As he stood so, distractedly staring at the lights in the fog, a slow footstep approached, and a tall policeman came suddenly upon him out of the gloom, looking into his face as he passed—looking, as it seemed to Reginald’s uneasy perceptions, with an eye of inquiry and deep suspicion. Fortunately, the man saw nothing of the box lying close under the parapet, and vanished as suddenly as he had appeared, leaving Reginald in an agony of fear. What if the policeman had seen the box, and had asked questions? How account for his possession of the corpse of an unknown foreigner? Plainly something must be done, and at once.
His first impulse, as soon as the policeman was gone, was to take to his heels, simply. But then he remembered the river, so close to hand. The plain object of Lucia and her brother must be to dispose of the body, somehow; and possibly by this time they had fled, alarmed at his non-arrival. In any case there was no visible means of bringing them the box, and he must act on his own account, before that policeman returned on his beat. He took one stealthy glance about him, raised an end of the box against the parapet, and with a great effort lifted the other end and pushed the thing forward till it balanced on the coping. Then with a final desperate shove he sent it tumbling into the black abyss before him, and ran his hardest.
He soon found it needful to check his pace, however, and narrowly averted a collision with a tree as it was. He found that he had taken the direction along the Embankment, away from Blackfriars. That being so he must go over Waterloo Bridge to inform Lucia of the fate of the box, if she were still there. As he went he grew calmer, and presently saw, by aid of a lamp, that it was five minutes past seven. He crossed the road warily at the best-lighted place he could find, and made his best pace to keep his appointment.
That dreary tramp seemed a week of groping hours, and he found himself doubting his watch when it indicated, in the light of the public-house at the corner of York Road, that he was little more than an hour late. He hastened on, and was barely emerging from the blackness beneath the railway-bridge when his arm was seized above the elbow, and Lucia stood before him.
“Where is it? The box?” she demanded.
“It’s all right—I’ve—I’ve got rid of it; I—”
“Got rid of it? What d’you mean?” Surprise, alarm, and sharp suspicion were harsh in her voice.
“Pitched it into the river. That was all I could do, you see, with—”
“Pitched it into the river?” Her voice rose to a sort of hushed scream.
“Yes. The cab broke down, and I had to get rid of the corpse somehow, and so—and so—”
“Corpse? What corpse?”
“In the box—the short man; the remains. It had to be got rid—”
She snatched at his arm again and shook it. “Do you mean to tell me,” she hissed in his face, “that you’ve thrown that box into the river?”
“Yes, certainly!”
What followed Reginald will always find it difficult to describe, even if he should ever wish to remember it, which is doubtful. He was aware of a sudden torrent of a language which he was sure was not Portuguese, since he had heard it frequently at the Islington Cattle Market. Then something hard of Lucia’s—he could scarcely believe it was her fist took him suddenly on the left ear, and the lady herself, her skirts snatched up in her hands, vanished into the fog at a bolt, leaving him dumb and gasping, as well as a little deaf—on the left side.
IV
That evening in his rooms, amazed and bewildered, Reginald Drinkwater pulled once again from his pocket the note of instructions he had received at Pentonville. The thing was most hastily scribbled, as though it were all one sentence; most of the words ran on without a break till they reached the end of the line, and yet the meaning seemed quite clear. The punctuation he had supplied himself, and now he could see no better arrangement. “We must remove remains in box.” That was plain enough; certainly plain enough. And then, suddenly, as by a flash of inspiration, he saw the thing in quite a different reading. The word “caused” ended the first line, and “troublesome thing” began the second. But hereabout the words were all joined, and if only the “some” were tacked on to “thing” instead of “trouble”—and there was no reason why it should not be—the whole meaning was changed. “Difficulty with small man caused trouble,” it would read, and then, “something we must remove remains in box.” Something we must remove remains in box!
Mouth and eyes and fingers all opened together, and the paper fell between his knees as this amazing explanation presented itself. Then there was no body! No one was killed! He had only been sent to Pentonville because “something we must remove remains in box!” Great heavens! what had he flung into the river?
He picked the paper up and read it once more, and the new reading stared at him plainer than ever. What had he done? He could understand now, dimly, that Lucia probably had reasons for her amazement and anger. But then that language—worse, that punch! What did it all mean?
