“Nothing could be simpler; and yet the plan was rather ingenious. I’ll tell you exactly how the thing revealed itself to me. From your original description of the case many people would consider that an impossibility had been performed. Nobody had gone out and nobody had come in, and yet the drawings had been taken away. But an impossibility is an impossibility, after all, and as drawings don’t run away of themselves, plainly somebody had taken them, unaccountable as it might seem. Now, as they were in your inner office, the only people who could have got at them besides yourself were your assistants, so that it was pretty clear that one of them, at least, had something to do with the business. You told me that Worsfold was an excellent and intelligent draughtsman. Well, if such a man as that meditated treachery, he would probably be able to carry away the design in his head — at any rate, a little at a time — and would be under no necessity to run the risk of stealing a set of the drawings. But Ritter, you remarked, was an inferior sort of man. ‘Not particularly smart,’ I think, were your words — only a mechanical sort of tracer. He would be unlikely to be able to carry in his head the complicated details of such designs as yours, and, being in a subordinate position, and continually overlooked, he would find it impossible to make copies of the plans in the office. So that, to begin with, I thought I saw the most probable path to start on.
“When I looked round the rooms, I pushed open the glass door of the barrier and left the door to the inner office ajar, in order to be able to see any thing that might happen in any part of the place, without actually expecting any definite development. While we were talking, as it happened, our friend Mirsky (or Hunter — as you please) came into the outer office, and my attention was instantly called to him by the first thing he did. Did you notice anything peculiar yourself?”
“No, really, I can’t say I did. He seemed to behave much as any traveler or agent might.”
“Well, what I noticed was the fact that as soon as he entered the place he put his walking-stick into the umbrella-stand over there by the door, close by where he stood, a most unusual thing for a casual caller to do, before even knowing whether you were in. This made me watch him closely. I perceived with increased interest that the stick was exactly of the same kind and pattern as one already standing there, also a curious thing. I kept my eyes carefully on those sticks, and was all the more interested and edified to see, when he left, that he took the other stick — not the one he came with — from the stand, and carried it away, leaving his own behind. I might have followed him, but I decided that more could be learned by staying, as, in fact, proved to be the case. This, by the by, is the stick he carried away with him. I took the liberty of fetching it back from Westminster, because I conceive it to be Ritier’s property.”
Hewitt produced the stick. It was an ordinary, thick Malacca cane, with a buck-horn handle and a silver band. Hewitt bent it across his knee and laid it on the table.
“Yes,” Dixon answered, “that is Ritter’s stick. I think I have often seen it in the stand. But what in the world — —”
“One moment; I’ll just fetch the stick Mirsky left behind.” And Hewitt stepped across the corridor.
He returned with another stick, apparently an exact fac-simile of the other, and placed it by the side of the other.
“When your assistants went into the inner room, I carried this stick off for a minute or two. I knew it was not Worsfold’s, because there was an umbrella there with his initial on the handle. Look at this.”
Martin Hewitt gave the handle a twist and rapidly unscrewed it from the top. Then it was seen that the stick was a mere tube of very thin metal, painted to appear like a Malacca cane.
“It was plain at once that this was no Malacca cane — it wouldn’t bend. Inside it I found your tracings, rolled up tightly. You can get a marvelous quantity of thin tracing-paper into a small compass by tight rolling.”
“And this — this was the way they were brought back!” the engineer exclaimed. “I see that clearly. But how did they get away? That’s as mysterious as ever.”
“Not a bit of it! See here. Mirsky gets hold of Ritter, and they agree to get your drawings and photograph them. Ritter is to let his confederate have the drawings, and Mirsky is to bring them back as soon as possible, so that they sha’n’t be missed for a moment. Ritter habitually carries this Malacca cane, and the cunning of Mirsky at once suggests that this tube should be made in outward fac-simile. This morning Mirsky keeps the actual stick, and Ritter comes to the office with the tube. He seizes the first opportunity — probably when you were in this private room, and Worsfold was talking to you from the corridor — to get at the tracings, roll them up tightly, and put them in the tube, putting the tube back into the umbrella-stand. At half-past twelve, or whenever it was, Mirsky turns up for the first time with the actual stick and exchanges them, just as he afterward did when he brought the drawings back.”
