“You identify these emeralds as yours?”
“No, I can't. I don't see how anybody could identify unset stones,”
said the rector wearily.
“H'm!” Inspector Furnival stopped, nonplussed. “But these exactly
answer to the description that has been circulated, that you yourself
supplied to the police.”
Mr. Collyer's face looked drawn and grey as he turned the stones over
with the tip of his finger.
“Yes, yes! But emeralds look the same, and these seem to fit in their
settings. I—I really can't say anything more definite. I thought mine
were larger.”
The inspector swept the emeralds in their wadded box into a drawer.
“Well, there is no more to be said. We shall have to rely on expert
evidence as to identity. Unless—wouldn't it be possible that young Mr.
Anthony might be able to help us?”
“I should think it extremely unlikely,” said Tony's father decisively.
“In fact I am sure it is impossible. I always took charge of
the emeralds. Tony had not seen them for years before their
disappearance.”
The inspector pushed the drawer to and locked it.
“That is all that can be done this afternoon, then. I quite understood
that you were prepared to be definite with regard to the
identification or I would not have troubled you.”
“I am sorry!” the rector said hesitatingly. “Then—then there is
nothing more?”
“Nothing more!” the inspector responded curtly.
He and John Steadman were standing against the writing-table, in one
drawer of which the emeralds had been deposited. Mr. Collyer paused a
moment near the door and looked at them doubtfully. Once he opened his
mouth as if to speak, then apparently changing his mind closed it
again dumbly.
When the sound of his footsteps had died away on the stone passage
outside, Steadman glanced across at the inspector.
“Unsatisfactory, isn't it?”
“Very,” the inspector returned shortly. “Thank you, sir.” He took a
cigarette from the case Steadman held out to him. “Well, fortunately,
the cross was exhibited at the Great Exhibition in '61, so I think we
shall be able, with the description then given and the expert evidence
of to-day, to reconstruct the cross and make sure about the emeralds.
But what can be wrong with the rector?”
“Is anything wrong with him?” Steadman questioned in his turn as he
lighted a match.
“He looks like a man who has had some sort of a shock,” the inspector
pursued. “I wonder if it means that Mr. Tony——”
“Tony had nothing to do with the loss of the emeralds,” John Steadman
said in his most decided tones. “You can put that out of your mind.”
The inspector paced the narrow confines of his office in Scotland Yard
two or three times before he made any rejoinder. Then as he cast a
lightning glance at Steadman he said tentatively:
“I have sometimes wondered what Mrs. Collyer is like.”
“Not the sort of woman to substitute paste for her own emeralds,”
Steadman said ironically. “No use. You will have to look farther
afield, inspector.”
“I am half inclined to put it down to the Yellow Gang,” the inspector
said doubtfully. “But it differs in several particulars from the work
of the Yellow Dog, notably the substitution of the paste. But—well,
there may have been reasons.”
Still his brow was puckered in a frown as he turned to his notebook.
“Now, Mr. Steadman, I have someone else for you to interview.” He
sounded his bell sharply as he spoke. “Show Mr. Brunton in as soon as
he comes,” he said to the policeman who appeared in answer.
“He is waiting, sir.”
“Oh, good! Let him come in. This Brunton, Mr. Steadman, is one of the
late Mr. Bechcombe's younger clerks. I do not know whether you knew
him.”
John Steadman shook his head.
“No, I have no recollection of any of the clerks but Thompson.”
“He is with Carrington and Cleaver, who are carrying on Mr.
Bechcombe's clients until, if ever, some one takes on the practice,”
pursued the inspector. “And I should like you to hear a story he
brought to me this morning.”
Almost as the last word left his lips, the door opened again and a
lanky, sandy-haired youth was shown in.
The inspector stepped forward.
“Good afternoon, Mr. Brunton. Now I want you just to repeat to this
gentleman, Mr. Steadman, what you told me this morning.”
Mr. Brunton coughed nervously.
“I thought I did right in coming to you.”
“Certainly you did,” the inspector reassured him. “Your evidence is
most important. Now, from the beginning, please, Mr. Brunton.”
“Well, it was last night. I left the office early because I had an
errand to do for Mr. Carrington,” the youth began. He kept his eyes
fixed on the inspector—not once did he glance in Steadman's direction.
