by W. W. Jacobs
George cannoned the wash-stand. "It _is_ something to me. I can hardlybelieve it!"
"Is sorrow expressed in a gavotte? Grief in a hornpipe?"
"I'm not dancing. My damned bags are stuck!"
Mr. Marrapit wrung his hands. "Discard them! Discard them! Must decencyimperil the Rose?"
With a tremendous kick George thrust in past the obstruction.
"They're on now--my slippers--coat--what shall I do?"
"Join the searchers. Scour the grounds. Search every shrub. Climb everytree."
The agonised man led downstairs. "I found the window open," he moaned."Night by night, year in year out, I have shut it. Impossible that Iforgot. If I forgot, the Rose is in the garden or in the vicinity. If Idid not forget, the window was forced--the Rose was stolen. A detectiveshall decide."
George grew quite cold. Employment of a detective had not occurred tohim. They were at the front door. He put a hand on Mr. Marrapit's arm."Oh, not a detective. Don't get a detective."
"If need be I will get forty detectives. I will blacken the countrysidewith detectives."
George grew quite hot. "Uncle, let us keep this private. Leave it withme. Rely on me. I will find your cat."
"Into the garden," cried Mr. Marrapit. "Join the searchers. They havefailed once. Lead, animate, encourage."
"And you won't get a detective?"
Mr. Marrapit did not reply. He had opened the hall door; Mr. Fletcher inthe middle distance approached moodily.
Mr. Marrapit thrust out a hand. "Back! Back!" he cried hoarsely.
Wearily Mr. Fletcher gave answer. "It's no use, Mr. Marrapit. It's nogood saying 'back.' I've been back. I've been back and I've been frontand I've been both sides. I've looked here, I've looked there; I'velooked up, I've looked down. I'm giddy with looking." He approached;stood before them. Woe heavily draped herself about this man.
"Oh, easily discouraged!" Mr. Marrapit cried.
"Oh, infirm of purpose! Back, faint-heart! Do not say die."
Faint-heart mopped a streaming brow. "But I do say die. I do say die,Mr. Marrapit, and I damn well shall die if I go creepin' and crawlin'and hissin' much longer. It's 'ard--damn 'ard. I'm a gardener, I am; nota cobra."
Mr. Marrapit slammed the door. George hurried out of sight; in thekitchen garden sat down to think. He was frightened. Thus far the plothad not worked well. Detectives!
He gave an hour to the search he was ostensibly conducting; when heagain entered the house was more easy-minded. Employed in meditationthat hour gave him back his coolness of the night. Rudely awakened,given no time in which firmly to plant his feet, securely to get apurchase with his hands before the storm burst, he had been whirledalong helpless and bewildered before Mr. Marrapit's gusty agony. Insteadof resisting the torrent, directing its course, he had been caught whereit surged fiercest, hurled down-stream. In the vulgar simile of hisreflections he was rotting the whole show.
But now he had steadied himself. He girded his loins against the part hehad to play; with new determination and confidence entered the house.
II.
There was no breakfast at Herons' Holt that morning. When George,dressed, bathed and shaved, sought out his uncle, it was to find Mr.Marrapit in the study.
The distracted man was pacing the floor, a closely written sheet ofpaper in his hands. He turned upon George.
"In the hour of my travail I am also beneath the burden of earliergriefs. Yesterday a disastrous scene took place between us. Oaths raspedfrom your lips."
"Forget that, sir. Forget it."
"That is my desire. Misery wails through the corridors. In her presencelet us bury private differences. In this appalling catastrophe everyhelp is required. You have youth, manhood; you should be invaluable."
George declared: "I mean to be. I will not rest until the Rose isrestored."
This was perfectly true, as he was to discover.
"Commendable," Mr. Marrapit pronounced. Now that this volunteer wasenlisted, Mr. Marrapit discarded supplication, resumed mastery. "Whileyou have searched," he said, "I have schemed." He indicated the paper hecarried. "These are my plans. Peruse them."
George read; returned the paper. "If these arrangements do not restorethe Rose," he declared, "nothing will. I see you do not mention my name.I fear you doubted my assistance. I think I will join the--the----"--heglanced at the paper--"the _extra-mural_ searchers. I know thecountryside well. I can go far and fast."
Mr. Marrapit agreed. "Summon the household," he commanded.
George called Margaret; the two carried out the order.
