“I—ah—I should like, Hannah, ah—if you don’t mind—just as a—a matter of—of scientific interest, you know—scientific interest, my dear—to buy a small piece of your hair.”
“’Oo ye gettin’ at?” she replied, with a blush and a giggle.
“I—I’m perfectly serious,” I said—and I believe I looked desperately so. “I’ll give you half a sovereign for a small piece—just a lock—for purely scientific purposes, I assure you.”
She giggled again, more than ever, and ogled in a way that sent cold shivers all over me. It struck me now, with a twinge of horror, that perhaps she supposed I had conceived an attachment for her, and wanted the hair as a keepsake. That would be terrible to think of. I swore inwardly that I would never come near that street again, if only I got out safely with the hair this time.
She went over into her lair, where the dirty plates were put, and presently returned with the object of my desires—a thick lump of hair rolled up in a piece of newspaper. I thrust the half-sovereign towards her, grabbed the parcel, and ran. I feared she might expect me to kiss her.
Now I had to employ another Soho jeweller, but by this time, after the red-headed waitress, no jeweller could daunt me. The pane of glass had to be lifted from the back of the brooch, the brown hair that was in it removed, and a proper quantity of the red hair substituted; and the work would be completed by the refixing of the glass and the careful smoothing down of the gold rim about it. I found a third dirty jeweller’s shop, and waited while the jeweller did it all.
And now that the thing was completed, I lost no time on the way to Aunt Sarah’s. I went by omnibus, and alighted a couple of streets from her house. It astonishes me, now, to think that I could have been so calm. I had never had a habit of deception, but now I had slid into it by such an easy process, and it had worked so admirably for a week or more, that it seemed quite natural and regular.
I turned the last corner, and was scarce a dozen yards from Aunt Sarah’s gate, when I was tapped on the shoulder. I turned, and saw the detective who had questioned me, and everybody else, just after the robbery.
“Good morning, Mr. Simpson,” he said. “Mr. Clement Simpson, I believe?”
“Yes,” I said.
“Just so. Sorry to trouble you, Mr. Simpson, but I must get you to come along o’ me on a small matter o’ business. You needn’t say anything, of course; but if you do I shall have to make a note of it, and it may be used as evidence.”
What was this? I gasped, and the whole street seemed to turn round and round and over and over. Arrested! What for?
Whether I asked the question or only moved my lips silently, I don’t know, but the man answered—and his voice seemed to come from a distance out of the chaos about me.
“Well, it’s about that jewel-case of your aunt’s, of course. Sorry to upset you, and no doubt it’ll be all right, but just for the present you must come to the station with me. I won’t hold you if you promise not to try any games. Or you can have a cab, if you like.”
“But,” I said, “but it’s all a mistake—an awful mistake! It’s—it’s out of the question! Come and see my aunt, and she’ll tell you! Pray let me see my aunt!”
“Don’t mind obliging a gentleman if I can, and if you want to speak to your aunt you may, seein’ it’s close by, and it ain’t a warrant case. But I shall have to be with you; and you’ll have to come with me after, whatever she says.”
I was in an awful position, and I realized it fully. Here I was with that facsimile brooch in my possession, and if it were found on me at the police-station, of course, it would be taken for the genuine article, and regarded as a positive proof that I was the thief. In the few steps to Aunt Sarah’s house I saw and understood now what the police had been at. I was the person they had suspected from the beginning. Their pretence of dropping the inquiry was a mere device to throw me off my ground and lead me to betray myself by my movements. And I had been watched frequenting shady second-hand jewellery shops in Soho! And, no doubt I had been seen in the low eating-house where I might be supposed to be leaving messages for criminal associates! It was hideous. On the one side there was the chance of ruin and imprisonment for theft, and on the other the scarcely less terrible one of estranging Aunt Sarah for ever by confessing my miserable deception. Plainly I had only one way of safety—to brazen out my story of the recovery of the brooch. I was bitterly sorry, now, that I had coloured the story, so far as it had gone, quite so boldly. It had gone a good way, too, for I had been obliged to add something to it each time I saw Aunt Sarah during my operations. But I must lie through stone walls now.
