The Victorian Villains Megapack (14 page)

“Now,” Dorrington went on, “as I told you, Copleston knew nothing of this, but one of his men found it out. Do you happen to have heard of one Samuel Castro, nicknamed ‘Slackjaw,’ a hunchback whom Copleston employed on odd jobs?”

“I have seen him here. He called, sometimes with messages, sometimes with parcels. I should
probably have forgotten all about him were it not that he was rather an extraordinary creature, even among Copleston’s men, who are all remarkable. But did he—”

“He murdered Mr. Deacon, I think,” Dorrington replied, “as I fancy I can explain to you. But he won’t hang for it, for he was drowned this afternoon before my eyes, in an attempt to escape from the police. He was an extraordinary creature, as you have said. He wasn’t English—a half-caste of some sort I think—though his command of language, of the riverside and dock description, was very free; it got him his nickname of Slackjaw among the longshoremen. He was desperately excitable, and he had most of the vices, though I don’t think he premeditated murder in this case—nothing but robbery. He was immensely strong, although such a little fellow, and sharp in his wits, and he might have had regular work at Copleston’s if he had liked, but that wasn’t his game—he was too lazy. He would work long enough to earn a shilling or so, and then he would go off to drink the money. So he was a sort of odd on-and-off man at Copleston’s—just to run a message or carry something or what not when the regular men were busy. Well, he seems to have been smart enough—or perhaps it was no more than an accident—to find out about Hachiman’s back, and he used his knowledge for his own purposes. Copleston couldn’t account for missing things in the night—because he never guessed that Castro, by shutting himself up in Hachiman about closing time, had the run of the place when everybody had gone, and could pick up any trifle that looked suitable for the pawnshop in the morning. He could sleep comfortably on sacks or among straw, and thus save the rent of lodgings, and he could accept Hachiman’s shelter again just before Copleston turned up to start the next day’s business. Getting out, too, after the place was opened, was quite easy, for nobody came to the large store-rooms till something was wanted, and in a large place with many doors and gates, like Copleston’s, unperceived going and coming was easy to one who knew the ropes. So that Slack-jaw would creep quietly out, and in again by the front door to ask for a job. Copleston noticed how regular he had been every morning for the past few months, and thought he was getting steadier! As to the things that got smashed, I expect Slackjaw knocked them over, getting out in the dark. One china vase, in particular, had been shifted at the last moment, probably after he was in his hiding-place, and stood behind the image. That was smashed, of course. And these things, coming after the bad voyage of the ship in which he came over, very naturally gave poor Hachiman an unlucky reputation.

“Probably Slackjaw was sorry at first when he heard that Hachiman was bought. But then an idea struck him. He had been to Mr. Deacon’s rooms on errands, and must have seen that fine old plate in the sitting-room. He had picked up unconsidered trifles at Copleston’s by aid of Hachiman—why not acquire something handsome at Deacon’s in the same way? The figure was to be carried to Bedford Mansions as soon as work began on Wednesday morning. Very well. All he had to do was to manage his customary sojourn at Copleston’s over Tuesday night, and keep to his hiding-place in the morning. He did it. Perhaps the men swore a bit at the weight of Hachiman, but as the idol weighed several hundredweights by itself, and had not been shifted since it first arrived, they most likely perceived no difference. Hachiman, with Slackjaw comfortably bolted inside him (though even
he
must have found the quarters narrow) jolted away in the waggon, and in course of time was deposited where it now stands.

