Again—and here, indeed, was Horridge’s most glaring burst of “objectivity”—he spoke, in a joke containing but 14 salient words, of its being a conversation “overheard by Pi, the venerable one-eyed doorkeeper who tends the great silver-studded teakwood door of the British Importers and Exporters Bank on Swatow Street, Hong Kong.”
I managed without trouble to gain a meeting with a gentleman, here in London, who has lived for many, many years in Hong Kong. One, Mr. Leslie Greenleaf, of Clissold Park, Highbury. And without divulging, of course, why I wanted the specific information I did, I found that all the bits of objectivity set forth in Horridge’s joke items were faithful renditions of actuality in Hong Kong—though, taking the trio of items as a measure of the time, actuality of only between 1920 and 1924.
For the famous one-eyed Pi passed away, it seems, in late 1924. And his passing was, it seems moreover, the circumstance which inaugurated the idea of sending the famous silver-studded teakwood door, with which he had been so long associated, on to the London branch of the B. I. and E. Bank, on Threadneedle Street, where, indeed, I find it doing service today.
The animal store also used to be there in Hong Kong, my informant told me, across from the bank, exactly as described by Horridge, though it was destroyed by fire in 1926, and a fireproof building subsequently erected on its site.
The glass dome in question has been changed to a larger dome today—and without the British Lion in it.
Again, my informant was able to tell me, the animal store established itself there on Swatow Street in 1920. And Pi, an employee of the bank, lost his eye, and got the position of doorkeeper, in 1919.
The above confirmation of the actuality of these bits of objectivity in Horridge’s writings indicated to me that beyond any doubt Horridge had been extremely familiar with the inside of that particular bank—also, the outside—not to omit mentioning the door through which he must have passed a great deal. For he plainly could not even utilize this bank as a locus for one of his jokes, without expanding upon it. So, as I saw it, he must have worked in that bank at one time.
And the time must have been, it seemed to me, from a study of the dates given me by Greenleaf, approximately between 1920 and 1924.
So I cabled the bank at Hong Kong asking whether there had been any embezzlements from the bank within that range of dates. They gave me a copious cabled reply which established that there had been. One. A young chap named Stoughton Fosday—a teller—who had worked there but two years—and had lit out. In 1922. His accounts were 5000 guineas short. Native gambling houses, it appeared, had gotten all the money. At least all but the terminal theft which all absconding bank employees make when they realize they have to light out! And Fosday’s body had been found, floating in the bay. Both hands eaten off by sharks. The body had been identified, though not absolutely conclusively, it seems, by characteristic gold bridge-work in the upper front of the mouth, and the fact that the man was white. It is presumed he had been trying to get to some sailing vessel in the bay, in a native sampan, and was pushed oft the sampan after having been robbed of what little of his stealings he had on him. Had the hands not been eaten off, however, identification could have been made complete—for it seems that the B. I. and E. Bank kept fingerprint records of all its employees.
Well, you’ve doubtlessly already anticipated the rest of my story—or nearly the rest of it. Fosday’s old employment history card was on file today, at the London branch of the bank to which it had been transferred. I got access to it with no trouble—and compared the handwritten lines where he had filled out certain information about himself, to handwritten revisions in several specimens of the original copy of “Chinaboy Chuckles,” sent me by Frankel, there in New York; and lo!—not only was this Thomas Tai Yong Horridge, but Gavin Horridge was Stoughton Fosday, the “dead” embezzling teller.
Among his “foreign references—if any” he had listed a “Doctor Charles Riddle,” of San Francisco, California. Whom he’d apparently met in London. There is, however, no Doctor Riddle practicing in San Francisco today, I found. But there was a “Doc Riddelle,” I ascertained from our book at the Yard concerning American crooks with English connections, who was slain in Los Angeles, by gangsters, back in 1924. And who was suspected of altering fingertip markings and doing face alteration work for American west-coast gangsters. It is plain to me that this doctor had worked out some superior way for accomplishing obliteration of fingertip markings, and that Fosday, in fleeing from China, attained contact with him in Los Angeles. Getting rid of his fingerprints, at presumably the cost of a good many pounds sterling—and making it safe, after a number of years, to venture back into England.