I scarcely remember what Aunt Sarah said when she was told I was under arrest for the robbery. I know she broke a drawing-room chair, and had to be dragged off the floor on to the sofa by the detective and myself. But she got her speech pretty soon, and protested valiantly. It was a shameful outrage, she proclaimed, and the police were incapable fools. “While you’ve been doing nothing,” she said, “my dear nephew has traced out the jewels and—and—”
“I’ve got the brooch, aunt!” I cried, for this seemed the dramatic moment. And I put it in her hand.
“I must have that, please,” the detective interposed. “Do you identify it?”
“Identify it?” exclaimed Aunt Sarah, rapturously. “Of course I identify it! I’d know my Uncle Joseph’s brooch among ten thousand! And his initials and his hair and all! Identify it, indeed! I should think so! And did you get it from Bludgeoning Bill himself, Clement, my dear?”
Now “Bludgeoning Bill” was the name I had given the chief ruffian of my story; rather a striking sort of name, I fancied. So I said, “Yes—yes. That’s the name he’s known by—among his intimates, of course. The police,” (I had a vague idea of hedging, as far as possible, with the detective) “the police only know his—his other names, I believe. A—a very dangerous sort of person!”
“And did you have much of a struggle with him?” pursued Aunt Sarah, hanging on my words.
“Oh, yes—terrible, of course. That is, pretty fair, you know—er—nothing so very extraordinary.” I was getting flurried. That detective would look at me so intently.
“And was he very much hurt, Clement? Any bones broken, I mean, or anything of that sort?”
“Bones? O, yes, of course—at least, not many, considering. But it serves him right, you know—serves him right, of course.”
“Oh, I’m sure he richly deserved it, Clement. I suppose that was in the thieves’ kitchen?”
“Yes—no, at least; no, not there. Not exactly in the kitchen, you know.”
“I see; in the scullery, I suppose,” said Aunt Sarah, innocently. “And to think that you traced it all from a few footsteps and a bit of cloth rag on the wall and—and what else was it, Clement?”
“A trouser button,” I answered. I felt a trifle more confident here, for I had found a trouser button. “But it was nothing much—not actual evidence, of course. Just a trifle, that’s all.”
But here I caught the policeman’s eye, and I went hot and cold. I could not remember what I had done with that trouser button of mine. Had the police themselves found it later? Was this their clue? But I nerved myself to meet Aunt Sarah’s fresh questions.
“I suppose there’s no chance of getting the other things?” she asked.
“No,” I answered, decisively, “not the least.” I resolved not to search for any more facsimiles.
“Lummy Joe told you that, I suppose?” pursued my aunt, whose memory for names was surprising. “Either Lummy Joe or the Chickaleary Boy?”
“Both,” I replied, readily. “Most valuable information from both—especially Chickaleary Joe. Very honourable chap, Joe. Excellent burglar, too.”
Again I caught the detective’s eye, and suddenly remembered that everything I had been saying might be brought up as evidence in a court of law. He was carefully no
ting all those rickety lies, and presently would write them down in his pocket-book, as he had threatened! Another question or two, and I think I should have thrown up the game voluntarily, but at that moment a telegram was brought in for Aunt Sarah. She put up her glasses, read it, and let the glasses fall. “What!” she squeaked.
She looked helplessly about her, and held the telegram toward me. “I must see that, please,” the detective said.
It was from the manager of the hydropathic establishment at Malvern where Aunt Sarah had been staying, and it read thus:—
“FOUND LEATHER JEWEL-CASE WITH YOUR INITIALS ON LEDGE UP CHIMNEY OF ROOM LATELY OCCUPIED HERE. PRESUME VALUABLE, SO AM SENDING ON BY SPECIAL MESSENGER.”
“Why, bless me!” said Aunt Sarah, as soon as she could find speech; “bless me! I—I felt sure I’d taken it down from the chimney and put it in the trunk!” And, with her eyes nearly as wide open as her mouth, she stared blankly in my face.
