I heard the customers being turned into the street, and the shutters going up; and then I got under the bed-clothes, for I recalled the nightmare, and it was not pleasant. It grew rather worse, indeed, for my waking fancy enlarged and embellished it, and I longed to hear the tread of Grandfather Nat ascending the stair. But he was late tonight. I heard Joe the potman, who slept off the premises, shut the door and go off up the street. For a few minutes Grandfather Nat was moving about the bar and the bar-parlour; and then there was silence, save for the noises—the clicks and the creaks—that the old house made of itself.
I waited and waited, sometimes with my head out of the clothes, sometimes with no more than a contrived hole next my ear, listening. Till at last I could wait no longer, for the house seemed alive with stealthy movement, and I shook with the indefinite terror that comes, some night or another, to the most unimaginative child. I thought, at first, of calling to my grandfather, but that would seem babyish; so I said my prayers over again, held my breath, and faced the terrors of the staircase. The boards sang and creaked under my bare feet, and the black about me was full of dim coloured faces. But I pushed the door and drew breath in the honest lamplight of the bar-parlour at last.
Nobody was there, and nobody was in the bar. Could he have gone out? Was I alone in the house, there, where the blood was still on the carpet? But there was a slight noise from behind the stairs, and I turned to look farther.
Behind the bar-parlour and the staircase were two rooms, that projected immediately over the river, with their frames resting on the piles. One was sometimes used as a parlour for the reception of mates and skippers, though such customers were rare; the other held cases, bottles and barrels. To this latter I turned, and mounting the three steps behind the staircase, pushed open the door; and was mightily astonished at what I saw.
There was my grandfather, kneeling, and there was one half of Bill Stagg the purlman, standing waist-deep in the floor. For a moment it was beyond me to guess what he was standing on, seeing that there was nothing below but water; but presently I reasoned that the tide was high, and he must be standing in his boat. He was handing my grandfather some small packages, and he saw me at once and pointed. Grandfather Nat turned sharply, and stared, and for a moment I feared he was angry. Then he grinned, shook his finger at me, and brought it back to his lips with a tap.
“All right—my pardner,” he whispered, and Bill Stagg grinned too. The business was short enough, and in a few seconds Bill Stagg, with another grin at me, and something like a wink, ducked below. My grandfather, with noiseless care, put back in place a trap-door—not a square, noticeable thing, but a clump of boards of divers lengths that fell into place with as innocent an aspect as the rest of the floor. This done, he rolled a barrel over the place, and dropped the contents of the packages into a row of buckets that stood near.
“What’s that, Grandfather Nat?” I ventured to ask, when all was safely accomplished.
My grandfather grinned once more, and shook his head. “Go on,” he said, “I’ll tell you in the bar-parlour. May as well now as let ye find out.” He blew out the light of his candle and followed me.
“Well,” he said, wrapping my cold feet in my nightgown as I sat on his knee. “What brought ye down, Stevy? Did we make a noise?”
I shook my head. “I—I felt lonely,” I said.
“Lonely? Well, never mind. An’ so ye came to look for me, eh? Well, now, this is another one o’ the things as you mustn’t talk about, Stevy—a little secret between ourselves, bein’ pardners.”
“The stuff in the pail, Gran’fa’ Nat?”
“The stuff in the pail, an’ the hole in the floor. You’re sure you won’t get talkin’, an’ get your poor old gran’father in trouble?”
Yes, I was quite sure; though I could not see as yet what there was to cause trouble.
“The stuff Bill Stagg brought, Stevy, is ’bacca. ’Bacca smashed down so hard that a pound ain’t bigger than that matchbox. An’ I pitch it in the water to swell it out again; see?”
I still failed to understand the method of its arrival. “Did Bill Stagg steal it, gran’father?” I asked.
Grandfather Nat laughed. “No, my boy,” he said; “he bought it, an’ I buy it. It comes off the Dutch boats. But it comes a deal cheaper takin’ it in that way at night-time. There’s a big place I’ll show you one day, Stevy—big white house just this side o’ London Bridge. There’s a lot o’ gentlemen there as wants to see all the ’bacca that comes in from aboard, an’ they take a lot o’ trouble over it, and charge too, fearful. So they’re very angry if parties—same as you an’ me—takes any in without lettin’ ’em know, an’ payin’ ’em the money. An’ they can get you locked up.”
