The Third R. Austin Freeman Megapack

by R. Austin Freeman

  “That don’t mean nothing to me,” he complained. “I want to know if there’s much wrong with it, and what it will cost to put it right.”

  I was trying to frame a discreet answer when the arrival of Mr. Abraham relieved me of the necessity. I handed him the watch and my eyeglass and stood by to hear his verdict.

  “Fine watch,” he commented. “French make. Seems to have been dropped. One pivot broken; probably some others. Can’t tell until I have taken it down. I suppose you want it repaired.”

  “Not if it is going to be an expensive job,” said the owner. “I don’t want it for use. I got a silver one what does for me. I bought this one cheap, and I wish I hadn’t now. Gave a cove a flyer for it.”

  “Then you got it very cheap,” said Mr. Abraham.

  “S’pose I did, but I’d like to get my money back all the same. That’s all I ask. Care to give me a flyer for it?”

  Mr. Abraham’s eyes glistened. All the immemorial Semitic passion for a bargain shone in them. And well it might. Even I could tell that the price asked was but a fraction of the real value. It was a tremendous temptation for Mr. Abraham.

  But, rather to my surprise, he resisted it. Wistfully, he looked at the watch, and especially at the hall-mark, or its French equivalent, for nearly a minute; then, with a visible pang of regret, he closed the case and pushed the watch across the counter.

  “I don’t deal in second-hand watches,” said he.

  “Gor!” exclaimed our customer, “it ain’t second hand for you. Do the little repairs what are necessary, and it’s a new watch. Don’t be a mug, Mister. It’s the chance of a lifetime.”

  But Mr. Abraham shook his head and gave the watch a further push.

  “Look here!” the other exclaimed, excitedly, “the thing’s no good to me. I’ll take four pund ten. That’s giving it away, that is. Gor! You ain’t going to refuse that! Well, say four pund. Four blooming jimmies! Why, the case alone is worth more than double that.”

  Mr. Abraham broke out into a cold sweat. It was a frightful temptation, for what the man said was literally true. But even this Mr. Abraham resisted; and eventually the owner of this priceless timepiece, realizing that “the deal was off,” sulkily put it in his pocket and slouched out without another word.

  “Why didn’t you buy it, sir?” I asked. “It was a beautiful watch.”

  “So it was,” he agreed, “and a splendid case—twenty-two carat gold; but it was too cheap. I would have given him twice what he asked if I had known how he came by it.”

  “You don’t think he stole it, sir, do you?” I asked.

  “I suspect someone did,” he replied, “but whether this gent was the thief or only the receiver is not my affair.”

  It wasn’t mine either; but as I recalled my former transaction with this “gent” I was inclined to form a more definite opinion; and thereupon I decided to keep my own counsel as to the details of that former transaction. But circumstances compelled me to revise that decision when the matter was reopened by someone who took a less impersonal view than that of Mr. Abraham. That someone was a tall, military-looking man who strode into our shop one evening about six weeks after the watch incident. He made no secret of his business, for, as he stepped up to the counter, he produced a card from his pocket and introduced himself with the statement:

  “You are Mr. David Abraham, I think. I am Detective Sergeant Pitts.”

  Mr. Abraham bowed graciously, and, disregarding the card, replied that he was pleased to make the officer’s acquaintance; whereupon the sergeant grinned and remarked: “You are more easily pleased than most of my clients.”

  Mr. Abraham smiled and regarded the officer with a wary eye. “What can I have the pleasure of doing for you?” he asked.

  “That’s what I want to find out,” said the sergeant. “I have information that, on or about the thirteenth of May, you made a skeleton key for a man named Alfred Coomey, alias John Smith. Is that correct?”

  “No,” Abraham replied, in a startled voice, “certainly not. I never made a, skeleton key in my life. Don’t know how to, in fact.”

  The officer’s manner became perceptibly more dry. “My information,” said he, “is that on the date mentioned, the said Coomey, or Smith, brought a jewel case to this shop and that you made a skeleton key that opened it. You say that is not true.”