In a semicircle the household grouped about their master; from Mrs.Armitage at the one horn to George at the other they took theirplaces--Mrs. Armitage, Clara, Ada, Mr. Fletcher, Frederick, Mary,Margaret, George.
Paper in hand Mr. Marrapit regarded them. He pointed at Frederick.
"That boy is sucking a disgusting peppermint. Disgorge."
Glad of relief, all eyes went upon the infamous youth. He purpled,struggled, gulped, swallowed--from his eyes tears streamed.
"Stiffneck!" Mr. Marrapit thundered. "Disgorge, I said. You arecontrolled by appetite; your belly is your god."
"Well, I ain't 'ad no breakfast," Stiffneck answered fiercely. Like MissPorter upon a similar occasion this boy was in great pain.
"And no breakfast shall you have until the Rose is restored. Heartless!How can you eat while she, perhaps, does starve?" The angry manaddressed the group. "These are the plans for her recovery. Give ear.You, vile boy, will rush to the dairy and order to be sent at once asmuch milk as Mrs. Armitage will command you. Mrs. Armitage, you withyour maids--Fletcher, you with that boy, are the _intramural_workers, the workers within the walls. George, Margaret, MissHumfray--_extra-mural_. Mrs. Armitage, with milk let every bowl andsaucer be filled. Fletcher, at intervals of thirty feet along the walllet these be placed. If our wanderer is near she will be attracted.Margaret, with Miss Humfray to the village. Collect an army of villageboys. Describe our Rose. Set them to scour the countryside for her.Yourselves join that search. Let the call of 'Rose! Rose!' echo throughevery lane. George, you also will scour far and wide. Upon your waydespatch to me a cab from the station. I drive to the post-office totelephone for a detective. I have not yet decided which detective. It isa momentous matter." He flung out both hands. "To your tasks! Let zeal,let love for our lost one spur each to outvie the efforts of another.Fletcher, raise the window. That pungent boy has poisoned the air."
They trooped from him.
CHAPTER VI
A Detective At Herons' Holt.
I.
Bolt Buildings, Westminster, is a colossal red structure reared uponthe site of frightened-looking little houses which fell beneath thebreaker's hammer coincident with the falling in of their lease. Here youmay have a complete floor of rooms at from three to five hundred ayear; or, high under the roof, you may rent a single room for forty-fivepounds.
Mr. David Brunger, Private Detective and Confidential Inquiry Agent,appeared on the books of the Bolt Buildings management as lessee of oneof these single rooms. The appearance of his quarters as presented tothe visitor had, however, a more pretentious aspect.
Shot to the topmost floor in the electric lift, passing to the leftand up five stairs in accordance with the lift boy's instructions,the intending client would be faced by three doors. Upon the first wasinscribed:
DAVID BRUNGER (Clerks).
Upon the middle door:
DAVID BRUNGER (Private).
And upon the third:
DAVID BRUNGER (Office).
These signs of large staff and flourishing business were in keeping withthe telling advertisements which Mr. David Brunger from time to timecaused to appear in the Press.
"Watch your wife," said these advertisements, adding in smaller typethat had the appearance of a whisper: "David Brunger will watch her.""What keeps your husband late at office?" they continued. "David Brungerwill find out. Confidential inquiry of every description prompt
ly andcheaply carried out by David Brunger's large staff of skilled detectives(male and female). David Brunger has never failed. David Brunger hasrestored thousands of pounds' worth of stolen property, countlessmissing relatives. David Brunger, 7 Bolt Buildings, Strange Street, S.W.Tel. 0000 West."
In London, with its myriad little eddies of crime and matrimonialinfelicity, there is a neat sum to be made out of detective work.Scotland Yard wolfs the greater part of these opportunities; there areestablished names that absorb much of the remainder. In the surplus,however, there is still a livelihood for the David Brungers. For if theBrungers do not go nosing after silken petticoats covering aristocraticbut wanton legs; if the Brungers do not go flying across the Continent,nose to ground, notebook in hand, after the fine linen worn by my lordwho is making holiday with something fair and frail under the quietname of Mr. and Mrs. Brown; if the Brungers are not employed to dragglesilken petticoats and fine linen through the Divorce Court, there iswork for them among humbler washing baskets. Jealous little shop-keepershave erring little wives, and common little wives have naughty littlehusbands: these come to your Brungers. And if, again, the Brungersdo not dog the footsteps of your fifty-thousand-pound men, yourembezzlement-over-a-period-of-ten-years men, your cheque-forgingmen--if the Brungers are invited to do no dogging after these, there arepickings for them in less flashy crimes. Hiding in cupboard work whilethe sweated little shop-assistant slips a marked shilling from the till,hiding in basement work while a trembling little figure creeps down andpilfers the stock--these are the pranks that come to your Brungers.
