“Done to avoid betraying a handwriting, obviously,” said Crook. “Anybody missing from the house?”
Wickes looked a little oddly at Crook.
“You’re not slow at these things,” he said.
“One lodger is out — an Indian, named Jatterji.”
“Now look here,” cried Crook, suddenly, with a curious excitement. “One of those postal packets is flat and the other is square — a box, probably. See if I can guess what you found in that box. A piece of green glass; a red flower; perhaps a cork — perhaps not—”
“No,” interrupted Wickes, quickly, “no cork!”
“No cork then, but a chip of marble, some cloves, some seeds, and a bit of brass tube!” Wickes was plainly amazed. “So we did,” he said. “But it seems to me you know more about this case than I guessed, Mr. Crook. We shall want to know all that!”
“Oh, yes — of course you shall know,” Crook replied. “But first let me see the things for myself. You haven’t lost any, of course. See, here are the cloves, Merrick — ten! And here are the seeds. Let us count. You had eighteen!”
They counted together. There were only seventeen seeds.
“That was a summons for the seventeenth!” exclaimed Crook. “And see the postmark — it was received on the morning of the seventeenth — a day before you got yours. Now let us see the other packet. That, you see, was delivered yesterday, the eighteenth, just as yours was. What is it?”
The second and smaller packet contained a sheet of paper with a rough drawing of a diamond on it, coloured green. Underneath were the words, again spelled out in letters cut from newspapers.
“BRING IT TO TUBE STATION, MARBLE ARCH,. TO-NIGHT AT NINE, IF YOU WISH TO SAVE YOURSELF.”
“This is the second demand,” Crook said.
“More explicit, you see. What I said you would probably have received if you had taken no notice of the first. I should guess that Pritchard must have been terribly frightened at receiving the first, but he didn’t quite tumble to its full meaning, and didn’t know what to do. Then came the second, and he neglected that, too — no doubt trying to invent some way of escape, and thinking to keep safe by staying at home. You see, the time is just an hour before your appointment. They tried you, in the meantime, on the chance of the stone possibly being in your possession, and both shots failing — this was the result.”
And Crook pointed to the figure in the bed. They turned away, and Wickes came after them.
“You mustn’t go, gentlemen,” he said. “I must have an explanation of all this before you go. In another room, of course, if you don’t like this, but I must have an explanation.”
“Quite right — you shall,” Crook replied.
“Come into another room, and I’ll tell you. But first do anything you can — wire or send or what not — to find Mr. Jatterji, the lodger here. The odds are,” he continued, turning to Merrick. “he’s the man you met last night — Mehta Singh’s assistant. You see, he addressed your packet in his own handwriting — it didn’t matter. But here, his writing might have been recognized, so he fell back on the printed letters. We’ll explain, sergeant, as soon as you please. But first, does the landlady give you any information of value?”
“Nothing much. Pritchard has been here, under the name of Neville, ever since he reached London, I should say. He kept altogether to himself and had no visitors. This last day or two he shut himself completely up in his room.”
“Those packets were the reason for that,” Crook replied, “and I think we can explain why. But it will take a little time.”
As a matter of fact, it took about twenty minutes, at the end of which time Sergeant Wickes had the heads of the matter at command sufficiently well to write a very complete “docket” that evening. And the resources of Scotland Yard were turned to the tracing of Mr. Jatterji.
MR. SMITH’S MAGNUMS
I.
DUNCAN MCNAB, chief steward of the Rajapur, was a man who, as we have seen, never allowed to pass an opportunity of making or saving a penny, or even the half of that sum. The thrifty care which kept him at his post on the ship at Southampton when he might have obtained leave, because leave would have meant not only a railway fare out of his own pocket, but payment for his own board and lodging, while remaining on duty would save both — that same thrifty care caused him rather to welcome than otherwise the delay in the repair of the Rajapur. For it meant a few more days’ free board and a few more days’ pay to take — unless he were paid off summarily, which was not unlikely. But days went, and he still remained, to his very great content.
