Delphi Complete Works of Arthur Morrison

by Arthur Morrison

  Harvey Crook was in the last stages of lunch when his visitors arrived, and Merrick rushed at him with both hands outstretched.

  “Mr. Crook,” he cried, “tell me what all this means! Who did it? How was it? Where were you in it? Did you know him? How — But there, I guess you think I’m flighty under the hat. Here, look at that — it’s quicker’n telling you!”

  He snatched a newspaper from his pocket and pointed to his own advertisement in the “agony” column. “Do you happen to have seen that?” he asked. “My advertisement, Mr. Crook — mine!”

  Crook had not seen it, and was vastly astonished to read it now. Daisy watched him with shining eyes as he read it, but she was quiet and self-possessed enough by this time.

  “Why,” said Crook, “this is amazing! The poor old gentleman was a friend of yours, then?”

  “The friend I owe my bottom cent to, and my top cent, and all the cents in between!” exclaimed Merrick. “And I only saw him once in my life.”

  “That’s odder still. I had a letter from him after I left you, and dined at his house last night, and yet I never saw him till he was dead! It seems to me that we are all in a strange adventure together. Sit down. We must compare notes.”

  Mr. Merrick told his side of the tale sufficiently clearly in a dozen hurried sentences, and was urgent to know what Harvey Crook had to tell.

  “My tale will take a trifle longer to explain,” Crook began. “You and I and poor old Mr. Clifton are a little more tangled up together than you think. Now listen. When I sold you that dozen magnums of old Tokay on board the Rajapur, you paid two hundred pounds, and thought it a high price. So did I.”

  “It was an almighty high price, I guess.”

  “No, it wasn’t. It may not have been quite so cheap as your hundred pounds’ worth of land in Pennsylvania, twenty-six years ago, but it was the next best bargain of your life. In that case, Mr. Merrick, you bought, for two hundred pounds, a few gallons of old Tokay worth — well, that’s difficult to guess, and doesn’t matter; you bought a few gallons of old Tokay and a diamond worth all the Tokay in the world a dozen times over!”

  “A diamond!” ejaculated Lyman W. Merrick.

  And, “A diamond!” cried Daisy, forgetting her English accent for the moment.

  “Not only a diamond,” Crook went on with a slight smile, “but the diamond — the green diamond. You remember the shindy about the Green Eye of Goona?”

  “Yes,” exclaimed father and daughter together, breathlessly, “at the Durbar!”

  “Well, that is the jewel that was in that case of wine, and that is the jewel that you sold by auction here at Lawson’s, for eight or ten shillings or so, bottle of wine included!”

  “But what — why — was it in the bottle?”

  “In one of the bottles — which bottle I am trying to find out. That is my business just at present, and I am very nearly as keen about that as you were about the five-hundred-dollar lot of land twenty-six years ago; for it probably means a little fortune if I am successful.”

  “A little fortune? Well, I’d guess—”

  “Oh yes — the thing itself is worth something enormous, of course — king’s ransom, Jew’s eye, mint of money — just whatever phrase you like to use. The only difficulty would be to find a customer for such a thing. But it’s stolen property, you know.”

  “Stolen property? Well, yes, I guess that’s about the size of it. But then it’s a bit above likely that it’s been stolen property any time these thousand years — stolen one way or another. That’s the way with those Indian diamonds, I guess?”

  “You are right, no doubt, but no matter how long it may have been stolen property, I think I’d rather not be one of the thieves. No; if I find this, it goes back to the Rajah of Goona — on terms, of course. That’s where I expect to find my little fortune — just the pursuit of my trade, you see, Mr. Merrick! I find something here cheap and I sell it dear in India — or rather, I charge for risk and carriage!”

  “But now I don’t know — how did—”

  “How it got to the bottle, exactly, I can’t tell yet; but it’s pretty certain that the man who put it in was Hahn, the fellow I told you of, who got me to bring the wine to England — to save the risk he feared, as I see well enough now. And, to add another interest to the chase, he’s after the bottles now, in competition with me! Lord! what a taking he was in when he found I’d sold the wine!”