He gasped and wondered for two days, and then Buss, K.C., returned from his little holiday. Reginald’s attention was attracted to his neighbor by a sudden howl and a series of appalling bellows, accompanied by frantic rushings to and fro, bangings of doors and shoutings on stairs. Then, after an interval, Reginald, still curious, perceived the head of an inspector of police at the nearest open window of Buss, K.C. And after another interval that same inspector presented himself at the rooms of Mr. Reginald Drinkwater. Mr. Buss’s rooms had been entered and robbed during his absence from town, and the entry had been effected, in the judgment of the police, through the window in the corner, by some person crossing from Mr. Drinkwater’s window. Of course the inspector didn’t wish to say or do anything unpleasant, and no doubt investigations would put things in a different light; but for the present—!
And so it came about that the Drinkwater romance was first poured into the unenthusiastic ears of the police; and that some of the most valuable of the Buss silver was dragged and dived for in the Thames near Blackfriars under the joint direction of the police and Mr. Drink-water himself.
“Yes,” observed the inspector, some days after his first visit, when Mr. Drinkwater’s bona fides had been quite established—“yes, sir, it’s just their sort o’ job. Lucia da Silva she called herself this time, did she? It’s a very pretty name. She’s had a lot of ’em at one time or another, but I never heard that before. She’s been Spanish an’ she’s been Italian an’ she’s been Greek—this Portuguese dodge is fresh; nothing like being up-to-date, I suppose. Bit of a sheeny, really, I believe. Yes. It’s she’s the smart one; he’s got ideas, but he funks the work. You see she did it all in this job. Came to try and fit keys to your door when you were out—that was when you surprised her. Her fright was real enough, of course, when you turned up, but she was smart enough to turn it to her own account. You see, Mr. Buss’s doors would be a harder job than yours—he’s had patent locks put on ’em, inside and out, an’ no doubt they knew it.
“Wonderful quick she was with her yarn, wasn’t she? She’s a topper. Knew how to adapt it, too, you see. It was when she got you safe off in the Café Royal they did it. Did it together, with the keys they’d made from the waxes she got from your laundress’s bunch when she came the day before, and you were out. These women shouldn’t leave keys about like that, though they always do. Yes, she did it smart all through—I always admired that gal. Not least smart was getting you to bring the stuff along after they’d left their lodgings. I think I know why that was. It was him funking it again—he’s always a funk, fortunately, in these jobs. Thought we’d got an eye on the house, which we hadn’t, because it’s quite a respectable place, and we’d lost sight of him lately. But see the neatness of it, getting you to carry the stuff. If we had been watching the house, or if you’d’ been stopped on the way, you’d have been in the soup, not them. Found with the goods on you, you see, sir, and the burglary done from your rooms! Eh? Oh, very neat. But there—
I’ve got one joke against her, when I find her; that note that queered the game. That is rich. ‘Remains,’ eh? ‘Remains in box!’ We must explain that to her, when we get her! ‘Remains,’ eh? Ha! ha!”
“Ha! ha!” repeated Reginald—a sickly echo. “Yes, quite a joke—against her!”
FIDDLE O’ DREAMS AND MORE
MR. WALKER’S AEROPLANE
First published in The Strand Magazine, November 1912
There is a bow-window in the parlour of the Padfield Arms which gives a view of the village street on one hand and of the open road and the fields on the other. Either way offers an attractive walk to an idle man, and I stood in the window in the mood that induces such a man to toss up for it. But a man may be even too idle to toss up, and it struck me to leave the decision to two unconscious arbitrators: Dan’l Robgent, who, with his stick and his rheumatics, was approaching from the village street, and an unknown bicyclist who was coming up the road from Codham, with many swerves and wobbles, occasioned by desperate twisting of the neck and staring at the sky. Dan’l was close, the bicyclist was comparatively far. Which would pass the window first? With a brisk pedestrian and a cyclist intent on his journey, a dead-heat would seem likely; but Dan’l’s rheumatics and the cyclist’s interest in the heavens introduced factors of uncertainty and gave the chance a sporting interest.
Dan’l Robgent paused and rubbed his toe tenderly with his stick—he was losing ground; but after that slight refreshment he came on with quite a spurt, and the cyclist brought down his gaze and made a wild swerve to save his balance.
In the end victory lay with the unwitting Dan’l by the mere distance of the window from the inn-door; for there the two met, and the bicyclist dismounted to ask Dan’l some question which was ungraciously received.