It had been an uncommonly good voyage on the whole for McNab. Tips had been more plentiful and larger than usual, for it was not often that the Rajapur carried so many passengers of a well-to-do sort as she had carried on this last voyage, thanks to the Durbar and the overfilling of the mail-ships. And now, after profiting from the ship’s good fortune in this respect, McNab was making a trifle more out of her misfortunes. Truly everything seemed going very well with McNab, and there was only one thing with which he was inclined to reproach himself — his lack of boldness in speculating in Tokay. Plainly that had been a great chance lost. He had only ventured so far as to speculate on a single magnum at the sale — and that with much misgiving that he was wasting his money. But this bottle, although it had only cost him nine shillings, had sold readily for five pounds, and McNab was consumed with angry regrets on two accounts — first, because he had not bought more magnums when he might have had them, and second that he had not made Mr. Merrick pay more than five pounds for the one he had sold him.
What it could be that made the magnums of wine so valuable McNab could not imagine; indeed he did not try, for he was far from being a man of imagination — he would have repelled that imputation with scorn. Certainly he never dreamed of such a reason as the concealment of a priceless jewel in one of the bottles. It was sufficient for McNab that here was quite a little crowd of people inquiring for those particular bottles of wine, and ready to pay a high price for them, too. In the first place, Mr. Merrick had given two hundred pounds for the dozen. That, figured the brooding McNab, was at the rate of £16 13s. 4d. a magnum.
True, he had immediately afterward sold off eleven of the dozen at about nine or ten shillings apiece, but there was no accounting for the eccentricities of American millionaires, who could afford that sort of thing. Indeed, had not that same millionaire been glad soon afterward to pay five pounds to get back one of the bottles? He ought to have been made to pay more — certainly he should have paid more, reflected McNab. There had been all sorts of people after that bottle since then, and he might have made his own price.
Mr. Crook had been one of them — the man who had originally sold the dozen for two hundred pounds; clearly he knew the value of the wine. Then there was a mysterious man — a foreigner, McNab supposed — the man whom Crook had afterward described, and whom he had called Hahn. He had made higher offers than anybody — spoke casually of giving eight or nine pounds a magnum, for any that he could get, and spoke in such a way that the shrewd McNab guessed very well that he would easily go higher. Lastly, the very auctioneer’s clerk himself, one Symons, had found him out, and had offered first a sovereign, and then two, for the magnum he supposed he still had, or any others.
Of course this offer McNab laughed to scorn, but it served, at any rate, to prove that the t great value of this wine had become known to the clerk, who was anxious to make a profit out of his knowledge. Duncan McNab grew gloomy and savage. Why hadn’t he had the enterprise of that fellow Smith, the man who had bought the next four lots after the first? He had paid ten shillings for each, and it was only that extra shilling that had choked McNab off the lot following the one he had actually bought.
Now early on the morning of Merrick and Crook’s adventure at the late Pritchard’s lodgings in Redway Street, in London, McNab was taking an airing in Southampton, cogitating on these things, when he suddenly became aware of Hahn himself, stand
ing on the steps of an hotel, smoking a cigar, and smiling and nodding recognition.
“Ah, Mr. McNab, how do you do?” cried Hahn, with a very elaborate cordiality. “You don’t remember me, do you? I called on you on your ship to inquire about some wine — you remember now, don’t you? You had sold it, you know. My name is Hahn, and I came back to my hotel — this is my hotel — yesterday morning. Will you have a drink, Mr. McNab?”
This was an invitation to which McNab never failed to respond. Indeed, if it were not for such invitations, it would have been cheaper to have been a teetotaler. So Hahn and McNab went into the bar, and McNab drank whiskey.
“Yes,” pursued Hahn, who seemed uncommonly — even feverishly — communicative, “yes, I came here early yesterday morning, and registered in the office just before twelve. I — I took a sitting-room, as well as a bedroom, and told them to book it from that time; and I had lunch here. I’ve been in the place, in fact, ever since. By the way, what’s the day of the month?”
“Nineteenth,” replied McNab.
“Yes, of course, Thursday the nineteenth. I might have known. I shouldn’t have expected to find you in Southampton so long, Mr. McNab!”
McNab explained the reason of the delay.
