The Best Martin Hewitt Detective Stories

by Arthur Morrison

  “THE MAN . . . STRUGGLED FIERCELY.”

  I turned back into my room a little perplexed. It seemed probable that the man who had been borne off had broken my window, but why? I looked about on the floor and presently found the missile. It was, as I had expected, a piece of broken concrete, but it was wrapped up in a worn piece of paper, which had partly opened out again as it lay on my carpet, thus indicating that it had only just been hastily crumpled round the stone. But again, why? It might be considered a trifle more polite to hand a gentleman a clinker decently wrapped up than to give it him in its raw state, but it came to much the same thing after all if it were passed through a shut window. And why a clinker at all? I disengaged the paper and spread it out. Then I saw it to be an apparently rather hastily written piece of manuscript music, of which a considerably reduced reproduction is given over leaf.

  This gave me no help. I turned the paper this way and that, but could make nothing of it. There was not a mark on it that I could discover, except the music and the scrawled title, “Flitterbat Lancers,” at the top. The paper was old, dirty and cracked. What did it all mean? One might conceive of a person in certain circumstances sending a message—possibly an appeal for help—through a friend’s window, wrapped round a stone, but this seemed to be nothing of that sort. It was not a message, but a hastily written piece of music, with no bars or time marked, just as might have been put down by somebody anxious to make an exact note of an air, the time of which he could remember. Moreover, it was years old, not a thing just written in a recent emergency. What lunatic could have chosen this violent way of presenting me with an air from some forgotten “Flitterbat Lancers”? That indeed was an idea. What more likely than that the man taken away was a lunatic and the others his keepers? A man under some curious delusion, which led him not only to fling his old music notes through my window, but to keep perfectly quiet while struggling for his freedom. I looked out of the window again, and then it seemed plain to me that the clinker and the paper could not have been intended for me personally, but had been flung at my window as being the only one that showed a light within a reasonable distance of the yard. Most of the windows about mine were those of offices, which had been deserted early in the evening.

  Once more I picked up the paper, and, with an idea to hear what the “Flitterbat Lancers” sounded like, I turned to my little pianette and strummed over the notes, making my own time and changing it as seemed likely. But I could make nothing of it, and could by no means extract from the notes anything resembling an air. I considered the thing a little more, and half thought of trying Hewitt’s office door, in case he might still be there and could offer a guess at the meaning of my smashed window and the scrap of paper. It was most probable, however, that he had gone home, and I was about resuming my social economy when Hewitt himself came in. He had stayed late to examine a bundle of papers in connection with a case just placed in his hands, and now, having finished, came to find if I were disposed for an evening stroll before turning in—a thing I was in the habit of. I handed him the paper and the piece of concrete, observing, “There’s a little job for you, Hewitt, instead of the stroll. What do those things mean?” And I told him the complete history of my smashed window.

  Hewitt listened attentively, and examined both the paper and the fragment of paving. “You say these people made absolutely no sound whatever?” he asked.

  “None but that of scuffling, and even that they seemed to do quietly.”

  “Could you see whether or not the two men gagged the other, or placed their hands over his mouth?”

  “No, they certainly didn’t do that. It was dark, of course, but not so dark as to prevent my seeing generally what they were doing.”

  “And when you first looked out of the window after the smash, you called out, but got no answer, although the man you suppose to have thrown these things must have been there at the time, and alone?”

  “That was so.”

  Hewitt stood for near half a minute in thought, and then said, “There’s something in this; what, I can’t guess at the moment, but something deep, I fancy. Are you sure you won’t come out now?”

  On this my mind was made up. That dreadful volume had vanquished me altogether three times already, and if I let it go again it would haunt me like a nightmare. There was indeed very little left to read, and I determined to master that and draft my review before I slept. So I told Hewitt that I was sure, and that I should stick to my work.

  “Very well,” he said; “then perhaps you will lend me these articles?” holding up the paper and the stone as he spoke.

