“No, sir.” Mr. Bowker was vastly relieved till the man added, “But I got up to let you in, sir.”
“Not necessary,” snapped Mr. Bowker—“not at all necessary.”
“Beggin’ pardon, sir, I found it very necessary.”
A very insolent scoundrel, reflected Mr. Bowker, between the throbs of headache. But he would very much like to remember There was some talk of a new brandy at the club—he could recollect that perfectly; and Macfadyen was there. But beyond that everything was the blankest of possible blanks. The new brandy must have been uncommonly bad. What had happened? He must try Wade again. “I don’t feel very well this morning, Wade,” he remarked.
“Indeed, sir? You surprise me, sir.”
“Why surprise you?” asked his master, testily.
“You was very ’appy last night, sir—meanin’ this mornin’, of course. Very ’appy indeed. I never see a gentleman better nourished.”
Better nourished? This was sheer impudence. And yet—Mr. Bowker was a bachelor, but no bishop, no archbishop, could be more respectable than Mr. Bowker. It would be well, perhaps, to bear with the fellow till he revealed a little more.
“I took something that seriously disagreed with me last night, Wade,” he said.
“Very likely, sir, I should think. You wasn’t thinkin’ of a watch an’ chain, sir, was you, or a gold ring?”
“Watch and chain? Gold ring? What do you mean?”
“Only these here, sir. They was in your overcoat-pocket with this purse. I ’aven’t ever seen ’em before.”
And Wade, with a calmly deferential impudence, displayed before his master’s eyes a wholly strange gold watch and chain, a signet-ring, and a purse.
“In my overcoat-pocket?” gasped Mr. Bowker.
“Yessir. They came tumblin’ out when I brushed it.”
Mr. Bowker fell into a sweat of apprehension. What had he done? Where had he been? He must have robbed somebody!
There was triumph in Wade’s eye as he observed the obvious consternation of his master. He stood a picture of malicious satisfaction while Mr. Bowker, with trembling hands, snatched and opened the purse in search for some mark of identification. There were several sovereigns in it, and a half-sovereign, but no paper, no initial—nothing to give a hint of the rightful owner.
It was a horrible situation. Many years ago, when Mr. Bowker was a young man, there had been occasions when he had found it difficult to recall the events of the previous evening. He had been active, high-spirited—less decorous than now; but his wildest escapade fell a world short of this. Never had he been confronted with anything like the ghastly difficulty that faced him now—the possession of a watch and chain, a ring, and a purse that were obviously the rightful property of some other person, and could only have been acquired dishonestly—perhaps by violence.
He pulled himself together as well as his shattered condition permitted, and requested a weak brandy and soda.
“Yes, sir,” replied Wade; “nothing like an ’air o’ the dawg that bit you.”
The impudent scoundrel was presuming on what he had seen and conjectured, and his master felt himself helpless.
“By the way,” he said, suddenly, on the impulse of a bright thought, “are you sure it was my overcoat, Wade?”
“Oh, yes, sir. The coat’s yours all right. You won’t get into no trouble over the coat.”
The man was growing insufferable, and Mr. Bowker was positively afraid to resent it. “Ha, hum! That will do, Wade,” he said, as loftily as possible. “I’ll ring if I want you. I-ah—I shall attend to the matter of—ah—these things during the day. Meantime, of course, I shall expect you to say nothing about it to anybody.”
“No, sir—certainly not, sir,” replied Wade, with an oily grimace that almost included a wink. He paused in the doorway and repeated, “Certainly not, sir. I sha’n’t say a word—so long as I remain in your service, sir.”
Mr. Bowker groaned in spirit. The fellow was plainly threatening to give him away unless kept in his employ. But something must be done, and done quickly, to ascertain what had happened last night. The police might even be on the look-out for him at that very moment!
He dressed and made his best attempt at breakfast. Then, with that shameful plunder again in his coat-pocket, he set out to call on Mr. Macfadyen, desperately striving as he went to recall some fragment of last night’s adventures.
But it was useless. He could remember nothing after the second trial of the curiously seductive new brandy. He might have gone anywhere and done anything.
Mr. Macfadyen lived just where you would have expected to find a bald-headed fungologist of Erastian tendencies—in Bloomsbury, in the most respectably ordinary house of the most respectably ordinary square to be found in that parish.
