“You’re a quaint parcel of detectives,” he said. “Are you seriously suggesting that a thief begins pinching hats all over London so that he can pinch a manuscript from me? Do you think I’m in the habit of carrying valuable manuscripts around in my hat? Besides, if I must become slightly crazy myself, I might point out that it was stolen several days before either one of my hats.”
Dr. Fell ruffled his big dark mane with a thoughtful hand. “The repetition of that word ‘hat,’” he observed, “has rather a confusing effect. I’m afraid I shall say ‘hat’ when I mean almost anything else. Suppose you tell us about the manuscript first—what was it, and how did you get it, and when was it stolen? It wasn’t the one of Coleridge’s Kubla Khan, was it?”
The other shook his head. He finished his whisky and leaned back. For a moment he studied Dr. Fell sharply, with heavy-lidded eyes. Then a sort of dry, eager pride edged his look.
“I’ll tell you what it was,” he answered, in a low voice, “because Hadley vouches for you. Only one collector in the world—no, say two—know that I found it. One of them had to know; I had to show it to him to make sure it was genuine. The other I’ll speak of presently. But I found it.”
His dry bones seemed to stiffen. Rampole, who could never understand this ghoulish eagerness to finger and possess original manuscripts or first editions, regarded him curiously.
“I found it,” Sir William repeated. “It is the manuscript of a completely unknown story by Edgar Allan Poe. Myself and one other person excepted, nobody except Poe has ever seen it or heard of it. Find that hard to believe, do you?” There was a frosty pleasure in his look, and he chuckled without opening his mouth. “Listen. It’s happened before with Poe’s work, you know. You’ve heard how the very rare first edition of The Murders in the Rue Morgue was found in a trash basket, haven’t you? Well, this is better. Much better. I found it—by chance, yes. But it’s real. Robertson said so. Ha. Listen.”
He sat back, his hand moving along the polished table as though he were smoothing down sheets of paper. He resembled less the traditional figure of a collector than a pawnbroker explaining a particularly shrewd stroke of business.
“I’ve never collected Poe manuscripts. The American societies have a corner on those. But I have a first edition of the Al Araaf collection, published by subscription while he was at West Point, and a few copies of the Southern Literary Messenger he edited in Baltimore. Well! I was poking about for odds and ends in the States last September, and I happened to be visiting Dr. Masters, the Philadelphia collector. He suggested that I have a look at the house where Poe lived there, at the corner of Seventh and Spring Garden Streets. I did. I went alone. And a jolly good thing I did.
“It was a mean neighborhood, dull brick fronts and washing hung in gritty backyards. The house was at the corner of an alley, and I could hear a man in a garage swearing at a back-firing motor. Very little about the house had been changed, except that a door had been knocked through the one next to it and turned the two houses into one. It was unoccupied, too—they were altering it just then.
“From the alley I went through a gate in a high board fence, and into a paved yard with a crooked tree growing through the bricks. In the little brick kitchen a glum-looking workman was making some notations on an envelope; there was a noise of hammering from the front room. I excused myself; I said that the house used to be occupied by a writer I had heard of, and I was looking round. He growled to go ahead, and went on ciphering. So I went to the other room. You know the type; small and low-ceilinged; cupboards set flush with the wall, and papered over, on either side of a low black mantelpiece with an arched grate. But—Poe had scribbled there by candlelight, and Virginia plucked at her harp, and Mrs. Clemm placidly peeled potatoes.”
Sir William Bitton obviously saw that he had caught his audience, and it was clear from his mannerisms and pauses that he enjoyed telling a story. The scholar, the business man, the mountebank—all these peered out of his bony face and showed in a rather theatrical gesture.