This seemed a very unjust world that I had come into, in which Grandfather Nat was in danger of such terrible penalties for such innocent transactions—buying a watch, or getting his tobacco cheap. So I said: “I think people are very wicked in this place.”
“Ah!” said my grandfather, “I s’pose none of us ain’t over good. But there—I’ve told you about it now, an’ that’s better than lettin’ you wonder, an’ p’raps go asking other people questions. So now you know, Stevy. We’ve got our little secrets between us, an’ you’ve got to keep ’em between us, else—well, you know. Nothing about anything I buy, nor about what I take in there,”—with a jerk of the thumb—“nor about ’bacca in buckets o’ water.”
“Nor about the pocket-book, Gran’fa’ Nat?”
“Lord no. ’Specially not about that. You see, Stevy, pardners is pardners, an’ they must stick together, eh? We’ll stick together, won’t we?”
I nodded hard and reached for my grandfather’s neck.
“Ah, that we will. What others like to think they can; they can’t prove nothing, nor it wouldn’t be their game. But we’re pardners, an’ I’ve told you what—well, what you might ha’ found out in a more awkward way. An’ it ain’t so bad a thing to have a pardner to talk to, neither. I never had one till now—not since your gran’mother died, that you never saw, Stevy; an’ that was twenty years ago. I been alone most o’ my life—not even a boy, same as it might be you. ’Cause why? When your father was your age, an’ older, I was always at sea, an’ never saw him, scarcely; same as him an’ you now.”
And indeed Grandfather Nat and I knew each other better than my father knew either of us. And so we sat for a few minutes talking of ourselves, and once more of the notes in the pocket-book upstairs; till the tramp of the three policemen on the beat stayed in the street without, and we heard one of the three coming down the passage.
He knocked sharply at the bar-parlour door, and Grandfather Nat put me down and opened it.
“Good evenin’, Cap’en Kemp,” said the policeman. “We knew you was up, seein’ a bit o’ light.” Then he leaned farther in, and in a lower voice, said: “He ain’t been exactly identified yet, but it’s thought some of our chaps knows ’im. Know if anything’s been picked up?”
My heart gave a jump, as probably did my grandfather’s. “Picked up?” he repeated. “Why, what? What d’ye mean?”
“Well, there was nothing partic’lar on the body, an’ our chaps didn’t see the knife. We thought if anybody about ’ad picked up anything, knife or what not, you might ’ear. So there ain’t nothing?”
“No,” Grandfather Nat answered blankly. “I’ve seen no knife, nor heard of none.”
“All right, Cap’en Kemp—if you do hear of anything, give us the tip. Good night!”
Grandfather Nat looked oddly at me, and I at him. I think we had a feeling that our partnership was sealed. And so with no more words we went to bed.
Chapter 11
Stephen’s Tale
I had never seen either of the partners in the firm of Viney and Marr: as I may have said already. On the day after the man was stabbed at our side door I saw them both.
&
nbsp; That morning the tide was low, and Hole-in-the-Wall Stairs ended in a causeway in the midst of a little flat of gravel and mud. So, since the mud was nowhere dangerous, and there was no deep water to fall into, I was allowed to go down the steps alone and play on the foreshore while Grandfather Nat was busy with his morning’s affairs; the two or three watermen lying by the causeway undertaking to keep an eye on me. And there I took my pleasure as I would, now raking in the wet pebbles, and heaving over big stones that often pulled me on to all-fours, now climbing the stairs to peep along the alley, and once or twice running as far as the bar-parlour door to report myself to Grandfather Nat, and inform him of my discoveries.
The little patch of foreshore soon rendered up all its secrets, and its area grew less by reason of the rising tide; so that I turned to other matters of interest. Out in mid-stream a cluster of lighters lay moored, waiting for the turn of the tide. Presently a little tug came puffing and fussing from somewhere alongshore, and after much shoving and hauling and shouting, scuffled off, trailing three of the lighters behind it; from which I conjectured that their loads were needed in a hurry. But the disturbance among the rest of the lighters was not done with when the tug had cleared the three from their midst; for a hawser had got foul of a rudder, and two or three men were at work with poles and hooks, recrimination and forcible words, to get things clear. Though the thing seemed no easy job; and it took my attention for some time.
