Delphi Complete Works of Arthur Morrison

by Arthur Morrison

  The damaged men were helped or carried into the pavilion, and the damaged machines were dragged after them. “I will give fifty pounds gladly — more, a hundred,” said Mr. Mallows, excitedly, “to anybody who will find out who put that chair on the track. It might have ended in murder. Some wretched bookmaker, I suppose, who has taken too many bets on Gillett. As I’ve said a thousand times, betting is the curse of all sport nowadays.”

  “The governor excites himself a great deal about betting and bookmakers,” Stedman said to Dorrington, as they walked toward the pavilion, “but, between you and me, I believe some of the ‘Avalanche’ people are in this. The betting bee is always in Mallows’ bonnet, but as a matter of fact there’s very little betting at all on cycle races, and what there is is little more than a matter of half-crowns or at most half-sovereigns on the day of the race. No bookmaker ever makes a heavy book first. Still there may be something in it this time, of course. But look at the ‘Avalanche’ people. With Gillett away their man can certainly win on Saturday, and if only the weather keeps fair he can almost as certainly beat the record; just at present the fifty miles is fairly easy, and it’s bound to go soon. Indeed our intention was that Gillett should pull it down on Saturday. He was a safe winner, bar accidents, and it was good odds on his altering the record, if the weather were and good at all. With Gillett out of it Lant is just about as certain a winner as our man would be if all were well. And there would be a boom for the ‘Avalanche’ company, on the very eve of the share subscription! Lant, you must know, was very second-rate till this season, but he has improved wonderfully in the last month or two, since he has been with the ‘Avalanche’ people. Let him win, and they can point to the machine as responsible for it all. ‘Here,’ they will say in effect, ‘is a man who could rarely get in front, even in second-class company, till he rode an ‘Avalanche.’ Now he beats the world’s record for fifty miles on it, and makes rings round the topmost professionals!’ Why, it will be worth thousands of capital to them. Of course the subscription of capital won’t hurt us, but the loss of the record may, and to have Gillett knocked out like this in the middle of the season is serious.”

  “Yes, I suppose with you it is more than a matter of this one race.”

  “Of course. And so it mill be with the ‘Avalanche’ company. Don’t you see, with Gillett probably useless for the rest of the season, Lant will have it all his own way at anything over ten miles. That’ll help to boom up the shares and there’ll be big profit made on trading in them. Oh, I tell you this thing seems pretty suspicious to me.”

  “Look here,” said Dorrington, “can you borrow a light for me, and let me run over with it to the spot where the smash took place? The people have cleared into the pavilion, and I could go alone.”

  “Certainly. Will you have a try for the governor’s hundred?”

  “Well, perhaps. But any way there’s no harm in doing you a good turn if I can, while I’m here. Some day perhaps you’ll do me one.’

  “Right You are — I’ll ask Fielders, the ground-man.”

  A lantern was brought, and Dorrington betook himself to the spot where the iron chair still lay, while Stedman joined the rest of the crowd in the pavilion.

  Dorrington minutely examined the grass within two yards of the place where the chair lay, and then, crossing the track and getting over the rails, did the same with the damp gravel that paved the outer ring. The track itself was of cement, and unimpressionable by footmarks, but nevertheless he scrutinized that with equal care, as well as the rails. Then he turned his attention to the chair. It was, as I have said, a light chair made of flat iron strip, bent to shape and riveted. It had seen good service, and its present coat of green paint was evidently far from being its original one. Also it was rusty in places, and parts had been repaired and strengthened with cross pieces secured by bolts and square nuts, some rusty and loose. It was from one of these square nuts, holding a cross-piece that stayed the back at the top, that Dorrington secured some object — it might have been a hair — which he carefully transferred to his pocket-book. This done, with one more glance round, he betook himself to the pavilion.

  A surgeon had arrived, and he reported well of the chief patient. It was a simple fracture, and a healthy patient. When Dorrington entered, preparations were beginning for setting the limb. There was a sofa in the pavilion and the surgeon saw no reason for removing the patient till all was made secure.

  “Found anything?” asked Stedman in a low tone of Dorrington.

