by John Rhode
‘A robbery!’ repeated the Professor sharply. ‘What of? Let me have the particulars as you know them.’
Harold gave an account of his interview with Mr Boost, and of that comrade’s annoyance at the disappearance of his bale of goods. When he had finished, the Professor sat for a few minutes in silence, and then began to speak, more, as it seemed, to an imaginary audience of students than to Harold.
‘Here we have a case of an alleged disappearance which requires careful examination before it can be admitted within the domain of fact. We have first to establish the existence of the matter alleged to have disappeared, in this case a bale of goods, stated to be of a certain size, shape and weight. You will observe that the intended recipient of this bale has, according to his own account, never seen it, nor was it discovered by the police on the morning after the crime. The only direct evidence of its existence so far is that of one George, a carter, who may never have delivered it. This evidence, again, is only reported by the intended recipient, who may have invented the whole story for some purpose of his own.
‘Presuming, however, that this bale did exist, and was actually delivered and placed in the porch of Number 16 some time during that particular evening, we are led to enquire into its subsequent history. A bale of that size and shape would be difficult to move far without means of transport, the provision of which would pre-suppose a definite plot for its removal. On the other hand, a strong man could have rolled it across the front garden, lifted it over the wall, and pitched it into the canal. A third possibility is that the bale, as such, was never removed at all, but unpacked on the spot and its contents removed piecemeal. You follow me?’
‘Exactly, sir,’ replied Harold. ‘I confess that I had never examined these alternatives, though. From the contents of the bale, I should think that your last possibility was the most likely one.’
‘Ah, you ascertained the contents?’ enquired the Professor. ‘Excellent. Tell me as exactly as you can how you did so.’
‘I went to see this man Samuels, who despatched the bale to Mr Boost,’ replied Harold, with a pardonable air of self-satisfaction.
‘Ah, that is very interesting,’ commented the Professor. ‘Give me an account, as minute as possible, of your interview.’
‘Well, I didn’t exactly see him, sir,’ replied Harold. ‘I heard him, though, and I had a talk with his nephew, who told me that he had packed the bale himself, and delivered it to George the carter, which confirms George’s own statement to Mr Boost. This nephew, whose name is Isidore Samuels, told me that the bale contained the case of a grandfather-clock and some bronze statuettes. Mr Boost agrees that it is most likely that Mr Samuels should have sent him such a consignment, and that a bale containing such things would be of the size and shape that George described.’
Again the Professor remained plunged in thought for some little time before replying. ‘Unless, then, we assume collusion between this Isidore Samuels and George the carter, an assumption which the theory of probability forbids me to make under the circumstances, the existence of the bale is provisionally established,’ he said at last. ‘I say provisionally, for we have no confirmation of the statements of either Boost or Isidore Samuels. We do not even know that such a man as George the carter really exists. This is a point that you might ascertain for yourself. But, before we go any further, I should like a full account of your visit to Samuels’ place of business. Tell me your procedure, omitting no detail, however apparently irrelevant.’
Harold complied with the greatest readiness. He had half expected the Professor to brush aside the incident of the bale of goods as having no bearing whatever on his own case. He began by recounting how Mr Boost had described the locality of Samuels’ shop and the characteristics of its occupant. The Professor listened intently, and stopped him as soon as he began to give an account of his journey.
‘Here is a map of London,’ he said. ‘Come to my desk and trace your route as accurately as you can with this pencil. Yes, that is where you dismounted from the tram. Inkerman Street must lie in this direction. Ah, here it is. But this map is on too small a scale to assist us much further.’
He opened a drawer and produced a pad of paper. ‘Here is some squared paper,’ he continued. ‘Draw me a rough plan, as nearly to scale as you can, explaining your movements after you reached the corner of Inkerman Street.’
Harold continued his narration, indicating with the pencil the position of Number 36, the doorway where he stood talking with the man in shirt-sleeves, his subsequent wanderings into Balaclava Street, even the narrow entry which had thrilled him with superstitious horror. The Professor took up his rough plan and looked at it with interest.
