Detection by Gaslight (5 page)

Hewitt turned at once and seized the papers on the table. He stuffed them all into his coat-pocket, with the exception of the last which the man had been engaged on, and this, a facsimile of which is subjoined, he studied earnestly for several minutes.

Hewitt wished the men good-day, and made his way to the inspector. “Well,” the inspector said, “not much to be got out of him, is there? The doctor will be sending for him presently.”

“I fancy,” said Hewitt, “that this may turn out a very important case. Possibly—quite possibly—I may not have guessed correctly, and so I won't tell you anything of it till I know a little more. But what I want now is a messenger. Can I send somebody at once in a cab to my friend Brett at his chambers?”

“Certainly. I'll find somebody. Want to write a note?”

Hewitt wrote and despatched a note, which reached me in less than ten minutes. Then he asked the inspector, “Have you searched the Frenchman?”

“Oh, yes. We went all over him, when we found he couldn't explain himself, to see if we could trace his friends or his address. He didn't seem to mind. But there wasn't a single thing in his pocket—not a single thing, barring a rag of a pocket-handkerchief with no marking on it.”

“You noticed that somebody had stolen his watch, I suppose?”

“Well, he hadn't got one.”

“But he had one of those little vertical buttonholes in his waistcoat, used to fasten a watchguard to, and it was much worn and frayed, so that he must be in the habit of carrying a watch; and it is gone.”

“Yes, and everything else too, eh? Looks like robbery. He's had a knock or two in the face—notice that?”

“I saw the bruises and the cut, of course; and his collar has been broken away, with the back button; somebody has taken him by the collar or throat. Was he wearing a hat when he was found?”

“No.”

“That would imply that he had only just left a house. What street was he found in?”

“Henry Street—a little off Golden Square. Low street, you know.”

“Did the constable notice a door open near by?”

The inspector shook his head. “Half the doors in the street are open,” he said, “pretty nearly all day.”

“Ah, then there's nothing in that. I don't think he lives there, by the bye. I fancy he comes from more in the Seven Dials or Drury Lane direction. Did you notice anything about the man that gave you a clue to his occupation—or at any rate to his habits?”

“Can't say I did.”

“Well, just take a look at the back of his coat before he goes away-just over the loins. Good-day.”

As I have said, Hewitt's messenger was quick. I happened to be in—having lately returned from a latish lunch—when he arrived with this note:—

 

“MY DEAR B.,—

I meant to have lunched with you to-day, but have been kept. I expect you are idle this afternoon, and I have a case that will interest you—perhaps be useful to you from a journalistic point of view. If you care to see anything of it, cab away
at once
to Fitzroy Square, south side, where I'll meet you. I will wait no later than 3.30.

Yours,
M. H.”

 

I had scarce a quarter of an hour, so I seized my hat and left my chambers at once. As it happened, my cab and Hewitt's burst into Fitzroy Square from opposite sides almost at the same moment, so that we lost no time.

“Come,” said Hewitt, taking my arm and marching me off, “we are going to look for some stabling. Try to feel as though you'd just set up a brougham and had come out to look for a place to put it in. I fear we may have to delude some person with that belief presently.”

“Why—what do you want stables for? And why make me your excuse?”

“As to what I want the stables for—really I'm not altogether sure myself. As to making you an excuse—well, even the humblest excuse is better than none. But come, here are some stables. Not good enough, though, even if any of them were empty. Come on.”

We had stopped for an instant at the entrance to a small alley of rather dirty stables, and Hewitt, paying apparently but small attention to the stables themselves, had looked sharply about him with his gaze in the air.

“I know this part of London pretty well,” Hewitt observed, “and I can only remember one other range of stabling near by; we must try that. As a matter of fact, I'm coming here on little more than conjecture, though I shall be surprised if there isn't something in it. Do you know anything of aphasia?”

“I have heard of it, of course, though I can't say I remember ever knowing a case.”