But presently I tired of it, and climbed the steps to read the bills describing the people who had been found drowned. There were eleven of the bills altogether, fresh and clean; and fragments of innumerable others, older and dirtier, were round about them. Ten men and one woman had been picked up, it would seem, and all within a week or two, as I learned when I had spelled out the dates. I pored at these bills till I had read them through, being horribly fascinated by the personal marks and peculiarities so baldly set forth; the scars, the tattoo marks, the colour of the dead eyes; the clothes and boots and the contents of the pockets—though indeed most of the pockets would seem to have been empty. The woman—they guessed her age at twenty-two—wore one earring; and I entangled myself in conjectures as to what had become of the other.
I was disturbed by a shout from the causeway. I looked and saw Bill Stagg in his boat. “Is your gran’father there?” shouted Bill Stagg. “Tell him they’ve found his boat.”
This was joyful news, and I rushed to carry it. “They’ve found our boat, Grandfather Nat,” I cried. “Bill Stagg says so!”
Grandfather Nat was busy in the bar, and he received the information with calmness. “Ah,” he said, “I knew it ’ud turn up somewhere. Bill Stagg there?” And he came out leisurely in his shirt sleeves, and stood at the head of the stairs.
“P’lice galley found your boat, cap’en,” Bill Stagg reported. “You’ll have to go up to the float for it.”
“Right. Know where it was?”
“Up agin Elephant stairs”—Bill Stagg pointed across the river—“turned adrift and jammed among the lighters.”
Grandfather Nat nodded serenely. Bill Stagg nodded in reply, shoved off from the causeway and went about his business.
The hawser was still foul among the lighters out in the stream, and a man had pulled over in a boat to help. I had told grandfather of the difficulty, and how long it had baffled the lightermen, and was asking the third of a string of questions about it all, when there was a step behind, and a voice: “Good mornin’, Cap’en Nat.”
My grandfather turned quickly. “Mr. Viney!” he said. “Well.… Good mornin’.”
I turned also, and I was not prepossessed by Mr. Viney. His face—a face no doubt originally pale and pasty, but too long sun-burned to revert to anything but yellow in these later years of shore-life—his yellow face was ever stretched in an uneasy grin, a grin that might mean either propitiation or malice, and remained the same for both. He had the watery eyes and the goatee beard that were not uncommon among seamen, and in total I thought he much resembled one of those same hang-dog fellows that stood at corners and leaned on posts in the neighbourhood, making a mysterious living out of sailors; one of them, that is to say, in a superior suit of clothes that seemed too good for him. I suppose he may have been an inch taller than Grandfather Nat; but in the contrast between them he seemed very small and mean.
He offered his hand with a stealthy gesture, rather as though he were trying to pick my grandfather’s waistcoat pocket; so that the old man stared at the hand for a moment, as if to see what he would be at, before he shook it.
“Down in the world again, Cap’en Nat,” said Viney, with a shrug.
“Ay, I heard,” answered Captain Nat. “I’m very sorry; but there—perhaps you’ll be up again soon.…”
“I come to ask you about something,” Viney proceeded, as they walked away toward the bar-parlour door. “Something you’ll tell me, bein’ an old shipmate, if you can find out, I’m sure. Can we go into your place? No, there’s a woman there.”
“Only one as does washin’ up an’ such. I’ll send her upstairs if you like.”
“No, out here’s best; we’ll walk up and down; people get hangin’ round doors an’ keyholes in a place like that. Here we can see who’s near us.”
“What, secrets?”
“Ay.” Viney gave an ugly twist to his grin. “I know some o’ yours—one big un’ at any rate, Cap’en Nat, don’t I? So I can afford to let you into a little ’un o’ mine, seein’ I can’t help it. Now I’d like to know if you’ve seen anything of Marr.”
“No—haven’t seen him for months. Bolted, they tell me, an’—well you know better’n me, I expect.”