“No,” I heard Dan’l say, very severely, “I hain’t seen no hairyplane, so there!”
The bicyclist grinned.
“All right,” he answered. “Keep your hair on, oad ’un! I didn’t mean oad Taff-Pilcher’s!”
And with that he turned to his machine and drifted up the village street.
There were military manoeuvres in this part of Essex, and a rumour had been heard that aeroplanes were to fly. So that I wondered at Dan’l’s indignation as he came stumping into the parlour, grumbling vaguely. I ventured a question.
“That young monkey comes from Codham,” said Dan’l Robgent, “an’ when a Codham man talks about hairyplanes to a Padfield man it means impidence. Speeches o’ chaff, I s’pose they call it; but I call it impidence, to a man oad enough to be his father.”
I put my stick in a corner and sat down. Dan’l Robgent sat down, too, and in response to my well-understood signal a mug was planted under his nose ere he was fully settled. He received the mug with a well-bred affectation of surprise, as usual, and wished me excellent health.
“Well,” I said, “and who is old Taff-Pilcher?”
“Mr. Taff-Pilcher, sir,” said Dan’l, with grave reproof, “is Parlyment candidate for this ’ere division, and a very nice genelman. Them chaps at Codham don’t ’preciate him Codham not bein’ in this votin’ division though only three mile off. Mr. Taff-Pilcher looks arter our interests, as is proper, not the Codham people’s; and it’s my belief he’ll be member after next election, he’s made hisself that popular. And when he is we shall be all right—them as votes for Mr. Taff-Pilcher, anyway. We shall all get summat for our votes, we shall; we sha’n’t be wheedled out of ’em for nothink like as what we’ve bin ever since I had a vote.”
“How much are you to get?” I asked.
“’Tain’t legal for a genelman to mention the ’zact amount, no more than it’s legal for a genelman to pay it hisself. He’s a lawyer, is Mr. Taff-Pilcher, and he knows the law thorough. I’ve heard my oad father say in his time, when the law was different, the price o’ votes dropped from a sovereign to five shillun paid down afore you went in; then it got to half a crown an’ less; an’ then nothin’ at all. Shameful it was—and has been all my time. But Mr. Taff-Pilcher’s a free-hearted genelman, and he’s goin’ to see things put right again; an’ as he won’t be payin’ hisself he ain’t under no temptation to keep it low. And there’s goin’ to be ashfelt in Padfield street, and ’lectric light and ping-pong in the workus.”
“But what about his aeroplane?”
“Well, ’twasn’t ’zactly his, so to speak but one as he wasn’t able to send. You see he’s always been special kind and attentive has Mr. Taff-Pilcher. It was only a accident that he didn’t get the Lord Mayor o’ Lunnon hisself down to give away the school prizes an’ he’s the very best cricket umpire we ever had on the field here, an’ football, too. Fine he is, straight and fair allus, with just a leetle leanin’ towards Padfield, when it ain’t too noticeable. That’s what I like to see—a perfeck fair umpire as won’t give it agin his own side if he can help it. That’s the sort we want.”
“And Codham doesn’t?” I interjected for the rivalry of Padfield and Codham was intense in cricket and football as in everything else.
“They’re jealous; Codhamites allus are. I dunno what they expect; if they’d got any sense o’ fairness they’d see that their votes ain’t no good to him. But it was about the hairyplane I was tellin’ you. It was in the annual sports—you know what a time we have here at Padfield sports every year. There ain’t nothin’ like it for miles round, and ain’t been since they stopped Codham Fair. Well, it’s wonnerful how Mr. Taff-Pilcher went into them sports. We made him judge, o’ course, seein’ how good he was as umpire an’ it paid us. And he helped us wonnerful other ways, too. He didn’t pay for no prizes, you understand, nor subscribe nothin’ ’cos that’s all agin his principles. He’s very partic’lar about his principles, is Mr. Taff-Pilcher, an’ the one we found out about first was that it’s wrong for him to pay out anything in this ’ere constitooency, bein’ a sort o’ bribery as he couldn’t stoop to. But lor’, you’d never ha’ minded if you’d seen him givin’ the prizes away after the sports; you’d ha’ believed he’d give the whole lot out of his own pocket, the handsome way he did it and the generous way he talked. And it was just the same all through; nobody ever knew before what unimportant sort o’ people the squire and the passon was till they see Mr. Taff-Pilcher a-puttin’ of ’em in the shade at the sports.
