The Arthur Morrison Mystery

by Arthur Morrison

  “Yes,” Mrs. Beckle replied, looking round, but avoiding with her eyes the rug-covered heap near the fireplace. “There was a sextant on the mantelpiece; it was his; and he kept one or two other instruments in that drawer “—pointing to one which had been turned out—“but they seem to be gone now. And there was a small ship, carved in ivory, and worth money, I believe—that’s gone. I don’t know about his clothes; some of them may be stolen or they may not.” She stepped to the bed and turned back the coverlet. “Oh,” she added, “the sheets are gone from the bed too!”

  “Usual thing,” the inspector remarked; “wrap up the swag in a sheet, you know—makes a convenient bundle. Nothing else missing?”

  The landlady took one more look round and said doubtfully, “No, no, I don’t think so. Oh, but yes,” she suddenly added, “uncle’s hook.”

  “Oh,” remarked the inspector with dismal jocularity, “he’s took uncle’s hook as well as his own, has he? What was uncle’s hook like?”

  “It wasn’t of much value,” Mrs. Beckle explained; “but I kept it as a memorial. My great uncle, who died many years ago, was a sea-captain too, and had lost his left hand by accident. He wore a hook in its place—a hook made for him on board his vessel. It was an iron hook screwed into a wooden stock. He had it taken off in his last illness and gave it to me to mind against his recovery. But he never got well, so I’ve kept it over since. It used to hang on a nail at the side of the chimney-breast.”

  “No wounds about the body that might have been made with a hook like that, doctor, were there?” the inspector asked.

  “No, no wounds at all but the one.”

  “Well, well,” the inspector said, moving toward the door, “we’ve got to find Foster now, that’s plain. I’ll see about it. You’ve sent to the mortuary you say, doctor? All right. You’ve no particular reason for sending the girl out of doors today, I suppose, Mrs. Beckle?”

  “I can keep her in, of course,” the landlady answered. “It will be inconvenient, though.”

  “Ah, then keep her in, will you? We mustn’t lose sight of her. I’ll leave a couple of men here, of course, and I’ll tell them she mustn’t be allowed out.”

  Hewitt and the surgeon went downstairs and parted at the door. “I shall be over again tomorrow morning,” Hewitt said, “about that other matter I was speaking of. Shall I find you in?”

  “Well,” the doctor answered, “at any rate they will tell you where I am. Good morning.”

  “Good morning,” Hewitt answered, and then stopped. “I’m obliged for being allowed to look about upstairs here,” he said. “I’m not sure what the inspector has in his mind, by the way; but I should think whatever I noticed would be pretty plain to him, though naturally he would be cautious about talking of it before others, as I was myself. That being the case it might seem rather presumptuous in me to make suggestions, especially as he seems fairly confident. But if you have a chance presently of giving him a quiet hint you might draw his special attention to two things—the charred paper that I took from the fireplace and the missing hook. There is a good deal in that, I fancy. I shall have an hour or two to myself, I expect, this afternoon, and I’ll make a small inquiry or two on my own account in town. If anything comes of them I’ll let you know tomorrow when I see you.”

  “Very well, I shall expect you. Goodbye.”

  Hewitt did not go straight away from the house to the railway station. He took a turn or two about the row of houses, and looked up each of the paths leading from them across the surrounding marshy fields. Then he took the path for the station. About a hundred yards along, the path reached a deep muddy ditch with a high hedge behind it, and then lay by the side of the ditch for some little distance before crossing it. Hewitt stopped and looked thoughtfully at the ditch for a few moments before proceeding, and then went briskly on his way.

  That evening’s papers were all agog with the mysterious murder of a ship’s captain at West Ham, and in next morning’s papers it was announced that Henry Foster, a seafaring man, and lately mate of a trading ship, had been arrested in connection with the crime.

  II.

