Collected works of j s f.., p.616
Collected Works of J S Fletcher, page 616
Simmons had a name for everything, and he had a reason for suspecting his brother. In spite of his youth he was a hardened cynic. He was a sneering sceptic about altruism: nobody in his opinion ever did anything for nothing; whoever did was a fool. Whenever you saw a man suddenly advanced in station and material prosperity, said Simmons in his self communings, you could be absolutely certain that it had been in somebody’s interest to advance him. And he put a question — what he called a very nasty question — to himself: Why, suddenly, without preface, on the spur of a moment, as it were, did Mrs. Champernowne lift John from an under — managership at six pounds a week to a position which, he had already learnt, was to be worth a very big salary? What was the consideration, the inducement, the quid pro quo — or quo pro quid? It was all damn rot, said Simmons, to be asked to believe that John’s abilities and John’s cleverness as a business man had brought about this desirable preferment: damn rot to be invited to agree to the proposition that John was the one man for the job. Simmons knew enough of the world to know that there were scores of men, hundreds of men, quite as well, if not far better fitted than John for the sort of manager-secretary to the new company who would have been glad, joyful, eager to fill it for two thirds the salary that John was to have. No! — tell all that to the marines! He knew better than to believe it. There were reasons for this sudden advancement — wasn’t it significant that it had been made the very day after the discovery of Deane’s dead body? John knew something! and the new post, the handsome salary, were in the nature of bribes to keep his mouth shut. But what did he know?
“That’s for me to find out!” muttered Simmons as he put his key in the latch of his boarding house door. “My interest! Look after number one, Sim, old man! — number one is the closest friend you’ve got!”
He had been learning that precious truth from John all his life, and it had become a gospel to him: it was indeed his whole creed. He felt no gratitude to John for feeding him, clothing him, educating him, starting him in life: John had done all that, said Simmons, in his own self interest; it would never have done for Southernstowe people to be able to say that John Hackdale, smart and pushing as he was, allowed his younger brother to go about with holes in his trousers, unschooled, unlaunched in life — John knew that nothing pays so well as keeping up appearances. So at any rate argued Simmons, and he felt no compunction in suspecting John of some sort of complicity in this Arradeane-Champernowne mystery, nor in beginning to watch him closely. There was a goal in front of Simmons through which he meant to kick fortune’s football, and hanging on its cross-bar was a big placard, labelled three thousand pounds.
But Simmons would not have been so comfortable in his own mind as he was after that Sunday evening stroll with Mrs. Champernowne’s demure parlourmaid if he had known that within twenty miles of him there was another sly and crafty dog on the same trail as himself. Bartlett! That worthy, after reading and memorising the bill which Pemberton wanted him to distribute, had began to think rapidly. He kept his promise to John Hackdale, and went away from Southernstowe by the last train, but before that train reached Portsmouth, a short stage of eighteen miles, he had decided that he was neither going to New York nor to Southampton — let Southampton and New York go to — anywhere! For Bartlett, loafer and ne’er-do-well as he had been of late years, had, in his time, been an unusually sharp and shrewd man, and a recent devotion to rum had not quite impaired his greatness. He saw through things now. There was a secret — and he had some sort of a key to it. He had thought at first that John Hackdale had requested his silence so that no scandal or questioning should occur to vex Mrs. Champernowne, Mayor of Southernstowe. But now he saw that there was more. He was being hurried out of the way — bribed to get out of the way. A hundred and fifty cash — another hundred and fifty to come! — very good, but...not enough! By no means enough...especially in view of that reward bill. America? — no! Portsmouth, for the time being, and a snug lodging, where he could lie low and mature his plans — either for blackmailing Mrs. Champernowne or doing something towards getting Miss Pretty’s money.