“He stuck to his principles about not subscribin’ money, but nobody could call him mean when it was give out he was goin’ to send a hairyplane. Everybody knowed what a expensive thing a hairyplane was, and them chaps as go up in ’em allus charge about a thousand pound a time. He made a little speech about it afore the sports began. He said we was livin’ in stirrin’ times, and the march o’ progress was astonishin’ to be’old. He told us that man, not content with sailin’ the stormy deep and travellin’ on the firmer terra cotta, had now took to hisself wings to cleave the infinite expense. He said that he was proud and happy to say that a hairyplane was on its way to the spot he loved dearest on earth (meanin’ Padfield) at about a hundred an’ fifty mile an hour and conskently might be expected any time in the arternoon, bein’ driv by a most noted flyin’ genelman o’ the name o’ Walker. If Mr. Walker successfully braved the perils of the windy element, he said, in his journey from Lunnon, we should hev the glory and delight o’ seein’ him come a-swoopin’ down in graceful circles like a heagle or a harchangel on to Padfield. It ’ud be agin his principles he said, to say anythink about the tremenjus expense o’ givin’ us sich a treat as that, but he hoped we wouldn’t forget it. And then we cheered terrific, and the sports began.
“All Padfield and half Codham must ha’ gone to bed with stiff necks that night, and I wonder most o’ the necks wasn’t broke afore they got home. Half the things in the refreshment tent was ate by boys while the chaps in charge was starin’ up lookin’ for the hairyplane. Them as tried to look for the hairyplane and see the races too got it worst, and you’d think they ought to ha’ broke their
necks unanimous. Mr. Taff-Pilcher, he was very eager about it, too, as you’d expect; but he didn’t let it prevent him bein’ faithful to Padfield as judge o’ the sports. O’ course a judge can’t do very much for his pals, even in a country sports where things ain’t done particular; but what any judge could do Mr. Taff-Pilcher did, and did wonnerful neat, too. In the final o’ the hundred yards’ race, when young Bill Parker was comin’ up neck and neck with a Codham chap, Bill bein’ on the side nearest the judge, it was beautiful to see how he changed the tape from his left to his right hand, just casual like, as he turned round to speak to a committee-man, and just brought it up agin Bill Parker’s chest by about six inches. It was one o’ the good-naturedest things I ever see done. And he was just as thoughtful all through. I could see it, havin’ been in it all when I wasa young man, and knowed the comfort of havin’ a friendly judge when you’re a-takin’ off for the long jump, or got a little dab o’ cobbler’s wax in the spoon in the egg-and-spoon race. But the Codham chaps took it downright spiteful.
“The arternoon went on and most o’ the sports was over, one after another, and everybody sick and giddy a-starin’ at the sky, when there come a telegram for Mr. Taff-Pilcher. It come jist as the sack race was finishin’ and there was nothin’ more left but the tug-o’-war between Padfield an’ Codham. That was allus last, an’ a most howlin’ outrageous tussle it’s allus been, ’cos whichever side wins crows over the other for the rest o’ the year.
“Well, the telegram come, an’ Mr. Taff-Pilcher, he read it, an’ took off his hat an’ wiped his head and showed the telegram to the committee, an’ their faces went as long as fourpenny kites. Everybody saw as something was up, an’ some said the hairyplane man was killed for certain, an’ what a pity it didn’t happen where we could all see it. And then Mr. Taff-Pilcher got on a chair an’ called all the crowd round him an’ made another speech. He said it grieved him to the ’art to have to announce that he had just received a telegram from Mr. Walker, saying that his sky-hooks had give way and jammed his wind-sifter, so that he wouldn’t be able to get as far as Padfield. Nothin’ as could have occurred could ha’ grieved him wuss, unless it was that a accident might ha’ happened to Mr. Walker instead of his sky-hooks an’ his wind-sifter. He need hardly say how ’art-broke he was to see us all disappointed, an’ he hoped, at any rate, we wouldn’t blame him as was so devoted to our interests. He could only say that after his first pang o’ grief at seein’ us disappointed his next feelin’ was one of ’artfelt thankfulness that Mr. Walker was safe, an’ he was sure them was our sentiments’ too.
The Arthur Morrison Mystery Page 170