  “Delighted to lend ’em, I’m sure,” I said. “If you get no more melody out of the clinker than I did out of the paper you won’t have a musical evening. Good night.”

  Hewitt went away with the puzzle in his hand, and I turned once more to my social economy, and, thanks to the gentleman who smashed my window, conquered. I am sure I should have dropped fast asleep had it not been for that.

  II.

  At this time my only regular daily work was on an evening paper, so that I left home at a quarter to eight on the morning following the adventure of my broken window, in order, as usual, to be at the office at eight, consequently it was not until lunch-time that I had an opportunity of seeing Hewitt. I went to my own rooms first, however, and on the landing by my door I found the housekeeper in conversation with a shortish sun-browned man with a goatee beard, whose accent at once convinced me that he hailed from across the Atlantic. He had called, it appeared, three or four times during the morning to see me, getting more impatient each time. As he did not seem even to know my name the housekeeper had not considered it expedient to say when I was expected, nor indeed to give him any information about me, and he was growing irascible under the treatment. When I at last appeared, however, he left her and approached me eagerly.

  “See here, sir,” he said, “I’ve been stumpin’ these here durn stairs o’ yours half through the mornin’. I’m anxious to apologise, I reckon, and fix up some damage.”

  He had followed me into my sitting-room, and was now standing with his back to the fireplace, a dripping umbrella in one hand, and the forefinger of the other held up shoulder-high and pointing, in the manner of a pistol, to my window, which, by the way, had been mended during the morning, in accordance with my instructions to the housekeeper.

  “Sir,” he continued, “last night I took the extreme liberty of smashin’ your winder.”

  “Oh,” I said, “that was you, was it?”

  “It was, sir—me. For that I hev come humbly to apologise. I trust the draught has not discommoded you, sir. I regret the accident, and I wish to pay for the fixin’ up and the general inconvenience.” He placed a sovereign on the table. “I ’low you’ll call that square now, sir, and fix things friendly and comfortable as between gentlemen, an’ no ill will. Shake.”

  And he formally extended his hand.

  I took it at once. “Certainly,” I said, “certainly. As a matter of fact you haven’t inconvenienced me at all; indeed, there were some circumstances about the affair that rather interested me. But as to the damage,” I continued, “if you’re really anxious to pay for it, do you mind my sending the glazier to you to settle? You see it’s only a matter of half-a-crown or so at most.” And I pushed the sovereign toward him.

  “But then,” he said, looking a trifle disappointed, “there’s general discommodedness, you know, to pay for, and the general sass of the liberty to a stranger’s winder. I ain’t no down-easter—not a Boston dude—but I reckon I know the gentlemanly thing, and I can afford to do it. Yes. Say now, didn’t I startle your nerves?”

  “Not a bit,” I answered laughing. “In fact you did me a service by preventing me going to sleep just when I shouldn’t; so we’ll say no more of that.”

  “Well—there was one other little thing,” he pursued, looking at me rather sharply as he slowly pocketed the sovereign. “There was a bit o’ paper round that pebble that came
in here. Didn’t happen to notice that, did you?”

  “Yes, I did. It was an old piece of manuscript music.”

  “That was it—just. Might you happen to have it handy now?”

  “Well,” I said, “as a matter of fact a friend of mine has it now. I tried playing it over once or twice, as a matter of curiosity, but I couldn’t make anything of it, and so I handed it to him.”

  “Ah!” said my visitor, watching me narrowly, “that’s a nailer, is that ‘Flitterbat Lancers’—a real nailer. It whips ’em all. Nobody can’t get ahead of that. Ha, ha!” He laughed suddenly—a laugh that seemed a little artificial. “There’s music fellers as ’lows to set right down and play off anything right away that can’t make anything of the ‘Flitterbat Lancers.’ That was two of ’em that was monkeyin’ with me last night. They never could make anythin’ of it at all, and I was tantalising them with it all along till they got real mad, and reckoned to get it out o’ my pocket and learn it off quiet at home, and stop all my chaff. Ha, ha! So I got away for a bit, and bein’ a bit lively after a number of tooth-lotions (all three was much that way), just rolled it round a stone and heaved it through your winder before they could come up, your winder bein’ the nearest one with a light in it. Ha, ha! I’ll be considerable obliged if you’ll get it from your friend right now. Is he stayin’ hereabout?”