II.
While Mr. Marrapit at Herons' Holt was addressing to his householdgrouped about him his orders relative to the search for the Rose ofSharon, Mr. David Brunger at Bolt Buildings was entering the door marked"DAVID BRUNGER (Private)."
A telephone, a gas stove, a roll-top desk, an office chair, an armchair,a tiny deal table and a wooden-seated chair comprised the furniture ofthe apartment.
"For myself, I like severity and simplicity of surroundings," Mr. DavidBrunger in the office chair would tell a client in the armchair. "For_myself_--" and he would waggle his head towards the side walls with anair that seemed to imply prodigal luxury in the fittings of "(Clerks)"and "(Office)."
Entering the room Mr. Brunger unlocked the roll-top desk; discovered thestump of a half-smoked cigarette; lit it and began to compare the day'sracing selections of "Head Lad," who imparted stable secrets to onetipster's organ, with those of "Trainer," who from the knowledge of hisposition very kindly gave one horse snips to another.
At ten o'clock the large staff of trained detectives (male and female),mentioned in Mr. Brunger's advertisements, came pouring up the stairs,knocked at the door and filed into the room. Its name was Issy Jago, aJewish young gentleman aged seventeen, whose appearance testified in thehighest manner to the considerable thrift he exercised in the matter ofhair-dressers and toilet soap.
Mr. Issy Jago sat himself on the wooden-seated chair before the smalldeal table; got to work upon his finger-nails with the corner of anomnibus ticket; proceeded to study the police court reports in the_Daily Telegraph_.
It was his duty, whenever he noted plaintiffs or defendants to whom Mr.David Brunger's services might be of benefit, to post to them Mr.David Brunger's card together with a selection of entirely unsolicitedtestimonials composed and dictated by Mr. Brunger for the occasion.
Also his duty to receive clients.
When a knock was heard at "DAVID BRUNGER (Clerks)" Mr. Issy Jagowould slip through from "DAVID BRUNGER (Private)" to the tiny closetcontaining the cistern into which the door marked "DAVID BRUNGER(Clerks)" opened. Sliding through this door in such a manner as to givethe client no glimpse of the interior, he would inform the visitor,with a confidential wink, "Fact is we have a client in there--a verywell-known personage who does not wish it to be known that he isconsulting us." The impressed caller would then be conducted into "DAVIDBEUNGER (Private)."
Between "DAVID BRUNGER (Private)" and "DAVID BRUNGER (Office)," on theother hand, there was no communication. Indeed there was no room behind"(Office)": the door gave on to the roof. When, therefore, a hesitatingclient chose to knock at "(Office)" Mr. Issy Jago, emerging from"(Private)," would give the whispered information: "Fact is there's avery important private consultation going on in there--Scotland Yardconsulting us." And the impressed client would forthwith be led into"DAVID BRUNGER (Private)."
In either event, the client trapped, Mr. Issy Jago would skip into"(Clerks)" and sit on the cistern till Mr. Brunger's bell summoned him.
For the privilege of adding to the dignity of his single apartmentby having his name inscribed upon the cistern cupboard and upon theemergency exit to the roof, Mr. Brunger paid thirty shillings extra perannum.
III.
By half-past ten Mr. Brunger was occupied in composing an unsolicitedtestimonial to be sent to the wife of a green-grocer in the Borough who,on the previous day, had summoned her husband for assault at LambethPolice-Court.
"I had suspicions but no proof of my 'usband's infidelity," dictatedMr. Brunger, pacing the floor, "until I enlisted your services. I mustsay--"
At that moment the telephone bell rang. Mr. Brunger ceased dictation;took up the receiver.
"Are you David Brunger, the private detective?" a voice asked.
"We are," replied Mr. Brunger in the thin treble he used on firstanswering a call. "Who are you, please?"
"I am Mr. Christopher Marrapit of Herons' Holt, Paltley Hill, Surrey.I--"
"One moment," piped Mr. Brunger. "Is it confidential business?"