Bartlett stopped at a cheap hotel that night, and waking early next morning reviewed the situation and made several resolutions, largely consequent upon the fact that he had a hundred and fifty pounds in his pocket. He would take a modest lodging in Portsmouth. He would buy himself a new suit of clothes, new ties, new foot — wear. He would live quietly and be careful about his rum. He would nurse his brain and sharpen his wits. And he would get and study the Southernstowe local papers and any other newspapers in which there were particulars of the Sand Pit Murder, as the Deane affair had come to be called, and prime himself for a first frontal attack — the thing was to be armed with circumstance. Of one thing he was resolved — he was going to make money out of this, whether he got it from Miss Pretty or from Mrs. Champernowne. The money already in his pocket came from Mrs. Champernowne, of course! — not from John Hackdale. And — to use a hackneyed phrase, he muttered with a cynical laugh — there was plenty more where it came from. Blackmail money, or reward money, it was all one.
Bartlett’s will power was still sufficiently strong to enable him to carry out his resolutions. He found a quiet and comfortable lodging in Portsea, in the cottage of a widow woman; he replenished his wardrobe; he cut down his rum to a reasonable allowance; his landlady knew him for a quiet, well behaved man who took his meals at the proper times, walked out a good deal, paid his bill promptly every Saturday morning at breakfast, and bought and read a multitude of newspapers. He called himself Barton there, and said he’d recently come into a little money after a life of hard work, and for a time wanted a bit of quietude. Quiet enough he was, reading his papers and snipping paragraphs out of them which he stored away in his old pocket — book. Those paragraphs were all about the Deane murder and the inquest, and there was nothing now in them, nothing much unknown to their reader and preserver. But one night, opening the Portsmouth evening paper after his tea — supper, Bartlett read of the new offer made by Miss Pretty, and his mouth watered more than ever. Three thousand pounds! He would have handed Mrs. Champernowne over to rack, rope, knife and fire for one half of it, cash down.
Bartlett went out for his usual morning walk next day, to think things over. Should he return to Southernstowe and tell Miss Pretty what he really knew? Supposing she and her legal adviser and the police followed up the slight clue which he could give her, would he get the reward? Anyway, there was one thing he could get and at once — the two thousand pounds offered to anybody who saw Deane on the night of the murder. He saw Deane — he, Bartlett! But suddenly, and as his heart warmed at the thought of the money, he turned cold — supposing that Miss Pretty insisted on his giving proof that he saw Deane? It was easy enough for him to affirm that he saw Deane, but how was he going to prove that he did? Well, after all, it might be some proof if he also proved that John Hackdale paid him money, a lot of money, to keep a quiet tongue and go right away — but there again, perhaps Hackdale would deny that he had ever done such a thing — might indeed say that what had been done for him had been done by Mrs. Champernowne out of charity to a broken — down Southernstowe man to help him to a new start. Perhaps the best thing to do would be to go to Mrs. Champernowne at once and blackmail her, giving her the option of paying him rather than that he should resort to Miss Pretty. But — he hesitated. Not so very long before this episode, Bartlett had been in slight trouble with the Southernstowe police, and had had to appear before the magistrates, Mrs. Champernowne, mayor, presiding. He remembered the lady’s stern, uncompromising manner — and he shrank from the idea of meeting her again. No! but to go to Miss Pretty, and tell what he knew. If only he had more to tell!
Bartlett’s constitutional took him, mechanically, to his usual house of call — a tavern which stood in a busy thoroughfare. He supplied himself with a glass of his favourite drink, and, a tumbler in hand, stood at the bow window of the bar parlour, overlooking the crowded street and meditating anew on his plans and perplexities. And suddenly he started at sight of two people whom he, as a Southernstowe man, knew well enough. He looked and looked — and began to wonder.
The two people were a man and a woman — Kight, the night porter of the Chancellor Hotel, and Mary Sanders, the chambermaid. They were both what Bartlett called dressed up, in their best clothes, and evidently were out for the day, pleasuring. But Bartlett’s sharp eyes, watching their movements across the street, saw that they were looking for something. They came along the pavement, staring at the various shops — suddenly they paused before a watchmakers and jeweller’s establishment. As soon as they caught sight of it they backed away and began what appeared to be an anxious debate, which was finally ended by Mary Sanders leaving Kight and going into the jeweller’s shop. She was in there some time; Kight hung about. After a while she came out and rejoined her companion; another debate followed, in the course of which Kight seemed to be expressing disapproval of something said to him; eventually, evidently on her persuasion, he went back to the shop with her; the two remained there ten minutes longer; they then came out and went away down the street together. And Bartlett, swallowing what was left of his rum, slipped out and followed them at a safe distance.