“They were altering the cupboards. The cupboards, mind you.” He bent forward suddenly. “And again—a jolly good thing they took out the inner framework instead of just putting up plaster-board and papering them out. There was a cloud of dust and mortar in the place. Two workmen were just bumping down the framework, and I saw—
“Gentlemen, I went cold and shaky all over. It had been shoved down between the edges of the framework—thin sheets of paper, spotted with damp, and folded twice lengthwise. It was like a revelation, for when I had pushed open the gate, and first saw those workmen altering the house, I thought, ‘Suppose I were to find—’ Well, I confess I almost lunged past those men. One of them said, ‘What the hell!’ and almost dropped the frame. One glance at the handwriting, what I could make out of it, was enough; you know that distinctive curly line beneath the title in Poe’s MSS., and the fashioning of the ‘E. A. Poe’?
“But I had to be careful. I didn’t know the owner of the house; and he might know the value of this. If I offered the workmen money to let me have it, I must be careful not to offer too much, or they would grow suspicious and insist on more.”
Sir William smiled tightly. “I explained it was something of sentimental interest to a man who had lived here before. And I said, ‘Look here, I’ll give you ten dollars for this.’ Even at that, they were suspicious; I think they had some idea of buried treasure, or directions for finding it, or something. The ghost of Poe would have enjoyed that.” Again that chuckle behind closed teeth. Sir William swept out his arm.
“But they looked over it, and saw that it was only—‘a kind of a story, or some silly damn thing, with long words at the beginning.’ I was in agony for fear they would tear the sheets; folded in that fashion, they were very apt to tear without their age and flimsiness. Finally they compromised at twenty dollars, and I took the manuscript away.
“As you may know, the leading authorities on Poe are Professor Hervey Allen of New York and Dr. Robertson of Baltimore. I knew Robertson, and took my find to him. First I made him promise that, no matter what I showed him, he would never mention it to anybody.”
Rampole was watching the chief inspector. During the recital Hadley had become—not precisely bored, but restive and impatient, with a frown between his brows.
“But why keep it a secret?” he demanded. “If there were any trouble about your right, you were at least first claimant; you could have bought it. And you’d made what you say is a great discovery. Why not announce it and get the credit?”
Sir William stared at him, and then shook his head. “You don’t understand,” he replied at length. “And I can’t explain. I wanted no trouble. I wanted this great thing, a secret between Poe and myself, for myself. For nobody else to see unless I chose. Mine, can you understand? It would be almost like knowing Poe.”
A sort of pale fierceness was in his face; the orator was at a loss for words to explain something powerful and intangible, and his hand moved vaguely in the air.
“At any rate—Robertson is a man of honor. He promised, and he will keep his promise, even though he urged me to do as you say, Hadley. But, naturally, I refused. Gentlemen, the manuscript was what I thought; it was even better.”
“And what was it?” Dr. Fell asked, rather sharply.
Sir William opened his lips, and then hesitated. When he spoke again, it was in a thin, wiry voice from deep down in his throat.
“One moment, gentlemen. It is not that I do not—ah—trust you. Of course not. Ha! But so much I have told openly, to strangers. Excuse me. I prefer to keep my secret a bit longer. Well enough to tell you what it was when you have heard my story of the theft, and decide whether you can help me. Besides, we have taken a great deal of time already.”
“You have taken it,” the chief inspector corrected, placidly. “Well, Doctor?”
There was a curious expression on Dr. Fell’s face; not contemptuous, not humorous, not bored, but a mixture of the three. He rolled
in his seat, adjusted his eyeglasses, and peered thoughtfully at the knight.
“Suppose you tell us,” he suggested, “the facts of the theft, and whom you suspect. You do suspect somebody, don’t you?”
Sir William had started to say yes, and closed his mouth. He responded, “It was taken from my house in Berkeley Square—let me see. This is Monday afternoon. It was taken at some time between Saturday afternoon and Sunday morning. Let me explain.
“Adjoining my bedroom upstairs I have a dressing room which I use a good deal as a study. The greater part of my collection is, of course, downstairs in the library and my study there. I had been examining the manuscript in my upstairs study on Saturday afternoon.”
“Was it locked up?” Hadley inquired. He was interested now.
“No. Nobody—at least, so I thought—knew of it, and I saw no reason for unusual precautions. It was merely in a drawer of my desk, wrapped in tissue paper to preserve it.”
