Hewitt pushed open the front gate and rang the door-bell. “There are some shops to let, I see,” he said, when a maid appeared. “I should like to see them, if you will let me have the key.”
“Master’s out, sir. You can’t see the shops till Monday.”
“Dear me, that’s unfortunate, I’m afraid I can’t wait till Monday. Didn’t Mr. Danby leave any instructions, in case anybody should inquire?”
“Yes, sir—as I’ve told you. He said anybody who called about ’em must come again on Monday.”
“Oh, very well, then; I suppose I must try. One of the shops is in High Street, isn’t it?”
“No, sir; they’re all in the new part—Granville Road.”
“Ah, I’m afraid that will scarcely do. But I’ll see. Good-day.”
Martin Hewitt walked away a couple of streets’ lengths before he inquired the way to Granville Road. When at last he found that thoroughfare, in a new and muddy suburb, crowded with brick-heaps and half-finished streets, he took a slow walk along its entire length. It was a melancholy example of baffled enterprise. A row of a dozen or more shops had been built before any population had arrived to demand goods. Would-be tradesmen had taken many of these shops, and failure and disappointment stared from the windows. Some were half covered by shutters, because the scanty stock scarce sufficed to fill the remaining half. Others were shut almost altogether, the inmates only keeping open the door for their own convenience, and, perhaps, keeping down a shutter for the sake of a little light. Others, again, had not yet fallen so low, but struggled bravely still to maintain a show of business and prosperity, with very little success. Opposite the shops there still remained a dusty, ill-treated hedge and a forlorn-looking field, which an old board offered on building leases. Altogether a most depressing spot.
There was little difficulty in identifying the three shops offered for letting by Mr. H. Danby. They were all together near the middle of the row, and were the only ones that appeared not yet to have been occupied. A dusty “To Let” bill hung in each window, with written directions to inquire of Mr. H. Danby or at No. 7. Now No. 7 was a melancholy baker’s shop, with a stock of three loaves and a plate of stale buns. The disappointed baker assured Hewitt that he usually kept the keys of the shops, but that the landlord, Mr. Danby, had taken them away the day before to see how the ceilings were standing, and had not returned them. “But if you was thinking of taking a shop here,” the poor baker added, with some hesitation, “I—I—if you’ll excuse my advising you—I shouldn’t recommend it. I’ve had a sickener of it myself.”
Hewitt thanked the baker for his advice, wished him better luck in future, and left. To the Hare and Hounds his pace was brisk. “Come,” he said, as he met Kentish’s inquiring glance, “this has been a very good day, on the whole. I know where our man is now, and I think we can get him, by a little management.”
“Where is he?”
“Oh, down in Padfield. As a matter of fact, he’s being kept there against his will, we shall find. I see that your friend Mr. Danby is a builder as well as a bookmaker.”
“Not a regular builder. He speculates in a street of new houses now and again, that’s all. But is he in it?”
“He’s as deep in it as anybody, I think. Now, don’t fly into a passion. There are a few others in it as well, but you’ll do harm if you don’t keep quiet.”
“But go and get the police; come and fetch him, if you know where they’re keeping him. Why—”
“So we will, if we can’t do it without them. But it’s quite possible we can, and without all the disturbance and, perhaps, delay that calling in the police would involve. Consider, now, in reference to your own arrangements. Wouldn’t it pay you better to get him back quietly, without a soul knowing—perhaps not even Danby knowing—till the heat is run tomorrow?”
“Well, yes, it would, of course.”
“Very good, then, so be it. Remember what I have told you about keeping your mouth shut; say nothing to Steggles or anybody. Is there a cab or brougham your son and I can have for the evening?”
“There’s an old hiring landau in the stables you can shut up into a cab, if that’ll do.”
“Excellent. We’ll run down to the town in it as soon as it’s ready. But, first, a word about Crockett. What sort of a lad is he? Likely to give them trouble, show fight, and make a disturbance?”
“No, I should say not. He’s no plucked un, certainly; all his manhood’s in his legs, I believe. You see, he ain’t a big sort o’ chap at best, and he’d be pretty easy put upon—at least, I guess so.”