Kight and his companion walked slowly along until they came to a bank. The woman entered, Kight hung about outside. He was not kept waiting long; Mary Sanders came out again, stuffing into her handbag what looked to Bartlett like a bundle of notes. She nodded in a satisfied, re-assured sort of fashion at Kight; together they went away in the direction of the sea front, where the pleasure part of the town is. And Bartlett let them go, and turned back towards his tavern, pondering.
The comparative temperance to which Bartlett had forced himself since his coming to Portsmouth had sharpened his naturally acute senses. He was thinking hard and shrewdly now. He had read and re-read the whole thing by heart, and he was now going over the evidence given by the night porter and the chambermaid, with special recollection of what she said about seeing Deane’s money and jewellery lying on the dressing table when she took him his hot milk on the evening of the murder. Now supposing... supposing...
After a few minutes quick thought, Bartlett came to a halt. He stood for a moment, appraising himself. He was decently, even well dressed. He knew that he looked eminently respectable. His nose had been inclined to redness, and his eyes to a bloodshot state when he left Southernstowe; those signs of indulgence had vanished. He knew himself, as having once been in a better position, to have a good manner and a good address; he had the comfortable consciousness of having had a superior education. And suddenly, confident of his power to play a part, he strode forward and walked boldly into the jeweller’s shop which Kight and Mary Sanders had left not twenty minutes before. The jeweller, a mild, spectacled individual, stood behind his counter, examining some of his goods; further away an assistant was attending to a customer.
Bartlett went up to the principal.
“Can I have a word with you — in private?” he asked musingly.
The jeweller looked a little surprised, but he at once stepped along the counter, and opening a door at the rear of the shop, motioned his visitor to enter. Bartlett entered and gave him a look which was intended to suggest his desire for a confidential talk.
“Yes?” said the jeweller.
“The fact is,” answered Bartlett, “I’m a private enquiry agent — on a very important and delicate job. You had a young woman in here just now whom I knew: I’ve got my eye on her. Now, between you and me, what did she want?”
The jeweller had taken stock of Bartlett. Certainly, he looked the sort of man that you would expect a private enquiry agent to be: there was that air about him. “I hope there’s nothing wrong,” he replied, anxiously. “If you want to know, the young woman came to sell a watch.”
“A gold watch? — valuable?” suggested Bartlett readily.
“It was a gold watch, certainly,” answered the jeweller. “And — yes, valuable. She told me it had recently been left to her — a legacy, you know, by an uncle. But she said that being a working woman, she’d rather have its worth than the watch itself, and she asked me to buy it.”
“And — you bought?” asked Bartlett.
“I did! I gave her a thoroughly good price, too. Fifty-five pounds,” replied the jeweller. “An open cheque. If there’s anything wrong.”
“Too late to stop your cheque,” interrupted Bartlett. “I followed them to the bank. She’d a man with her—”
“I know — her husband — he came in,” remarked the jeweller. “But—”
“No more her husband than I am!” said Bartlett. “Well — I’m afraid that watch is a stolen one. But I can settle that point for you within twenty-four hours. And if it belongs to the person I feel sure it does belong to, you won’t be the loser. I’ll guarantee that. Now — not a word to anyone till you see me about this time tomorrow.”
The jeweller looked relieved. But he was obviously puzzled.
“If you suspected these people, why didn’t you stop them?” he asked. “Perhaps they’ll—”
Bartlett tapped him on the arm.
“That’ll come after I’ve been here again,” he said, with a wink. “I can put my hand on both of ’em at an hour’s notice. They haven’t the ghost of a notion that I’m on this track. Take care of the watch till you see me at this time tomorrow.”