“What about the members of your household? Did they know of it?”
Sir William jerked his head down in a sort of bow. “I’m glad you asked that, Hadley. Don’t think I shall take umbrage at the suggestion; but I couldn’t make it myself. At least—not immediately. Naturally I don’t suspect them; ha!”
“Naturally,” said the inspector, placidly. “Well?”
“At the present, my household consists of my daughter Sheila—”
A faint frown was on Hadley’s face. He stared at the table. “As a matter of fact,” he said, “I was referring to servants. But proceed.”
He looked up, and the calm eyes met the knight’s shrewd ones.
“—of my daughter Sheila,” the latter continued, “my brother Lester, and his wife. My nephew by marriage, Philip, has a flat of his own, but he generally eats Sunday dinner with us. That is all—with the exception of one guest. Mr. Julius Arbor, the American collector.”
Sir William examined his finger nails. There was a pause.
“As to who knew about it,” he resumed, waving a careless hand; “my family knew that I had brought back a valuable manuscript with me, of course. But none of them is in the least interested in such matters, and the mere words, ‘another manuscript,’ was sufficient explanation. I dare say I may have occasionally let fall hints, as one does in enthusiasm when he is sure nobody will understand. But—”
“And Mr. Arbor?”
Sir William said, evenly, “I had intended to show it to him. He has a very fine collection of Poe first editions. But I had not even mentioned it.”
“Go on,” said Hadley, stolidly.
“As I have said, I was examining the manuscript on Saturday afternoon; fairly early. Later I went to the Tower of London—”
“To the Tower of London?”
“A very old friend of mine, General Mason, is deputy governor there. He and his secretary have done some very fine research into the Tower records. They wanted me to see a recently discovered record dealing with Robert Devereux, Earl of Essex, who—”
“Quite,” said Hadley. “And then?”
“I returned home, dined alone, and afterwards went to the theatre. I did not go into my study then, and after the theatre it was rather late; so I turned in immediately. I discovered the theft on Sunday morning. There was no attempt at burglarious entry at any time; all the windows were locked, and nothing else in the house had been touched. The manuscript was simply missing from the desk drawer.”
Hadley pinched at the lobe of his ear. He glanced at Dr. Fell, but the latter was sitting with his chin on his chest, and did not speak.
“Was the drawer locked?” Hadley went on.
“No.”
“Your rooms?”
“No.”
“I see. What did you do then?”
“I summoned my valet.” Sir William’s bony fingers rapped flatly on the table; he twisted his long neck, and several times started to speak before he resumed. “And I must confess, Hadley, that I was at first suspicious of him. He was a new man; he had been in my employ only a few months. He had the closest access to my rooms and could prowl as he liked without suspicion. But—well, he seemed too earnest, too dog-like, too thoroughly stupid at anything beyond his immediate duties; and I flatter myself on my ability to judge men.”
“Everybody does,” Hadley agreed, wearily. “That’s why we have so much trouble. Well?”
“As it happens, my judgment was correct,” snapped Sir William. “My daughter Sheila engaged him. He had been fifteen years in the service of the late Marquess of Sandival; I spoke to Lady Sandival myself, yesterday, and she scoffed at the idea of Marks being a thief. As I told you, I was suspicious of him at first. He was obviously upset and tongue-tied, but that was a product of his natural stupidity.”
“And his story?”
“He had no story,” Sir William said, irritably. “He had noticed nothing suspicious, seen nothing whatever. I had difficulty getting it through his head how important the thing was; even what I was looking for. It was the same thing with the rest of the servants. They had noticed nothing. But I was not unduly suspicious, because they are all old retainers; I know the history of every one.”
“What about the members of the—household?”
“My daughter Sheila had been out all Saturday afternoon. When she returned, she was in the house only a short time, and then she went out to dinner with the chap she’s engaged to. General Mason’s secretary, by the way. But,” he added, with suspicious haste, “ah—very well connected, I am told, young Dalrye is.