“Ah — yes, most unfortunate,” Hahn commented. “Most unfortunate. And yet if it had not been for that little accident I should not have had the pleasure of meeting you here, Mr. McNab, on the nineteenth — Thursday the nineteenth — after being at this hotel since midday yesterday, which was the eighteenth. So if you’ll finish your glass, Mr. McNab, we will have it refilled! It all goes down in my bill, you see; I’m staying here, since yesterday morning — the eighteenth.”
McNab did not wholly understand Hahn’s frequent references to the date and time of his arrival at the hotel, but he quite appreciated the whiskey, not to mention the comforting reflection that he was a shilling ahead as a consequence of the encounter.
“I think you remember me now, Mr. McNab,” Hahn resumed. “I offered you a good price for that bottle of wine, you know, didn’t I? Eight or nine pounds I’d have given, or even a bit more, for that magnum of wine, or any others like it. You’ve neyer seen any since, have you?”
McNab shook his head gloomily. “I have not, Mr. Hahn,” he said. “Not a bottle whatever. You’ll be vairy fond of that Tokay wine, I’m thinkin’?”
“Oh, yes, of course,” Hahn replied. “As a collector, of course. I’d give high prices for that particular case of Tokay, as a collector. I’m sorry you haven’t been able to get any for me, Mr. McNab. I don’t think I should have refused ten pounds a magnum, Mr. McNab. As it is, I’m sorry, both for your sake and mine. You might have made a good profit, and I should have been very glad to get the wine.”
This roused all the bitter regrets that the I whiskey had tended to mollify; and presently, after listening to a few more reminders that Hahn had been at the hotel since yesterday morning, and was very sorry to have missed the Tokay, McNab took his departure. He walked through the town toward the dock, and scarcely two streets from Hahn’s hotel he found himself in luck again. For, emerging from the private bar of a public house he saw another person whom he recognized.
It was a little man, round, oiled, and brushed, with a red, polished face, and large triangular checks all over his clothes. His body seemed positively globular on his neat little legs, his face was round, his cheeks were I round, his low-crowned hat, perched aside, was all brimmy curves and curls and high polish, and his general fulness and roundness suggested that a very slight accident would cause him to burst like an overripe gooseberry. And in this nobby little man, McNab, with a shock of astonishment, recognized Smith, the wine-merchant’s traveller, who had bought four magnums of Tokay at the sale!
The nobby little man went strutting along the street, and McNab went after him — not strutting, but galloping. Three seconds was time enough for McNab to recover from his surprise, three more to realize that here, within half a mile of each other, were the two men between whom a large profit was to be made, and — to catch Smith.
“Eh? Hullo!” ejaculated the little man, seized by the shoulder. “What’s up?”
“Mornin’, Mr. Smith! Ye’ll no be rememberin’ me, but I saw ye at the sale here at Lawson’s a whiles ago, when ye bought four magnums of Tokay. I’m thinkin’ maybe you’re lookin’ for a customer for they four magnums.”
“No,” answered Smith; “I ain’t.”
McNab’s face fell.
“Maybe they’re sold?” he queried.
“No,” Smith replied, “barrin’ one. I did sell one. But I’ve got the others — an’ got ‘em ‘ere in Southampton, too. As I said, I ain’t lookin’ for a customer. But I’m open to an offer. What’ll ye give?”
“Fifteen shillin’ a magnum,” said McNab, with a wrench at his heart-strings.
For indeed, this man had bought them at ten shillings, and it was positively agonizing to have to offer him more.
“Fifteen shillin’ a magnum; and that’s a clear profit o’ feefty per cent, for you,” the steward added, with something like a groan.
“That’s no go,” said Smith, decisively, with a cock of the hat and a turn in the direction of his journey. “I can do a lump better than that with ‘em.”
“Weel — don’t go — ah’m no sayin’ but what I might revise the offer a trifle,” urged McNab. “Say twa pun’ ten for the three, then.”
“That’s a five bob advance on the lot,” replied Smith, whose arithmetic was as ready as McNab’s. “Not a bit o’ good — it’s wastin’ time. Ten pound for the three.”
“Impawsible, Mr. Smith, quite impawsible!” gasped McNab, in agony. “Such an awfu’ sum is unreasonable!”