‘According to this, the narrow passage in Balaclava Street very nearly corresponds with the back of Samuels’ shop in Inkerman Street,’ commented the Professor. ‘Is this accidental, or did you notice it at the time?’
‘No, ’pon my soul, I didn’t, sir,’ replied Harold in surprise. ‘Now I come to think of it, though, it does exactly. By Jove, that’s a queer thing, now you mention it. I saw a fellow enter the passage just as I left it. I noticed him particularly, he was a respectable-looking sort of chap, gave me the impression that he was ashamed of being seen in that sort of neighbourhood.’
The Professor nodded. ‘Very well,’ he said. ‘Continue your account.’
Harold described his return to Inkerman Street, his entrance into the shop, its appearance, the altercation he overheard between Samuels and his nephew. The Professor interrupted him from time to time, requesting additional information upon the smallest details. ‘Have you any reason to connect the man you saw enter the passage with this Isidore Samuels?’ he asked finally. ‘If your sketch is correct, it is possible that the shop has a back door opening into this passage, and Isidore might use this entrance upon his return.’
‘Oh, dear no, sir,’ replied Harold with a smile. ‘They were different types altogether. Of course, I didn’t see their faces, it was much too dark for that. Isidore was—well, what you might expect the nephew of a man with a name like Szamuelly, who keeps a junk shop in Camberwell, to be. The other chap attracted my attention just because he wasn’t that sort at all. He gave me a kind of impression that he was—well, the sort of fellow one meets in one’s own circle.’
‘Ah! Well, tell me what happened when Isidore left the back room and came into the shop.’
Harold finished the account of the evening’s proceedings without further interruption. The Professor listened carefully, and when he had finished, glanced up at the clock.
‘I see it is nearly half past four,’ he remarked. ‘Shall we go into the drawing-room, and see whether April has some tea for us?’
Harold flushed crimson. ‘I—er—’ he stammered. ‘I don’t think that April—’
‘Nonsense, nonsense!’ interrupted the Professor. ‘April will be very glad to see you. She shares my views as to your innocence in this matter. I have intimated to her that you have—er—abandoned your former methods of living, and she shares my approbation. Come along, my boy.’
The Professor led the way to the first floor, and opened the door of a room that Harold remembered so well. April was alone, and jumped up from her chair as they entered.
She was a strikingly pretty girl, tall and graceful, with fair hair and a pair of blue eyes that seemed full of the delight of life. As she came across the room to him Harold realised for the first time what an utter ass he had been to play the fool and waste his chances so far as she was concerned. Where could he find anything that could compensate him for the loss of her?
But she gave him no time for any such dismal reflections. ‘Hullo, Harold, old dear,’ she exclaimed. ‘I am glad Father brought you up. Mary told me you were here, so I told her not to let anyone else in. Come and sit on the sofa here and tell me all about yourself.’
Harold surrendered without further ado, and the Professor, displaying an unsuspected tact, discovered that he had left his glasses do
wnstairs.
April, with a sudden access of seriousness, took Harold’s hands in hers, and looked him straight in the face.
‘You’ve been a bit of a rotter,’ she said. ‘Chuck it up, and let’s be pals again like we used to be. I know as well as Father that you hadn’t anything to do with the old blighter who died in your rooms. It was just a bit of rotten luck, and that’s the end of it. Now, come and see me again as you used to. Swear?’
The familiar word, which they had always used as children to seal their mutual compacts, brought rather a wry smile to Harold’s lips.
‘Swear!’ he repeated obediently. ‘But, April, it can’t be like it was then. I’ve been much more of a rotter than you know—’
‘I wonder!’ interrupted April gaily. ‘I know better than most people what you’re capable of. Here’s Father back again, and tea.’
During the meal Harold was vividly conscious that both Professor Priestley and April were doing their best to make him feel that the years of his backsliding had been forgotten, and that he was once more to be accepted as the oldest friend of the family. He, who had looked upon himself as an outcast, felt that here at least was sympathy and understanding. In his gratitude he resolved that he would leave no stone unturned to clear himself, to justify himself in the eyes of those who trusted him. But—no further advance was possible. The past, with its dark shadows, could not be disposed of so easily. Vere—Vere waited somewhere in the background, Vere with her intangible claims upon him, waiting to drag him back from this peaceful room—
The clock struck five, and as it did so the door opened, and Mary appeared. ‘Mr Denbigh,’ she announced.
