Collected works of j s f.., p.749
Collected Works of J S Fletcher, page 749
“Not to anyone in the house-Hoiler, for instance?”
“No, sir! I’ve never spoken of it to anybody but yourself. In my opinion, sir, this is a very important discovery.”
“It may be, Jeeves. But-if Mr. Nicholas did take out the Swiss stick, where is it?”
“I conclude he lost it, sir. You know what condition he was in, Mr. Camberwell. He-he’d be likely to lose it, sir.”
I let my mind go back to Welman’s evidence before the coroner.
“As far as I remember, Jeeves,” I said, “the landlord of the Wagon and Horses said at the inquest that he was positive that Mr. Nicholas had no walking-stick with him when he called there that evening. Am I right?”
“Quite right, sir. Welman did say so.”
“Then, if Mr. Nicholas took out a stick with him, he must have lost it or mislaid it before he got to the Wagon and Horses?”
“Exactly, sir-just what I say.”
“But the police say something else! They say that the stick which Mr. Nicholas took out was his sword-stick-which they found hidden in Middle Spinney. How are we going to show that he didn’t take the sword-stick, but took the Swiss stick?”
“I was wondering, sir, if the offer of a reward for the Swiss stick would do any good?” suggested Jeeves. “The villagers and village boys would comb over every inch of that part if a sovereign were offered!”
“I don’t know whether that would be advisable-at present,” I answered. “I think we’d better keep quiet about it, at first, Jeeves. Keep it to yourself until I can consult Mr. Chaney and perhaps Mr. Chancellor. Of course, if what you advance as a theory is true, it will be most helpful. The puzzle then will be-who took the sword-stick away from the hall?”
A day or two passed without further happenings; then one morning I had to take various letters and documents to Mr. Chancellor. He and I took them down to the remand prison in which Mr. Nicholas had been lodged pending the adjournment of his case before the magistrates. We found Mr. Nicholas marked by that curious apathy and listlessness which had characterized him from the moment of his arrest: his behaviour altogether was that of a man who feels that he is confronted by some fatality and is powerless to battle against it. Chancellor, as we travelled together, had remarked to me that the worst of the situation was that Mr. Nicholas seemed inclined to accept it and would make no effort on his own behalf. But when we were admitted to our interview, he at once showed us that he had been thinking over the things alleged against him.
“I’m very glad you have come,” he said. “There’s something I wanted to tell you. I’ve been trying to recollect the events of that evening-you know the one I mean. I’m still very confused about them-I cannot recollect much, however I try. But there is one thing I have remembered-positively. They are saying, the police, you know, that I took out my sword-stick that evening. And at first I thought it highly probable that I did! But I now remember that I did not.”
“Certain?” asked Mr. Chancellor, a little incredulously.
“I am positively certain,” replied Mr. Nicholas. “I now remember all the circumstances-about that, at any rate. I went to the stand in the hall where I keep my sticks, intending to take the sword-stick-”
“Any particular purpose in view?” asked Mr. Chancellor.
“No purpose at all, I’m sure. As I think I said before, I used that sword-stick nine times out of ten. That’s why I admitted that it was exceedingly possible that I did take it. But, as I say, I did not. For a simple reason-the sword-stick was not there!”
Mr. Chancellor, who had odd ways, made a little clicking sound with his tongue.
“Now, now, now!” he said when the clicking was over. “Now, you’re really sure about that? Not there, eh?”
“It was not there at all. I remember, now, distinctly remember that I made a mental note to inquire into its whereabouts when I came in. But it was not there when I wanted it!”
“Then you never took a stick at all?” suggested the solicitor.
“Oh, yes, I did!’ I took my Fluelen stick!”
“Your-what?”
“A stick that I call my Fluelen stick. It’s an oak stick which I bought at Fluelen, at the foot of the Lake of Lucerne when I was in Switzerland some little time ago-it, too, was a favourite stick of mine. It has the name Fluelen carved on it, under another carving of a sprig of edelweiss-and a date. That was the stick I took out. I now remember it clearly.”
“And brought it back, I suppose?” asked Mr. Chancellor.
