At this the waiter started off with a bounce, and there was danger of delay in the dinner preparations. The papers came, however, and as the preparations for the meal were completed, Crook examined their advertisement columns carefully, comparing one with another, returning to a paper already examined, and then comparing again. At length he selected one paper from the bunch, kicked the others aside, and sent the waiter for a London Directory. A single reference to this mighty tome satisfied him, and he rose, ready for dinner.
“I shall make a shot in the dark,” he said, “or pretty nearly in the dark, seeing that there’s no other course left open. Wish me luck! That’s my selection.”
He pointed to an advertisement nearly at the top of the “agony” column of the Standard of the day before, and Merrick, greatly mystified, read this:
Zag — Come back here again, either at one thirty or eight o’clock. Meldon.
“That your selection?” repeated Merrick doubtfully. “Well, you might tell me of twenty such selections without excitin’ me any. What does it mean?”
“I won’t be sure, but it may mean one thing, and that’s my shot. It may mean an address, and that address may be Pooley’s!”
Mr. Merrick shook his head. “I give that up,” he said.
They sat to dinner, and Crook explained in fragmentary bursts, at such times as the waiter was out of the room. The explanation, pieced together, being to this effect:
“Any attempt to get at this fellow Pooley must begin with some sort of a guess as to what he would do first on landing quietly in England, as he has done. Now, such a fellow, of course, always works with confederates — the sort of crime he lives on is committed by accomplished gangs, invariably. Consequently, it strikes me that the first thing he would do would be to put himself in communication with his friends. How? Naturally, you would say, by letter; and if that is what he has done, I am off the track, and I don’t see what to do. But there would almost certainly be objections to communication by letter. That sort of person doesn’t stay longer in one place than he can help, for obvious reasons. Pooley has been out of the country for some time, and any attempt to communicate with his ‘pals’ by post would probably lead to a miscarriage of the letter, the falling of that letter into dangerous hands, and all sorts of complication. What other expedient is open to him? Obviously one — and one notoriously known to be used for the communications of persons of this kind — the ‘agony’ columns of the newspapers. I’m not sure it wasn’t your own advertisement that turned my mind in that direction. At any rate, I resolved to look at the London papers of the last few days and examine any suspicious-looking advertisement. Well, here is one — the only really suspicious one I can see.”
Mr. Merrick took another look at it.
“I don’t seem to suspicion it yet,” he remarked.
“Doesn’t it look a little redundant? These advertisements are paid for according to the number of words, I believe, and that is why they are usually expressed in the briefest possible language. Very good. Then why not say, ‘Come back at one thirty or eight’? That would be quite enough if the message meant what it seems to mean. ‘Here,’ ‘again,’ ‘either,’ and ‘o’clock’ are redundant. That is the first peculiarity that struck me. Then I saw another. Now read every other word of that advertisement, beginning with ‘Zag’ and skipping the alternate words. Then you get this message: ‘Zag — Back again at thirty-eight, Meldon,’ Now isn’t that very suspicious? Meldon, of course, might be an assumed name, but it isn’t likely. If it were a new assumed name the confederate would fail to recognise it, and if it were an old one the police would spot it; and in any case it would be unnecessary, for it is plain that ‘Zag’ in the beginning must be the identification word, by which the gang recognise their communications. Why shouldn’t it mean an address? Thirty-eight, Meldon Street, or Road, or what not? And here, sure enough, is a Meldon Street in the London Directory, and all alone. No Meldon Square, or Road, or anything but this one Meldon Street. It is near Euston, you see, and there is a thirty-eight in the street (though the particular house is not entered here), for you will perceive that the ‘Bell’ public house is No. 40!”
Mr. Merrick’s eyes began to sparkle.