“Yes, but Mirsky came half an hour after they were — Oh, yes, I see. What a fool I was! I was forgetting. Of course, when I first missed the tracings, they were in this walking-stick, safe enough, and I was tearing my hair out within arm’s reach of them!”
“Precisely. And Mirsky took them away before your very eyes. I expect Ritter was in a rare funk when he found that the drawings were missed. He calculated, no doubt, on your not wanting them for the hour or two they would be out of the office.”
“How lucky that it struck me to jot a pencil-note on one of them! I might easily have made my note somewhere else, and then I should never have known that they had been away.”
“Yes, they didn’t give you any too much time to miss them. Well, I think the rest pretty clear. I brought the tracings in here, screwed up the sham stick and put it back. You identified the tracings and found none missing, and then my course was pretty clear, though it looked difficult. I knew you would be very naturally indignant with Ritter, so, as I wanted to manage him myself, I told you nothing of what he had actually done, for fear that, in your agitated state, you might burst out with something that would spoil my game. To Ritter I pretended to know nothing of the return of the drawings or how they had been stolen — the only things I did know with certainty. But I did pretend to know all about Mirsky — or Hunter — when, as a matter of fact, I knew nothing at all, except that he probably went under more than one name. That put Ritter into my hands completely. When he found the game was up, he began with a lying confession. Believing that the tracings were still in the stick and that we knew nothing of their return, he said that they had not been away, and that he would fetch them — as I had expected he would. I let him go for them alone, and, when he returned, utterly broken up by the discovery that they were not there, I had him altogether at my mercy. You see, if he had known that the drawings were all the time behind your book-case, he might have brazened it out, sworn that the drawings had been there all the time, and we could have done nothing with him. We couldn’t have sufficiently frightened him by a threat of prosecution for theft, because there the things were in your possession, to his knowledge.
“As it was he answered the helm capitally: gave us Mirsky’s address on the envelope, and wrote the letter that was to have got him out of the way while I committed burglary, if that disgraceful expedient had not been rendered unnecessary. On the whole, the case has gone very well.”
“It has gone marvelously well, thanks to yourself. But what shall I do with Ritter?”
“Here’s his stick — knock him down-stairs with it, if you like. I should keep the tube, if I were you, as a memento. I don’t suppose the respectable Mirsky will ever call to ask for it. But I should certainly kick Ritter out of doors — or out of window, if you like — without delay.”
Mirsky was caught, and, after two remands at the police-court, was extradited on the charge of forging Russian notes. It came out that he had written to the embassy, as Hewitt had surmised, stating that he had certain valuable information to offer, and the letter which Hewitt had seen delivered was an acknowl
edgment, and a request for more definite particulars. This was what gave rise to the impression that Mirsky had himself informed the Russian authorities of his forgeries. His real intent was very different, but was never guessed.
“I wonder,” Hewitt has once or twice observed, “whether, after all, it would not have paid the Russian authorities better on the whole if I had never investigated Mirsky’s little note factory. The Dixon torpedo was worth a good many twenty-ruble notes.”
THE QUINTON JEWEL AFFAIR
It was comparatively rarely that Hewitt came into contact with members of the regular criminal class — those, I mean, who are thieves, of one sort or another, by exclusive profession. Still, nobody could have been better prepared than Hewitt for encountering this class when it became necessary. By some means, which I never quite understood, he managed to keep abreast of the very latest fashions in the ever-changing slang dialect of the fraternity, and he was a perfect master of the more modern and debased form of Romany. So much so that frequently a gypsy who began (as they always do) by pretending that he understood nothing, and never heard of a gypsy language, ended by confessing that Hewitt could rokker better than most Romany chals themselves.
By this acquaintance with their habits and talk Hewitt was sometimes able to render efficient service in cases of especial importance. In the Quinton jewel affair Hewitt came into contact with a very accomplished thief.