  “Wait a moment,” said Abraham, turning to me with a look of relief; “perhaps the sergeant is referring to the man you told me about who brought a box here to have a key fitted when I was out. It would be about that date.”

  The sergeant turned a suddenly interested eye on me and remarked:

  “So this young shaver is the operator, is he? You’d better tell me all about it; and first, what sort of box was it?”

  “I couldn’t see much of it, sir, because it was wrapped in brown paper, and he only opened it enough for me to get at the keyhole. But it was about fifteen inches long by about nine broad, and it was covered with green leather and the keyhole plate seemed to be silver. That is all that I could see.”

  “And what about the key?”

  “It was the wrong key, sir. It went in all right, but it wouldn’t turn. So I cut away part of the bit so that it would go past the wards and then it turned and opened the lock.”

  The sergeant regarded me with a grim smile.

  “You seem to be a rather downy young bird,” said he. “So you made him a skeleton key, did you? Now, how did you come to know how to make a skeleton key?”

  I explained that I had read certain books on locks and had taken a good deal of interest in the subject, a statement that Mr. Abraham was able to confirm.

  “Well,” said the sergeant, “it’s a useful accomplishment, but a bit dangerous. Don’t you be too handy with skeleton keys, or you may find yourself taking a different sort of interest in locks and keys.”

  But here Mr. Abraham interposed with a protest.

  “There’s nothing to make a fuss about, Sergeant. The man brought his box here to have a key fitted, and my lad fitted a key. There was nothing incorrect or unlawful in that.”

  “No, no,” the sergeant admitted, “I don’t say that there was. It happens that the box was not his, but, of course, the boy didn’t know that. I suppose you couldn’t see what was in the box?”

  “No, sir. He only opened it about half an inch, just to see that it would open.”

  The sergeant nodded. “And as to this man, Coomey; do you think you would recognize him if you saw him again?”

  “Yes, sir, I am sure I should. But I don’t know that I could recognize the other man.”

  “The other man!” exclaimed the sergeant. “What other man?”

  “The man who was waiting outside;” and here I described the curious proceedings of Mr. Coomey’s satellite and so much of his appearance as I could remember.

  “Ha!” said the sergeant, “that would be the foot man who gave Coomey the jewel-case. Followed him here to make sure that he didn’t nip off with it. Well, you’d know Coomey again, at any rate. What about you, Mr. Abraham?”

  “I couldn’t recognize him, of course. I never saw him.”

  “You saw him later, you know, sir, when he came in with the watch,” I reminded him.

  “But you never told me—” Abraham began, with a bewildered stare at me; but the sergeant broke in, brusquely: “What’s this about a watch, Mr. Abraham? You didn’t mention that. Better not hold anything back, you know.”

  “I am not holding anything back,” Abraham protested. “I didn’t know it was the same man;” and here he proceeded to describe the affair in detail and quite correctly, while the sergeant took down the particulars in a large, funereal notebook.

  “So you didn’t feel inclined to invest,” said he with a sly smile. “Must have wrung your heart to let a bargain like that slip.”

  “It did,” Abraham admitted, “but, you see, I didn’t know where he had got it.”

  “We can take it,” said the sergeant, “
that he got it out of that jewel-case. What sort of watch was it? Could you recognize it?”

  “I am not sure that I could. It was an old watch. French make, gold case, engine-turned with a plain centre. No crest or initials.”

  “That’s all you remember, is it? And what about you, young shaver? Would you know it again?”

  “I think I should, sir. It was a peculiar watch; made by Breguet of Paris, and it had a tourbillion.”

  “Had a what!” exclaimed the sergeant. “Sounds like some sort of disease. What does he mean?” he added, gazing at Mr. Abraham.

  The latter gave a slightly confused description of the mechanism, explaining that he had not noticed it, as he had been chiefly interested in the case; whereupon the sergeant grinned and remarked that the melting-pot value was what had also interested Mr. Coomey.