“All right — don’t pay it,” answered the implacable Smith. “You needn’t, you know. I didn’t ask you. But if you want them three magnums that’s the price, without a penny of discount. Barring enough to pay for a drink,” he added, liberally. “I’m willing enough to stand that.”
Poor McNab was shocked and amazed. That anybody but himself should contemplate making a large profit out of those magnums of Tokay seemed a wicked and deplorable thing. The notion of paying ten pounds for those three bottles racked him to the soul. And yet — he could make thirty pounds of them at the least, merely by carrying them down the street to Hahn’s hotel. He made one last desperate attempt to secure an abatement, and then, finding that nothing would shake the adamantine Smith, he agreed.
“Very well,” said the nobby little man, calmly. “They’re not far off. Got the money with you?”
Yes, McNab had the money. It was not McNab’s habit to leave money or other valuables about in his cabin while the ship lay in dock. He was ready to complete the bargain.
“All right, we’ll go straight along,” Smith said. “I’m stopping at Nottidge’s — always do. I left the magnums there when I bought ‘em, knowing I’d be back in a little while before I went to London. It ain’t far.”
They walked together to Nottidge’s Hotel, Mr. Smith humming gaily as he went. The little man was on Bob and Sarah terms with the entire household of Nottidge’s, and the transaction was completed with very little ceremony. McNab had his three big bottles, and Smith had his ten pounds.
“That’s settled, signed, and sealed,” said Smith, as he dropped the sovereigns into his pocket. “Now we’ll go to the bar and get that drink I promised you. I’ll get Bob to do those bottles up in straw and brown paper, if you like, so that you can carry them. What’ll you have?”
McNab glanced round the bar and saw a list of American drinks, the topmost of which was priced at eighteen pence. So he had that. Whiskey would have pleased him a great deal better, but would not have torn away half as much of Smith’s ten pounds.
But Smith was quite cheerful. He paid for the drinks gaily and sent the pot-boy to pack the magnums.
“That’s no bad deal for me,” Smith said.
“Those four bottles cost me two pound, and I got the money
back before I left the auction rooms. Remember that murder the other day over there behind the town? Old gentleman named Clifton? Well, he bought one magnum of me. He bought one himself at the sale, and afterwards, as I was going out, he said he wished he’d bought another, and asked if I could spare one o’ mine. ‘Yes,’ says I, ‘at a price, o’ course!’ ‘How much?’ says he. ‘Two pound,’ says I; and he paid it without another word, though I fancy he looked a bit sour at being rooked. So I stood on velvet, you see. Them three o’ yours cost me nothing.”
This was a cruel rubbing of it in to McNab. Mr. Clifton had looked sour at paying two pounds for a magnum — and now he, McNab the frugal, had paid ten pounds for three!
“So that between the two of you,” Smith pursued, “I did very well. Very well, indeed. All your ten quid’s found money, you see, old chap! Not that I’d a let ‘em go for much less; not very much less, anyhow. I might ha’ knocked off a quid or two if you’d stood out, but, as you didn’t, that’s neither here nor there.”
McNab’s inward writhings began to show in his face. Hahn should be made to pay for all this. No ten pounds a magnum from Hahn now!
The expensive American drink being finished, and the bottles tied up in a straw-packed parcel, McNab went off for Hahn’s hotel with no delay. Smith strolled as far as the corner of the street with him, and there stood watching his progress. As the little man stood there, Symons, the auctioneer’s clerk, entered the hotel he had just left.
Now, Symons had for some days been in pursuit of Smith by systematic means. A wine-merchant’s traveller, he argued, visiting Southampton, probably had customers there. Therefore, steady inquiry at Southampton public-houses would probably yield information. Steady inquiry he began, therefore, and this morning he had learned that Mr. Smith, when in Southampton, usually stayed at Nottidge’s. Smith had had four bottles of that Tokay, and, since Symons could count on a profit of five pounds a bottle from Crook, even if he paid five pounds a bottle for the wine, the businesslike Symons hoped to make twenty pounds at least by an interview with Smith.
Delphi Complete Works of Arthur Morrison Page 220