A young man, carefully dressed, clean-shaven and good looking, with the air of a student relieved somewhat by a humorous twinkle in his eyes, entered and shook hands with the Professor.
‘Hullo, Evan!’ exclaimed April. ‘What are you doing here? I thought you were working every evening with Sir Alured?’
‘When the cat’s away, the mice will play,’ replied Denbigh. ‘My revered chief is reading a paper before some learned society this evening, so I just ran over to tell you that I had a couple of tickets for a show on Saturday. I can’t stop long.’
He turned to Harold and held out his hand. ‘I’m awfully glad to see you again, Merefield,’ he said warmly, and then, in a lower tone, ‘I’ve been waiting for a chance to tell you how sorry I am about all this business. You know perfectly well that I don’t believe a word of all the rot that’s been said about you.’
Harold muttered some incoherent words of thanks, but the Professor interrupted him.
‘Sit down, Denbigh,’ he said. ‘You can give us a few minutes, at least. Faversham is not such a hard taskmaster as to begrudge you that leisure. Harold and I have been discussing that extraordinary affair at his rooms the other night, and we should be glad to hear your views upon it.’
Denbigh laughed, almost apologetically. ‘If you’ll allow me to say so, sir, I hardly think it’s worth much consideration,’ he replied. ‘Of course, I can imagine how Harold feels about it, and I’m awfully sorry for him. But, after all, the thing’s practically blown over already. We don’t know who the fellow was, I admit, but it was merely a case of death from natural causes, duly certified—’
‘Natural causes!’ interrupted the Professor testily. ‘It may seem to be natural causes from the point of view of you medical men, but to the student of the exact sciences it is nothing of the kind. For an individual to deposit his dead body upon the bed of a complete stranger is anything but natural. It is, in fact, a most indecent and unusual proceeding.’
The Professor paused a moment, as though challenging his hearers to deny his statement. As nobody ventured to do so, he proceeded.
‘We have here a somewhat unusual instance of irregularity. In most similar cases we are faced with a disappearance, or, at least, with a corpse which can be identified. Here we have a corpse which, so far, has not been identified, and no corresponding disappearance. We can, therefore, form no theory to account, not for the cause of the unknown individual’s death, but for his dead body being found on Harold’s bed. Until we can form such a theory, and test it by facts, I do not at present see how we shall arrive at the solution.’
‘As a theoretical problem, I admit its interest, sir,’ ventured Denbigh. ‘But I still believe that, as a practical event, we shall hear no more about it.’
He rose from his chair as he spoke. ‘I must dash back now,’ he continued. ‘Really, Mr Denbigh, I am surprised that you should absent yourself at a time when we have so much research upon our hands! I have observed that the young man of today is far too much inclined to place the gratification of his pleasures before the requirements of his career—’
He mimicked the voice and mannerisms of Sir Alured Faversham so perfectly that even the Professor smiled.
‘Add that the young man of today seems to be lacking in respect for his seniors,’ he said. ‘Well, we will not detain you. Remember me to Faversham when you see him.’
Denbigh took his departure, and after a short interval Harold, having promised to return within a few days, or even earlier if he had anything to report, left the house in his turn. His road to Riverside Gardens was darkened by the contemplation of what he had so wilfully thrown away.
CHAPTER VII
IT was dark before Harold reached Riverside Gardens, so dark that he did not notice the figure waiting by the entrance of the cul-de-sac until she was only a few paces distant. And by then, of course, it was too late to avoid her.
She ran up to him and laid a hand upon his arm. ‘Harold!’ she exclaimed in a low, not unmusical voice. ‘I thought you were never coming back! Where have you been?’
He paused a moment, confused and irresolute. The influence of April was strong upon him, the determination to cast aside the old past life and qualify afresh for a more reputable existence was still of too tender a growth to be exposed to temptation. She saw his hesitation and pressed closer to him.