  Dorrington shook his head. “Not much,” he answered at a whisper. “I’ll think over it later.”

  Dorrington asked one of the Cyclists’ Union officials for the loan of a pencil, and, having made a note with it, immediately, in another part of the room, asked Sparks, the amateur, to lend him another. Stedman had told Mr. Mallows of Dorrington’s late employment with the lantern, and the managing director now said quietly, “You remember what I said about rewarding anybody who discovered the perpetrator of this outrage, Mr. Dorrington? Well, I was excited at the time, but I quite hold to it. It is a shameful thing. You have been looking about the grounds, I hear. I hope you have come across something that will enable you to find something out! Nothing will please me more than to have to pay you, I’m sure.”

  “Well,” Dorrington confessed, “I’m afraid I haven’t seen anything very big in the way of a clue, Mr. Mallows; but I’ll think a bit. The worst of it is, you never know who these betting men are, do you, once they get away? There are so many, and it may be anybody. Not only that, but they may bribe anybody.”

  “Yes, of course — there’s no end to their wickedness, I’m afraid. Stedman suggests that trade rivalry may have had something to do with it. But that seems an uncharitable view, don’t you think? Of course we stand very high, and there are jealousies and all that, but this is a thing I’m sure no firm would think of stooping to, for a moment. No, it’s betting that is at the bottom of this, I fear. And I hope, Mr. Dorrington that you will make some attempt to find the guilty parties.”

  Presently Stedman spoke to Dorrington again. “Here’s something that may help you,” he said. “To begin with, it must have been done by someone from the outside of the track.”

  “Why?”

  “Well, at least every probability’s that way. Everybody inside was directly interested in Gillett’s success, excepting the Union Officials and Sparks, who’s a gentleman and quite above suspicion, as much so, in deed, as the Union officials. Of course, there was the ground-man, but he’s all right, I’m sure.”

  “And the trainer?”

  “Oh, that’s altogether improbable — altogether. I was going to say—”

  “And there’s that other man who was standing about; I haven’t heard who he was.”

  “Right you are. I don’t know him, either. Where is he now?”

  But the man had gone.

  “Look here, I’ll make some quiet inquiries about that man,” Stedman pursued. “I forgot all about him in the excitement of the moment. I was going to say that although whoever did it could easily have got away by the gate before the smash came, he might not have liked to go that way in case of observation in passing the pavilion. In that case he could have got away (and indeed he could have got into the grounds to begin with) by way of one of those garden walls that bound the ground just by where the smash occurred. If that were so he must either live in one of the houses, or he must know somebody that does. Perhaps you might put a man to smell about along that road — it’s only a short one; Chisnall Road’s the name.”

  “Yes, yes,” Dorrington responded patiently. “There might be something in that.”

  By this time Gillett’s arm was in a starched bandage and secured by splints, and a cab was ready to take him home. Mr. Mallows took Stedman away with him, expressing a desire to talk business, and Dorrington went home by himself. He did not turn down Chisnall Road. But he walked jauntily along toward the nearest cab-stand, and once or twice he chuckled, for he s
aw his way to a delightfully lucrative financial operation in cycle companies, without risk of capital.

  The cab gained, he called at the lodgings of two of his men assistants and gave them instant instructions. Then he packed a small bag at his rooms in Conduit Street, and at midnight was in the late fast train for Birmingham.

  III

  THE prospectus of the “Avalanche Bicycle & Tyre Company” stated that the works were at Exeter and Birmingham. Exeter is a delightful old town, but it can scarcely be regarded as the centre of the cycle trade; neither is it in especially easy and short communication with Birmingham. It was the sort of thing that any critic anxious to pick holes in the prospectus might wonder at, and so one of Dorrington’s assistants had gone by the night mail to inspect the works. It was from this man that Dorrington, in Birmingham, about noon on the day after Gillett’s disaster, received this telegram —

  Works here old disused cloth-mills just out of town. Closed and empty but with big new signboard and notice that works now running are at Birmingham. Agent says only deposit paid — tenancy agreement not signed. — Farrish.