  That morning Hewitt was at the surgeon’s house early. The surgeon was in, and saw him at once. His own immediate business being transacted, Hewitt learned particulars of the arrest of Foster. “The man actually came back of his own accord in the afternoon,” the surgeon said. “Certainly he was drunk, but that seems a very reckless sort of thing, even for a drunken man. One rather curious thing was that he asked for Pullin as soon as he arrived, and insisted on going to him to borrow half-a-sovereign. Of course he was taken into custody at once, and charged, and that seemed to sober him very quickly. He seemed dazed for a bit, and then, when he realised the position he was in, refused to say a word. I saw him at the station. He had certainly been drinking a good deal; but a curious thing was that he hadn’t a cent of money on him. He’d soon got rid of it all, anyhow.”

  “Did you say anything to the inspector as to the things I mentioned to you?”

  “Yes, but he didn’t seem to think a great deal of them. He took a look at the charred paper and saw that one piece had evidently been a cheque on the Eastern Consolidated Bank, but the other he couldn’t see any sort of sign upon. As to the hook, he seemed to take it that that was used to fasten in the knot of the bundle, to carry it the more easily.”

  “Well,” Hewitt said, “I think I told you yesterday that I should make an inquiry or two myself? Yes, I did. I’ve made those inquiries, and now I think I can give the inspector some help. What is his name, by the way?”

  “Truscott. He’s a very good sort of fellow, really.”

  “Very well. Shall I find him at the station?”

  “Probably, unless he’s off duty; that I don’t know about. But I should call at the house first, I think, if I were you. That is much nearer than the station, and he might possibly be there. Even if he isn’t, there will be a constable, and he can tell you where to find Truscott.”

  Hewitt accordingly made for the house, and had the good fortune to overtake Truscott on his way there. “Good morning, inspector,” he called cheerily. “I’ve got some information for you, I think.”

  “Oh, good morning. What is it?”

  “It’s in regard to that business,” Hewitt replied, indicating by a nod the row of houses a hundred yards ahead. “But it will be clearer if we go over the whole thing together and take what I have found out in its proper place. You’re not altogether satisfied with your capture of Foster, are you?”

  “Well, I mustn’t say, of course. Perhaps not. We’ve traced his doings yesterday after he left the house, and perhaps it doesn’t help us much. But what do you know?”

  “I’ll tell you. But first can you get hold of such a thing as a boat-hook? Any long pole with a hook on the end will do.”

  “I don’t know that there’s one handy. Perhaps they’ll have a garden rake at the house, if that’ll do?”

  “Excellently, I should thick, if it’s fairly long. We will ask.”

  The garden rake was forthcoming at once, and with it Hewitt and the inspector made their way along the path that led towards the railway station and stopped where it came by the ditch.

  “I’ve brought you here purely on a matter of conjecture,” Hewitt said, “and there may be nothing in it; but if there is it will help us. This is a very muddy ditch, with a soft bottom many feet deep probably, judging from the wet nature of the soil hereabout.”

  He took the rake and plunged it deep into the ditch, dragging it slowly back up the side. It brought up a tangle of duckweed and rushes and slimy mud, with a stick or two among it.

  “Do you think the knife’s been thrown here?” asked the inspector.

  “Possibly, and possibly something else. We’ll see.” And Hewitt made another dive. They went along thus very thoroughly and laboriously, dragging every part of the ditch a
s they went, it being frequently necessary for both to pull together to get the rake through the tangle of weed and rubbish. They had worked through seven or eight yards from the angle of the path where it approached the ditch, when Hewitt stopped, with the rake at the bottom.

  “Here is something that feels a little different,” he said. “I’ll get as good a hold as I can and then we’ll drag it up slowly and steadily together.”

  He gave the rake a slight twist and then the two pulled steadily. Presently the sunken object came away suddenly, as though mud-suction had kept it under, and rose easily to the surface. It was a muddy mass, and they had to swill it to and fro a few times in the clearer upper water before it was seen to be a linen bundle. They drew it ashore and untied the thick knot at the top. Inside was an Indian shawl, also knotted, and this they opened also. There within, wet and dirty, lay a sextant, a chronometer in a case, a gold watch and chain, a handful of coins, a thick gold ring, a ship carved in ivory, with much of the delicate work broken, a sealskin waistcoat, a door key, a seamen’s knife, and an iron hook screwed into a wooden stock.

