“Can't hear of Brooklyn Terrace anywhere, sir.” The speaker was Mr.
Steadman's chauffeur.
He had been going slowly the last few minutes, making ineffectual
inquiries of the passers-by. Inside the car Mr. Steadman had Inspector
Furnival seated beside him.
“Better drive to the nearest post-office and ask there. They will be
sure to know.”
“Call this North Kensington, do they?” the barrister grumbled, as the
car started again. “Seems to me in my young days it used to be called
Notting Hill.”
The inspector laughed. “Think North Kensington sounds a bit more
classy, I expect. Not but what there are some very decent old houses
hereabouts. Oh, by Jove! Is this Brooklyn Terrace?” as the car turned
into a side street that had apparently fallen on evil days. Each house
evidently contained several tenants. In some cases slatternly women
stood on the doorsteps, shouting remarks to their neighbours, while
grubby-faced children played about in the gutter or crawled about on
the doorsteps of their different establishments. It scarcely seemed
the place in which would be found the missing managing clerk of
Messrs. Bechcombe and Turner's establishment.
No. 10 was a little tidier than its neighbours, that is to say the
door was shut and there were no children on the doorstep.
The chauffeur pulled up.
“This is it, sir.”
Mr. Steadman eyed it doubtfully.
“Well, inspector, I expect this really is the place.”
“It is the address in Mr. Bechcombe's book right enough, sir. As to
whether Mr. Amos Thompson lives here—well, we shall soon see.”
He got out first and knocked at the door, the barrister following
meekly. The car waiting at the side was the object of enormous
interest to the denizens of the street. There was no response to the
knock for some time. At last a small child in the next area called
out:
“You'll have to go down, they don't never come to that there door!”
Mr. Steadman put up his glass and peered over the palings. A
slatternly-looking woman was just looking out of the back door.
“Can you let us in, my good woman?” the barrister called out. “We want
Mr. Thompson.”
The woman muttered something, probably scenting a tip, and presently
they heard her clattering along the passage.
“Mr. Thompson, is it?” she said as she admitted them. “His room is up
at the top.”
“Is he at home?” Inspector Furnival questioned.
The woman stared at him. “I don't know. If you just like to walk up
you will find out.”
The stairs were wide, for the house had seen better days, but
indescribably dirty. Up at the very top it was a little cleaner. There
were several doors on the landing but nothing to show which, if any,
was Thompson's. As they stood there, wondering which it could be, an
old man came up behind them.
“Were you looking for anyone, gentlemen?” he asked, in a weak,
quavering voice that told that, like the house, he had fallen on evil
times.
The inspector turned to him. “I want Mr. Amos Thompson.”
The old man pointed to the door just in front of them.
“That is his door, but I doubt if you will find him in. I haven't seen
him since yesterday morning. I don't think he slept here.”
“Do you often see him?” the inspector questioned as he applied his
knuckles to the door.
The old man looked surprised at the question. “Why, yes, sir, I have
only been here a month, but I have found Mr. Thompson a remarkably
pleasant gentleman. He always passes the time of day with me and often
stops for a word over the day's news. An uncommonly nice man is Mr.
Thompson. It has often crossed my mind to wonder why he stayed here,
where there is no comfort to speak of for the likes of him.”
The inspector and Mr. Steadman wondered too, as they waited there,
while no answer came to the former's repeated knocking.
A room in No. 10 Brooklyn Terrace certainly seemed no fitting home for
Amos Thompson with his handsome salary.
“We must get in somehow,” the inspector said to Mr. Steadman. Then he
turned to the old man opposite who was watching them with frightened
eyes. “Has anyone else a key to these rooms, a charwoman or anybody?”
The man shook his head.
“We all do for ourselves, here, sir. We don't afford charwomen and
such-like. As for getting in—well, I expect the landlord has keys. He
is on the first floor. But I do not think he would open Mr. Thompson's
door without——”
“Is this landlord likely to be at home now?” the inspector
interrupted.
“He is at home, sir. I saw him as I came upstairs.”
The inspector took out his card. “Will you show him this and say that
Mr. Thompson cannot be found. He disappeared under peculiar
circumstances yesterday and, since he is not here, we must enter his
room to see whether we can find any clue to his whereabouts.”