But here is the final fillip to my story!
Fosday’s employment history card shows that he had one brother. Rather, a half-brother. A Captain Foss Ettenborough. The same Foss Ettenborough who years later—or 11 days, to be exact, after Marceau’s passing—and 6 days before Horridge’s own passing, incidentally—went down on that unsuccessful flight from London to Hudson Bay.
I rather take it, somehow, that Ettenborough knew his half-brother was alive. And was in London. But that he was never quite certain but that now and then his own mail or movements were watched. And that, therefore, he did not ever openly meet with Horridge—or associate with him—certainly, not in public. My surmise is that if they met now and then in secret, it may have been in Horridge’s miserable quarters—which, as I understand from two newspaper cuttings I have here, opened on a dark passage way leading off the sidewalk on Goodge Street; or, again, perhaps now and then—and no doubt, late at night—in Ettenborough’s own quarters which, I find, were in Rockingham Street, off Elephant and Castle. Probably Ettenborough—who was, it appears, a bachelor—dismissed his man at the time of such visits from his half-brother—but so far as following things up through this individual, I find that his former man died of pneumonia in Guy’s Hospital, and his later man—the one he had at the time of his fatal hop—a deafmute named Thomas Crippet, went to Ireland yesterday—and is now more or less out of the picture.
Though it really does not matter, I think. Ettenborough, so I learn, was practically always broke; and that, in fact, was why he took the desperate chance he did on that London-Hudson Bay hop. And Horridge was ever broke. Two broke humans—one not able to lean on the other.
But what does matter, of course, Chief, is that Ettenborough’s own cousin is Hubert Anwhile, M.P.!—and Anwhile is your friend! I have, of course, been to Anwhile, and have divulged all these facts—since it appears he is the only living blood relative of Ettenborough’s, and is therefore related, in a sense, to Fosday. And he has personally asked me whether, since both parties are dead and gone—and Fosday’s stolen money irretrievably lost—in fact, long ago adjusted by the bonding company—the whole affair may not lie as it is for a dozen years or so more—at least while he is yet alive. Making it but a matter of secret record at the Yard. I gave it as my opinion that, since you were his friend, there would be no trouble about this... Particularly in view of the fact that Horridge’s estate, derived chiefly from some sweepstakes ticket found on him, has now dwindled to £54/14s/7d—and the Transoceanic Bonding Company, who bonded Fosday, and to whom this residue should conceivably be returned, is today out of business.
And so I am, therefore, conveying to you all these facts in full—and leaving it entirely up to you to what degree you wish to suppress them. And for how long. After which, I am proceeding to forget entirely this trail down which my footsteps have inadvertently wandered.
For, of course, all this leaves me right where I was!—when I started out to investigate the angle of the Marceau Case represented by Marceau’s having those Chinaboy Chuckles cut out of his magazine. For Marceau did not, as is now evident, know “Thomas Tai Yong,” or have any complexes against the said gentleman, for the simple reason that no Thomas Tai Yong existed! He must have disliked those pages solely because they contained, not humor—but Chinese humor.
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In short, that—plus the complete absence of Chinese curios among his collection—indicates that he did indeed hate all things Chinese. Intensely, no doubt.
But why?
Well, that, alas, is my problem, since I took so lightly upon my shoulders not long ago the task of lifting from the Marceau Case the great cloth of blackness that has shrouded it for so long—and of stripping it, in fact, completely away.
In the meantime, I extend you all of my warmest wishes for speedy recovery.
Sincerely,
Jones
DOCUMENT LXXXVII
Letter, of date January 20, 1937, from Service Parisien des Rognures, 202 Elysée Building, 56 Faubourg St. Honoré, Paris, France, to X. Jones, 136 Grey’s Inn Road, London, England.