Then he went away and back to his lodging and his dinner, and that over he sat down and wrote a carefully worded letter to Miss Cynthia Pretty, at the Chancellor Hotel, Southernstowe, signing it in his assumed name of Barton. In it he said that he had an important communication to make to her in regard to the late tragedy, and would she meet him at Portsmouth Town station at ten-thirty next morning, and, in the meantime, treat his letter as being absolutely private and confidential?
Miss Pretty met him. She was eager and curious. Bartlett sized her up in two minutes, and knew that she would be a suitable gold mine to him. Suave and respectful, he gave her a brief account of yesterday’s episode and conducted her to the jeweller’s shop. In the little parlour the jeweller produced his purchase. Miss Pretty gave one look at it and turned pale.
“Good heavens!” she said, in a hushed voice. “Yes! — without doubt, that’s my guardian’s watch!”
CHAPTER XII. ARRESTED
BARTLETT FELT HIMSELF rising to great heights in the profession to which he had volunteered twenty — four hours previously. He turned to Miss Pretty with a warning and solemn air.
“Don’t make any mistake, miss!” he said. “Be certain! After all, gold watches are all very much alike. You’re sure this is the late Mr. Deane’s watch?”
“As certain as I am that I’m standing here!” assured Miss Pretty. “I ought to be! — I’ve seen it hundreds of times ever since I was a little girl. That watch belonged to my late guardian. And you say,” she continued, turning to the jeweller, “that it was sold to you yesterday by Mary Sanders, chambermaid at the Chancellor Hotel, Southernstowe? Then—”
“I didn’t know the woman’s name, madam,” interrupted the jeweller. “She appeared to be a thoroughly respectable young person, and told me what I regarded as a thoroughly satisfactory story. But, of course, if you recognise the watch—”
“Oh, there’s no doubt about the watch!” said Miss Pretty, confidently. “A good many people beside myself could identify it. What’s to be done?” she asked, turning to Bartlett. “The police?”
“Certainly, miss!” replied Bartlett. “The police, of course — at Southernstowe. Superintendent Mellapont.” He spoke with readiness and confidence, having already satisfied himself on the way from the station that Miss Pretty would stand to her word and pay him the thousand pounds reward for the discovery of the watch. “We must go there at once. You can make it convenient to go with me?” he went on, turning to the jeweller. “And, of course, you’ll bring the watch with you.”
The jeweller began to suggest inconvenience and to murmur his hopes that he wouldn’t be the loser by all this. But Bartlett waved an authoritative hand.
“I told you yesterday that you shouldn’t lose by the transaction,” he said. “This lady will see to that — fifty pounds is nothing to her in comparison to the relief of getting a clue to her guardian’s assailants. Of course you must come with us to Southernstowe you’ll have to identify the young woman.”
“Needs must!” responded the jeweller, and began to give instructions to his assistant. “I suppose there’ll be a police court case?” he asked, as he put the watch in his pocket, and picked up his hat and overcoat. “That’ll mean mere waste of time—”
“No waste of time, sir, in serving the cause of justice,” observed Bartlett in his best manner. “It’s a citizen’s duty, that, sir, and this’ll be not only a police court but an assize court affair!”
The jeweller muttered something which appeared to indicate his regret that Mary Sanders had not taken her wares elsewhere, but he accompanied Bartlett and Miss Pretty to the station and journeyed with them to Southernstowe. Bartlett had never been back to the little town since his hurried departure at John Hackdale’s request. He had slunk away that night, reaching the station by back lanes and obscure alleys, but now he marched boldly up the street, conscious that many people who saw and recognised him were wondering at his new clothes, well-to-do appearance, and companionship with Miss Pretty. And in the very centre of the town, not thirty yards away from the police station, John Hackdale came suddenly out of a bank, and full upon Bartlett, Miss Pretty, and the jeweller. He stopped dead and seized Bartlett’s arm.
