The Arthur Morrison Mystery

by Arthur Morrison

  By this acquaintance with their habits and talk Hewitt was sometimes able to render efficient service in cases of especial importance. In the Quinton jewel affair Hewitt came into contact with a very accomplished thief.

  The case will probably be very well remembered. Sir Valentine Quinton, before he married, had been as poor as only a man of rank with an old country establishment to keep up can be. His marriage, however, with the daughter of a wealthy financier had changed all that, and now the Quinton establishment was carried on on as lavish a scale as might be; and, indeed, the extravagant habits of Lady Quinton herself rendered it an extremely lucky thing that she had brought a fortune with her.

  Among other things her jewels made quite a collection, and chief among them was the great ruby, one of the very few that were sent to this country to be sold (at an average price of somewhere about twenty thousand pounds apiece, I believe) by the Burmese king before the annexation of his country. Let but a ruby be of a great size and color, and no equally fine diamond can approach its value. Well, this great ruby (which was set in a pendant, by the by), together with a necklace, brooches, bracelets, ear-rings—indeed, the greater part of Lady Quinton’s collection—were stolen. The robbery was effected at the usual time and in the usual way in cases of carefully planned jewelry robberies. The time was early evening—dinner-time, in fact—and an entrance had been made by the window to Lady Quinton’s dressing-room, the door screwed up on the inside, and wires artfully stretched about the grounds below to overset anybody who might observe and pursue the thieves.

  On an investigation by London detectives, however, a feature of singularity was brought to light. There had plainly been only one thief at work at Radcot Hall, and no other had been inside the grounds. Alone he had planted the wires, opened the window, screwed the door, and picked the lock of the safe. Clearly this was a thief of the most accomplished description.

  Some few days passed, and, although the police had made various arrests, they appeared to be all mistakes, and the suspected persons were released one after another. I was talking of the robbery with Hewitt at lunch, and asked him if he had received any commission to hunt for the missing jewels.

  “No,” Hewitt replied, “I haven’t been commissioned. They are offering an immense reward however—a very pleasant sum, indeed. I have had a short note from Radcot Hall informing me of the amount, and that’s all. Probably they fancy that I may take the case up as a speculation, but that is a great mistake. I’m not a beginner, and I must be commissioned in a regular manner, hit or miss, if I am to deal with the case. I’ve quite enough commissions going now, and no time to waste hunting for a problematical reward.”

  But we were nearer a clue to the Quinton jewels than we then supposed.

  We talked of other things, and presently rose and left the restaurant, strolling quietly toward home. Some little distance from the Strand, and near our own door, we passed an excited Irishman—without doubt an Irishman by appearance and talk—who was pouring a torrent of angry complaints in the ears of a policeman. The policeman obviously thought little of the man’s grievances, and with an amused smile appeared to be advising him to go home quietly and think no more about it. We passed on and mounted our stairs. Something interesting in our conversation made me stop for a little while at Hewitt’s office door on my way up, and, while I stood there, the Irishman we had seen in the street mounted the stairs. He was a poorly dressed but sturdy-looking fellow, apparently a laborer, in a badly-worn best suit of clothes. His agitation still held him, and without a pause he immediately burst out:

  “Which of ye jintlemen will be Misther Hewitt, sor?”

  “This is Mr. Hewitt,” I said. “Do you want him?”

  “It’s protecshin I want, sor—protecshin! I spake to the polis, an’ they laff at me, begob. Foive days have I lived in London, an’ ’tis nothin’ but battle, murdher, an’ suddhen death for me here all day an’ ivery day! An’ the polis say I’m dhrunk!”

  He gesticulated wildly, and to me it seemed just possible that the police might be right.

  “They say I’m drunk, sor,” he continued, “but, begob, I b’lieve they think I’m mad. An’ me being thracked an’ folleyed an’ dogged an’ waylaid an’ poisoned an’ blandandhered an’ kidnapped an’ murdhered, an’ for why I do not know!”

  “And who’s doing all this?’

  “Sthrangers, sor—sthrangers. ’Tis a sthranger here I am mesilf, an’ fwy they do it bates me, onless I do be so like the Prince av Wales or other crowned head they thry to slaughter me. They’re layin’ for me in the sthreet now, I misdoubt not, and fwat they may thry next I can tell no more than the Lord Mayor. An’ the polis won’t listen to me!”