Yes, Mr. Macfadyen was at home, but engaged just at present, explained the man who opened the door, with some mystery. Would Mr. Bowker please step in?
Mr. Bowker did so, and as the door closed behind him he was aware of skirts on the landing above the lower stair-flight. This was awkward. Mrs. Macfadyen must have returned sooner than was expected.
“Mr. Bowker, is it you?” said the lady. “You’ve heard of our trouble, then—very kind of you to come. Won’t you come up?”
What “trouble” was this? Mr. Bowker had never for a moment anticipated an encounter with Mrs. Macfadyen, whom he held somewhat in awe, as did other of her husband’s friends. It would certainly be out of the question to enter into any discussion of last night’s proceedings in presence of Mrs. Macfadyen. As it was, he was supposed to be aware of some trouble which had fallen on the house of Macfadyen, and to be so kind as to call in consequence. Here was something to excuse his presence, if only he knew what it was.
He soon learned. Mrs. Macfadyen led the way to a dressing-room where Mr. Macfadyen, looking vastly perturbed and extraordinarily uncomfortable, stood in consultation with a stranger.
“Oh, good morning, Bowker,” said Mr. Macfadyen, rather hurriedly. “We—we haven’t seen much of you lately. Wondered what had become of you. We’ve had a little burglary here—nothing to speak of—thing I shouldn’t have taken much notice of myself.”
“No, he wouldn’t,” observed Mrs. Macfadyen, severely. “He didn’t even want to call in the police. But, of course, I insisted on that, and Sergeant Pike here thinks he has a clue already.”
“How did it occur?”
“It seems,” answered Mr. Macfadyen, hastening to explain, “that the thief must have climbed on to the study roof just below here, and reached in at the open window. He could easily take anything from the dressing-table like that.”
“Did he take much?
“Priscian’s watch and chain,” said Mrs. Macfadyen, with a precise emphasis, “his signet-ring, and his purse with money in it. And he calls it nothing to speak of!”
Something sprang up into Mr. Bowker’s throat, turned over, and fell into his chest again. “A—a gold watch?” he managed to say.
“His gold watch that cost him fifty guineas at Dent’s, and a thick curb chain. And he wasn’t even going to call the police!”
This was quite terrible. This climb over from the mews and up to the window was just what Mr. Bowker might have done—in pure sport—in his college days; but now! What in the world could have possessed him to behave so? And Sergeant Pike thought he had a clue!
“The sergeant says it is obviously somebody who knows the place,” observed Mrs. Macfadyen. “That’s so much to the good.”
Mr. Bowker’s mouth was drier and stickier than ever. This escapade had probably seemed rather amusing last night; but now! The views of sixty-five are not as the views of twenty-five. This was no “lark.”
“What I want to know is, how much a burglar would have to take before Priscian would call it serious,” was Mrs. Macfadyen’s next contribution to the case.
“Oh, of course, my dear, I don’t say it isn’t serious,” replied Mr. Macfadyen, with anxious conciliation. “But then it might be much more serious for the burglar if he were caught. We mustn’t lose sight of the humanitarian aspect of the case. He may have a starving wife and family. Don’t you think so, Bowker?”
“Very probable indeed, I should think,” assented Mr. Bowker, readily. “In fact, the—the whole case seems to suggest it. And he—he may have only intended it as a joke.”
“There, you see Mr. Bowker agrees with me,” said Mr. Macfadyen. “And as to its being intended as a joke, what could be more likely? The humour of the lower classes is genuine, though crude.”
“Stuff and nonsense!” replied Mrs. Macfadyen.
“The chief difficulty,” said Sergeant Pike, “is the umbrella.”
“The umbrella?” interjected Mr. Bowker, a little puzzled.
“Yes,” said the detective. “There’s an umbrella missing, as well. You didn’t put that on the dressing-table, too, did you?”
“Certainly not,” replied Mr. Macfadyen, with some stiffness. “I assure you I am quite incapable of such an act.”
“Just so, sir. Nobody’d ever believe such a thing of you, I’m sure. But there’s the difficulty. If the thief stood on the study roof and reached in at this window and got the things off the table, how did he get the umbrella out of the hall downstairs? Especially with you sleeping here in the bedroom with the door locked.”
