“I suppose you’re right, Henry,” answered Harrison. “But the way she did it was so charming. She took my head between her hands and very gently arranged it so as to get everything exactly right. I must say I thoroughly enjoyed it.”
“I don’t understand you at all tonight, sir,” said Henry. “It’s not like you to be talking in this way. You’re very pleased about something—”
“That’s it, Henry.”
“And I can’t believe it’s because an attractive girl puts your head straight.”
“It isn’t, Henry,” answered Harrison. “Lunch isn’t the only thing I’ve done today.”
“What else, sir?” asked Henry, unable to keep a suspicious note out of his voice.
“I’ve found out one or two things, Henry,” was the reply, “which seem to make this case of murder one of the most interesting and intricate I, or shall I say we, have had to solve.”
“That’s marvellous, sir,” exclaimed Henry, all his gloom banished by Harrison’s last remark. “What has happened, sir?”
“I think, Henry,” said Harrison, solemnly, “that, however one’s assistant disapproves of one’s conduct, he should provide a cup of tea. That would have been heaping coals of fire on my head, good for evil, and all that sort of thing. But a cup of tea I must have before I go any further.”
Henry was out of the room before the sentence was finished, and Harrison proceeded to change his coat for a villainous-looking Norfolk affair, shamefully worn at the sleeves and elbows and looking, at the same time, the height of restfulness.
“Henry,” he called.
A muffled answer came from the recesses of the chambers.
“You really must mend these pockets,” called Harrison. “They’re becoming all hole and no pocket. I’m always finding my box of matches on the floor nowadays. Pockets were made to put things in, not to drop them out.”
A second muffled answer was heard which Harrison took to be a promise to make the necessary repairs.
He settled down to light a cigar and look casually at the correspondence neatly arranged on his blotting pad. He found nothing to interest him particularly and so swung round on his swivel desk chair and looked intently at the wall in front of him. It was adorned with drawings by “Spy” of defunct “K.C.’s”, a legacy of some occupant of the chambers in a vanished era, but he saw none of them. Excellent they may have been and many a chuckle may have come from those who had looked upon them when freshly published, but Harrison was looking through them, with his thoughts miles away in Great Crockham.
Even the entrance of Henry with a tray did not disturb him, and it was not until the cup of tea was poured out and placed at his elbow that Harrison came back in spirit to the chambers in the Temple.
“Book and pencil, Henry,” said Harrison, “and any notes you made this morning. And you’d better sit down to it, too, and have a cup of tea, for we don’t know how long we’re going to take.”
Henry’s eyes sparkled at these signs of “real business,” and he arranged himself accordingly.
“First of all, the Jogger,” said Harrison. “A great fellow, Henry.”
“I’m glad you think so, sir.”
“Griskin took me to see him this afternoon. Griskin’s a great fellow, too. You’d think his job was getting people out of prison instead of putting them in. But the Jogger’s great in all sorts of ways. He’s a fine, well-built sort of man, not nearly as bedraggled-looking as you expect a tramp to be, but there’s no doubt he is a tramp. It’s right in his bones. And a leader of tramps, as well. In his own line he’s an aristocrat.”
“That’s funny, sir.”
“It shows how little we really know the world, Henry. There are social degrees, even on the road. The Jogger must be pretty high up in the tramp world. Of course, one realised from talking to his friends that they had a certain respect for him, but the man himself has an extraordinary natural dignity. He didn’t strike me as the sort of man to commit a murder of this kind.”
“A tramp’s a tramp, sir,” said Henry. “At any rate, to a jury.”
“True, Henry,” answered Harrison, “and there was the quarrel.”
“What did he say about that, sir?”
“He was quite frank about it,” said Harrison. “He said nobody in the world was going to get away with that sort of thing about his geography. The man asked for trouble and he was lucky he didn’t get one on the jaw. But knock him out with a stick from behind, that wasn’t the kind of thing the Jogger did. You didn’t murder a man who disagreed with you on geography. I could almost hear him add ‘It isn’t done.’ He might have a temper. He admitted he had, but it would never make him do a dirty trick like that.”