“What was I saying? Ah, yes. My brother Lester and his wife were visiting friends in the west of England; they only returned on Sunday evening. Philip—Philip Driscoll, my nephew—comes to see us only on Sundays. Consequently, nobody noticed anything suspicious at the time the manuscript could have been stolen.”
“And this—Mr. Arbor?”
The other reflected, rubbing his dry hands together meditatively.
“A very fine—ah—specimen of the best Hebrew type,” he answered, as though he were examining something for a catalogue. “Reserved, scholarly, a trifle sardonic at times. Quite a young man, I should say; scarcely more than forty— Ah, what were you asking? Mr. Arbor, yes. Unfortunately, he was not in a position to observe. An American friend of his had invited him to the country for the week-end. He left on Saturday, and did not return until this morning. That’s true, by the way,” he added, dropping into normal speech and almost leering across the table; “I phoned up about it.”
Rampole thought, Damn you! And then he thought, After all, the man has been robbed of his most valued possession; he has a right to suspect outsiders, even grave-faced book-collectors like himself. The thought of these solemn gentlemen scrabbling about like children after a manuscript brought a grin to his face. He suppressed it instantly as he caught Sir William’s cold eye.
“And I definitely don’t want scandal,” the knight concluded. “That’s why I came to you, Hadley. So there it is. Plain, simple, and not a single damned clue.”
Hadley nodded. He seemed to be debating something.
“I’ve brought you in a consulting expert,” he said, slowly, nodding towards the doctor. “Dr. Fell has come some little distance as a favor to me. Hence I shall wash my hands of the business, unless you should find the thief and want to prosecute. As I—ah—hardly think you will. But I should like to ask a favor in return.”
“A favor?” Sir William repeated, opening his eyes. “Good God! Yes, of course! Anything in reason, I mean.”
“You spoke of your nephew, Mr. Driscoll—”
“Philip? Yes. What about him?”
“—who writes for the newspapers.”
“Oh, ah. Yes. At least, he tries to. I’ve exerted considerable influence to get him a real position on a newspaper. Bah! Between ourselves, the editors tell me he can turn out a good story, but he hasn’t any news sense. Harbottle says he would walk through rice an inch deep in front of St. Margaret’s and never guess there’d been a wedd
ing. So he’s free-lancing. He won’t believe what I say. Now if I were writing—”
Hadley turned an expressionless face and picked up the newspaper on the table. He was just about to speak when a waiter hurried to his side, glanced at him nervously, and whispered.
“Eh?” said the chief inspector. “Speak louder, man! . . . Yes, that’s my name. . . . Right. Thanks.” He drained his glass and looked sharply at his companions. “That’s damned funny. I told them not to get in touch with me unless— Excuse me a moment, gentlemen.”
“What’s the matter?” inquired Dr. Fell, rousing himself from some obscure meditation and blinking over his spectacles.
“Phone. Back in a moment.”
They were silent as Hadley followed the waiter. In Hadley’s look there had been a startled uneasiness which gave Rampole a shock. The American looked at Sir William, who was also staring curiously.
He returned in less than two minutes, and Rampole felt something tighten in his throat. The chief inspector did not hurry; he was as quiet and deliberate as ever; but his footfalls sounded louder on the tiled floor, and under the bright lights his face was pale.
Stopping a moment at the bar, he spoke a few words and then returned to the table.
“I’ve ordered you all a drink,” he said, slowly. “A whisky. It’s just three minutes until closing-time, and then we shall have to go. I should appreciate it if you would accompany me.”
“Go?” repeated Sir William. “Go where?”
Hadley did not speak until the waiter had brought the drinks and left the table. Then he said, “Good luck!” hastily drank a little whisky, and set the glass down with care. Again Rampole was conscious of that tightening sense of terror.
“Sir William,” Hadley went on, looking at the other levelly, “I hope you will prepare yourself for a shock.”
“Yes?” said the knight. But he did not pick up his glass.
“We were speaking a moment ago of your nephew, Philip.”
The Mad Hatter Mystery Page 3