“I've seen one to-day—very curious case. The man's a Frenchman discovered helpless in the street by a policeman. The only thing he can say that has any meaning in it at all is
‘je le nie,'
and that he says mechanically, without in the least knowing what he is saying. And he can't write. But he got sketching and scrawling various things on some paper, and his scrawls—together with another thing or two—have given me an idea. We're following it up now. When we are less busy, and in a quiet place, I'll show you the sketches and explain things generally; there's no time now, and I may want your help for a bit, in which case ignorance may prevent you spoiling things, you clumsy ruffian. Hullo! here we are, I think!”

We had stopped at the end of another stable-yard, rather dirtier than the first. The stables were sound but inelegant sheds, and one or two appeared to be devoted to other purposes, having low chimneys, on one of which an old basket was rakishly set by way of cowl. Beside the entrance a worn-out old board was nailed, with the legend, “Stabling to Let,” in letters formerly white on a ground formerly black.

“Come,” said Hewitt, “we'll explore.”

We picked our way over the greasy cobble-stones and looked about us. On the left was the wall enclosing certain back-yards, and on the right the stables. Two doors in the middle of these were open, and a butcher's young man, who with his shiny bullet head would have been known for a butcher's young man anywhere, was wiping over the new-washed wheel of a smart butcher's cart.

“Good-day,” Hewitt said pleasantly to the young man. “I notice there's some stabling to let here. Now, where should I inquire about it?”

“Jones, Whitfield Street,” the young man answered, giving the wheel a final spin. “But there's only one little place to let now, I think, and it ain't very grand.”

“Oh, which is that?”

“Next but one to the street there. A chap ‘ad it for wood-choppin', but‘e chucked it. There ain't room for more'n a donkey an' a barrow.”

“Ah, that's a pity. We're not particular, but want something big enough, and we don't mind paying a fair price. Perhaps we might make an arrangement with somebody here who has a stable?”

The young man shook his head.

“I shouldn't think so,” he said doubtfully; “they're mostly shop-people as wants all the room theirselves. My guv‘nor couldn't do nothink, I know. These 'ere two stables ain't scarcely enough for all ‘e wants as it is. Then there's Barkett the greengrocer 'ere next door. That ain't no good. Then, next to that, there's the little place as is to let, and at the end there's Griffith's at the butter-shop.”

“And those the other way?”

“Well, this ‘ere first one's Curtis's, Euston Road—that's a butter-shop, too, an' 'e 'as the next after that. The last one, up at the end—I dunno quite whose that is. It ain't been long took, but I b‘lieve it's some foreign baker's. I ain't ever see anythink come out of it, though; but there's a 'orse there, I know—I seen the feed took in.”

Hewitt turned thoughtfully away.

“Thanks,” he said. “I suppose we can't manage it, then. Good-day.” We walked to the street as the butcher's young man wheeled in his cart and flung away his pail of water.

“Will you just hang about here, Brett,” he asked, “while I hurry round to the nearest iron-monger's? I shan't be gone long. We're going to work a little burglary. Take note if anybody comes to that stable at the farther end.”

He hurried away and I waited. In a few moments the butcher's young man shut his doors and went whistling down the street, and in a few moments more Hewitt appeared.

“Come,” he said, “there's nobody about now; we'll lose no time. I've bought a pair of pliers and a few nails.”

We re-entered the yard at the door of the last stable. Hewitt stooped and examined the padlock. Taking a nail in his pliers he bent it carefully against the brick wall. Then using the nail as a key, still held by the pliers, and working the padlock gently in his left hand, in an astonishingly few seconds he had released the hasp and taken off the padlock. “I'm not altogether a bad burglar,” he remarked. “Not so bad, really.”

The padlock fastened a bar which, when removed, allowed the door to be opened. Opening it, Hewitt immediately seized a candle stuck in a bottle which stood on a shelf, pulled me in, and closed the door behind us.

“We'll do this by candle-light,” he said, as he struck a match. “If the door were left open it would be seen from the street. Keep your ears open in case anybody comes down the yard.”

The part of the shed that we stood in was used as a coach-house, and was occupied by a rather shabby tradesman's cart, the shafts of which rested on the ground. From the stall adjoining came the sound of the shuffling and trampling of an impatient horse.

We turned to the cart. On the name-board at the side were painted in worn letters the words, “Schuyler, Baker.” The address, which had been below, was painted out.