  The story was so ridiculously lame that I determined to confront my visitor with Hewitt and observe the result. If he had succeeded in making any sense of the “Flitterbat Lancers” the scene might be amusing. So I answered at once, “Yes; his office is only on the floor below; he will probably be in at about this time. Come down with me.”

  We went down, and found Hewitt in his outer office. “This gentleman,” I told him with a solemn intonation, “has come to ask for his piece of manuscript music, the ‘Flitterbat Lancers.’ He is particularly proud of it, because nobody who tries to play it can make any sort of a tune out of it, and it was entirely because two dear friends of his were anxious to drag it out of his pocket and practise it over on the quiet that he flung it through my window-pane last night, wrapped round a piece of concrete.”

  The stranger glanced sharply at me, and I could see that my manner and tone rather disconcerted him. But Hewitt came forward at once. “Oh yes,” he said. “Just so—quite a natural sort of thing. As a matter of fact I quite expected you. Your umbrella’s wet—do you mind putting it in the stand? Thank you. Come into my private office.”

  We entered the inner room, and Hewitt, turning to the stranger, went on: “Yes, that is a very extraordinary piece of music, that ‘Flitterbat Lancers.’ I have been having a little practice with it myself, though I’m really nothing of a musician. I don’t wonder you are anxious to keep it to yourself. Sit down.”

  The stranger, with a distrustful look at Hewitt, complied. At this moment Hewitt’s clerk, Kerrett, entered from the outer office with a slip of paper. Hewitt glanced at it and crumpled it in his hand. “I am engaged just now,” was his remark, and Kerrett vanished.

  “And now,” Hewitt said as he sat down and suddenly turned to the stranger with an intent gaze, “and now, Mr. Hoker, we’ll talk of this music.”

  The stranger started and frowned. “You’ve the advantage of me, sir,” he said; “you seem to know my name, but I don’t know yours.”

  Hewitt smiled pleasantly. “My name,” he said, “is Hewitt—Martin Hewitt, and it is my business to know a great many things. For instance, I know that you are Mr. Reuben B. Hoker, of Robertsville, Ohio.”

  “MR. HOKER.”

  The visitor pushed his chair back, and stared. “Well—that gits me,” he said. “You’re a pretty smart chap anyway. I’ve heard your name before, of course. And—and so you’ve been a-studyin’ of the ‘Flitterbat Lancers,’ have you?” This with a keen glance in Hewitt’s face. “Well, well, s’pose you have. What’s your opinion?”

  “Why,” answered Hewitt, still keeping his steadfast gaze on Hoker’s eyes, “I think it’s pretty late in the century to be fishing about for the Wedlake jewels, that’s all.”

  These words astonished me almost as much as they did Mr. Hoker. The great Wedlake jewel robbery is, as many will remember, a traditional story of the sixties. I remembered no more of it at the time than probably most men do who have at some time or another read up the causes célèbres of the century. Sir Francis Wedlake’s country house had been robbed, and the whole of Lady Wedlake’s magnificent collection of jewels stolen. A man named Shiels, a strolling musician, had been arrested and had been sentenced to a long term of penal servitude. Another man named Legg—one of the comparatively wealthy scoundrels who finance promising thefts or swindles and pocket the greater part of the proceeds—had also been punished, but only a very few of the trinkets, and those quite unimportant items, had been recovered. The great bulk of the booty was never brought to light. So much I remembered, and Hewitt’s sudden mention of the Wedlake jewels in connection with my broken window, Mr. Reuben B. Hoker and the “Flitterbat Lancers” astonished me not a little.