‘You’re not cross?’ she pleaded. ‘I know I haven’t been near you for a long time, but—oh, I can’t explain, it’s a long story. And I’ve been waiting here for ever so long.’
Harold’s mind was made up. He could not avoid the meeting, could not say what he must to her out here in the open street. Automatically his arm slipped into hers. ‘Come along, Vere, old thing,’ he said, and the girl gladly fell into step with him.
Neither spoke a word until they reached Harold’s rooms, and there she flung herself into a chair as he busied himself lighting the lamp. As the flame grew you would have seen that she was dark, not perhaps pretty, but with a pair of eyes that somehow intrigued you, led you on to look at them again in the endeavour to fathom their attraction. And in them was an invitation, an appeal to the sensual side of your nature, which to your experience might have hinted danger. Add to this that she was plainly, almost severely dressed, and you have the impression that Vera Donaldson, known to her intimates as Vere, conveyed to the world at large.
‘I came straight round from the office,’ she said, as Harold sat himself on the arm of her chair, to which she had beckoned him. ‘I simply had to come, dear, if only to tell you how sorry I am about all this wretched business. I thought you’d write to me, but as you didn’t, I simply couldn’t wait any longer.’
‘I thought you’d forgotten me,’ replied Harold slowly, seeking the opening which would enable him to tell her that their intimacy must cease. ‘I waited for you that night at the Naxos, and you didn’t turn up—’
‘I know, Harold dear,’ she interrupted. ‘And that’s one of the things I had to say to you.’ She paused, and for a long minute there was silence in the room, broken only by the distant rumbling of the traffic over the canal bridge.
‘I’ve told you before that—that there’s been another man in my life besides you,’ she began again abruptly.
Harold nodded. From the very first she had hinted that she was not entirely a free agent, th
at somewhere in the background stood a figure which in some way cast a shadow over her life. Not that there had ever been any question of marriage between them; each had avoided the suggestion as though by tacit understanding.
‘He knew I used to come here,’ she continued, and then, seeing the look of concern on Harold’s face, she laughed, almost merrily.
‘Oh, that didn’t matter. It was no business of his, anyhow. I didn’t tell him, but—well, I may as well tell you. He used to come and see me sometimes, to—to get a few shillings out of me. I cared for him once, you know, and I used to give him money when I had any to spare. One day he must have followed me out—I was dressing to go out with you, and I wouldn’t see him—and saw me go into the Naxos Club. I suppose he waited outside, for when I next saw him he told me he had seen me leave there and get into a taxi with you. He managed to find out who you were and where you lived.’
‘How the devil did he do that?’ exclaimed Harold in astonishment.
Vere shrugged her shoulders. ‘Oh, I don’t know,’ she replied carelessly. ‘He’s as cunning as a bagful of monkeys, and it wouldn’t be very difficult. One of the waiters at the Naxos, perhaps; they know all about the members. Anyhow, he came to me about a fortnight ago, looking jolly smart. I thought he wanted more money, but he said he didn’t, that he knew how to make a lot more money than I could ever give him. Then he made me the offer.’
‘What offer?’ asked Harold, seeing her pause in embarrassment.
‘Why, that he—wouldn’t worry me any more, would leave the coast clear for me, as he put it. Said as I’d found someone else, I’d better get on with it and make the best of it.’
‘Devilish considerate of him, I must say,’ said Harold sarcastically.
‘Yes, but there were conditions,’ replied Vere. ‘I was to make an appointment to meet you at the Naxos on a certain night, and then not to go. After that I was not to see you for ten days, when I was to be free to see as much as I pleased of you, and good luck to me. I wouldn’t consent to this at first, but he threatened to make an awful fuss if I didn’t. He knew I worked at the Women’s Social League, and he swore he’d turn up there and make a scene. He knew as well as I did that I’d lose my job if they knew anything about him, or you, or the Naxos, so at last I agreed. And then, when I saw the papers the day after I was to have met you, I nearly went mad. I wanted to come and help you somehow, but I had sworn not to see you. I tried to get hold of him and tell him our bargain was off, but I couldn’t find him. And then I thought—’