"It is most urgent business. I--"
"One moment, please. In that case the private secretary must take yourmessage."
Mr. Brunger laid down the receiver; took a turn across the room;approached the telephone; in a very deep bass asked, "Are you there?"
The frantic narrative that was poured into his ears he punctuated withheavy, guttural "Certainly's," "Yes's," "We comprehend's," "We followyou's." Then: "Mr. David Brunger himself? I'm afraid that is impossible,sir. Mr. Brunger has his hands very full just now. He is closetedwith Scotland Yard. At this moment, sir, the Yard is consulting him...'m...'m. Well, I'll see, sir, I'll see. I doubt it. I very much doubtit. But hold the line a minute, sir."
In his capacity of Mr. David Brunger's private secretary, Mr. DavidBrunger drank from the carafe of water on the mantelpiece to clear histortured throat.
In his capacity of the great detective and confidential inquiry agenthimself, he then stepped to the telephone and, after exhibiting a powerof invention relative to startling crimes in hand that won even theadmiration of Mr. Issy Jago, announced that he would be with Mr.Marrapit at three o'clock.
"It may be a big job, Issy," he remarked, relighting the stump ofcigarette, "or it may be a little job. But what I say and what I do is,_impress your client. Impress your client,_ Issy. Let that be your maximthrough life. And if I catch you again takin' a draw at my cigarettewhen my back's turned, as I see you just now, I'll damn well turn youinside out and chuck you through that door. So you watch it. You've madethis smoke taste 'orrid-'orrid. No sauce, now; no sauce."
IV.
By two o'clock the results of Mr. Marrapit's colossal scheme began topour in.
The bowls of milk, gleaming along the wall of Herons' Holt, drew everystray cat within a radius of two miles. Beneath, each armed with aclothes-prop, toiled Mr. Fletcher and Frederick under the immediategeneralship of Mr. Marrapit.
Throughout the morning cats bounded, flickered and disappeared upon thewall. Fat cats, thin cats; tom cats, tabby cats; white cats, black cats,yellow cats, and grey cats; young cats and old cats. As each appeared,Mr. Marrapit, first expectant then moaning, would wave his assistants tothe assault. Up would go the clothes-prop of Mr. Fletcher or Frederick;down would go the stranger cat. It was exhausting work.
At two-thirty the village boys who had been searching were mustered atthe gate. Each bore a cat. Some carried two. Leaving his clot
hes-proplancers, Mr. Marrapit hurried down the drive to hold review.
"Pass," he commanded, "in single file before me."
They passed. "Dolt! Dolt!" groaned Mr. Marrapit, writhing in thebitterness of crushed hope as each cat was held towards him. "Dolt andpumpkin-head! How could that wretched creature be my Rose?"
How, indeed, when at that moment the Rose of Sharon in the ruined hutwas lapping milk taken her by George in a lemonade bottle, her infamouscaptor smoking on the threshold?
Precisely at three o'clock Mr. David Brunger arrived. Conducted to theroom whence the Rose had disappeared, the astute inquiry agent was therecloseted with Mr. Marrapit for half an hour. At the end of that time Mr.Marrapit appeared on the lawn. His face was white, his voice, when hespoke, hollow and trembling. He called to the clothes-prop lancers:
"Cease. Cease. Withdraw the milk. The Rose of Sharon is not strayed. Sheis stolen!"
"Thenk Gord!" said Frederick. "Thenk Gord! I've pretty well bustedmyself over this game."
Mr. Fletcher said nothing; drew his snail from his pocket; plunged headdownwards in a bush. Woe sat heavy upon him; beneath the indignity andlabour of thrusting at stranger cats with a clothes-prop this man hadgrievously suffered.
V.
The Rose was stolen. That was Mr. Brunger's discovery after examinationof the window-latch where George's knife had marked it, the sill whereGeorge's boots had scratched it. Outside the great detective searchedfor footmarks--they had been obliterated by heavy rainfall betweenthe doing of the hideous deed and its discovery. Upon the principle ofimpressing his client, however, Mr. Brunger grovelled on the path withtape measure and note-book; measured every pair of boots in the house;measured the window; measured the room; in neat little packets tied upspecimens of the gravel, specimens of the turf, specimens of hair fromthe Rose of Sharon's coat, picked from her bed.