  “And to think! — Great Scott, Mr. Crook — to think of the fool thing I did when I shoved off them magnums at a couple o’ dollars each or so! But I’ve got one back; I didn’t tell you that. I changed my mind and bought one back the very same night!”

  “Where is it?”

  “It’s in London at the ‘Langham’ — safe enough in the middle of a trunk, locked tight. Great thunder! The diamond may be in that! And McNab—” but here Merrick broke into a fit of laughter in the midst of his wonder.

  “McNab? What? The chief steward? What — ?”

  “Lord, Mr. Crook, it’s the very greatest sort of an amusement to think of the face of McNab, if ever he hears he has sold that diamond for five pounds! The very greatest!” And Merrick told the story of the recovery of the first magnum sold.

  Crook took a little note from his pocket. “That,” he said, “was lot 87 star then, with no name. I had no idea the steward was a buyer. That accounts for four magnums altogether, including the one we drank. If you have the lucky bottle, Mr. Merrick, the sooner we see it the better; the sooner the better, in fact, in any case. But there’s the inquest, and they want me here. Which brings me back to my story. I was visiting your old friend Mr. Clifton on this very matter of the Tokay. He had a magnum himself.”

  “What? No! You don’t say!”

  “Yes I do. And more — he bought it himself at the sale, so that you and he must have been in the room together here at Lawson’s, four days ago — rubbed shoulders, as likely as not!”

  Lyman W. Merrick rose and tramped agitatedly about the room.

  “I’ve reckoned myself a hustler,” he said as he went, with his fingers in the hair over each of his ears— “I’ve reckoned myself a hustler most o’ my life, and I’ve been called a hustler by them that can hustle a few on their own; but these hustlings are getting a shade too jumpy for me. Getting older, I s’pose. What I’ve seen and heard since I opened that paper at breakfast this morning is enough to hustle the senses out of any man’s head, and I’m not sure whether I’ve got any of ‘em or not now. I say,” he added, turning suddenly to Crook, “I s’pose I really am awake? Do you ‘low I’m quite awake, Mr. Crook?”

  “Quite awake, Mr. Merrick,” Crook answered with a smile, “and waiting to hear about my last night’s adventure, I’ve no doubt.”

  Merrick sat down, and Crook told his story in detail. He produced Mr. Clifton’s letter inviting him to Downs Lodge to exhibit the old Chinese kakemono; he told of how he had learned Mr. Clifton’s name and address from Symons, the auctioneer’s clerk; he described the curious house and his more curious reception; and last, dropping his voice with something of a furtive look towards Daisy Merrick, he described the disappearance of his false host, and his ghastly discoveries in kitchen and library.

  Merrick rose again, and walked about as he had done before.

  “Poor old fellow,” he said, with genuine distress in his voice; “poor old man. A splendid old gentleman like him — for he was splendid, up an’ down, though I only saw him once, barrin’ the other day, when I may have seen him or not, but didn’t know. To be cut an’ killed like that, after all, in his own chair, an’ me as near as I was, an’ not near enough to stop it! Mr. Crook, it’s — it’s—” the words came rather like sobs— “it’s pretty tough, I ‘low!”

  “And then — then they arrested you, Mr. Crook?” Daisy asked.

  “Yes — and a very natural thing for them to do. There was I, a stranger, in the house, the housemaid out, and the master and the housekeeper both murdered. But it didn’t las
t long, of course. They brought me back here before midnight, and now they’re out all over the country after Pritchard — the man who really is guilty, without much doubt, I should say.” And Crook went on to tell what he had heard of the history of the fugitive.

  “Poor old friend!” mused Merrick, once again, sitting now with his hands on his knees. “Helping a man over a snag again, too — just like him! Helping somebody again, and this is what he got for it! Cut this throat for three hundred dollars in the safe! Come!” he added more briskly, jumping to his feet, “this ain’t no sort of a way for a live man to hoe this row! Sittin’ and grievin’ is no way to catch Mr. Pritchard. And it’s him that’s to be caught, and will be, if my bottom dollar will catch him! Can’t we see the police?”