  This, I thought, must be one of the very common cases of mental hallucination which one hears of every day—the belief of the sufferer that he is surrounded by enemies and followed by spies. It is probably the most usual delusion of the harmless lunatic.

  “But what have these people done?” Hewitt asked, looking rather interested, although amused. “What actual assaults have they committed, and when? And who told you to come here?”

  “Who towld me, is ut? Who but the payler outside—in the street below! I explained to ’um, an’ sez he: ‘Ah, you go an’ take a slape,’ sez he; ‘you go an’ take a good slape, an’ they’ll be all gone whin ye wake up.’ ‘But they’ll murdher me,’ sez I. ‘Oh, no!’ sez he, smilin’ behind av his ugly face. ‘Oh, no, they won’t; you take ut aisy, me frind, an’ go home!’ ‘Take it aisy, is ut, an’ go home!’ sez I; ‘why, that’s just where they’ve been last, a-ruinationin’ an’ a-turnin’ av the place upside down, an’ me strook on the head onsensible a mile away. Take ut aisy, is ut, ye say, whin all the demons in this unholy place is jumpin’ on me every minut in places promiscuous till I can’t tell where to turn, descendin’ an’ vanishin’ marvelious an’ onaccountable? Take ut aisy, is ut?’ sez I. ‘Well, me frind,’ sez he, ‘I can’t help ye; that’s the marvelious an’ onaccountable departmint up the stairs forninst ye. Misther Hewitt ut is,’ sez he, ‘that attinds to the onaccountable departmint, him as wint by a minut ago. You go an’ bother him.’ That’s how I was towld, sor.”

  Hewitt smiled.

  “Very good,” he said; “and now what are these extraordinary troubles of yours? Don’t declaim,” he added, as the Irishman raised his hand and opened his mouth, preparatory to another torrent of complaint; “just say in ten words, if you can, what they’ve done to you.”

  “I will, sor. Wan day had I been in London, sor—wan day only, an’ a low scutt thried to poison me dhrink; next day some udther thief av sin shoved me off av a railway platform undher a train, malicious and purposeful; glory be, he didn’t kill me! but the very docther that felt me bones thried to pick me pockut, I du b’lieve. Sunday night I was grabbed outrageous in a darrk turnin’, rowled on the groun’, half strangled, an’ me pockuts nigh ripped out av me trousies. An’ this very blessed mornin’ av light I was strook onsensible an’ left a livin’ corpse, an’ my lodgin’s penethrated an’ all the thruck mishandled an’ bruk up behind me back. Is that a panjandhery for the polis to laff at, sor?”

  Had Hewitt not been there I think I should have done my best to quiet the poor fellow with a few soothing words and to persuade him to go home to his friends. His excited and rather confused manner, his fantastic story of a sort of general conspiracy to kill him, and the absurd reference to the doctor who tried to pick his pocket seemed to me plainly to confirm my first impression that he was insane. But Hewitt appeared strangely interested.

  “Did they steal anything?” he asked.

  “Divil a shtick but me door-key, an’ that they tuk home an’ lift in the door.”

  Hewitt opened his office door.

  “Come in,” he said, “and tell me all about this. You come, too, Brett.”

  The Irishman and I followed him into the inner office, where, shuttin
g the door, Hewitt suddenly turned on the Irishman and exclaimed sharply: “Then you’ve still got it?”

  He looked keenly in the man’s eyes, but the only expression there was one of surprise.

  “Got ut?” said the Irishman. “Got fwhat, sor? Is ut you’re thinkin’ I’ve got the horrors, as well as the polis?”

  Hewitt’s gaze relaxed. “Sit down, sit down!” he said. “You’ve still got your watch and money, I suppose, since you weren’t robbed?”

  “Oh, that? Glory be, I have ut still! though for how long—or me own head, for that matter—in this state of besiegement, I can not say.”

  “Now,” said Hewitt, “I want a full, true, and particular account of yourself and your doings for the last week. First, your name?”

  “Leamy’s my name, sor—Michael Leamy.”

  “Lately from Ireland?”

  “Over from Dublin this last blessed Wednesday, and a crooil bad poundherin’ tit was in the boat, too—shpakin’av that same.”

  “Looking for work?”

  “That is my purshuit at prisint, sor.”

  “Did anything noticeable happen before these troubles of yours began—anything here in London or on the journey?”

  “Sure,” the Irishman smiled, “part av the way I thraveled first-class by favor av the gyard, an’ I got a small job before I lift the train.”