“This gets positively interesting!” he said. “Here’s an adventure, or something mighty like it. Clear enough somebody has ‘come back’ and taken lodgings in London, and somebody who wishes to keep pretty close and secret; and the police sagaciate that Pooley must ha’ gone straight to London after buyin’ that magnum of wine. It’s a chance, and I allow it’s an adventure! Mr. Crook, I feel young again — I do! I haven’t had an adventure — not properly to be called an adventure — for twenty-five years. I’m on this one if you’ll let me in. Come, Daisy, d’you think you’re equal to runnin’ up to London again to-night? Isn’t there a train?”
“Yes,” Crook answered; “the last goes at nine-thirty.”
“Then we’re on the nine-thirty to London, aren’t we, Daisy? I want to take a look at that bottle of my own, and we’ll do that to-night. And tomorrow we’ll investigate the architectural attractions of that venerable pile, thirty-eight, Meldon Street, near Euston Station, London! That is, Mr. Crook, if that’s your plan, and if I’m not intermeddlin’?”
“Not at all. I’m delighted to have a friend at hand, of course. But you mustn’t be disappointed if we draw a dead blank. As I said, it’s something of a shot in the dark, though there should be something like a fair chance for us.”
Mr. Merrick’s magnum of Tokay, late the property of McNab, being carefully unswathed that night from the middle of the clothes in a portmanteau, was found to be — just a magnum of Tokay and nothing else. It was not necessary to open the bottle. Carefully wiped clean with a towel and held against a strong electric light, the Eye of Goona, if it had been there, would have been detected by the keen eyes in search of it, even though it might have escaped the vision of a person not in the secret. Tilted on end, no jewel came rolling toward the thinner neck — nothing. The great green diamond was still to be found.
But Mr. Merrick seemed rather pleased at his failure than otherwise, since it gave zest to the adventure he promised himself. It seemed that he would have been almost disappointed to find the jewel in his own bottle.
“Nothing there,” he said. “No! That dead sharp Pooley didn’t buy that other magnum to play skittles with, you bet! No, sir! He’s a mile deeper than we guess, and a fathom or two under that! Thirty-eight, Meldon Street, near Euston, to-morrow morning!”
“Very well, we’ll be there.”
“And disguised! Disguised, my boy! No good two passengers fresh from the Rajapur — and us especially, seeing it’s the Tokay biz — no good us goin’ cavortin’ around after Mr. Pooley in boiled shirts an’ new store clothes! Geewhiz! I’ll have red whiskers!”
“I think we’d better avoid the whiskers,” Crook observed. “We should be some time getting them, and they are apt to come off at the wrong moment. No — we’d better waste no time disguising. We’ll wear inconspicuous things — tweeds or the like. I’ve an idea that people unused to disguises are apt to fail to play up to them and so attract attention. I think we must leave that alone.”
Mr. Merrick assented on his better judgment, though with regret. Plainly he was feeling young again, and a disguise would have been an addition to the fun.
The morning found the two early afoot and strolling along Portland Place, and so, by Park Crescent, to the Euston Road. Merrick would have had a cab, such was his elderly impetuosity, but the more cautious Crook dissuaded him.
“No good getting there too soon,” he said. “I expect it’s the sort of street where strangers, so very early in the day, might be noticed; and a cab would cause a particular stir. A little walk will do us good.”
So they walked, and with no haste. They passed the Hampstead Road, took a turning to the left, and then another; and so came to Meldon Street.
It was a decent enough street of its sort — not exactl
y dirty, and not exactly Belgravian. The houses had areas and front steps, and in more than one window a card with the word “Apartments” was displayed. They soon perceived that No. 38 must be on the left hand at the far end, and that it was probably the very last house before the “Bell,” the public-house to which the Post Office Directory had already introduced Crook.
“I think we should stroll casually past and turn into the pub,” Crook suggested.
No. 38 offered no information on its face. Dusty curtains, a chair-back visible through the first-floor window, more dusty curtains below, in the area-window, and that was all. Next door the “Bell” stood; and it was a tavern with a yard-entry at its side, and, indeed, under some part of its upper floors. One entrance to the bar was in this yard-entry, and it was clear that the yard led back into an adjoining street. Into the yard they turned, and looked about them.