  “Of course we can. But the inquest is this afternoon — quite soon, in fact. The coroner seems to be what you would call a hustler, and apparently his work is a little slack just now. But have you lunched? There is barely time.”

  The inquests were held in the hall of Downs Lodge, the bodies having been removed to the coach-house. As many of the public as could squeeze into the hall were there, and the front steps and forepart of the grounds were crowded. Mr. Merrick and his daughter were given favoured places in the hall on the representations of Harvey Crook, and proceedings were begun with exact punctuality, the business-like coroner using a combined procedure which enabled the two inquiries to be conducted with as little repetition of form and evidence as possible.

  The police gave evidence of having been called to the spot, and of what they found when they got there. The divisional surgeon described the condition of the bodies and the positions in which they had been found, and stated his scientific opinion on the causes of death in each case — opinions given purely formally, of course, since it was plain to everybody that no man could live with his throat cut as Mr. Clifton’s had been, nor anybody, man or woman, with such injuries to the head as the housekeeper had suffered.

  But, of course, the chief witness was Harvey Crook. He produced the letter of invitation which he had received from Mr. Clifton, his own reply to which, as well as his own first letter, was in the hands of the police. He told of his reception at the house, and described, as closely as possible, the person of the man who had entertained him, and whom he had supposed to be Mr. Clifton. In short, he retold, with more particular detail, the story Merrick and Daisy had already heard. This in every particular but one. For, of course, he said nothing of the Tokay, beyond the simple fact, which was all that was needed, that the man who had entertained him had brought in cold food and a bottle of wine. He had come to exhibit his old Chinese painting, and the wine, Tokay or other, was no business for this jury — or, at any rate, so it seemed to Crook at the time.

  Then there was the evidence of the housemaid — largely a description of the missing Mr. James Pritchard, tallying exactly with the description of his host already given by Crook; how long Pritchard had been at the house, what he had done, and so forth. The evidence, also, of Mr. Clifton’s solicitor, who knew something of Pritchard’s earlier career, and had letters and other papers in the matter. And in the end the jury gave their verdicts, as everybody knew they must: in each case it was “Wilful murder by James Pritchard.”

  Now, although Crook had a general reason of prudence for not mentioning the matter of the Tokay in his evidence, and no reason at all for mentioning it, he had, in addition, one very particular and immediate reason for acting as he did. For, as he began his testimony, his eyes wandered toward the door, and there, behind the rest of the people who had found standing room, was Hahn, eyes and ears wide open, noting every word. And when his examination was over, and Crook was at liberty to move about as he pleased, Hahn was gone.

  Now here was a point in the game for Hahn. For though there might have been nothing suspicious in Crook’s visit to Mr. Clifton as he had told it, and as, in fact, it had occurred, there remained the simple fact that he had returned to Southampton from London quicker than Hahn could get there, and it was from a Southampton hotel that his letters to Mr. Clifton were dated. That was quite enough for a man like Hahn. He knew that he was not alone in his search for the Green Eye of Goona — had perhaps even begun to suspect the inner meaning of his reception in Mr. Norie’s studio.

  So the crowd broke up, and Lyman W. Merrick, in company with Crook, sought the chief constable, eager to do what might be done to bring the murderer to justice. Crook explained in a few words the relation in which Merrick stood to the murdered man, and Merrick opened business straight away.

  “See here, Mr. Chief Constable,” he said, “I want to offer a reward for the apprehension of this fellow. There’s nothing against that, is there?”

  No, it seemed there was no particular law against it. The police no longer offered rewards themselves, but there was nothing to prevent a private person doing so.

  “Very good, sir. Then I will give five thousand dollars — one thousand pounds, that is — to the man who arrests the murderer of Mr. Basil Clifton. Is five thousand enough? If not, don’t mind telling me. I can double it.”

  “Quite enough — plenty,” answered the chief constable. “Even too much, I think I should say.”

  “Then that’s a good fault, sir, and we’ll let it stand. And beyond that I’ll give more. I’ll give one thousand dollars to any other man whom you think deserves it for his work on the case — one man or more, just as many as you tell me. And now, if it’s no way against the rules, I’d like to take a look over the house with my friend Mr. Harvey Crook, to see just how it all happened.”