“Very good, so much the better, for then he won’t have been damaged, and they will probably only have one man to guard him. Now the carriage, please.”
Young Kentish was a six-foot sergeant of grenadiers home on furlough, and luxuriating in plain clothes. He and Hewitt walked a little way toward the town, allowing the landau to catch them up. They traveled in it to within a hundred yards of the empty shops and then alighted, bidding the driver wait.
“I shall show you three empty shops,” Hewitt said, as he and young Kentish walked down Granville Road. “I am pretty sure that Sammy Crockett is in one of them, and I am pretty sure that that is the middle one. Take a look as we go past.”
When the shops had been slowly passed, Hewitt resumed: “Now, did you see anything about those shops that told a tale of any sort?”
“No,” Sergeant Kentish replied. “I can’t say I noticed anything beyond the fact that they were empty—and likely to stay so, I should think.”
“We’ll stroll back, and look in at the windows, if nobody’s watching us,” Hewitt said. “You see, it’s reasonable to suppose they’ve put him in the middle one, because that would suit their purpose best. The shops at each side of the three are occupied, and, if the prisoner struggled, or shouted, or made an uproar, he might be heard if he were in one of the shops next those inhabited. So that the middle shop is the most likely. Now, see there,” he went on, as they stopped before the window of the shop in question, “over at the back there’s a staircase not yet partitioned off. It goes down below and up above. On the stairs and on the floor near them there are muddy footmarks. These must have been made today, else they would not be muddy, but dry and dusty, since there hasn’t been a shower for a week till today. Move on again. Then you noticed that there were no other such marks in the shop. Consequently the man with the muddy feet did not come in by the front door, but by the back; otherwise he would have made a trail from the door. So we will go round to the back ourselves.”
It was now growing dusk. The small pieces of ground behind the shops were bounded by a low fence, containing a door for each house.
“This door is bolted inside, of course,” Hewitt said, “but there is no difficulty in climbing. I think we had better wait in the garden till dark. In the meantime, the jailer, whoever he is, may come out; in which case we shall pounce on him as soon as he opens the door. You have that few yards of cord in your pocket, I think? And my handkerchief, properly rolled, will make a very good gag. Now over.”
They climbed the fence and quietly approached the house, placing themselves in the angle of an outhouse out of sight from the windows. There was no sound, and no light appeared. Just above the ground about a foot of window was visible, with a grating over it, apparently lighting a basement. Suddenly Hewitt touched his companion’s arm and pointed toward the window. A faint rustling sound was perceptible, and, as nearly as could be discerned in the darkness, some white blind or covering was placed over the glass from the inside. Then came the sound of a striking match, and at the side edge of the window there was a faint streak of light.
“That’s the place,” Hewitt whispered. “Come, we’ll make a push for it. You stand against the wall at one side of the door and I’ll stand at the other, and we’ll have him as he comes out. Quietly, now, and I’ll startle them.”
He
took a stone from among the rubbish littering the garden and flung it crashing through the window. There was a loud exclamation from within, the blind fell, and somebody rushed to the back door and flung it open. Instantly Kentish let fly a heavy right-hander, and the man went over like a skittle. In a moment Hewitt was upon him and the gag in his mouth.
“Hold him,” Hewitt whispered, hurriedly. “I’ll see if there are others.”
He peered down through the low window. Within Sammy Crockett, his bare legs dangling from beneath his long overcoat, sat on a packing-box, leaning with his head on his hand and his back toward the window. A guttering candle stood on the mantel-piece, and the newspaper which had been stretched across the window lay in scattered sheets on the floor. No other person besides Sammy was visible.
They led their prisoner indoors. Young Kentish recognized him as a public-house loafer and race-course ruffian, well known in the neighborhood.
“So it’s you, is it, Browdie?” he said. “I’ve caught you one hard clump, and I’ve half a mind to make it a score more. But you’ll get it pretty warm one way or another before this job’s forgotten.”
Sammy Crockett was overjoyed at his rescue. He had not been ill-treated, he explained, but had been thoroughly cowed by Browdie, who had from time to time threatened him savagely with an iron bar by way of persuading him to quietness and submission. He had been fed, and had taken no worse harm than a slight stiffness from his adventure, due to his light under-attire of jersey and knee-shorts.