“Of course all I have told you, and all I am about to tell you, is no more than conjecture—but I think you will say I have reasons. From within the idol Slackjaw could hear Mr. Deacon’s movements, and no doubt when he heard him take his hat and stick and shut the outer door behind him, Hachiman’s tenant was glad to get out. He had never had so long and trying a sojourn in the idol before, though he
had
provided himself this time with something to keep his spirits up—in that little flat bottle he left behind. Probably, however, he waited some little time before emerging, for safety’s sake. I judge this because I found no signs of his having started work, except a single small knife-mark on the plate case. He must have no more than begun when Mr. Deacon came back for his letters. First, however, he went and shut the bedroom window, lest his movements might be heard in some adjacent rooms; the man who was painting said he heard that, you remember. Well, hearing Mr. Deacon’s key in the lock, of course he made a rush for his hiding-place—but there was no time to get in and close up before Mr. Deacon could hear the noise. Mr. Deacon, as he entered, heard the footsteps in the next room, and went to see. The result you know. Castro, perhaps, crouched behind the idol, and hearing Mr. Deacon approaching, and knowing discovery inevitable, in his mad fear and excitement, snatched the nearest weapon and struck wildly at his pursuer. See! Here are half a dozen heavy, short Japanese swords at hand, any one of which might have been used. The thing done, Castro had to think of escape. The door was impossible—the hall-porter was already knocking there. But the man had no key—he could be heard moving about and calling for one. There was yet a little time. He wiped the blade of the weapon, put it back in its place, took the keys from the dead man’s pocket, and regained his concealment in the idol. Whether or not he took the keys with the idea of again attempting theft when the room was left empty I don’t know—most likely he thought they would aid him in escape. Anyway, he didn’t attempt theft, but lay in his concealment—and a pretty bad time he must have had of it—till night. Probably his nerve was not good enough for anything more than simple flight. When all was quiet, he left the rooms and shut the door behind him. Then he lurked about corridors and basements till morning, and when the doors were opened, slipped out unobserved. That’s all. It’s pretty obvious, once you know about Hachiman’s interior.”

“And how did you find out?”

“When you left me here I considered the thing. I put aside all suspicions of motive, the Japanese and his sword and the rest of it, and addressed myself to the bare facts. Somebody
had
been in these rooms when Mr. Deacon came back, and that somebody had murdered him. The first thing was to find how this person came, and where he came from. At first, of course, one thought of the bedroom window, as the police had done. But reflection proved this unlikely. Mr. Deacon had entered his front door, was inside a few seconds, and then was murdered close by the figure of Hachiman. Now if anybody had entered by the window for purposes of robbery, his impulse on hearing the key in the outer door (and such a thing could be heard all over the rooms, as I tested for myself)—his impulse, I say, would be to retreat by the way he had come, that is by the window. If, then, Mr. Deacon had overtaken him before he could escape, the murder might have taken place just as it had done, but it would have been
in the bedroom
, not in a room in the opposite direction. And any thief’s attention would naturally be directed at first to the gold plate—indeed, I detected a fresh knife-mark in the door of the case, which I will show you presently. Now, as you see by the arrangement of the rooms, the retreat from the plate case to the bedroom window would be a short one, whereas the murderer must in fact have taken a longer journey in the opposite direction. Why? Because he had
arrived
from that direction, and his natural impulse was to retreat by the way he had come. This might have been by the door to the back stairs, but a careful examination of this door and its lock and key convinced me that it had not been opened. The key was dirty, and to have turned it from the opposite side would have necessitated the forcible use of a pair of thin hollow pliers (a familiar tool to burglars), and these must have left their mark on the dirty key. So I turned back to the idol.
This was
the spot the intruder had made for in his retreat, and the figure had been brought into the place the very morning of the murder. Also, things had disappeared from its vicinity at Copleston’s. More—it was a large thing. What if it were hollow? One has heard of such things having been invented by priests anxious for certain effects. Could not a thief smuggle himself in that way?

“The suggestion was a little startling, for if it were the right one the man might be hiding there at that moment. I gave the thing half an hour’s examination, and in the end found what I have shown you. It was not the sort of thing one would have found out without looking for it. Look at it even now. Although you have seen it open, you couldn’t point to the joints.”

Dorrington opened it again. “Once open,” he went on, “the thing was pretty plain. Here is the rag—perhaps it was Castro’s pocket-handkerchief—used to wipe the weapon. It is stained all over, and cut, as you will observe, by the sharp edge. Also, you may see a crumb or two—Slack-jaw had brought food with him, in case of a long imprisonment. But chiefly observe the bottle. It is a flat, high-shouldered, ‘quartern’ bottle, such as publicans sell or lend to their customers in poor districts, and as usual it bears the publican’s name—J. Mills. It’s a most extraordinary thing, but it seems the fate of almost every murderer, no matter how cunning, to leave some such damning piece of evidence about, foolish as it may seem afterward. I’ve known it in a dozen cases. Probably Castro, in the dark and in his excitement, forgot it when he quitted his hiding-place. At any rate it helped me and made my course plain. Clearly this man, whoever he was, had come from Copleston’s. Moreover, he was a small man, for the space he had occupied would be too little even for a man of middle height. Also he bought drink of J. Mills, a publican; if J. Mills carried on business near Copleston’s so much the easier my task would seem. Before I left, however, I went to the basement and inspected the ladder, the removal of which had caused the police so much exercise. Then it was plain why Dowden had cleared out. All his prevarication and uneasiness were explained at once, as the police might have seen if they had looked
behind
the ladder as well as at it. For it had been lying lengthwise against the wooden partition which formed the back of the compartments put up to serve the tenants as wine-cellars. Dowden had taken three planks out of this partition, and so arranged that they could be slipped in their places and out again without attracting attention. What he had been taking through the holes he thus made I won’t undertake to say, but I will make a small bet that some of the tenants find their wine short presently! And so Dowden, never an industrious person, and never at one job long, thought it best to go away when he found the police asking why the ladder had been moved.”