The case will probably be very well remembered. Sir Valentine Quinton, before he married, had been as poor as only a man of rank with an old country establishment to keep up can be. His marriage, however, with the daughter of a wealthy financier had changed all that, and now the Quinton establishment was carried on on as lavish a scale as might be; and, indeed, the extravagant habits of Lady Quinton herself rendered it an extremely lucky thing that she had brought a fortune with her.
Among other things her jewels made quite a collection, and chief among them was the great ruby, one of the very few that were sent to this country to be sold (at an average price of somewhere about twenty thousand pounds apiece, I believe) by the Burmese king before the annexation of his country. Let but a ruby be of a great size and color, and no equally fine diamond can approach its value. Well, this great ruby (which was set in a pendant, by the by), together with a necklace, brooches, bracelets, ear-rings — indeed, the greater part of Lady Quinton’s collection — were stolen. The robbery was effected at the usual time and in the usual way in cases of carefully planned jewelry robberies. The time was early evening — dinner-time, in fact — and an entrance had been made by the window to Lady Quinton’s dressing-room, the door screwed up on the inside, and wires artfully stretched about the grounds below to overset anybody who might observe and pursue the thieves.
On an investigation by London detectives, however, a feature of singularity was brought to light. There had plainly been only one thief at work at Radcot Hall, and no other had been inside the grounds. Alone he had planted the wires, opened the window, screwed the door, and picked the lock of the safe. Clearly this was a thief of the most accomplished description.
Some few days passed, and, although the police had made various arrests, they appeared to be all mistakes, and the suspected persons were released one after another. I was talking of the robbery with Hewitt at lunch, and asked him if he had received any commission to hunt for the missing jewels.
“No,” Hewitt replied, “I haven’t been commissioned. They are offering an immense reward however — a very pleasant sum, indeed. I have had a short note from Radcot Hall informing me of the amount, and that’s all. Probably they fancy that I may take the case up as a speculation, but that is a great mistake. I’m not a beginner, and I must be commissioned in a regular manner, hit or miss, if I am to deal with the case. I’ve quite enough commissions going now, and no time to waste hunting for a problematical reward.”
But we were nearer a clue to the Quinton jewels than we then supposed.
We talked of other things, and presently rose and left the restaurant, strolling quietly toward home. Some little distance from the Strand, and near our own door, we passed an excited Irishman — without doubt an Irishman by appearance and talk — who was pouring a torrent of angry complaints in the ears of a policeman. The policeman obviously thought little of the man’s grievances, and with an amused smile appeared to be advising him to go home quietly and think no more about it. We passed on and mounted our stairs. Something interesting in our conversation made me stop for a little while at Hewitt’s office door on my way up, and, while I stood there, the Irishman we had seen in the street mounted the stairs. He was a poorly dressed but sturdy-looking fellow, apparently a laborer, in a badly-worn best suit of clothes. His agitation still held him, and without a pause he immediately burst out:
“Which of ye jintlemen will be Misther Hewitt, sor?”
“This is Mr. Hewitt,” I said. “Do you want him?”
“It’s protecshin I want, sor — protecshin! I spake to the polis, an’ they laff at me, begob. Foive days have I lived in London, an’ ’tis nothin’ but battle, murdher, an’ suddhen death for me here all day an’ ivery day! An’ the polis say I’m dhrunk!”
He gesticulated wildly, and to me it seemed just possible that the police might be right.
“They say I’m drunk, sor,” he continued, “but, begob, I b’lieve they think I’m mad. An’ me being thracked an’ folleyed an’ dogged an’ waylaid an’ poisoned an’ blandandhered an’ kidnapped an’ murdhered, an’ for why I do not know!”
“And who’s doing all this?’
“Sthrangers, sor — sthrangers. ’Tis a sthranger here I am mesilf, an’ fwy they do it bates me, onless I do be so like the Prince av Wales or other crowned head they thry to slaughter me. They’re layin’ for me in the sthreet now, I misdoubt not, and fwat they may thry next I can tell no more than the Lord Mayor. An’ the polis won’t listen to me!”