  “How was that? Why did you travel first-class part of the way?”

  “There was a station fwhere we shtopped afther a long run, an’ I got down to take the cramp out av me joints, an’ take a taste av dhrink. I over-shtayed somehow, an’, whin I got to the train, begob, it was on the move. There was a first-class carr’ge door opin right forninst me, an’ into that the gyard crams me holus-bolus. There was a juce of a foine jintleman sittin’ there, an’ he stares at me umbrageous, but I was not dishcommoded, bein’ onbashful by natur’. We thravelled along a heap av miles more, till we came near London. Afther we had shtopped at a station where they tuk tickets we wint ahead again, an’ prisintly, as we rips through some udther station, up jumps the jintleman opposite, swearin’ hard undher his tongue, an’ looks out at the windy. ‘I thought this train shtopped here,’ sez he.”

  “Chalk Farm,” observed Hewitt, with a nod.

  “The name I do not know, sor, but that’s fwhat he said. Then he looks at me onaisy for a little, an’ at last he sez: ‘Wud ye loike a small job, me good man, well paid?’

  “‘Faith,’ sez I, ‘’tis that will suit me well.’

  “‘Then, see here,’ sez he, ‘I should have got out at that station, havin’ particular business; havin’ missed, I must sen’ a telegrammer from Euston. Now, here’s a bag,’ sez he, ‘a bag full of imporrtant papers for my solicitor—imporrtant to me, ye ondershtand, not worth the shine av a brass farden to a sowl else—an’ I want ’em tuk on to him. Take you this bag,’ he sez, ‘an’ go you straight out wid it at Euston an’ get a cab. I shall stay in the station a bit to see to the telegrammer. Dhrive out av the station, across the road outside, an’ wait there five minuts by the clock. Ye ondershtand? Wait five minuts, an, maybe I’ll come an’ join ye. If I don’t ’twill be bekase I’m detained onexpected, an’ then ye’ll dhrive to my solicitor straight. Here’s his address, if ye can read writin’,’ an’ he put ut on a piece av paper. He gave me half-a-crown for the cab, an’ I tuk his bag.”

  “One moment—have you the paper with the address now?”

  “I have not, sor. I missed ut afther the blayguards overset me yesterday; but the solicitor’s name was Hollams, an’ a liberal jintleman wid his money he was, too, by that same token.”

  “What was his address?”

  “’Twas in Chelsea, and ’twas Gold or Golden something, which I know by the good token av fwhat he gave me; but the number I misremember.”

  Hewitt turned to his directory. “Gold Street is the place, probably,” he said, “and it seems to be a street chiefly of private houses. You would be able to point out the house if you were taken there, I suppose?”

  “I should that, sor; indade, I was thinkin’ av goin’ there an’ tellin’ Misther Hollams all my throubles, him havin’ been so kind.”

  “Now tell me exactly what instructions the man in the train gave you, and what happened?”

  “He sez: ‘You ask for Misther Hollams, an’ see nobody else. Tell him ye’ve brought the sparks from Misther W.’”

  I fancied I could see a sudden twinkle in Hewitt’s eye, but he made no other sign, and the Irishman proceeded.

  “‘Sparks?’ sez I. ‘Yes, sparks,’ sez he. ‘Misther Hollams will know; ’tis our jokin’ word for ’em; sometimes papers is sparks when they set a lawsuit ablaze,’ and he laffed. ‘But be sure ye say the sparks from Misther W.,’ he sez again, ‘bekase then he’ll know ye’re jinuine an’ he’ll pay ye han’some. Say Misther W. sez you’re to have your reg’lars, if ye like. D’ye mind that?’

  “‘Ay,’ sez I, ‘that I’m to have my reg’lars.’

  “Well, sor, I tuk the bag and wint out of the station, tuk the cab, an’ did all as he towld me. I waited the foive minuts, but he niver came, so off I druv to Misther Hollams, and he threated me han’some, sor.”

  “Yes, but tell me exactly all he did.”

  “‘Misther Hollams, sor?’ sez I. ‘Who are ye?’ sez he. ‘Mick Leamy, sor,’ sez I, ‘from Misther W. wid the sparks.’ ‘Oh,’ sez he, ‘thin come in.’ I wint in. ‘They’re in here, are they?’ sez he, takin’ the bag. ‘They are, sor,’ sez I, ‘an’ Misther W. sez I’m to have me reg’lars.’ ‘You shall,’ sez he. ‘What shall we say, now—afinnip?’ ‘Fwhat’s that, sor?’ sez I. ‘Oh,’ sez he, ‘I s’pose ye’re a new hand; five quid—ondershtand that?’”