Mr. Nicholas shook his head wearily.
“That I can’t remember,” he said sadly. “I cannot re-create the events of that evening after I left the house. But I did not take the sword-stick. Can you find out what had become of it?”
Mr. Chancellor made no reply to that question; he passed on to the business matters which had taken us to see Mr. Nicholas. But when we had left, he turned to me about it.
“What did you think of that statement of Nicholas’s about the stick, Camberwell?” he asked. “Do you really think his recollection’s to be depended upon?”
“I said nothing in his presence,” I answered, “because I wanted to consult you first. I think his recollection is to be depended upon-and for a very simple reason: his statement that the stick was not there, and that he took the Swiss stick in place of it, can be corroborated.”
“By whom?” he exclaimed.
“Jeeves, the footman,” I answered. “This is what he told me last night”-I went on to tell him all that Jeeves had said. “What do you make of that?” I concluded.
“It certainly looks queer,” he replied. “But there’d be a great deal more in it if the Swiss stick could be found, especially if it were found in some place where Mr. Nicholas was likely to have placed it, or lost it, while he was wandering about that night. If you could institute a quiet search, an inquiry-”
“I shall try to do so,” I said. “And at once. If we can prove that Mr. Nicholas did not take out the sword-stick, that it was not there for him to take-”
“There’s only his word for it that he didn’t take it out, you know,” he interrupted. “And how can one depend on the word of a man who confesses that he was so overcome, confused, stupefied, that he didn’t know where he went or what he did? The mere fact that the Swiss stick is missing doesn’t prove anything!”
“Yes-but suppose we could prove that it was the Swiss stick he took out-”
“That, I agree, might be important. And, by George, we want some really strong evidence on our side, Camberwell! I don’t know what the police are after, but I’ve had two or three visits of inquiry from them, and, from certain hints dropped, it’s my opinion that in their view they’ll be able to present a damning case against Nicholas when he’s brought before the magistrates again! They’re working up something, I’m sure-something that I know nothing about.”
“I suppose the case will have to go for trial?” I said.
“Oh, that’s sure enough!” he asserted. “I dare say they’ll commit him for trial at the next assizes when the adjourned hearing takes place. And, you know it’s no defence at all to plead that if he did kill this fellow, it was done while he was not conscious of what he was doing! We haven’t got to those fine shades of distinction yet in this country. And as Nicholas’s legal adviser, I’m handicapped, Camberwell, heavily handicapped!”
“How?” I asked.
“By his reticence! He won’t tell me a thing about his past. There’s some secret in which that man Dengo, or Ogden, as you tell me the fellow’s real name was, is mixed up, but what it is, Heaven knows!-I don’t, and Nicholas won’t say. Of course, Ogden has been blackmailing him. What you tell me about your discoveries in Little Copperas Street proves that. But-what hold it was that Ogden had on Nicholas, who shall say in face of Nicholas’s determined silence?”
“Do you think Chaney’s search for the two men that Ogden used to meet will do any good?” I asked.
“Chaney is a clever chap, Camberwell! Bit old-fashioned in his methods, perhaps, but painstaking and thorough-going. I know what he’s after. He wants to get at the secret of Nicholas’s past through unearthing Ogden’s previous history. It may be a good way. It’ll do no harm. We may get at something. But Lord ‘a’ mercy!-what the deuce does Nicholas mean by being so foolishly reticent? He could say anything he liked to me-a lawyer! And he won’t say a word!”
“You’ve no ideas on the matter, Mr. Chancellor?” I suggested.
“Bah!” he exclaimed, testily. “Not one! I’m not gifted with imaginative faculties. Otherwise I should be thinking that in that mysterious past of his, Nicholas had been a pirate, or a slave-trader, or had cut somebody’s throat, and that Ogden had been his aider and abettor! No!-I’ve no ideas. Let’s be practical-you go back to Wrides and see if you can do anything about finding that Swiss stick, and, if it is found, establishing how it came to be where it’s found. And then’ll come another question-if Nicholas didn’t take out the sword-stick, who the devil did?”