“I don’t know,” Viney replied with emphasis. “I ought to know, but I don’t. See here now. Less than a week ago he cleared out, an’ then I filed my petition. He might ha’ been gone anywhere—bolted. Might be abroad, as would seem most likely. In plain fact he was only coming down in these parts to lie low. See? Round about here a man can lie low an’ snug, an’ safer than abroad, if he likes. And he had money with him—all we could get together. See?” And Viney frowned and winked, and glanced stealthily over his shoulder.
“Ah,” remarked Captain Nat, drily, “I see. An’ the creditors—”
“Damn the creditors! See here, Cap’en Nat Kemp. Remember a man called Dan Webb?”
Captain Nat paled a little, and tightened his lips.
“Remember a man called Dan Webb?” Viney repeated, stopping in his walk and facing the other with the uneasy grin unchanged. “A man called Dan Webb, aboard o’ the Florence along o’ you an’ me? ’Cause I do, anyhow. That’s on’y my little hint—we’re good friends altogether, o’ course, Cap’en Nat; but you know what it means. Well, Marr had money with him, as I said. He was to come to a quiet anchorage hereabout, got up like a seaman, an’ let me know at once.”
Captain Nat, his mouth still set tight, nodded, with a grunt.
“Well, he didn’t let me know. I heard nothing at all from him, an’ it struck me rather of a heap to think that p’raps he’d put the double on me, an’ cleared out in good earnest. But yesterday I got news. A blind fiddler chap gave me some sort o’ news.”
Captain Nat remembered the meeting at the street corner in the evening after the funeral. “Blind George?” he queried.
“Yes, that was all the name he gave me; a regular thick ’un, that blind chap, an’ a flow o’ language as would curl the sheathing off a ship’s bottom. He came the evening before, it seems, but found the place shut up—servant gal took her hook. Well now, he’d done all but see Marr down here at the Blue Gate—he’d seen him as clear as a blind man could, he said, with his ears: an’ he came to me to give me the tip an’ earn anything I’d give him for it. It amounted to this. It was plain enough Marr had come along here all right, an’ pitched on some sort o’ quarters; but it was clear he wasn’t fit to be trusted alone in such a place at al
l. For the blind chap found him drunk, an’ in tow with as precious a pair o’ bully-boys as Blue Gate could show. Not only drunk, neither, but drunk with a slack jaw—drunk an’ gabbling, drunk an’ talkin’ business—my business—an’ lettin’ out all there was to let—this an’ that an’ t’other an’ Lord knows what! It was only because of his drunken jabber that the blind man found out who he was.”
“And this was the day before yesterday?” asked Captain Nat.
“Yes.”
Captain Nat shook his head. “If he was like that the day before yesterday,” he said, “in tow with such chaps as you say—well, whatever he had on him ain’t on him now. An’ it ’ud puzzle a cleverer man than me to find it. You may lay to that.”
Viney swore, and stamped a foot, and swore again. “But see,” he said, “ain’t there a chance? It was in notes, all of it. Them chaps’ll be afraid to pass notes. Couldn’t most of it be got back on an arrangement to cash the rest? You can find ’em if you try, with all your chances. Come—I’ll pay fair for what I get, to you an’ all.”
“See how you’ve left it,” remarked Captain Nat; and Viney swore again. “This was all done the day before yesterday. Well, you don’t hear of it yourself till yesterday, an’ now you don’t come to me till today.”
Viney swore once more, and grinned twice as wide in his rage. “Yes,” he said, “that was Blind George’s doing. I sent him back to see what he could do, an’ ain’t seen him since. Like as not he’s standing in with the others.”
“Ay, that’s likely,” the old man answered, “very likely. Blind George is as tough a lot as any in Blue Gate, for all he’s blind. You’d never ha’ heard of it at all if they’d ha’ greased him a bit at first. I expect they shut him out, to keep the plant to themselves; an’ so he came to you for anything he could pick up. An’ now—”
Viney cursed them all, and Blind George and himself together; but most he cursed Marr; and so talking, the two men walked to and fro in the passage.
The Arthur Morrison Mystery Page 213