  There was no difficulty about that, especially as the more unpleasant traces of the tragedies had been now removed by the police,

  “Everything else has been left as it was,” said the chief constable, “and, of course, if either of you gentlemen sees anything suggestive or interesting, in view of your own knowledge of the poor old gentleman, and of the circumstances, I hope you’ll mention it.”

  They went first to the dining-room, where the table jay just as Crook had left it, and the guttered candles were hanging over the silver candlesticks. There lay the remains of the dinner, and on the sideboard stood the two decanters of Tokay, with the empty magnum by their side.

  “Here is the magnum you sold,” said Crook, turning to Merrick. “It was opened especially for me — or rather, I opened it myself. Mr. Merrick sold some bottles of Tokay by auction when he arrived in England,” Crook explained to the chief constable, “and Mr. Clifton bought one, without knowing who the seller was.”

  The chief constable nodded pleasantly, as though the matter were a very interesting one for the parties concerned, but of no particular moment to him; and Mr. Merrick lifted the empty magnum, tilted it and shook it. But Crook had already told him that this magnum had been drawn a blank, and he acted in mere curiosity.

  Crook led the way along the corridor and down the stairs, repeating as he went the story of his questing and calling for his host in the dark stillness of last night. The kitchen door stood wide open now, but the floor was still wet from the recent scrubbing that had been so necessary.

  “He must have stepped over the woman’s body here,” exclaimed the chief constable, “each time he came downstairs for plates or what not for the dinner he gave you, Mr. Crook.” And Daisy, clinging tight to her father’s arm, shuddered at the thought.

  They came up from the lower floor, and as they gained the landing Merrick chanced to glance up the staircase, and saw a flat glass case hanging on the wall at the next landing.

  “Why,” he exclaimed, “look there! If there ain’t my old wampum!”

  They climbed the intervening flight of stairs, and there the wampum hung, sure enough, displayed to advantage against the wall behind the glass. Tears stood in Merrick’s eyes as he gazed at it. “There it is, Daisy,” he repeated, in a curious sort of half-pleased voice. “There it is. That’s it!”

  “It’s the only thing I ever gave him,” he went on again, after a pause; �
��and it don’t seem much for what he did for me and trusting me, too, a stranger. But I’m mighty pleased to see he took care of it — mighty pleased to see that, I am. Yes; it’s a comfort, now, to see he thought something of it — perhaps more than I did. You’d say, gentlemen, looking at that glass case and all that, he did think something of it, wouldn’t you?”

  “Oh, of course,” answered Crook. “Didn’t you see the numberless valuable things lying about below loose? And then, look at this glass case!”

  “Ah,” the American answered, “I’m might glad to see that case, and to know you think he thought something of that wampum. It’s sort of lifted a load off my mind, gentlemen, in a foolish sort o’ way.”

  And now they turned to the library where Merrick’s old friend had met his death. Just as when Crook had first seen it the night before, there lay books and books everywhere, high and low. But now the blood-stains were gone, and the poor torn body had been carried away from the chair in which Crook had found it. The door of the little safe still stood open, the little sheet-iron drawers were still tumbled on the floor, and the drawers of the writing-table were splintered and gaping just as they had been left; and the chief constable explained the meaning of all these things as he pointed them out.

  “Nothing else seems to have been touched,” he concluded, casually pushing open the cupboard under an old glazed bookcase. “Here you are, everything seems in order; and there’s a bottle of wine like the other.”

  And in truth there was; for there before their eyes stood another magnum of Tokay, the fellow to the one that Crook had opened the night before, and one of the dozen without a possible doubt!

  “But,” said Merrick— “but — he only bought one?”

  “Yes,” Crook replied, “that is certain. I have it from the auctioneer’s clerk that he only bought one. That is certain.”

  “Had another already, I expect,” observed the chief constable carelessly.

  Crook lifted the great bottle and saw that the cork had been drawn; also some of the wine was gone — three or four glasses, perhaps. He took the magnum to the light of the window, held the cork fast, and slowly tilted it. Nothing was there — nothing but the wine. No diamond came tumbling from the bottom into the neck.