I went back to Wrides and instituted a quiet inquiry for the Fluelen stick. A few days passed. Then, when I was beginning to wonder what had become of him, I got a telephone message from Chaney asking me to meet him at once in London.
CHAPTER XII. FOR A CONSIDERATION
CHANEY HAD ASKED me to meet him at Waterloo, and he was waiting for me when my train came in. His first words formed a question that went straight to the purpose.
“Mr. Camberwell,” he said, “where we’re going we shall want ready money. Can we get it from Mr. Nicholas’s solicitor? It’ll be laid out on Mr. Nicholas’s behalf.”
“How much?” I asked.
“Fifty pounds would be ample,” he replied. “We mayn’t want anything like it, but it’s well to be prepared.”
“I can manage that,” I said, “but we’ll have to go to my bank, in Fleet Street.”
“That’ll do,” he answered. “We can take it on our way-we’re going to Islington first. Get the money in fivers, if you please.”
We got into a car and drove off to the bank; as we turned out of the station into the streets, Chaney gave me a queer smile.
“You’re wondering what we want the money for?” he said. “Well, the fact is we’re going amongst men whose chief idea in life is to get something for nothing if they can, but at any rate never to do anything for nothing! In other words, we want the money for palm-oil.”
“Bribes, eh?” I suggested.
“Call it what you like,” he agreed. “You see, I’ve found out where I can get some information, but it’ll have to be paid for. Perhaps we can get it cheaper than I fancy-you’d be astonished how cheaply some of these chaps will sell each other! Two or three fivers, judiciously distributed, will produce a lot of information.”
“Dependable?” I asked.
“Pretty well so,” he replied. “Yes, I think we can depend on what we hear.”
“Racing men?” I suggested.
“Of the lower sort-yes,” he answered. “We’ve got to see more than one. Wheels within wheels. Give you a glance into a compartment of the underworld, Mr. Camberwell!”
I drew the fifty pounds from my bank-in five-pound notes, according to his request-and handed it over to Chaney.
“We’ll play as light as we can with it,” he said as he pocketed the notes, “but it’ll be money well spent if we get the information I’m after.”
“And-that’s what?” I asked.
“Whereabouts and particulars of those two pals of Ogden’s,” he replied. “I’ve found a man who knows another man who, the first man thinks, will be able to tell us what we want to know. For a consideration, of course!”
“Who’s the first man?” I inquired.
“A street bookmaker, in Islington,” he answered. “We shall find him on his pitch. After that I don’t know where we’re going-depends on him.”
We left the car at the Angel and, proceeding on foot along Upper Street, turned suddenly into a side alley which debouched on a drab and shabby by-way that seemed to lead to nowhere. With the exception of a few workmen’s cottages, old and dilapidated in appearance, there were no houses in this street; the other buildings seemed to be warehouses, stables, and general repositories of such superfluous stuff as old boxes, hampers, and discarded furniture. But at one point building was going on, and here, where men were excavating foundations and putting up hoardings, Chaney nudged my arm.
“We’re interested in this,” he whispered. “We’re inspecting the work. We appear to be viewing it over-but we don’t forget to keep an eye on the end of the street. And there-as you see-there’s a man in a shabby light brown overcoat whose sole occupation seems to be to lounge against a post. That’s our man, Mr. Camberwell!-watch him a bit, but don’t seem to do so.”
I followed Chaney’s instructions. Passers by might have fancied that we were watching the building operations, but we were really watching the man thirty yards away. He was a twopenny-halfpenny sort of chap who lounged against a street-post set on the curb and looked as if he had no more interest in the world than the thing he leaned on. But every now and then, as we watched, we saw figures appear round the corner of the street-a man’s, a woman’s, even a child’s. Man, child, or woman, whichever it was, made along to the lounging figure and slipped a slip of paper into its hand; the hand plunged for a moment into a pocket of the shabby overcoat.
“See the game?” whispered Chaney. “Those bits of paper have names of horses on them, and wrapped up in them are half-crowns, or shillings, or even six-pences! If the horse named should happen to win this afternoon, the child, or woman, or man’ll come back at a certain time for the money. See? It’s a fine game-for the bookmaker. But-hallo! Now watch!”