  The telegram increased Dorrington’s satisfaction, for he had just taken a look at the Birmingham works. They were not empty, though nearly so, nor were they large; and a man there had told him that the chief premises, where most of the work was done, were at Exeter. And the hollower the business the better prize he saw in store for himself. He had already, early in the morning, indulged in a telegram on his own account, though he had not signed it. This was how it ran —

  Mallows, 58 Upper Sandown Place, London, W. Fear all not safe here. Run down by 10.10 train without fail.

  Thus it happened that at a little later than half-past eight Dorrington’s other assistant, watching the door of No. 58 Upper Sandown Place, saw a telegram delivered, and immediately afterward Mr. Paul Mallows in much haste dashed away in a cab which was called from the end of the street. The assistant followed in another. Mr. Mallows dismissed his cab at a theatrical wig-makers in Bow Street and entered. When he emerged in little more than forty minutes’ time, none but a practiced watcher, who had guessed the reason of the visit, would have recognized him. He had not assumed the clumsy disguise of a false beard. He was “made up” deftly. His colour was heightened, and his face seemed thinner. There was no heavy accession of false hair, but a slight crepe-hair whisker at each side made a better and less pronounced disguise. He seemed a younger, healthier man. The watcher saw him safely off to Birmingham by the ten minutes past ten train, and then gave Dorrington note by telegraph of the guise in which Mr. Mallows was travelling.

  Now this train was timed to arrive at Birmingham at one, which was the reason that Dorrington had named it in the anonymous telegram. The entrance to the “Avalanche” works was by a large gate, which was closed, but which was provided with a small door to pass a man. Within was a yard, and at a little before one o’clock Dorrington pushed open the small door, peeped and entered. Nobody was about in the yard, and what little noise could be heard came from a particular part of the building on the right. A pile of solid “export” crates stood to the left, and these Dorrington had noted at his previous Cats that morning as making a suitable hiding-place for temporary use. Now he slipped behind them and awaited the stroke of one. Prompt at the hour a door on the opposite side of the yard swung open, and two more and a boy emerged and climbed one after another through the little door in the big gate. Then presently another man, not a Workman, but apparently a sort of overseer, came from the opposite door, which he carelessly let fall-to behind him, and he also disappeared through the little door, which he then locked. Dorrington was now alone in the sole active works of the “Avalanche Bicycle & Tyre Company, Limited.”

  He tried the door opposite and found it was free to open. Within he saw in a dark corner a candle which had been left burning, and opposite him a large iron enamelling oven, like an immense safe, and round about, on benches, were strewn heaps of the glaring red and gold transfer which Dorrington had observed the day before on the machines exhibited in the Holborn Viaduct window. Some of the frames had the label newly applied, and others were still plain. It would seem that the chief business of the “Avalanche Bicycle & Tyre Company, Limited,” was the attaching of labels to previously nondescript machines. But there was little time to examine further, and indeed Dorrington presently heard the noise of a key in the outer gate. So he stood and waited by the enamelling oven to welcome Mr. Mallows. As the door was pushed open Dorrington advanced and bowed politely. Mallows started guiltily, but, remembering his disguise, steadied himself and asked gruffly, “Well sir, and who are you?”

  “I,” answered Dorrington with perfect composure, “I am Mr. Paul Mallows — you may have heard of me in connection with the ‘Indestructible Bicycle Company.’”

  Mallows was altogether taken aback. But then it struck him that perhaps the detective, anxious to win the reward he had offered in the matter of the Gillett outrage, was here making inquiries in the assumed character of the man who stood, impenetrably disguised, before him. So after a pause he asked again, a little less gruffly, “And what may be your business?”

  “Well,” said Dorrington, “I did think of taking shares in this company. I suppose there would be no objection to the managing director of another company taking shares in this?”

  “No,” answered Mallows, wondering what all this was to lead to.

  “Of course not; I’m sure you don’t think so, eh?” Dorrington, as he spoke, looked in the other’s face with a sly leer, and Mallows began to feel altogether uncomfortable. “But there’s one other thing,” Dorrington pursued, taking out his pocket-book, though still maintaining his leer in Mallows’ face— “one other thing. And by the way, will you have another piece of court plaster now I’ve got it out? Don’t say no. It’s a pleasure to oblige you, really.” And Dorrington, his leer growing positively fiendish, tapped the side of his nose with the case of court plaster.