The man visibly paled as he read the name on the card. Then he rapidly
disappeared down the stairs. Mr. Steadman looked across at the
inspector.
“Queer affair this! What the deuce does the fellow mean by putting up
at a place like this?”
“Well, he isn't extravagant in the living line!” the inspector said
with a grin.
John Steadman raised his eyebrows. “Not here!”
At this moment the landlord arrived with the keys. Quite evidently his
curiosity had been excited by the advent of the visitors to his
lodger. Probably he had been expecting his summons. He held Inspector
Furnival's card in his hand.
“I understand I have no choice, gentlemen.”
“None!” the inspector said grimly.
The landlord made no further demur, but unlocking the door he flung it
open and stood back. The others waited for a minute in the doorway and
looked round. At first sight nothing could have been less likely to
give away the occupier's secrets than this room. It was quite a good
size with a couple of windows, and a small bed in a recess with a
curtain hung over it; an oil lamp stood before the fireplace. The
floor was covered with linoleum, there was no carpet, not even a rug.
A solid square oak table stood in the middle of the room and there
were three equally solid-looking chairs. The only other piece of
furniture in the room was a movable corner cupboard standing at the
side of the window. The inspector went over and threw the door open.
Inside there was a cup and saucer, a teapot and tea-caddy, a bottle of
ink, and a book upon which the inspector immediately pounced. He went
through it from end to end, he shook it, he banged it on the table; a
post card fell from it; the inspector stared at it, then with a
puzzled frown he handed it to Mr. Steadman. The barrister glanced at
it curiously. On the back was a portrait of a girl—evidently the work
of an amateur.
“Do you know who that is?” questioned the inspector.
Mr. Steadman shook his head. “It is no one that I have ever seen
before. Do you mean that you do?”
“That is a likeness—very badly taken, I grant you—but an unmistakable
likeness of Miss Hoyle, the late Mr. Bechcombe's secretary.”
Mr. Steadman was startled for once. “Good Lord! Do you mean that he
was in love with her too?”
“Oh, I don't know,” said the inspector, taking possession of the post
card once more. “Elderly men take queer fancies sometimes, but I
haven't had any hint of this hitherto. However, I will make a few
inquiries with a view to ascertaining whether Mr. Tony Collyer has a
rival.”
“Poor Tony!” said the barrister indulgently.
He took up the book which the inspector had thrown down. It was a
detective novel of the lightest and most lurid kind, and it bore the
label of a big and fashionable library. He made a note of it at once.
The inspector went on with his survey. Beside the bedstead, behind the
curtain, there stood a small tripod washing-stand with the usual
apparatus. The bed in itself was enough to arouse their curiosity.
Upon the chain mattress lay one of hard flock with one hard pillow,
and an eiderdown quilt rolled up at the bottom. Of other bedclothing
there was not a vestige, neither was there any sign of any clothing
found about the room, with the exception of a pair of very old
slippers originally worked in cross stitch, the pattern of which was
now indecipherable. The inspector peered round everywhere. He turned
over the top mattress, he felt it all over. He moved the wash-stand
and the corner cupboard, he looked in the open fireplace which
apparently had not been used for years, but not so much as the very
tiniest scrap of paper rewarded him. At last he turned to the
barrister.
“Nothing more to be done here, I think, sir.” He took up the book and
the slippers and moved to the door.
John Steadman followed him silently. His strong face bore a very
worried, harassed expression.
Outside the landlord stopped them.
“Gentlemen, I hope it is understood that I have no responsibility with
regard to this raid on Mr. Thompson's property?”
“Quite, quite!” assented the inspector. “Refer Mr. Thompson to me if
you should see him again.”
“Which I hope I shall,” the landlord pursued, following them down the
stairs. “For a better tenant I never had; punctual with his rent, and
always quiet and quite the gentleman.”
Inspector Furnival stopped short. “How long has he lived with you?”
The man scratched his head. “A matter of four years or more, and
always brought the rent to me, I never had to ask for it. I wish there
were more like him.”
“Did you see much of him?”
“Only passing the time of day on the stairs, and when he came to pay
his rent which he did regularly every Saturday morning.”
“That room does not look as if it had been slept in or eaten in,” John
Steadman said abruptly.
The landlord stared at him.