Dear Mr. Jones:
We beg to acknowledge your inquiry of day before yesterday, and beg to affirm also that the recommendation made to you by your informant who characterized us as the oldest press-clipping and press-searching bureau in Paris, is correct.
And with reference to this inquiry, we are able to say that there was, indeed, in Paris, during the years 1838, 1839, 1840 and 1841 a typical “scandal” sheet. It was known as Nouvelles Piquantes (Spicy News!) though, like all such publications, even of today, was careful to avoid suits for libel by not mentioning, in many many cases, actual names. Nouvelles Piquantes was published from April 12, 1832, to December 16, 1846. And it anticipated, by at least a hundred years, the plan adopted today by the Chicago Tribune, across the water, of issuing a limited number of copies printed on linen cloth.
In connection with what we presume is a possible biography of the family Marceau, in connection with your work on the Marceau Case, we have searched the files of Nouvelles Piquantes—as per your request in case such publication existed, and was available to us—covering the time June 12, 1838, to December 3, 1841, these files (all printed, on cloth, of course) being available to us here in the Bibliothèque des Publications Passées.
There was little trouble, we are happy to assure you, in doing this, for the reason that all news items in Nouvelles Piquantes—rather, all persons mentioned in all news items—are alphabetically listed on the front page of each issue, no doubt for the delectation of the scandal mongers of that day!
The most sensational and scandalous items in the sheet, however, appear solely in a column called “Par le Trou de Serrure” (“Through the Keyhole”) conducted by one “Gaston DuMar,” without doubt a pseudonym. And the identity of the people mentioned in this particular column were known, supposedly, only to those on the inside of Paris life of that day—the cognoscenti.
We are proud to say, however, in connection with our clipping and searching work, that there is available to us here—and to us only—in the hands of a private collector of Paris—an entire file of this journal from its first to its last issue—printed on cloth, too, fortunately—a file apparently owned originally and collated by one “Mons. Jacques Lamoreaux” of that day. Monsieur Lamoreaux evidently knew everything and everybody, of the Paris life of that time—for the slightest hint in this column seemed sufficient for him to identify the person or persons referred to—at least, on his copies he made marginal notes, in ink, of who, in reality, everybody referred to in that column was. The private collector in question believes that Mons. Lamoreaux was “Gaston DuMar” himself—and that these copies constitute the latter’s own secret records for back references and cross-references—since never, at any point, does a question mark appear after a marginally noted name. All names appear to have been set down with the dogmatic certitude of one who knew exactly who was meant.
Now we can conduct for you a special search, Mr. Jones, over the period June 12, 1838 to December 3, 1841, as to actual names—in this case the name “Marceau”—in this column, rather, in the notations alongside it, but the cost for such search would be 2000 francs, as this collector charges us 1000 francs premium for each individual access to his old file of Nouvelles Piquantes.
He is, unfortunately, out of France at this moment; and, in his absence, his file is not available to us. He is expected back, however, on February 8th. We can make the search immediately he returns, if you so instruct us, and it will require no longer than 24 hours for the brief period of years specified by you. Please advise us at your convenience if you wish us to undertake this, and it will be consummated at the first possible moment.
Very sincerely,
Service Parisien des Rognures
(per L. Bartholemy).
DOCUMENT LXXXVIII
Letter, of date January 22, 1937, from X. Jones, London, England, to Service Parisien des Rognures, Paris, France.
Gentlemen:
Kindly make the search described in your letter of January 20. A draught for 2000 francs on the Bank of France is enclosed.
Very truly yours,
X. Jones.
DOCUMENT LXXXIX
Excerpts from letter arriving London, England, by S.S. President James Buchanan on February 4, 1937, of date December 28, 1936, from Rutwick Chisholm, 17 Links Road, Auckland, New Zealand, and addressed to “Reverend Alexis Snide, Hotel Russell, Russell Square, London.”
“I understand indeed your anxiety to get back such a rare old Bible as you loaned Guy in Brisbane at the time you converted him, and if, as you say, it was not among his things when he was burned up in London, it is more than likely that it is with the New Orleans half-half-uncle...