Personally I saw stars everywhere, as though I had been hit between the eyes with a club. I don’t remember anything distinctly after this till I found myself in the street with the detective. I think I said I preferred waiting at the police-station.
It is unnecessary to say much more, and it would be very painful to me. I know, indirectly, through the police, that the jewel-case did turn up a few hours later, with the horrible brooch, and all the other things in it, perfectly safe. Aunt Sarah had put it up the chimney for safety at Malvern—just the sort of thing she would do—and made a mistake about bringing it away, that was all. There it had stayed for more than a week before it had been discovered, while Aunt Sarah was urging me to deception and fraud. That was some days ago, and I have not seen her since; I admit I am afraid to go. I see no very plausible way of accounting for those two brooches with the initials and the red hair—and no possible way of making them both fit with the thrilling story of Bludgeoning Bill and the thieves’ kitchen. What am I to do?
But I have not told all yet. This is the letter I have received from Honoria Prescott, in the midst of my perplexities:—
Sir,—
I inclose your ring, and am sending your other presents by parcel delivery. I desire to see no more of you. And though I have been so grossly deceived, I confess that even now I find it difficult to understand your extraordinary taste for waitresses at low eating-houses. Fortunately my mother’s kitchen-maid happens to be a relative of Hannah Dobbs, and it was because she very properly brought to my notice a letter which she had received from that young person that I learnt of your scandalous behaviour. I inclose the letter itself, that you may understand the disgust and contempt with which your conduct inspires me.—Your obedient servant,
Honoria Prescott.
The lamentable scrawl which accompanied this letter I have copied below—at least the latter part of it, which is all that relates to myself:—
Lore Jane i have got no end of a yung swel after me now and no mistake, quite the gent he is with a torl hatt and frock coat and spats and he comes here every day and eats what i know he dont want all for love of me and he give me ½ a soffrin for a lock of my hare to day and rushed off blushin awful he has bin follerin me up and down the shop that loving for days, and presents of flowers that beautiful, and his name is Clement Simpson i got it off a letter he pulled out of his pocket one day he is that adgertated i think he is a friend of your missise havent i hurd you say his name but I do love him that deer so now no more from yours afexntely,
Hannah Dobbs.
Again I ask any charitable person with brains less distracted than my own—What am I to do? I wonder if Mr. Finch will give me an appointment as tract-distributor to the Esquimaux?
A GAME OF BILLIARDS
Published in the UK under syndication in 1899.
There is a billiard-room in the Strand where I frequently play a game with a friend, and sometimes with the marker. I came from my chambers one evening, and walked slowly towards the Strand. Presently I bethought me of the billiard-room, where I had played more than once with Boyd at about this time.
As I turned in at the door a very wretched-looking man stopped me. His rusty black coat was fastened—with a pin, I think—close under his chin, as is the way with very seedy people who have no shirts. He wasn’t dirty—indeed, I should think he was as well-washed as I was myself—but he was unhealthily pale and terribly thin and bony. He said, “I beg your pardon, sir, but your friend isn’t in the rooms, and the marker is playing with another gentleman. If you’ll play me a game, a shilling to nothing, sir, I’ll give you a good game—I will indeed!”
I had no particular ambition to play with this ill-clad scarecrow, and I judged his address to be merely a form of begging. But when I reached the landing and pushed open the billiard-room door, I found the man at my elbow.
“For the love of God, sir,” he pleaded, “Let me play you—a shilling to nothing! You’d probably give the marker a shilling if he played with you. Give me a chance of it, and I’ll give you a good game—I will indeed!”
“Outside, there, please!” the marker cried, looking up from a stroke. “Outside!”
“I’m to play with this gentleman,” the man answered desperately, with on appealing look at me.
“All right,” I said, “but only fifty.”
The marker seemed not altogether pleased, but he made no further objection, and I took, my cue. The pale man selected his with a deal of care, and I could see that his hand was trembling. That did not look like good billiards, at any rate. I gave the usual miss in baulk, and the pale man tried for the cannon off the red—a very difficult shot. He was hasty and nervous, and he failed badly. I put my ball in the middle pocket off the white, and thus bringing the balls together at the top, I made a gentle cannon from baulk, followed it with another cannon, put down the red, and cannoned again.