  “Begob, I did ondershtand it, an’ moighty plazed I was to have come to a place where they pay five-pun’ notes for carryin’ bags. So whin he asked me was I new to London an’ shud I kape in the same line av business, I towld him I shud for certin, or any thin’ else payin’ like it. ‘Right,’ sez he; ‘let me know whin ye’ve got any thin’—ye’ll find me all right.’ An’ he winked frindly. ‘Faith, that I know I shall, sor,’ sez I, wid the money safe in me pockut; an’ I winked him back, conjanial. ‘I’ve a smart family about me,’ sez he, ‘an’ I treat ’em all fair an’ liberal.’ An’, saints, I thought it likely his family ’ud have all they wanted, seein’ he was so free-handed wid a stranger. Thin he asked me where I was a livin’ in London, and, when I towld him nowhere, he towld me av a room in Musson Street, here by Drury Lane, that was to let, in a house his fam’ly knew very well, an’ I wint straight there an’ tuk ut, an’ there I do be stayin’ still, sor.”

  I hadn’t understood at first why Hewitt took so much interest in the Irishman’s narrative, but the latter part of it opened my eyes a little. It seemed likely that Leamy had, in his innocence, been made a conveyer of stolen property. I knew enough of thieves’ slang to know that “sparks” meant diamonds or other jewels; that “regulars” was the term used for a payment made to a brother thief who gave assistance in some small way, such as carrying the booty; and that the “family” was the time-honored expression for a gang of thieves.

  “This was all on Wednesday, I understand,” said Hewitt. “Now tell me what happened on Thursday—the poisoning, or drugging, you know?”

  “Well, sor, I was walking out, an’ toward the evenin’ I lost mesilf. Up comes a man, seemin’ly a sthranger, and shmacks me on the showldher. ‘Why, Mick!’ sez he; ‘it’s Mick Leamy, I du b’lieve!’

  “‘I am that,’ sez I, ‘but you I do not know.’

  “‘Not know me?’ sez he. ‘Why, I wint to school wid ye.’ An’ wid that he hauls me off to a bar, blarneyin’ and minowdherin’, an’ orders dhrinks.

  “Can ye rache me a poipe-loight?’ sez he, an’ I turned to get ut, but, lookin’ back suddent, there was that onblushin’ thief av the warl’
tippin’ a paperful of phowder stuff into me glass.”

  “What did you do?” Hewitt asked.

  “I knocked the dhirty face av him, sor, an’ can ye blame me? A mane scutt, thryin’ for to poison a well-manin’ sthranger. I knocked the face av him, an’ got away home.”

  “Now the next misfortune?”

  “Faith, that was av a sort likely to turn out the last of all misfortunes. I wint that day to the Crystial Palace, bein’ dishposed for a little sphort, seein’ as I was new to London. Comin’ home at night, there was a juce av a crowd on the station platform, consekins of a late thrain. Sthandin’ by the edge av the platform at the fore end, just as thrain came in, some onvisible murdherer gives me a stupenjus drive in the back, and over I wint on the line, mid-betwixt the rails. The engine came up an’ wint half over me widout givin’ me a scratch, bekase av my centraleous situation, an’ then the porther-men pulled me out, nigh sick wid fright, sor, as ye may guess. A jintleman in the crowd sings out: ‘I’m a medical man!’ an’ they tuk me in the waitin’-room, an’ he investigated me, havin’ turned everybody else out av the room. There wuz no bones bruk, glory be! and the docthor-man he was tellin’ me so, after feelin’ me over, whin I felt his hand in me waistcoat pockut.

  “‘An’ fwhat’s this, sor?’ sez I. ‘Do you be lookin’ for your fee that thief’s way?’

  “He laffed, and said: ‘I want no fee from ye, me man, an’ I did but feel your ribs,’ though on me conscience he had done that undher me waistcoat already. An’ so I came home.”

  “What did they do to you on Saturday?”

  “Saturday, sor, they gave me a whole holiday, and I began to think less of things; but on Saturday night, in a dark place, two blayguards tuk me throat from behind, nigh choked me, flung me down, an’ wint through all me pockuts in about a quarter av a minut.”