  As for Hoker, he did his best to hide his perturbation, but with little success. “Wedlake jewels, eh?” he said; “and—and what’s that to do with it, anyway?”

  “To do with it?” responded Hewitt, with an air of carelessness. “Well, well, I had my idea, nothing more. If the Wedlake jewels have nothing to do with it we’ll say no more about it, that’s all. Here’s your paper, Mr. Hoker—only a little crumpled. Here also is the piece of cement. If the Wedlake jewels have nothing to do with the affair you may possibly want that too—I can’t tell.” He rose and placed the articles in Mr. Hoker’s hand, with the manner of terminating the interview.

  Hoker rose, with a bewildered look on his face, and turned toward the door. Then he stopped, looked at the floor, scratched his cheek, and finally, after a thoughtful look, first at me and then at Hewitt, sat down again emphatically in the chair he had just quitted and put his hat on the ground. “Come,” he said, “we’ll play a square game. That paper has something to do with the Wedlake jewels, and, win or lose, I’ll tell you all I know about it. You’re a smart man—you’ve found out more than I know already—and whatever I tell you, I guess it won’t do me no harm; it ain’t done me no good yet, anyway.”

  “Say what you please, of course,” Hewitt answered, “but think first. You might tell me something you’d be sorry for afterward. Mind, I don’t invite your confidence.”

  “Confidence be durned! Say, will you listen to what I say, and tell me if you think I’ve been swindled or not? There ain’t a creature in this country whose advice I can ask. My 250 dollars is gone now, and I guess I won’t go skirmishing after it any more if you think it’s no good. Will you do so much?”

  “As I said before,” Hewitt replied, “tell me what you please, and if I can help you I will. But remember, I don’t ask for your secrets.”

  “That’s all right, I guess, Mr. Hewitt. Well, now, it was all like this.” And Mr. Reuben B. Hoker plunged into a detailed account of his adventures since his arrival in London.

  Relieved of repetitions, and put as directly as possible, it was as follows:—Mr. Hoker was a waggon-builder, had made a good business from very humble beginnings, and intended to go on and make it still a better. Meantime he had come over to Europe for a short holiday—a thing he had promised himself for years. He was wandering about the London streets on the second night after his arrival in the city, when he managed to get into conversation with two men at a bar. They were not very prepossessing men altogether, though flashily dressed. Very soon they suggested a game of cards. But Reuben B. Hoker was not to be had in that way, and after a while they parted. The two were amusing fellows enough in their way, and when Hoker saw them again the next night in the same bar he made no difficulty of talking with them freely. After a time, and after a succession of drinks, they told him that they had a speculation on hand—a speculation that meant thousands if it succeeded—and to carry out which they were only waiting
for a paltry sum of £50. There was a house, they said, in which they were certain was hidden a great number of jewels of immense value, which had been deposited there by a man who was now dead. Exactly in what part of the house the jewels were to be found they did not know. There was a paper, they said, which was supposed to have contained some information, but as yet they hadn’t quite been able to make it out. But that would really matter very little if once they could get possession of the house. Then they would simply set to work and search from the topmost chimney to the lowermost brick if necessary. Anyhow the jewels must be found sooner or later. The only present difficulty was that the house was occupied, and that the landlord wanted a large deposit of rent down before he would consent to turn out his present tenants and give them possession at a higher rental. This deposit and other expenses, they said, would come to at least £50, and they hadn’t the money. However if any friend of theirs who meant business would put the necessary sum at their disposal, and keep his mouth shut, they would make him an equal partner in the proceeds with themselves; and as the value of the whole haul would probably be something not very far off £20,000, the speculation would bring a tremendous return to the man who was smart enough to see the advantage of putting down his £50.

  Hoker, very distrustful, sceptically demanded more detailed particulars of the scheme. But these the men (Luker and Birks were their names, he found, in course of talking) inflexibly refused to communicate.