Jorge Luis Borges.) Bramah’s one science fiction novel, What Might Have Been, a work of alternate history, was published in 1907. A later edition was reviewed by George Orwell and some critics have claimed it as an influence on Nineteen Eighty-Four. Bramah’s blind detective Max Carrados first appeared in a volume of short stories published in 1914. Carrados is not the only blind detective from that era – the American writer Clinton Stagg created Thornley Colton at about the same date – but he is much the most interesting. Some of Carrados’s abilities (he can read fine print by touch alone and shoot accurately at targets he cannot see) verge on the supernatural but, in other ways, he is a sympathetic and down-to-earth character. Like his creator, he was a numismatist and coins have a part to play in several of his adventures. All of them are well written and remain worth reading.
More Rivals of Sherlock Holmes Page 3