“And you believed him?”
“What do you think, Henry?”
“I know you did, sir.”
“It sounded convincing enough. I wish you could have seen the man, Henry. I felt almost ashamed of myself at the idea that I might have thought anything else.”
“And he did find the money, sir?”
“He said so.”
“And you believed that, too?”
“Henry, you’re making me feel uncomfortable,” said Harrison, solemnly. “Do I really sound terribly credulous?”
“It’s a surprising coincidence,” answered Henry, taking no notice of the direct question.
“We’re used to surprising coincidences, Henry.”
“But it takes a lot of explaining, sir,” persisted Henry.
“The Jogger didn’t try to explain it. He just told me simply that he had found a ten-shilling note, lying in the middle of the road, not far from the spot where the body of the unknown tramp was found. In the middle of the road, Henry.”
“It sounds very queer to me, sir,” said Henry.
“Of course it does, Henry,” answered Harrison. “What do you make of it?”
“Queer, sir, that’s all.”
“Suppose, Henry, someone else murdered the unknown tramp and support, and it’s a fair flight of imagination, that someone else placed the ten-shilling note in the middle of the road so that the Jogger could not miss it and would have to pick it up.”
“That’s an idea, sir,” exclaimed Henry, enthusiastically.
“It’s only a supposition, Henry.”
“You mean there’s been a plot, sir.”
“Exactly,” answered Harrison. “If we are going to believe the Jogger innocent we must hold the theory that someone else deliberately tried to put the blame on to him. Except for the Jogger’s own story, it’s so very obvious that he killed the other man. Possibly it’s just a bit too obvious. The quarrel motive might not have seemed strong enough so robbery was added to it.”
“Just a minute, sir,” interrupted Henry; “the dead man himself provoked the quarrel. You’re suggesting he arranged his own murder and we agreed that was out of the question.”
“I’m not suggesting anything on that point, Henry,” was the reply. “We have two motives for the murder, that’s all. They neither of them seem to apply to the Jogger. So we’re up against something much more involved than we expected.”
“So that’s why you said it was one of the most interesting cases you have had, sir,” said Henry.
“Oh no, Henry,” answered Harrison, “I’ve done something else with my time. After I had seen the Jogger, I went with Griskin to have a look at the body. I found it very interesting.”
“I am certain you did, sir,” said Henry.
“First I had a look at the clothes,” said Harrison. “Do you know, Henry, these country places go along in the most delightfully casual manner. First I went through the pockets and, of course, found nothing. They were poor sort of clothes but not as worn as I expected to find. In fact, I am certain they had been slashed and dirtied to make them look older and more ragged than they really were. Cheap underclothes and cheap socks but, again, not as old as I expected.”
“That’s interesting, sir.”
“Then I looked for
some boots or shoes. That’s why I said these people were so wonderfully casual. There were none to be seen. Obviously the man hadn’t been tramping without any, so I asked where they were. The man on duty asked feebly whether they weren’t there. They ought to be, he said. So he had a look and couldn’t find them. He then supposed that the Millhead police or the doctor had walked off with them to examine them. I was sorry not to see them but it wasn’t worth making a fuss.”
“Were you thinking of mud, sir?” asked Henry, helpfully.
“Hardly, Henry, the weather has been so dry,” said Harrison. “But you never know, the make or something like that might have given some clue. I suppose that’s why the Millhead people wanted them. But nobody seemed to know what had happened—or really care.”
“Very wrong,” said Henry, severely.
“I suppose my friend, Mr. Archie Crewe, would say it was a case of the enthusiastic amateur expecting too much. At any rate, I got nothing much from the clothes. But when I came to look at the man himself, it was quite a different matter. He certainly wasn’t a tramp.”