Sergeant Kentish tied Browdie’s elbows firmly together behind, and carried the line round the ankles, bracing all up tight. Then he ran a knot from one wrist to the other over the back of the neck, and left the prisoner, trussed and helpless, on the heap of straw that had been Sammy’s bed.
“You won’t be very jolly, I expect,” Kentish said, “for some time. You can’t shout and you can’t walk, and I know you can’t untie yourself. You’ll get a bit hungry, too, perhaps, but that’ll give you an appetite. I don’t suppose you’ll be disturbed till some time tomorrow, unless our friend Danby turns up in the meantime. But you can come along to jail instead, if you prefer it.”
They left him where he lay, and took Sammy to the old landau. Sammy walked in slippers, carrying his spiked shoes, hanging by the lace, in his hand.
“Ah,” said Hewitt, “I think I know the name of the young lady who gave you those slippers.”
Crockett looked ashamed and indignant. “Yes,” he said, “they’ve done me nicely between ’em. But I’ll pay her—I’ll—”
“Hush, hush!” Hewitt said; “you mustn’t talk unkindly of a lady, you know. Get into this carriage, and we’ll take you home. We’ll see if I can tell you your adventures without making a mistake. First, you had a note from Miss Webb, telling you that you were mistaken in supposing she had slighted you, and that, as a matter of fact, she had quite done with somebody else—left him—of whom you were jealous. Isn’t that so?”
“Well, yes,” young Crockett answered, blushing deeply under the carriage-lamp; “but I don’t see how you come to know that.”
“Then she went on to ask you to get rid of Steggles on Thursday afternoon for a few minutes, and speak to her in the back lane. Now, your running pumps, with their thin soles, almost like paper, no heels and long spikes, hurt your feet horribly if you walk on hard ground, don’t they?”
“Ay, that they do—enough to cripple you. I’d never go on much hard ground with ’em.”
“They’re not like cricket shoes, I see.”
“Not a bit. Cricket shoes you can walk anywhere in!”
“Well, she knew this—I think I know who told her—and she promised to bring you a new pair of slippers, and to throw them over the fence for you to come out in.”
“I s’pose she’s been tellin’ you all this?” Crockett said, mournfully. “You couldn’t ha’ seen the letter; I saw her tear it up and put the bits in her pocket. She asked me for it in the lane, in case Steggles saw it.”
“Well, at any rate, you sent Steggles away, and the slippers did come over, and you went into the lane. You walked with her as far as the road at the end, and then you were seized and gagged, and put into a carriage.”
“That was Browdie did that,” said Crockett, “and another chap I don’t know. But—why, this is Padfield High Street?” He looked through the window and regarded the familiar shops with astonishment.
“Of course it is. Where did you think it was?”
“Why, where was that place you found me in?”
“Granville Road, Padfield. I suppose they told you you were in another town?”
“Told me it was Newstead Hatch. They drove for about three or four hours, and kept me down on the floor between the seats so as I couldn’t see where we was going.”
“Done for two reasons,” said Hewitt. “First, to mystify you, and prevent any discovery of the people directing the conspiracy; and second, to be able to put you indoors at night and unobserved. Well, I think I have told you all you know yourself now as far as the carriage.
“But there is the Hare and Hounds just in front. We’ll pull up here, and I’ll get out and see if the coast is clear. I fancy Mr. Kentish would rather you came in unnoticed.”
In a few seconds Hewitt was back, and Crockett was conveyed indoors by a side entrance. Hewitt’s instructions to the landlord were few, but emphatic. “Don’t tell Steggles about it,” he said; “make an excuse to get rid of him, and send him out of the house. Take Crockett into some other bedroom, not his own, and let your son look after him. Then come here, and I’ll tell you all about it.”
Sammy Crockett was undergoing a heavy grooming with white embrocation at the hands of Sergeant Kentish when the landlord returned to Hewitt. “Does Danby know you’ve got him?” he asked. “How did you do it?”