  “Lord!” exclaimed Inspector Truscott, “what’s this? It’s a queer place to hide swag of this sort. Why, that watch and those instruments must be ruined.”

  “Yes, I’m afraid so,” Hewitt answered. “You see the things are wrapped in the sheets, just as you expected. But those sheets mean something more. There are two, you notice.”

  “Yes, of course; but I don’t see what it points to. The whole thing’s most odd. Foster certainly would have been a fool to hide the things here; he’s a sailor himself, and knows better than to put away chronometers and sextants in a wet ditch—unless he got frightened, and put the things there out of sight because the murder was discovered.”

  “But you say you have traced his movements after he left. If he had come near here while the police were about he would have been seen from the house. No, you’ve got the wrong prisoner. The person who put those things there didn’t want them again.”

  “Then do you think robbery wasn’t the motive after all?”

  “Yes, it was; but not this robbery. Conic, we’ll talk it over in the house, Let us take these things with us.”

  Arrived at the house Hewitt immediately locked, bolted and barred the front door.

  Then he very carefully and gently unfastened each lock, bolt and bar in order, pressing the door with his hand and taking every precaution to avoid noise. Nevertheless the noise was considerable. There was a sad lack of oil everywhere, and all the bolts creaked; the lock in particular made a deal of noise, and when the key was half turned its bolt shot back with a loud thump.

  “Anybody who had once heard that door fastened or unfastened,” said Hewitt, “would hesitate about opening it in the dead of night after committing murder. He would remember the noise. Do you mind taking the things up to the room—the room—upstairs? I will go and ask Mrs Beckle a question.”

  Truscott went upstairs, and presently

  Hewitt followed. “I have just asked Mrs. Beckle,” he said, “whether or not the captain went to the front door for any purpose on the evening before his death. She says he stood there for some half an hour or so smoking his pipe before he went to bed. We shall see what that means presently, I think. Now we will go into the thing in the light of what I have found out.”

  “Yes, tell me that.”

  “Very well. I think it will make the thing plainer if I summarise separately all my conclusions from the evidence as a whole from the beginning. Perhaps the same ideas struck you, but I’m sure you’ll excuse my going over them. Now here was a man undoubtedly murdered, and the murderer was gone from the room. There were two ways by which he could have gone the door and the window. If he went by the window, then he was somebody who did not live in the place, since nobody seemed to have been missing when the girl came down, though, mind you, it was necessary to avoid relying on all she said, in view of her manner, and her almost acknowledged determination not to incriminate Foster. It seemed at first sight probable that the murderer had gone out by the door, because the key was gone entirely, and if he had left by the window he would probably have left the key in the lock to hinder anybody who attempted to get in with another key, or to peep. But then the blind was up, and was found so in the morning. It would probably be pulled down at dark, and the murderer would be unlikely to raise it except to go out that way. But then the casement was shut and fastened. Just so; but can’t it be as easily shut and fastened from the outside as from the in? The catch is very loose, and swings by itself. True, this prevents the casement shutting when it is just carelessly banged to, but see here.” He rose and went to the window. “Anybody from outside who cared to hold the catch back with his finger till the casement was shut as far as the frame could then shut the window completely, and the catch would simply swing into its appointed groove.

  “And now see something more. You and I both looked at the sill outside. It is a smooth new sill—the house itself is almost new; but probably you saw in one place a sharply marked pit or depression. Look, it seems to have been drilled with a sharp steel point. It was absolutely new, for there was the powder of the stone about the mark. The wind has since blown the powder away. Now if a man had descended from that sill by means of a rope with a hook at the end that was just the sort of mark I should expect him to leave behind. So that at any rate the balance of probability was that the murderer had left by the window. But there is another thing which confirms this. You will remember that when Mrs. Beckle mentioned that the sheets were gone from the bed you concluded that they had been taken to carry the swag.”

  “Yes, and so they were, as we have seen here in the bundle.”