“Was he a waiter, sir?” asked Henry.
“Don’t rush me, Henry,” said Harrison. “We’ve got to go carefully. I may need your notes, too, as we go along.”
“Yes, sir.”
“First of all, the general state of the body,” said Harrison. “The man was definitely very weak from lack of food—practically starving. His face and hands were very black but his body pretty clean. The dirt, however, was not caked as you would expect. In fact, if I can put it in that way, it was not really dirt. It almost looked as if the man had covered himself, at least the exposed parts of his body, with soot, to give the impression he was really filthy.”
“That’s curious, sir,” said Henry.
“Of course, he may have done that to give the impression that he was the genuine article. We needn’t dwell too much on that point at the moment. His skin and general appearance placed him higher than a waiter, unless he had fallen on bad times. One would guess that he was a man who took great care of his personal appearance. He might have deteriorated somewhat but I should say, at some time or another, he must have been a fanatic for cleanliness. Now for some more detail. His hands. Have you any notes about his hands, Henry?”
Henry turned back the pages of his book. “Only what Miss Rich said,” he answered, slightly hesitating.
“I am very glad you made a note of it,” said Harrison. “What did she say?”
“Mark like a line drawn in chalk,” Henry read out. “Just ordinary. Very dirty.”
“An extremely observant young woman, Henry.”
“Was she right, sir?”
“Right on one point, Henry,” answered Harrison. “And wrong on the other two.”
“I’m sorry, sir,” said Henry, rather crestfallen.
“The kitchen was not too well lighted, Henry,” replied Harrison, comfortingly. “His hands were certainly dirty, very dirty. I’ve told you that already. But I saw no scar or mark on the left hand. Nothing to bear out Miss Rich’s story.”
“Might have got rubbed off, sir, if it was chalk,” suggested Henry.
“That’s just possible,” was the reply. “Or Miss Rich might have been seeing things. At any rate, she was quite wrong when she said they were just ordinary. They were lovely hands, Henry. Very long and beautifully kept, despite the covering of dirt. A musician’s hands. Pianist or violinist. He must have been very proud of them.”
“But you said the kitchen was not too well lighted, sir,” said Henry, as if in mitigation of Miss Rich’s lapse.
“Only to see what you would say, Henry,” answered Harrison unfeelingly. “You may remember that Miss Rich said she saw his hand in the gleam of the fire. I defy anyone, in a light like that, not to have noticed that his hands were quite unusual. They certainly were not just ordinary. Henry, is it possible that Miss Rich was making up a story to impress us? People do, you know, especially if they think they ought to have seen something and haven’t.”
“I shouldn’t have said so myself, sir,” answered Henry, rather sadly, “but it does look like it.”
“One further point about his hands, Henry,” said Harrison. “They dispose of the waiter story. Of course, Sam and Flick didn’t really believe it and they were right. Those hands had never been used for that kind of work. Next, his feet. They were interesting, in their own way, too. They were pretty clean and beautifully kept, as well. And they hadn’t done much walking, either. Very little indeed, I should say.”
“Really, sir?”
“Soft and feminine, Henry,” answered Harrison. “He couldn’t have come far. He certainly hadn’t been tramping about the country. And back we come to those wretched boots.”
“Did they find them, sir?”
“No, everybody was certain someone else had them. It was most annoying. They seemed to me to be getting rather important so I worried again. But all the information I could get was the attendant’s rough description of them. He swore they were old, heavy, thick-soled workman’s boots.”
“And you would have expected patent shoes, sir?”
“Exactly, Henry,” answered Harrison. “Those soft feet could not have walked far in boots like that. They could not even have worn them for long. If they had, they would have shown it pretty severely. So that’s curious, too, isn’t it, Henry?”
“Very much so, sir.”
“Of course, Henry, loving melodrama, I‘ve kept my special piece of information until the end. Turn up your notes again and tell me what we know about food.”