“Best to learn the ground first,” observed Crook; and as the words left his lips Merrick snatched at his shoulder and pulled him back into the archway from which they were emerging.
“There he is!” he exclaimed, in an excited whisper. “On him! We’re on him!”
Crook had been looking straight ahead down the yard, but Merrick had turned his head as they emerged from under the shadow of the passage.
“He’s at the window, shaving,” he said. “Be careful how you show, and you’ll see him.”
Crook advanced with great care and peeped. Sure enough, at the first-floor window of the next-door house a man was shaving at a glass suspended on the window frame, and as he removed his head to wipe his razor Crook saw his late fellow-passenger Pooley.
“He hasn’t seen us,” Crook said; “he was intent on his work. See here, now. If that is a billiard-room on the first floor of this place, we are going to play at billiards. We should be able to see in at that window.”
The room Crook spoke of stood out at a right angle from the hinder face of the public-house building. They entered the side door of the house, ordered drinks, and discovered that though there was no billiard-table in the room in question, there was a bagatelle-board. In the circumstances billiards and bagataelle were all one to them; so they carried their drinks upstairs. The boy who would have otherwise attended them was busy with pots, and as it was impossible for the visitors to leave the floor above without coming under the eye of the landlord, they were allowed to have the room to themselves.
And so they sat down to a spell of wearisome and seemingly aimless watching that told sadly on Merrick’s patience. Pooley soon left the window and carried his mirror with him, and for some little while they saw nothing of him. The suspicion began to grow upon them that Pooley must have left the house, when suddenly, as they crouched, one at each side of the window, watching, they were amazed to see placed on the table that stood before the window an unmistakable big bottle. It was the magnum of Tokay, with the cork drawn!
And now they became aware that Pooley had a visitor. For the bottle was taken up and set down again once or twice, and by different hands. And at length two heads and their pairs of shoulders bent suddenly before the window. Clearly Pooley and his visitor were intently examining some small object.
What it was they could not see, though Merrick strained his neck a dozen ways in the attempt. The visitor’s back was turned to the near side of the window, and shut out all possible view of the centre of interest. So the two remained for some little while, and then withdrew from the window as suddenly as they had appeared at it, leaving the bottle standing on the table.
There was a pause of a few minutes, and then Pooley, now wearing a hat, appeared again at the table, and began, with great care, to re-cork the magnum.
“A fresh cork,” Crook observed. “I expect the other crumbled.”
The cork driven well home, Pooley produced sealing-wax and a candle, and soon had covered the cork with a broken smear that might well have passed for an old seal. Then he lifted a hand-bag from under the table, put the bottle in it, and instantly whisked the bag off into the obscurity of the room.
“Enough, I think,” said Crook. “They’re going out with it, I believe. Our game of bagatelle is finished.”
They descended to the bar, and while Crook settled with the landlord Merrick watched from the entry.
“They’re off,” he repeated excitedly, as Crook joined him. “There they go!” And Crook could see that Pooley and his visitor were already half-way down the street, Pooley carrying the bag.
Then came an exciting chase through the streets leading to Euston Road. Crook held Merrick back till the pair ahead had turned the first corner, and then a run was necessary in order to get a view of them before they took a fresh turn. In the Euston Road Pooley called a cab; and here, in this great busy thoroughfare, it was easy enough to follow in another without attracting the notice of the enemy.
The cab ahead made for Tottenham Court Road, and turned south through that thoroughfare, with the cab behind in close chase.
“We’re on it!” cried Merrick exultingly, “ — or on something, anyway!”
“Something, certainly,” Crook answered thoughtfully. “But what it is I can’t guess. I’m not sure, even though the magnum of Tokay is in it, why we are following that cab, except that it seems the only thing we can do just now.”
Along Tottenham Court Road, across Oxford Street, and down Charing Cross Road the leading hansom went, with its follower never far away. Indeed, a short block of traffic by the Palace Theatre brought the two into touching distance, and so they went the rest of the way.