This, I thought, must be one of the very common cases of mental hallucination which one hears of every day — the belief of the sufferer that he is surrounded by enemies and followed by spies. It is probably the most usual delusion of the harmless lunatic.
“But what have these people done?” Hewitt asked, looking rather interested, although amused. “What actual assaults have they committed, and when? And who told you to come here?”
“Who towld me, is ut? Who but the payler outside — in the street below! I explained to ‘um, an’ sez he: ‘Ah, you go an’ take a slape,’ sez he; ‘you go an’ take a good slape, an’ they’ll be all gone whin ye wake up.’ ‘But they’ll murdher me,’ sez I. ‘Oh, no!’ sez he, smilin’ behind av his ugly face. ‘Oh, no, they won’t; you take ut aisy, me frind, an’ go home!’ ‘Take it aisy, is ut, an’ go home!’ sez I; ‘why, that’s just where they’ve been last, a-ruinationin’ an’ a-turnin’ av the place upside down, an’ me strook on the head onsensible a mile away. Take ut aisy, is ut, ye say, whin all the demons in this unholy place is jumpin’ on me every minut in places promiscuous till I can’t tell where to turn, descendin’ an’ vanishin’ marvelious an’ onaccountable? Take ut aisy, is ut?’ sez I. ‘Well, me frind,’ sez he, ‘I can’t help ye; that’s the marvelious an’ onaccountable departmint up the stairs forninst ye. Misther Hewitt ut is,’ sez he, ‘that attinds to the onaccountable departmint, him as wint by a minut ago. You go an’ bother him.’ That’s how I was towld, sor.”
Hewitt smiled.
“Very good,” he said; “and now what are these extraordinary troubles of yours? Don’t declaim,” he added, as the Irishman raised his hand and opened his mouth, preparatory to another torrent of complaint; “just say in ten words, if you can, what they’ve done to you.”
“I will, sor. Wan day had I been in London, sor — wan day only, an’ a low scutt thried to poison me dhrink; next day some udther thief av sin shoved me off av a railway platform undher a train, malicious and purposeful; glory be, he didn’t kill me! but the very docther that felt me bones thried to pick me pockut, I
du b’lieve. Sunday night I was grabbed outrageous in a darrk turnin’, rowled on the groun’, half strangled, an’ me pockuts nigh ripped out av me trousies. An’ this very blessed mornin’ av light I was strook onsensible an’ left a livin’ corpse, an’ my lodgin’s penethrated an’ all the thruck mishandled an’ bruk up behind me back. Is that a panjandhery for the polis to laff at, sor?”
Had Hewitt not been there I think I should have done my best to quiet the poor fellow with a few soothing words and to persuade him to go home to his friends. His excited and rather confused manner, his fantastic story of a sort of general conspiracy to kill him, and the absurd reference to the doctor who tried to pick his pocket seemed to me plainly to confirm my first impression that he was insane. But Hewitt appeared strangely interested.
“Did they steal anything?” he asked.
“Divil a shtick but me door-key, an’ that they tuk home an’ lift in the door.”
Hewitt opened his office door.
“Come in,” he said, “and tell me all about this. You come, too, Brett.”
The Irishman and I followed him into the inner office, where, shutting the door, Hewitt suddenly turned on the Irishman and exclaimed sharply: “Then you’ve still got it?”
He looked keenly in the man’s eyes, but the only expression there was one of surprise.
“Got ut?” said the Irishman. “Got fwhat, sor? Is ut you’re thinkin’ I’ve got the horrors, as well as the polis?”
Hewitt’s gaze relaxed. “Sit down, sit down!” he said. “You’ve still got your watch and money, I suppose, since you weren’t robbed?”
“Oh, that? Glory be, I have ut still! though for how long — or me own head, for that matter — in this state of besiegement, I can not say.”
“Now,” said Hewitt, “I want a full, true, and particular account of yourself and your doings for the last week. First, your name?”
Delphi Complete Works of Arthur Morrison Page 11