“He refused to eat anything, sir.”
“And I’ve told you his condition, Henry. He was practically starving.”
“He said so himself, sir,” said Henry, referring to his book. “But he didn’t like their food.”
“And so, as far as we know, he ate nothing, until he was found dead?”
“I should say so, sir.”
“And yet, Henry, the doctor says that he found traces of the man having had a light meal six or seven hours before death.”
“That’s impossible, sir,” said Henry, emphatically. “He was asleep in Miss Docket’s kitchen during that time.”
“It surprised me, too, Henry. But there’s no doubt of it. The doctor is quite certain and will swear to it. So that meant I had to dash back and see our friends, Sam and Flick, again.”
“He might have had something while they were asleep, sir.”
“That’s what I thought might be the case,” answered Harrison, “so I questioned them pretty closely on it. They said he couldn’t have made a single movement without their knowing it. Their way of life makes them very light sleepers, waking at the smallest sound. He hardly moved on his mattress, let alone got up and found something to eat. They were quite positive about it.”
“Seems a bit of a muddle, sir,” commented Henry. “Someone’s lying.”
“Maybe,” answered Harrison, doubtfully.
“Still it makes it difficult to know where to begin, sir.”
“But you must agree, Henry,” said Harrison, “it does make it a very interesting case. That’s about all, I think. I had another word with Griskin but that didn’t help much. I thought it might be a good idea to see if there had been any increase of crime in the district lately. I drew a blank there. Griskin said that, as a matter of fact, he had been thanking his stars because his district had been so quiet. There had been quite a crop of big robberies all round, in a kind of radius outside his area, and he had been warned to watch pretty carefully but nothing at all had happened in his own district until the murder.”
“I expect he thinks it a kind of judgment on him,” said Henry.
“Very hard luck on the unknown tramp if one looks at Providence in that way, Henry. Anyhow, things are moving a little although the next move isn’t very clear.”
“Identification, I suppose, sir?”
“Yes, the police have circulated a photograph. But we have the very comforting refl
ection that, in a case of this kind, successful identification has not been conspicuous. Many people are missing in this country during the year and many are found dead, usually drowned, but it is not always possible to prove that they are identical.”
Harrison turned to his letters again and asked Henry about their importance. Henry gave him a summary and explained the action he had taken.
“And that’s all, Henry?” asked Harrison.
“Not quite, sir.”
“You’re getting into the habit of saving something till the end as well, Henry.”
“Well, sir, I should say it was fivepence wasted.”
“Explain yourself, Henry.”
“You know, sir, you have given me strict instructions never to refuse anything by post,” said Henry. “You said an anonymous letter writer might not always have a stamp handy and you couldn’t take the risk of missing anything.”
“That is so, Henry,” answered Harrison. “A fair summary of one of my lectures to you on method which I shall put in my volume of essays—when I write them.”
“This one came from abroad and cost me fivepence.”
“Petty cash suffers, Henry,” said Harrison; “that’s all.’’
“It’s the waste that annoys me, sir,” answered Henry. “I paid the postman and took the envelope. When I opened it what do you think I found?”
“I would rather you didn’t ask me riddles, Henry,” said Harrison, “it’s too much like minstrels. But I’ll do my best to live up to it. Now, then, Henry, when you did open the envelope for which you paid the postman fivepence what did you find?”
“Nothing, sir.”
“That’s curious.”
“An expensive kind of practical joke, I should call it, sir.”
“Let me have a look at it,” said Harrison.
Henry went into his office and returned with the envelope he had mentioned. It was of a very cheap brand and not particularly clean.
“I wonder they took the trouble to deliver it,” said Henry.
“It’s a kind of compliment, Henry,” commented Harrison. “You see it’s addressed to ‘Clay Harrison, London.’ That shows we are not quite unknown. We ought to thank the Post Office even if they did charge us fivepence for it.”
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