As I looked up from this stroke, the man’s face almost broke up my nerves. His eyes were on the balls, and the sweat stood on his face as though sprinkled from a brush. Plainly, I was playing better than he expected; though I never saw a man so anxious, over a game—or a shilling.
So much was I startled by the fellow’s aspect, that I made a bad mess of the next stroke—a very easy one, to pocket the red—and felt angry.
He passed his tongue nervously over his lips, squeezed his eyes tight for a moment, as though they ached, and then put his ball in off the red. It was a very easy stroke, but it seemed to quiet his nerves a little. So much so that he went in and scored seven with the next three shots—a break of ten. But at that he left himself nothing, and failed; still, it was plain he was no duffer, though his nerves were all to pieces.
“Would you like to make it a hundred, sir?” he asked.
“No,” I said, “fifty.”
I resolved to muff my other strokes and let the poor devil win the shilling; but some perverse fate wouldn’t let me stop scoring as I wanted. I needed six to win; and he needed seventeen.
He made a couple of cannons, and then at different times went in off white and put down red. This left him eight to get, against my six.
And then I, anxiously trying not to score, went in off the red—the blankest fluke in the world. Worse; this left the balls far apart, and thinking to bring them all down together in baulk for him (his own ball lay in baulk), I made a hard drive up at the red, brought it down as I wished—and cannoned!
My score was forty-nine, and the pale man’s ball lay close under the cushion. His game was desperate. It seemed impossible for him to score, and, agitated as he was, it was more than likely that with his ball so tucked away he would make a miss, and so give me the game As he turned to chalk his cue, I took the opportunity to slip a shilling on the edge of the table just over his ball, and then turned my back to get my hat and pay for the game. If he made no miss I would plead an engagement and give him the game and the shilling; if he did—well, he’d probably make no difficulty i
n taking the money. But a smart double click of the balls caused me to turn my head; and behold! only my own ball stood on the table. It was a cannon and double pocket, scored eight, and won the game.
“Good stroke!” I cried. “Capital stroke!”
But as I said it the cue rattled down on the table, and the man fell forward over it with his long arms extended.
The marker and the man playing with him put down their cues and ran to help me lift him.
“Not drunk, is he?” said the marker.
Of course, I knew he was not drunk. We put him lengthwise on the cushioned seat that extended the length of the wall, and then something prompted me to tear open that pinned-up coat. Not only had the man no shirt, but also no waistcoat. I put my hand to the bare and very shrunken chest, and could feel no beating.
“Fetch a doctor!” said the man from the other table. But the shabby man was dead.
Nevertheless, in ten minutes the doctor was there; but he could only do as I had done, and shake his head.
“Heart, no doubt,” was all he said “Know who he is?”
The marker knew the man by sight, and also by name—Viney. He had been well off once, the marker believed, but he had had bad luck, and turned billiard-marker some years back, but had had no work for a long time. He bad tried to earn a few coppers at odd jobs, but had very little luck, the marker thought—not being strong. The marker knew nothing against him, but he had had very little luck, the marker thought—not being strong. The marker knew nothing against him, but he had orders to keep out loafers. Ho fancied he lived somewhere about Russell Court in Drury Lane, and that he had a wife and children. But they would be sure to know at the public-house at the corner of the court, for he sometimes earned a copper by helping the potman clean the pots and cans.
I looked for the shilling, but it was gone. Nothing whatever was in the man’s pockets, and there was no shilling on the floor nor on the table. It could not have rolled down a crack for linoleum covered the floor closely; and indeed I remembered that the poor fellow had fallen over the place where I had put it, and that I had heard no jingle such as would have been caused by its striking the floor. The marker could not have taken it without my seeing him, even if he had not been, as I believe, a very honest fellow. No money of any sort was on the corpse; so I let it go, and came away.
The Arthur Morrison Mystery Page 111