  “Well,” he concluded, shutting up his notebook, “that’s all for the present. I expect we shall want you to identify Coomey, and the other man if you can; and when the case comes up for the adjourned hearing, you will both have to come and give evidence. But I will let you know about that later.” With this and a nod to Mr. Abraham and a farewell grin at me, he took his departure.

  Neither to my employer nor myself was the prospect of visiting the prison and the court at all alluring, especially as our simultaneous absence would entail shutting up the shop; and it was a relief to us both when the sergeant paid us a second, hurried visit to let us know that, as the accused men had decided to plead guilty, our testimony would not be required. So that disposed of the business so far as we were concerned.

  CHAPTER V

  Mr. Parrish

  It has been remarked, rather obviously, that it is an ill wind that blows nobody good, and also that one man’s meat is another man’s poison. The application of these samples of proverbial wisdom to this history is in the respective effects of a severe attack of bronchitis upon Mr. Abraham and me. The bronchitis was his, with all its attendant disadvantages, an unmitigated evil, whereas to me it was the determining factor of a beneficial change.

  While he was confined to his bed, under the care of the elderly Jewess who customarily “did for him,” my daily procedure was, when I had shut up the shop, to carry the contents of the till with the day-book to his bedroom that he might compare them and check the day’s takings; and it was on one of these occasions, when he was beginning to mend, that the change in my prospects came into view.

  “I have been thinking about you, Nat,” said he. “You’re an industrious lad, and you’ve done your duty by me since I’ve been ill, and I think I ought to do something for you in return. Now, you’re set on being a clock-maker, but you can’t get into the trade without serving an apprenticeship in the regular way. Supposing I were willing to take you on as my apprentice, how would you like that?”

  I jumped at the offer, but suggested that there might be difficulties about the premium.

  “There wouldn’t be any premium,” said he. “I should give you your indentures free and pay the lawyer’s charges. Think it over, Nat, and see what your uncle and aunt have to say about it.”

  It didn’t require much thinking over on my part, nor, when I arrived home in triumph and announced my good fortune, was there any difference of opinion as to the practical issue, though the respective views were differently expressed. Uncle Sam thought it “rather handsome of the old chap” (Mr. Abraham was about fifty-five), but Aunt Judy was inclined to sniff.

  “He hasn’t done badly all these months,” said she, “with a competent journeyman for five shillings a week; and he’d be pretty well up a tree if Nat left him to get another job. Oh, he knows which side his bread’s buttered.”

  There may have been some truth in Aunt Judy’s comment, but I thought there was more wisdom in old Mr. Gollidge’s contribution to the debate.

  “It may be a good bargain for Mr. Abraham,” said he, “but that don’t make it a worse bargain for Nat. It’s best that both parties should be suited.”

  In effect, it was agreed that the offer should be accepted; and when I conveyed this decision to Mr. Abraham, the necessary arrangements were carried through forthwith. The indentures were drawn up, on Mr. Abraham’s instructions, by his solicitor, a Mr. Cohen, who brought them to the shop by appointment; and when they had been submitted to and approved by Aunt Judy, they were duly signed by both parties on a small piece of board laid on the invalid’s bed, and I was then and there formally bound apprentice for the term of seven years to “the said David Abraham hereinafter called the Master,” who, for his part, undertook to instruct me in the art and mystery of clock-making. I need not recite the terms of the indenture in detail, but I think Aunt Judy found them unexpectedly liberal. To my surprise, I was to be given board and lodging; I was to receive five shillings a week for the first year and my wages were to increase by half-a-crown annually, so that in my last year I should be receiving the full wage of a junior journeyman, or improver.

  These were great advantages; for henceforth not only would Aunt Judy be relieved of the cost of maintaining me, but she would now have an additional room to dispose of profitably. But beyond these material benefits there were others that I appreciated even more. Now, as an apprentice, I was entitled to instruction in that part of the “art and mystery” which was concerned with the purchase of stock and material. It is true that, at the time, I did not fully realize the glorious possibilities contained in this provision. Only when, a week or so later, Mr. Abraham (hereinafter called the Master) was sufficiently recovered to descend to the shop, did they begin to dawn on me.