“Danby doesn’t know yet, and with luck he won’t know till he sees Crockett running tomorrow. The man who has sold you is Steggles.”
“Steggles?”
“Steggles it is. At the very first, when Steggles rushed in to report Sammy Crockett missing, I suspected him. You didn’t, I suppose?”
“No. He’s always been considered a straight man, and he looked as startled as anybody.”
“Yes, I must say he acted it very well. But there was something suspicious in his story. What did he say? Crockett had remarked a chilliness, and asked for a sweater, which Steggles went to fetch. Now, just think. You understand these things. Would any trainer who knew his business (as Steggles does) have gone to bring out a sweater for his man to change for his jersey in the open air, at the very time the man was complaining of chilliness? Of course not. He would have taken his man indoors again and let him change there under shelter. Then supposing Steggles had really been surprised at missing Crockett, wouldn’t he have looked about, found the gate open, and told you it was open when he first came in? He said nothing of that—we found the gate open for ourselves. So that from the beginning I had a certain opinion of Steggles.”
“What you say seems pretty plain now, although it didn’t strike me at the time. But, if Steggles was selling us, why couldn’t he have drugged the lad? That would have been a deal simpler.”
“Because Steggles is a good trainer, and has a certain reputation to keep up. It would have done him no good to have had a runner drugged while under his care; certainly it would have cooked his goose with you. It was much the safer thing to connive at kidnapping. That put all the active work into other hands, and left him safe, even if the trick failed. Now, you remember that we traced the prints of Crockett’s spiked shoes to within a couple of yards from the fence, and that there they ceased suddenly?”
“Yes. You said it looked as though he had flown up into the air; and so it did.”
“But I was sure that it was by that gate that Crockett had left, and by no other. He couldn’t have got through the house without bei
ng seen, and there was no other way—let alone the evidence of the unbolted gate. Therefore, as the footprints ceased where they did, and were not repeated anywhere in the lane, I knew that he had taken his spiked shoes off—probably changed them for something else, because a runner anxious as to his chances would never risk walking on bare feet, with a chance of cutting them. Ordinary, broad, smooth-soled slippers would leave no impression on the coarse cinders bordering the track, and nothing short of spiked shoes would leave a mark on the hard path in the lane behind. The spike-tracks were leading, not directly toward the door, but in the direction of the fence, when they stopped; somebody had handed, or thrown, the slippers over the fence, and he had changed them on the spot. The enemy had calculated upon the spikes leaving a track in the lane that might lead us in our search, and had arranged accordingly.
“So far so good. I could see no footprints near the gate in the lane. You will remember that I sent Steggles off to watch at the Cop before I went out to the back—merely, of course, to get him out of the way. I went out into the lane, leaving you behind, and walked its whole length, first toward the Old Kilns and then back toward the road. I found nothing to help me except these small pieces of paper—which are here in my pocket-book, by the by. Of course this ‘mmy’ might have meant ‘Jimmy’ or ‘Tommy’ as possibly as ‘Sammy,’ but they were not to be rejected on that account. Certainly Crockett had been decoyed out of your ground, not taken by force, or there would have been marks of a scuffle in the cinders. And as his request for a sweater was probably an excuse—because it was not at all a cold afternoon—he must have previously designed going out. Inference, a letter received; and here were pieces of a letter. Now, in the light of what I have said, look at these pieces. First, there is the ‘mmy’—that I have dealt with. Then see this ‘throw them ov’—clearly a part of ‘throw them over’; exactly what had probably been done with the slippers. Then the ‘poor f,’ coming just on the line before, and seen, by joining up with this other piece, might easily be a reference to ‘poor feet.’ These coincidences, one on the other, went far to establish the identity of the letter, and to confirm my previous impressions. But then there is something else. Two other pieces evidently mean ‘left him,’ and ‘right away,’ perhaps; but there is another, containing almost all of the words ‘hate his,’ with the word ‘hate’ underlined. Now, who writes ‘hate’ with the emphasis of underscoring—who but a woman? The writing is large and not very regular; it might easily be that of a half-educated woman. Here was something more—Sammy had been enticed away by a woman.
The Arthur Morrison Mystery Page 24