“...Mrs. Ezekiah and her son were exceedingly close-mouthed—the most so, Reverend, of any persons I have ever seen or met with.
“They came to Churchill Crossroads far back in 1920 and from, as you may or may not know, a farm far in the Bush. The Bush of Western Australia, that is. I have heard them say it was 50 miles from civilization. They sold it profitably because of mineral deposits under it. I myself had just bought the farm ajoining theirs, here in New Zealand, after...
“So, because of their both being so exceedingly tight-mouthed I can give you but the barest clews to the identity of Guy’s New Orleans half-half-uncle. And they are two in number. The first is...
“The other clew, Reverend Snide, is a mere remark Guy himself once made to me. After his mother died, he practised for from 8 to 10 hours a day in the old house, at juggling. I saw him juggling one day—and...
“And this, Reverend, is truly all I can cast upon your problem of locating your Bible. I rather fear that it will be of no utility.”
DOCUMENT XC
Excerpts from letter arriving London, England, by S.S. President James Buchanan on February 4, 1937, of date December 29, 1936, from Adlai Crawley, Churchill Crossroads, New Zealand, and addressed to “Reverend Alexis Snide, Hotel Russell, Russell Square, London.”
“...Indeed, your letter caused considerable commotion at the little postoffice at Churchill Crossroads, for the postmaster immediately called me up to tell me of its being there. And though I had expected to sit on my cool porch all afternoon, with a pitcher of iced lemonade I had just made, I drove in to Churchill Crossroads through the most distressing heat we have yet had this year...
“...somewhere within my dwelling place (which I took by foreclosure from the Ezekiahs)...
“I myself, of course, never met Guy Ezekiah. My dealings with him and his mother were conducted solely through my solicitors.
“...And as to the chief thing you are interested in: writings, letters, papers—well, there are one or two bills which came after he left, and just one half-burned envelope which...
“And so, as to my sending you all papers pertaining to the Ezekiahs, there simply are none to send. None that is, but this. I see no objection to my lending it to you, however, because you are a man of the cloth and unmistakably deeply understanding of the validity of a sect quite different from your own. If through it—that is, through any roundabout way which it might open—you can reach the half-half-uncle in New Orleans, and regain your valuable Bible, I have...
“I hope the enclosed item will prove to be of
some service to you in your quest for your Bible, though I fear it will not.”
DOCUMENT XCI
Excerpts from a letter of date February 8, 1937, from Aleck Snide, London, England, to Gilbert Whittimore, care American Hospital, Paris, France.
“Dear Gillie:
“Here I am, in Victoria Station—or will be when this letter is mailed in the postoffice in Howick Place near Victoria Station. All checked out of the Hotel Russell—as I will be—and bound for Germany!... I’m so glad you’re practically all to the rosy, and packed up ready to blow back to London in a couple more days.
“So now about laying it on the line. Yes, our Marceau Case story.
“Well I regret to say, Gillie, that there’s a couple more final things that have to be done. The info in those items and letters wasn’t quite 24-karat. Though, by God, Gillie, it was 23.999999999 karat—and I don’t mean maybe. Now it’s nothing but a matter of my following up that .000000001—and we’re all set.
“And the full story will be in the bag.
“But I know your patience is exhausted, and that... your mitt is on your telegraph pad now, ready to wire me that everything’s off—except of course, that... you don’t know where to wire me.
“But wait, Gillie, don’t wire—because you can’t, anyway, till you find exactly where to wire to; and don’t wire anyway because... my foot’s on the cat’s tail...
“I’ve located, Gillie, the ‘half-half-uncle’ which is at the bottom of this Marceau murder. Also I know the name of his (then) Chinese servant. And it isn’t Wong. The name is Cheung...
“...But there’s two things I have to do yet, before I can deliver in full. One is to get hold of...
“The other thing I have to do yet is—but listen, you’ve had enough...
“(So confident am I that you’ll see the wisdom of all this, that I’m actually starting for Berlin before even getting your okay)...
X. Jones—Of Scotland Yard Page 17