His hands twisted themselves nervously together. “It took me some time
longer than I expected and it was getting late when I started home.
You will remember perhaps, inspector, that there was a bit of a fog
here, but on the other side of the river where I had to go it was much
worse, and the farther I went the denser it became. I got out of the
bus at the _Elephant_, which is not far from my rooms, you know.” He
paused.
“I know. Go on, please.”
“Well, I had to walk from there—there's no bus goes anywhere near. The
fog was getting dangerous by then. You couldn't see your hand before
your face, as the saying is. I know the way well enough in the
daylight, but in a fog things look so different. It is a regular
network of small streets behind there, you know, and one seemed just
like the other. I lost my bearings and began to wonder how I was going
to get home. There were no passers-by—I seemed to be the only living
creature out—and I was just making up my mind to ring the bell at one
of the houses and see if anyone could direct me or help me at all,
when a strange thing happened; though I hadn't known there was anyone
about, a voice spoke out of the fog close beside me as it seemed. ‘It
is the only thing to be done—you can't make a mistake.’ The rejoinder
came in a woman's voice. ‘But I can't do it. It wouldn't be safe. They
might follow me. You must shake them off if you have any affection for
me.’ The man's voice said again, ‘If you have any thought for the
future you will get it for me. Would you like to see me in prison and
worse? Would you like to be pointed at as——’ That was all I heard,
sir.” Mr. Brunton turned himself from Mr. Steadman to the inspector,
then back again to Steadman. “I was listening for all I was worth,
trying not to miss a word, when that horrid fog got down my throat and
tickled me, and before I could help myself I had given a great sneeze.
There was a sharp exclamation, and I thought I caught the sound of
footsteps deadened by the fog. That was all I could hear, sir—every
word,” looking from one to the other.
“Very good, Mr. Brunton,” the inspector said as he stopped. “And now
just you tell Mr. Steadman why you listened—why you were anxious to
hear.”
The youth glanced at Steadman in a scared fashion. “I—I listened, sir,
because I recognized the voices, one voice at least for certain—the
man's. It was Mr. Amos Thompson's, the late Mr. Bechcombe's managing
clerk.”
John Steadman raised his eyebrows. “You are sure?”
“Quite certain, as certain as I could be of anything,” asseverated
Brunton. “I knew Mr. Thompson's voice too well to make any mistake,
sir. I had good reason to, for he was for ever nagging at me when I
was at Mr. Bechcombe's. There wouldn't be one of us clerks who
wouldn't recognize Mr. Thompson's voice.”
“Is that so?” Mr. Steadman raised his eyebrows again. “And the other
voice—the woman's?”
Mr. Brunton fidgeted. “I wasn't so certain of that, sir. I hadn't had
so many opportunities of hearing it, you see. But it sounded like Miss
Hoyle's—Mr. Bechcombe's secretary. I heard it at the inquest.”
“I understand you saw absolutely nothing to show that you were right
in either surmise,” John Steadman said, his face showing none of the
surprise he felt at hearing Cecily's name.
“Nothing—nothing at all!” Mr. Brunton confirmed. “But, if I ever heard
it on earth, it was Mr. Thompson's voice I heard then. And I don't
think—I really don't think I was wrong in taking the other for Miss
Hoyle's, as I say I heard it at the inquest, and I took particular
notice of it.”
“Um!” John Steadman stroked his nose meditatively. “How long had you
been in Mr. Bechcombe's office, Mr. Brunton?”
Mr. Brunton hesitated a moment.
“Five years, sir. I began as office boy to—to gain experience, you
know. I was fourteen then and I am nineteen now.”
“No more?” said Mr. Steadman approvingly.
Mr. Brunton, who had looked distinctly depressed at the mention of his
lowly beginning, began to perk up.
“And Mr. Thompson has been managing clerk all the time,” the barrister
went on. “No, I don't think you could very well mistake his voice. But
Miss Hoyle had only been a short time with Mr. Bechcombe, you say—you
had not seen much of her? At the office, I mean, not the inquest.”