  “We seem to be getting short of material,” said he after an exploratory browse round the workshop. “I am not well enough to go out yet, so you’ll have to run down to Clerkenwell and get the stuff. We’d better draw up a list of what we want.”

  We made out the list together, and then “the Master” gave me the addresses of the various dealers with full directions as to the route, adding, as I prepared to set forth: “Don’t be any longer than you can help, Nat. I’m still feeling a bit shaky.”

  The truth of the latter statement was so evident that I felt morally compelled to curtail my explorations to the utmost that was possible. But it was a severe trial. For as I hurried along Clerkenwell Road I found myself in a veritable Tom Tiddler’s Ground. By sheer force of will, I had to drag myself past those amazing shop windows that displayed—better and more precious than gold and silver—all the wonders of the clock-maker’s art. I hardly dared to look at them. But even the hasty glance that I stole as I hurried past gave me an indelible picture of those unbelievable treasures that I can recall to this day. I see them now, though the years have made familiar the subjects of that first, ecstatic, impression: the entrancing tools and gauges, bench-drills and wheel-cutters, the lovely little watch maker’s lathe, fairer to me than the Rose of Sharon or the Lily of the Valley, the polishing heads with their buffs and brushes, the assembled movements, and the noble regulator with its quicksilver pendulum, dealing with seconds as common clocks do with hours. I felt that I could have spent eternity in that blessed street.

  However, my actual business, though it was but with dealers in “sundries,” gave me the opportunity for more leisured observations. Besides Clerkenwell Road, it carried me to St. John’s Gate and Clerkenwell Green; from which, at last, I tore myself away and set forth at top speed towards Holborn to catch the omnibus for Regent Circus (now, by the way, called Oxford Circus). But all the way, as my carriage rumbled sleepily westward, the vision of those Aladdin caves floated before my eyes and haunted me until I entered the little shop and dismissed my master to his easy-chair in the sitting-room. Then I unpacked my parcels, distributed their contents in the proper receptacles, put away the precious price-lists that I had collected for future study, and set about the ordinary business of the day.

  I do not propose to follow in detail the course of my life as Mr. Abraham’s apprentice. There would, in deed, be little enough to record; for the days and mon
ths slipped by unreckoned, spent with placid contentment in the work which was a pleasure to do and a satisfaction when done. But apart from the fact that there would be so little to tell, the mere circumstances of my life are not the actual subject of this history. Its purpose is, as I have explained, to trace the antecedents of certain events which occurred many years later when I was able to put my finger on the one crucial fact that was necessary to disclose the nature and authorship of a very singular crime. With the discovery of that crime, the foregoing chapters have had at least some connection; and in what follows I shall confine myself to incidents that were parts of the same train of causation.

  Of these, the first was concerned with my Uncle Sam. By birth he was a Kentish man, and he had served his time in a small workshop at Maidstone, conducted by a certain James Wright. When his apprenticeship had come to an end, he had migrated to London; but he had always kept in touch with his old master and paid him occasional visits. Now, about the end of my third year, Mr. Wright, who was getting too old to carry on alone, had offered to take him into partnership; and the offer being obviously advantageous, Uncle Sam had accepted and forthwith made preparations for the move.

  It was a severe blow to me, and I think also to Aunt Judy. For though I had taken up my abode with Mr. Abraham, hardly an evening had passed which did not see me seated in the familiar kitchen (but not in my original chair) facing the old Dutch clock and listening to old Mr. Gollidge’s interminable yarns. That kitchen had still been my home as it had been since my infancy. I had still been a member, not only of the family, but of the household, absent, like Uncle Sam, only during working hours. But henceforth I should have no home—for Mr. Abraham’s house was a mere lodging; no family circle, and, worst of all, no Aunt Judy.