“Yes, yes—it’s very surprising, but no doubt you’re right. Still, what about Kanamaro and that sword?”

“Tell me exactly what he said to you today.”

Mr. Colson detailed the conversation at length.

Dorrington smiled. “See here,” he said, “I have found out something else in these rooms. What Kanamaro said he meant in another sense to what you supposed. I wondered a little about that sword, and made a little search among some drawers in consequence. Look here. Do you see this box standing out here on a nest of drawers? That is quite unlike Mr. Deacon’s orderly ways. The box contains a piece of lacquer, and it had been shifted from its drawer to make room for a more precious piece. See here.” Dorrington pulled out a drawer just below where the box stood, and took from it another white wood box. He opened this box and removed a quantity of wadding. A rich brocade
fukusa
was then revealed, and, loosening the cord of this, Dorrington displayed a Japanese writing-case, or
suzuribako
, aged and a little worn at the corners, but all of lacquer of a beautiful violet hue.

“What!” exclaimed Mr. Colson. “Violet lacquer!”

“That is what it is,” Dorrington answered, “and when I saw it I judged at once that Deacon had at last consented to part with his Masamuné blade in exchange for that even greater rarity, a fine piece of the real old violet lacquer. I should imagine that Kanamaro brought it on Tuesday evening—you will remember that you saw Mr. Deacon for the last time alive in the afternoon of that day. Beard seems not to have noticed him, but in the evening hall-porters are apt to be at supper, you know—perhaps even taking a nap now and then!”

“Then
this
is how Kanamaro ‘finished his business!’” Mr. Colson observed. “And the ‘very great cost’ was probably what he had to pay for this.”

“I suppose so. And he would not have believed it possible that he
could
get a piece of violet lacquer in any circumstances.”

“But,” Mr. Colson objected, “I still don’t understand his indifference and lack of surprise when I told him of poor Deacon’s death.”

“I think that is very natural in such a man as Keigo Kanamaro. I don’t profess to know a very great deal about Japan, but I know that a
samurai
of the old school was trained from infancy to look on death, whether his own or another’s, with absolute indifference. They regarded it as a mere circumstance. Consider how cold-bloodedly their
hari-kiri
, their legalised suicide, was carried out!”

As they left the rooms and made for the street Mr. Colson said, “But now I know nothing of your pursuit of Castro.”

Dorrington shrugged his shoulders. “There is little to say,” he said. “I went to Copleston and asked him if any one of his men was missing all day on Wednesday. None of his regular men were, it seemed, but he had seen nothing that day of an odd man named Castro, or Slackjaw, although he had been very regular for some time before; and, indeed, Castro had not yet turned up. I asked if Castro was a tall man. No, he was a little fellow and a hunchback, Copleston told me. I asked what public-house one might find him at, and Copleston mentioned the ‘Blue Anchor’—kept, as I had previously ascertained from the directory, by J. Mills. That was enough. With everything standing as it was, a few minutes’ talk with the inspector in charge at the nearest police-station was all that was necessary. Two men were sent to make the arrest, and the people at the ‘Blue Anchor’ directed us to Martin’s Wharf, where we found Castro. He had been drinking, but he knew enough to make a bolt the moment he saw the policemen coming on the wharf. He dropped on to a dummy barge and made off from one barge to another in what seemed an aimless direction, though he may have meant to get away at the stairs a little lower down the river. But he never got as far. He muddled one jump and fell between the barges. You know what a suck under there is when a man falls among barges like that. A strong swimmer with all his senses has only an off chance, and a man with bad whisky in his head—well, I left them dragging for Slackjaw when I came away.”