The man leaning against the post suddenly started into activity. A white window-blind in a house facing him just as suddenly shot up; that window also faced the point where the street turned, at almost right angles. The bookmaker moved; coming rather smartly in our direction, he now looked as if he had some legitimate business in that street. And round the corner, solemn and stately in his blue uniform, came a policeman.
“See that?” chuckled Chaney. “The man has somebody watching for the policeman coming on his round-that blind was a signal. You watch what happens.”
The man came along and passed us, without any recognition of Chaney. He vanished into Upper Street. Then came the policeman, at a slower pace; he, too, with a glance at us, and another at the workmen, passed on and vanished. And in a few minutes more the bookmaker reappeared again, at the other end of the street, and once more lounged against his post. In the house opposite, the white blind fell again.
“Come on!” said Chaney. “Our turn now.”
I followed him along the street; the bookmaker, lazily watching our approach, opened his mouth to a humorous grin, and as we drew nearer, winked knowingly.
“All serene, guv’nor!” he said as we came up to him. “Your friend, eh?” he went on, glancing me over. “Bit of a swell for where we’re going, aint he?-don’t often see his like in our quarters. Best to keep your mouth shut as much as you can, young feller, while we’re where I’m going to take you. Let him do the talking-he’s all right!”
“Compliment to me,” observed Chaney, with a laugh. “But you needn’t be afraid-my friend’s as right as I am. Where are we going?”
The bookmaker looked up the street and down the street.
“I’ll knock off, now,” he said. “Don’t seem to be no more clients about as is falling over each other to back their fancies. Where are we going, guv’nor? Ah, don’t you ask no questions, and then you’ll get no inconvenient answers! You follow me, guv’nor; we ain’t going so very far, neither.”
“Show the way, then,” said Chaney. “We’re ready.”
The bookmaker turned towards the end of the street by which he had entered it, but before he had gone many yards, turned again, with another wink.
“Best to be business-like, guv’nor,” he said. “What’s it going to run to, if I introduce you to this here chap as I knows of?”
“What do you want?” asked Chaney.
The bookmaker transferred his attention to me, and I began to wish that my tweed suit had not been quite so new or so indicative of its West End origin.
“Well, judging by appearances, guv’nor, it’d ought to be something handsome,” he said. “What d’yer say to a fiver for the introduction, and another if you gets the stuff you wants?”
“All right!” agreed Chaney. “You shall have it.”
“You makes your own terms with him, of course,” said the negotiator, jerking his head in some indefinite direction. “I dunno what he’ll want.”
“All right, all right,” said Chaney. “Let’s get at him.”
Our guide made no further attempt at conversation, but, keeping a little in front, and crossing the Upper Street, proceeded by various short cuts, turns, and twists in the direction of Canonbury. Before reaching Canonbury Square, however, he made other devious departures, and after conducting us through a mews, which, though it was now largely given up to motorcars and drays, was still redolent of horses and their stables, turned a sharp corner and revealed a queer old-fashioned public-house hidden away in a back street. Into the parlour of this he ushered us, to contemplate a bright fire and, sitting by it, a cigar in the corner of his lips and a glass of what appeared to be rum, with a slice of lemon in it, in front of him on a small table, a man of the type that you may see by the thousand amongst the baser sort of those who frequent our racecourses. He had a pursed lip, a suspicious eye, and a mottled complexion and was altogether the sort of gentleman whose absence was much to be preferred to his presence.
“These here,” said the cicerone, indicating Chaney and myself pretty much as if we had been a couple of prize cattle on exhibition, “these here is the two as wants a word or two with you-quiet, like.”
The person by the fireside-he was the sole occupant of the room and appeared to have had no other occupation than that of twiddling his thumbs over a capacious waistcoat-turned his heavy jowl and looked at us, slowly, reminding me of the way in which a fat, stalled ox glances at any disturber of its peace. For some reason or other he appeared to regard me with a mixture of dislike, strongly mingled with contempt; Chaney, whom he looked at longer, he seemed to comprehend and to have no objection to.