“Not much, sir. Because she never came into our office. She always
went into her own by the door next Mr. Bechcombe's room. Most of the
clerks really did not know her by sight at all, let alone recognize
her voice. But it was part of my job to go into Mr. Bechcombe's room
with the midday mail, and more often than not she would be there
taking down Mr. Bechcombe's instructions in shorthand. Very often too
he would make her repeat the last sentence he had given her before he
broke off. It was in that way I got to know her voice a little, for I
never spoke to her beyond passing the time of day if we met
accidentally, for she was always one that kept herself to herself,”
Mr. Brunton concluded, quite out of breath with his long speech.
John Steadman nodded.
“Yes, you would have a fair chance of becoming acquainted with her
voice that way. Better, I think, than at the inquest. The words that
you overheard, I take it you reported as accurately as possible.”
“Oh, yes, sir.” Mr. Brunton moved restlessly from one leg to the
other. “You see, I recognized Mr. Thompson's voice with the first
words and, knowing how important it was that the police should find
him, I listened for all I was worth.”
“I take it from the words you have reported that Thompson had some
hold over the girl,” Mr. Steadman pursued. “Had you previously had any
idea of any connexion between them?”
Mr. Brunton shook his head in emphatic negative.
“Not the least, sir. If you had asked me I shouldn't have thought Mr.
Thompson would have known Miss Hoyle if he had met her.”
“And yet Miss Hoyle's portrait was found in Thompson's room,” Mr.
Steadman said very deliberately. “One might say the only thing that
was found there in fact.”
“Was it, indeed, sir?” Young Brunton looked dumbfounded. “Well, if
they were friends, there was none of us in the office suspected it,”
he finished.
“And that was rather remarkable among such a lot of young men as there
were at Luke Bechcombe's,” remarked John Steadman. “They generally
have their eyes open to everything. Now as to where they were when you
overheard them. You do not think you could recognize the place again?”
“I am afraid not, sir. You see, the fog alters everything so. I seemed
to have been wandering about for hours when I heard Thompson's voice,
and it appeared to me that I walked about for hours afterwards before
the fog lifted. When it did I was quite near home, but I haven't the
least idea whether it meant that I had been sort of walking round
about in a circle, or whether I had been further afield.”
“Anyway we shall have all that neighbourhood combed out,” interposed
Inspector Furnival. “If Mr. Thompson is in hiding anywhere there I
think that we may take it his capture is only a matter of time. I am
much obliged to you, Mr. Brunton. I will let you know in good time
when your evidence is likely to be required.”
“Thank you, sir.” With an awkward circular bow intended to include
both men Mr. Brunton took his departure.
The inspector shut the door behind him.
“What do you think of that?”
“I was surprised,” Steadman answered. “Surprised that they were not
more careful,” he went on. “There is nothing more unsafe than talking
of one's private affairs abroad in a fog. Buses and trains are child's
play to a fog.”
The inspector smiled.
“Oh, well, don't criminals always overlook something? Which reminds
me—this came an hour ago.”
He handed a piece of paper to Steadman.
The latter regarded it doubtfully. It had evidently been torn out of a
notebook, and looked as though it had passed through several hands,
for it was dirty and thumbmarked and frayed at the edges as though it
had been carried about in some one's pocket. Across one corner of it
were scrawled some letters in pencil. He put up his pince-nez and
looked at it more closely. The few words scrawled across it were very
irregularly and illegibly written in printed characters. After
scrutinizing it for some time through his glasses Steadman made them
out to be: “Wednesday night, 21 Burlase Street, Limehouse.
Chink-a-pin.”
“What is to take place at 21 Burlase Street on Wednesday night?” he
questioned as he laid it down.
“A meeting of the Yellow Gang, and I hope the capture of the Yellow
Dog,” the inspector answered pithily and optimistically.
“And this comes from——?” Steadman went on, tapping the paper with his
eyeglasses.
“One of the Gang. It is pretty safe to assume that sooner or later
there will be an informer.”
“You will be there?”
The inspector nodded. “But we are taking no risks. The informer may be
false to both sides. The house will be surrounded. Whole squads of men
are being drafted to the neighbourhood, a few at a time, to-day. I
fancy we shall corner the Yellow Dog at last. With this password I
shall certainly get into the house and arrest the Yellow Dog. Then at
the sound of the whistle the house will be rushed.”
“I will come with you,” said John Steadman. “I fancy an interview with
the Yellow Dog may be extraordinarily interesting.”