“That clue,” said Mr. Macfadyen, decidedly, “obviously points to a thief of great cunning and resource; and perhaps with so much more obvious and easily-detected crime going on about us, and crying out for attention, it might be as well to waste no more time on this difficult case—at any rate for the present. Um? Eh?”
“Why, no, sir. There are other things to consider. There are finger-marks, for instance, on the polished top of this table, and, especially distinct, on the silver backs of the brushes. You see, they’re quite clear when you hold ’em up to the light. Now, there’s nothing more certain than the finger-print clue. If you’ll just look at this clear system of lines, gentlemen, and compare them with any other—your own, for instance—you’ll perceive that the difference is quite extraordinary.”
By some common impulse, both Mr. Bowker and Mr. Macfadyen plunged their hands deep in their pockets at this point, and the sergeant’s exposition was interrupted by the appearance of the man Who had admitted Mr. Bowker.
“There’s a four-wheeler at the door, sir,” said the man, “an’ the cabman says he wants to see you. He’s got your umbrella, and he says he won’t give it to anybody but you; and he’s as deaf as a post, and I can’t make him understand anything!”
“I’ll go!” said Mr. Macfadyen, making a dash at the door.
“So will I!” said Mrs. Macfadyen, with a sudden steely gleam of eye, dashing too.
But the cabman was there already, and pushed past the servant. He was such an elderly man as only grows on the box of a four-wheeler, of a species now all but extinct. His face was bristly and crimson, with touches of purple, his voice struggled through the sediment of long-forgotten fogs, and he did not spare it.
“Pardon, lady; pardon, gents. I s’pose I was meant to come up, but ’e don’t speak loud an’ I’m ’ard of ’earin’.” He stepped farther into the room, extending a silver-handled umbrella toward Mr. Macfadyen.
“I’m a honest man,” he announced. “A honest man.”
“Certainly—thank you—I’m much obliged,” said Mr. Macfadyen. But the cabman heard nothing and proceeded.
“When I brought you ’ome last night from Pall Mall this ’ere genelman paid the fare—in advance.” He pointed with the umbrella at Mr. Bowker.
“From Pall Mall!” remarked Mrs. Macfadyen, with the steel in her voice now as well as in her eye. “This is certainly news to me!”
“From the club, my dear,” explained Mr. Macfadyen. “I—I forgot to mention it, in the excitement of the—ah—burglary!”
“The fare was paid in advance,” the cabman repeated, “but you didn’t remember it, sir, you was that mortal!”
“That what?” And even the deaf cabman understood the scandalized prance of Mrs. Macfadyen.
“Mortal,” he repeated, placidly, a little louder. “’E was that mortal ’e couldn’t understand the fare was paid, and as ’e ’adn’t got no money ’e made me take his umbrella. Now, I’m a honest man. When I was a-’elpin’ ’im with ’is latchkey I might ’a’ pinched anythink out o’ the ’all, but not me! There ain’t many could say that, could they? But I’m a honest man. Anybody might ’a’ felt it a dooty to keep the umbrella arter what ’ad ’appened, but not me! I’m a honest man. I don’t say but what I’ve bin an’ lost a hour or so this mornin’ a-comin’ ’ere, an’ any gent as was a gent would make it a quid at least, but that’s neither ’ere nor there. I’m a honest man, an’ I leave it to the genelman ’isself!”
There was a horrid pause, and nobody dared look in Mrs. Macfadyen’s direction. Mr. Bowker, from behind her, shook his fist and made furious dumb show at the conscientious cabman.
“Why, sir,” pursued that paragon, surprised at this demonstration, “surely you remember it? You was pretty mortal yourself, but not as mortal as this genelman. You knew summat, you did. Why, when you took care of ’is watch an’ chain an’ ring an’ puss afore you shoved ’im in the cab, I says to meself, ’E knows summat, ’e do,’ I says. ’E’s bin there afore, many a time,’ says I.” The man of probity beamed affably on the company as one desirous of promoting cheerfulness. “An’ what I say is,” he added, “what’s the odds if the gent was mortal? ’E ain’t the only one, is ’e?”