“Well, we don't bother about our neighbour's business in Brooklyn
Terrace, sir. But, if he didn't want the room to sleep in or live in,
why did he rent it?”
“Oh,” said the barrister warily, “that is just what we should like to
know.”
With a nod of farewell the two men went on. They got into the waiting
car in silence. With a glance at the inspector John Steadman gave the
address of the library from which Thompson's book had been procured.
Then as the car started and he threw himself back on his seat he
observed:
“Admirably stage-managed!”
The inspector raised his eyebrows. “As how?”
“Do you imagine those people know no more than they say of Thompson?”
“They may. On the other hand it is quite possible they do not,” the
inspector answered doubtfully.
“That room had been arranged for some such emergency as has arisen,”
Steadman went on. “Thompson has never lived there. But he came there
for letters or something. He has some place of concealment very likely
quite near. I have no doubt that either of those men could have told
us more. I expect they will give the show away if a reward is
offered.”
“If——” the inspector repeated. “I don't quite agree with you, Mr.
Steadman. I think those men were speaking the truth, and I doubt
whether they knew any more of Thompson than they said. The man, who as
you say, has so admirably stage-managed that room would hardly be
likely to give himself away by making unnecessary confidants. But now
I wonder for whose benefit this scene was originally staged?”
The barrister drew in his lips. “Don't you think Luke Bechcombe's
murder answers your question?”
“No, I don't!” said the inspector bluntly. “Thompson was a wrong 'un,
but at present I do not see any connexion with the murder at all! They
are at it now, full swing!” For as they neared Notting Hill Gate they
could hear the voices of the newsboys calling out their papers—“Murder
of a well-known Solicitor. Missing Clerk!” Up by the station the
newsboys exhibited lurid headlines.
They bought a handful of papers and unfolded them as they bowled
swiftly across to the library. In most cases the murder of the
solicitor occupied the greater part of the front page. The
disappearance of the managing clerk was made the most of. But in
several there were hints of the mysterious visitor, veiled surmises as
to her business and identity. Altogether the Crow's Inn Tragedy, as
the papers were beginning to call it, seemed to contain all the
materials for a modern sensational drama.
At the library they both got out. The section devoted to T's was at
the farther end. A pleasant-looking girl was handing out books.
Seizing his opportunity the inspector went forward and held out the
volume.
“I have found this book under rather peculiar circumstances. Can you
tell me by whom it was borrowed?”
For a moment the girl seemed undecided; then, murmuring a few
unintelligible words, she went round to the manager's desk. That
functionary came back with her.
“I hear you want to know who borrowed this book, but it is not our
custom to give particulars——”
“I know it is not.” The inspector held out his card. “But I think you
will have to make an exception in my case.”
The manager put up his pince-nez and glanced at the card, and then at
the inspector. Then he signed to an assistant to bring him the book in
which subscribers' names were entered, and spoke to her in a low tone.
She looked frightened as she glanced at the inspector.
“It was borrowed by a Mr. Thompson, sir, address 10 Brooklyn Terrace,
North Kensington. He is an old subscriber.”
“Did he come for the books himself?” the inspector questioned. “Can
you describe him?”
“There—there wasn't much to describe,” the girl faltered. “He had a
brown beard and some of his front teeth were missing, and he nearly
always wore those big, horn-rimmed glasses.”
“Height?” questioned the inspector sharply.
“Well, he wasn't very tall nor very short,” was the unsatisfactory
reply.
“Thin or stout?”
“Not much of either!” The girl twisted her hands about, evidently
wishing herself far away.
The inspector deserted the topic of Mr. Thompson's appearance. He held
up the book.
“When was this taken out?”
The manager glanced at a list of volumes opposite the subscribers'
names.
“Last Thursday. I may say that Mr. Thompson always wanted books of
this class—detective fiction, and he literally devoured them. He
always expected a new one to be ready for him, and he was inclined to
be unpleasant if he had for the time being exhausted the supply. He
generally called here every day. This is an unusually long interval if
he has not called since Thursday.”
“Um!” The inspector glanced at Mr. Steadman. Then he turned back to
the manager. “I am obliged by your courtesy, sir. Would you add to it,
should Mr. Thompson call or send again, by ringing me up at Scotland
Yard? The book we will leave with you.”