Hewitt, took out the pins and let down the tail-board. Within the cart was a new bed-mattress which covered the whole surface at the bottom. I felt it, pressed it from the top, and saw that it was an ordinary spring mattress—perhaps rather unusually soft in the springs. It seemed a curious thing to keep in a baker's cart.

Hewitt, who had set the candle on a convenient shelf, plunged his arm into the farthermost recesses of the cart and brought forth a very long French loaf, and then another. Diving again he produced certain loaves of the sort known as the “plain cottage”—two sets of four each, each set baked together in a row. “Feel this bread,” said Hewitt, and I felt it. It was stale—almost as hard as wood.

Hewitt produced a large pocket-knife, and with what seemed to me to be superfluous care and elaboration, cut into the top of one of the cottage loaves. Then he inserted his fingers in the gap he had made and firmly but slowly tore the hard bread into two pieces. He pulled away the crumb from within till there was nothing left but a rather thick outer shell.

“No,” he said, rather to himself than to me, “there's nothing in that.” He lifted one of the very long French loaves and measured it against the interior of the cart. It had before been propped diagonally, and now it was noticeable that it was just a shade longer than the inside of the cart was wide. Jammed in, in fact, it held firmly. Hewitt produced his knife again, and divided this long loaf in the centre; there was nothing but bread in
that
. The horse in the stall fidgeted more than ever.

“That horse hasn't been fed lately, I fancy,” Hewitt said. “We'll give the poor chap a bit of this hay in the corner.”

“But,” I said, “what about this bread? What did you expect to find in it? I can't see what you're driving at.”

“I'll tell you,” Hewitt replied, “I'm driving after something I expect to find, and close at hand here, too. How are your nerves to-day—pretty steady? The thing may try them.”

Before I could reply there was a sound of footsteps in the yard outside, approaching. Hewitt lifted his finger instantly for silence and whispered hurriedly, “There's only one. If he comes
here,
we grab him.”

The steps came nearer and stopped outside the door. There was a pause, and then a slight drawing in of breath, as of a person suddenly surprised. At that moment the door was slightly shifted ajar and an eye peeped in.

“Catch him!” said Hewitt aloud, as we sprang to the door. “He mustn't get away!”

I had been nearer the doorway, and was first through it. The stranger ran down the yard at his best, but my legs were the longer, and half-way to the street I caught him by the shoulder and swung him round. Like lightning he whipped out a knife, and I flung in my left instantly on the chance of flooring him. It barely checked him, however, and the knife swung short of my chest by no more than two inches; but Hewitt had him by the wrist and tripped him forward on his face. He struggled like a wild beast, and Hewitt had to stand on his forearm and force up his wrist till the bones were near breaking before he dropped his knife. But throughout the struggle the man never shouted, called for help, nor, indeed, made the slightest sound, and we on our part were equally silent. It was quickly over, of course, for he was on his face, and we were two. We dragged our prisoner into the stable and closed the door behind us. So far as we had seen, nobody had witnessed the capture from the street, though, of course, we had been too busy to be certain.

“There's a set of harness hanging over at the back,” said Hewitt; “I think we'll tie him up with the traces and reins—nothing like leather. We don't need a gag; I know he won't shout.”

While I got the straps Hewitt held the prisoner by a peculiar neck-and-wrist grip that forbade him to move except at the peril of a snapped arm. He had probably never been a person of pleasant aspect, being short, strongly and squatly built, large and ugly of feature, and wild and dirty of hair and beard. And now, his face flushed with struggling and smeared with mud from the stable-yard, his nose bleeding and his forehead exhibiting a growing bump, he looked particularly repellent. We strapped his elbows together behind, and as he sullenly ignored a demand for the contents of his pockets Hewitt unceremoniously turned them out. Helpless as he was, the man struggled to prevent this, though, of course, ineffectually. There were papers, tobacco, a bunch of keys, and various odds and ends. Hewitt was glancing hastily at the papers when, suddenly dropping them, he caught the prisoner by the shoulder and pulled him away from a partly-consumed hay-truss which stood in a corner, and toward which he had quietly sidled.