“We are all mortal,” faltered Mr. Macfadyen.
“You was last night, any’ow!” rapped out the cabman, promptly, with a deaf man’s perverse turn of hearing. He grinned and shook his head roguishly, with a wink at Mrs. Macfadyen. “But there, I do like a gent as is open-’anded when ’e’s mortal. Why, you’d ’a’ give away everythink if the other gent ’adn’t collared ’em! You offered yer watch an’ chain to the club porter!”
Mr. Bowker interposed, rather uncertain of tone, but careful not to speak too loud.
“I’m afraid this fellow is far from sober,” he said. “It’s very sad. It is true, however, that I took care of Mr. Macfadyen’s valuables last night for safety. Something had disagreed with him, and he was not at all well.”
“I’ll never touch Welsh rabbit again!” murmured Mr. Macfadyen. “Never!”
“Here are the things,” Mr. Bowker went on. “In the misunderstanding prevailing I—I felt a certain difficulty in doing so before, as you will understand, Mrs. Macfadyen.”
Mrs. Macfadyen gathered up the articles with an air that broke the nerve of every male creature present except the cabman.
“Yes,” she said, “I quite understand, Mr. Bowker, quite. Pray explain no more!” But the cabman viewed this tardy restoration of the valuables with amazement.
“What!” he exclaimed. “That’s a heye-opener, that is! Seems I’ve give the game away! Well, I’m blowed! Who’d ha’ thought of a bloke like ’im takin’ advantage of ’is pal like that! Why, ’e was a-stickin’ to ’em if I ’adn’t bin a honest man an’ come along an’ told the truth! Never said a word, ’e didn’t, not till I’d told the gent who’d ’ad ’is watch! That’s a corker, that is! Well, well! It seems I’ve got back all them things for you, as well as the umbrella. As a honest man I ought to ’ave two quid at least!”
Mr. Bowker strode back to his rooms with darkling brow.
“Wade!” he thundered, “come here!”
“Yes, sir!” responded Wade, appearing from the next room with his semi-impudent grin in no whit abated.
“Wade, I believe you’re under notice to leave my service?”
“I was, sir,” smirked Wade, “but u
nder the circumstances—”
“In the circumstances, Wade, you’re an insolent scoundrel. There’s your month’s money. Go this instant!”
A PASSED MASTER
First published in The Strand Magazine, Vol. XLII. Jul-Dec 1911.
I
It is not often that the performances of genius can be explained. Indeed, it is probably correct to say that no achievement of genius has ever really been explained yet—a circumstance which gives this simple record a unique interest. For here is embodied the complete explanation of certain achievements of genius which made the reputation of a young artist who is very conspicuous among the Post-prandial Symbolists—which, as you know, is famous as the very latest and most advanced of all the schools, and much venerated as the least comprehensible. As I am so freely giving away the secret of this young painter’s success, it will be obvious that I cannot mention his true name—it would be treachery.
Stanley Ulbster was not always a successful painter; for long, indeed, he was as unsuccessful as any painter in London—a phrase more expressive of all utter failure than any other I can invent. A very enterprising—rashly enterprising—dealer had bought two of his pictures once, when first he came from Paris; but that was when the dealer—his name was Flack—was working on a sort of gambling “system.” He bought a picture or two, “at a price,” as he put it—meaning something not vastly differing from no price—from every young painter who was not utterly hopeless, on the chance of one here and there turning up trumps in the future.
Stanley Ulbster lodged in a small back room high in a house of a small back street in Bloomsbury—slept there, that is to say. But his studio was an excrescence on the roof of a tall house close by Charing Cross Road—a house which, by an extraordinary stroke of luck for the tenants, fell into a tangle of disputed succession soon after Ulbster began to owe his second quarter’s rent. The result of this state of affairs was that so many people demanded the rent that nobody got it, and an application to the Court to appoint a receiver ad interim failed for some technical reason that nobody understood, but for which everybody was just as grateful, nevertheless. So it came about that for quite a long period of months Stanley Ulbster was enabled to provide himself with frequent dinners and luncheons, paid for out of money that would otherwise have been dissipated in rent.
The Arthur Morrison Mystery Page 105