Across Trafalgar Square the route lay to the part of Charing Cross by Whitehall, and there, scarcely beyond the corner, the cab ahead swung into a narrow turning and pulled up. Crook’s cabman was plainly a man of ready resource, for he refrained from following further than the mouth of the alley, across which he drew up his cab.
“This’ll be best, sir, won’t it?” asked the cabman, through the roof-trap.
“Quite right,” Crook answered. “You shall have an extra shilling for that. Wait a moment.”
Through the near-side window of the hansom they saw Pooley and his companion alight, pay their cabman, and enter a door.
“Come, we’re after them!” cried Crook, springing from the cab, and thrusting a half-crown into the driver’s hand.
They hurried along the passage, and saw that the building into which the chase had disappeared was a new one — the newest in the row; and a glance was enough to show that half the offices it contained were still unlet. A lift-cage stood before the door, but apparently there was nobody to work it, and up the stone staircase footsteps could be heard. A glance up the well showed that Pooley and his companion were ascending, a flight or two up. Merrick and Crook followed, getting as near as they dared without exhibiting themselves.
The men ahead went on, flight after flight, to the very top landing. Then there was a knock, a door opened, and after a few indistinct words it was closed again. A cautious approach showed that the door bore the words, “Isaacs, Agent,” and nothing more.
All remained quiet within. Crook and Merrick looked this way and that, but this building offered no friendly observation point.
“Well,” said Crook, “here we are, and what have we gained by coming? There is the bottle of wine we are after, behind that door, after having been opened and corked again at Meldon Street.”
“The name is Isaacs,” observed Merrick. “The sort of name you might expect at a place where they would come to sell a big diamond, I guess?”
“But why the bottle? And so carefully re-sealed? Besides, a man like Pooley wouldn’t come here to sell such a stone as the Eye of Goona. He’d take it to the Continent — to Amsterdam. He could deal more freely there, and get a better price. No, I don’t understand this move at all. There is an empty office just below — under Isaacs’s. If we are to wait, we may as well wait there, where we can get out of sight if necessary.”
They went to the room Crook had indicated, and waited. There was no s
ound from above; they waited and still they waited, and ere long waiting grew tiresome.
“Come,” said Crook at last, “I want my lunch, and I vote we put an end to this. The police want Pooley, and we have found him. New Scotland Yard is close by, and—”
From the room above came a long-drawn human sound that was neither a sigh, nor a sob, nor a shriek, but which had something of the character of each. Then silence. Then a loud burst of ear-piercing laughter — mad, screaming laughter — that continued in paroxysm after paroxysm, till it would seem that human lungs could hold out no longer. After that there was silence again.
Crook and Merrick stared at each other, puzzled and amazed. Then suddenly came from above a flood of rapid, incoherent and high-pitched words, not one of which could be clearly distinguished; and again the loud sobbing sigh that had first startled them. And through it all there was a strange, unpleasant, almost unbearable tone of demoniac hilarity.
“Like all the yells in an insane asylum squeezed into one,” whispered Merrick; and even as he spoke the laughter came again — in choking, uproarious fits — horrible, ghastly fits.
“What’s this doing up above?” Merrick exclaimed, awe-stricken. “We can’t stop and hear such sounds. Shall we knock?”
Crook laid his hand on his companion’s arm, and listened again. There came a long ripple of chuckles, growing louder and louder, and in the end changing into a burst of high, tuneless singing — such singing as might come from a man on the rack, in his delirium.
“There must be at least three men in there,” said Crook; “but that is all one voice, and the others are silent. We’d better not wait any longer. What the matter is I can’t guess, but even if it is the diamond we must risk it. I’ll stay. You go downstairs at your hardest and bring Wickes from New Scotland Yard. Jump into the first cab — it’s close by, but lose no time — and bring more than one man. Say we’ve got Pooley here, of course.”
Delphi Complete Works of Arthur Morrison Page 217