  Mallows paled under the paint, gasped, and felt for support. Dorrington laughed pleasantly. “Come, come,” he said, encouragingly, “don’t be frightened. I admire your cleverness, Mr. Mallows, and I shall arrange everything pleasantly, as you will see. And as to the court plaster, if you’d rather not have it you needn’t. You have another piece on now, I see. Why didn’t you get them to paint it over at Clarkson’s? They really did the face very well, though! And there again you were quite right. Such a man as yourself was likely to be recognized in such a place as Birmingham, and that would have been unfortunate for both of us — both of us, I assure you...Man alive, don’t look as though I was going to cut your throat! I’m not, I assure you. You’re a smart man of business, and I happen to have spotted a little operation of yours, that’s all. I shall arrange easy terms for you...Pull yourself together end talk business before the men come back. Here, sit on this bench.”

  Mallows, staring amazedly in Dorrington’s face, suffered himself to be led to a bench, and sat on it.

  “Now,” said Dorrington, “the first thing is a little matter of a hundred pounds. That was the reward you promised if I should discover who broke Gillett’s arm last night. Well I have. Do you happen to have any notes with you? If not, make it a cheque.”

  “But — but — how — I mean who — who—”

  “Tut, tut! Don’t waste time, Mr. Mallows. Who? Why, yourself, of course. I knew all about it before I left you last night, though it wasn’t quite convenient to claim the reward then, for reasons you’ll understand presently. Come, that little hundred.”

  “But what — what proof have you? I’m not to be bounced like this, you know,” Mr. Mallows was gathering his faculties again.

  “Proof? Why, man alive, be reasonable! Suppose I have none — none at all? What difference does that make? Am I to walk out and tell your fellow directors where I have met you — here — or am I to have that hundred? More, am I to publish abroad that Mr. Paul Mallows is the moving spirit in the rotten ‘Avalanche Bicycle Company’?”


  “Well,” Mallows answered reluctantly, “if you put it like that—”

  “But I only put it like that to make you see things reasonably. As a matter of fact your connection with this new company is enough to bring your little performance with the iron chair pretty near proof. But I got at it from the other side. See here — you’re much too clumsy with your fingers, Mr. Mallows. First you go and tear the tip of your middle finger opening your brougham door, and have to get court plaster from me. Then you let that court plaster get frayed at the edge, and you still keep it on. After that you execute your very successful chair operation. When the eyes of the others are following the bicycles you take the chair in the hand with the plaster on it, catching hold of it at the place where a rough, loose, square nut protrudes, and you pitch it on to the track so clumsily and nervously that the nut carries away the frayed thread of the court plaster with it. Here it is, you see, still in my pocket-book, where I put it last night by the light of the lantern; just a sticky black silk thread, that’s all. I’ve only brought it to show you I’m playing a fair game with you. Of course, I might easily have got a witness before I took the thread off the nut, if I had thought you were likely to fight the matter. But I knew you were not. You can’t fight, you know, with this bogus company business known to me. So that I am only shoving you this thread as an act of grace, to prove that I have stumped you with perfect fairness. And now the hundred. Here’s a fountain pen, if you want one.”

  “Well,” said Mallows glumly, “I suppose I must, then.” He took the pen and wrote the cheque. Dorrington blotted it on the pad of his pocket-book and folded it away.

  “So much for that!” he said. “That’s just a little preliminary, you understand. We’ve done these little things just as a guarantee of good faith — not necessarily for publication, though you must remember that as yet there’s nothing to prevent it. I’ve the done you a turn by finding out who upset those bicycles, as you so ardently wished me to do last night, and you’ve loyally fulfilled your part of the contract by paying the promised reward — though I must say that you haven’t paid with all the delight and pleasure you spoke of at the time. But I’ll forgive you that, and now that the little hors d’oeuvre is disposed of, we’ll proceed to serious business.”