  “Just so; but why both sheets? One would be ample. And since you allude to the bundle, why both sheets as well as the Indian shawl? This last, by the way, is a thing Mrs. Beckle seems not to have missed in the confusion, or perhaps she didn’t know that Pullin possessed it. Why all these wrappings, and moreover, why the hook? The presumption is clear. The bundle was already made up in the Indian shawl and required no more wrapping. The two sheets were wanted to tie together to enable the criminal to descend from the window, and the hook was the very thing to hold this rope with at the top. It was not necessary to tie it to anything, and it would not prevent the shutting of the window behind. Moreover, when the descent had been made, a mere shake of the rope of sheets would dislodge the hook and bring it down, thus leaving no evidence of the escape—except the mark on the sill, which was very small.

  “Then again, there was no noise or struggle heard. Pullin, as you could see, was a powerful, hard-set man, not likely to allow his throat to be cut without a lot of trouble, therefore the murderer must either have entered the room unknown to him—an unlikely thing, for he had not gone to bed—or else must have been there with his permission, and must have taken him by sudden surprise. And now we come to the heart of the thing. Of the two papers burnt in the grate—you have kept them under the shade I see—one bore no trace of the writing that had been on it (many inks and papers do not after having been burnt), but the other bore plain signs of having been a cheque. Now just let us look at it. The main body of the paper has burnt to a deep gray ash, nearly black, but the printed parts of the cheque—those printed in coloured inks, that is—are of a much paler gray, quite a light ash colour. That is the colour to which most of the pink ink used in printing cheques burns, as you may easily test for yourself with an old cheque of the sort that is printed from a fine plate with water-solution pink ink. The black ink, on the other hand, such as the number of the cheque is printed in, has charred black, and by sharp eyes is quite distinguishable against the general dark gray of the paper. The cinder is unfortunately broken rather badly, and the part containing the signature is missing altogether. But one can plainly see in large script letters part of the boldest line of print, the name of the bank. The letters are e r n C o n s o, and this must mean t
he Eastern Consolidated Bank. Of course you saw that for yourself.”

  “Yes, of course I did.”

  “Fortunately the whole of the cheque number is unbroken. It is Of course I took a note of that, as well as of the other particulars distinguishable. It is payable to Pullin, clearly, for here is the latter half of his Christian name, Abel, and the first few letters of Pullin. Then on the line where the amount is written at length there are the letters u s a n d and p. Plainly it was a large cheque, for thousands. At the bottom, where the amount is placed in figures, there is a bad break, but the first figure is a 2. The cheque, then, was one for £2000 at least. And there is one more thing. The cinder is perfect and unbroken nearly all along the top edge, and there is no sign of crossing, so that here is an open cheque which any thief might cash with a little care. That is all we can see, but it is enough, I think. Now would a thief, committing murder for the sake of plunder, burn this cheque? Would Pullin, to whom the money was to be paid, burn it? I think not. Then who in the whole world would have any interest in burning it? Not a soul, with one single exception—the man who drew it.”

  “Yes, yes. What! do you mean that the man who drew that cheque must have murdered Pullin in order to get it back and destroy it?”

  “That is my opinion. Now who would draw Pullin a cheque for £2000? Anybody in this house? Is it at all likely? Of course not. Again, we are pointed to a stranger. And now remember Pullin’s antecedents. On his last voyage but one his ship the Egret, from Valparaiso for Wellington, New Zealand, was cast away on the Paumotu Islands, far out of her proper course. There was but a small crew, and, as it happened, all were lost except Pullin and one Kanaka boy. The Egret was heavily insured, and there were nasty rumours at Lloyd’s that Captain Pullin had made sure of his whereabouts, taken care of himself, and destroyed the ship in collusion with the owners, and that the Kanaka boy had only escaped because he happened to be well acquainted with the islands. But there was nothing positive in the way of proof, and the underwriters paid, with no more than covert grumblings. And, as you remember, Mrs. Heckle told us yesterday Pullin on his return had no money. Now suppose the story of the intentional wreck were true, and for some reason Pullin’s payment was put off till after his next voyage. Would the people who sent their men to death in the Pacific hesitate at a single murder to save £2000? I think not.