Some years ago I enjoyed the unique experience of pursuing a man for
one crime, and getting evidence against him of another. He was
innocent of the misdemeanour, the proof of which I sought, but was
guilty of another most serious offence, yet he and his confederates
escaped scot-free in circumstances which I now purpose to relate.
You may remember that in Rudyard Kipling's story, _Bedalia
Herodsfoot_, the unfortunate woman's husband ran the risk of being
arrested as a simple drunkard, at a moment when the blood of murder
was upon his boots. The case of Ralph Summertrees was rather the
reverse of this. The English authorities were trying to fasten upon
him a crime almost as important as murder, while I was collecting
evidence which proved him guilty of an action much more momentous than
that of drunkenness.
The English authorities have always been good enough, when they
recognise my existence at all, to look down upon me with amused
condescension. If today you ask Spenser Hale, of Scotland Yard, what
he thinks of Eugène Valmont, that complacent man will put on the
superior smile which so well becomes him, and if you are a very
intimate friend of his, he may draw down the lid of his right eye, as
he replies,--
'Oh, yes, a very decent fellow, Valmont, but he's a Frenchman,' as if,
that said, there was no need of further inquiry.
Myself, I like the English detective very much, and if I were to be in
a _mêlée_ tomorrow, there is no man I would rather find beside me than
Spenser Hale. In any situation where a fist that can fell an ox is
desirable, my friend Hale is a useful companion, but for
intellectuality, mental acumen, finesse--ah, well! I am the most
modest of men, and will say nothing.
It would amuse you to see this giant come into my room during an
evening, on the bluff pretence that he wishes to smoke a pipe with me.
There is the same difference between this good-natured giant and
myself as exists between that strong black pipe of his and my delicate
cigarette, which I smoke feverishly when he is present, to protect
myself from the fumes of his terrible tobacco. I look with delight
upon the huge man, who, with an air of the utmost good humour, and a
twinkle in his eye as he thinks he is twisting me about his finger,
vainly endeavours to obtain a hint regarding whatever case is
perplexing him at that moment. I baffle him with the ease that an
active greyhound eludes the pursuit of a heavy mastiff, then at last I
say to him with a laugh,--
'Come _mon ami_ Hale, tell me all about it, and I will help you if I
can.'
Once or twice at the beginning he shook his massive head, and replied
the secret was not his. The last time he did this I assured him that
what he said was quite correct, and then I related full particulars of
the situation in which he found himself, excepting the names, for
these he had not mentioned. I had pieced together his perplexity from
scraps of conversation in his half-hour's fishing for my advice,
which, of course, he could have had for the plain asking. Since that
time he has not come to me except with cases he feels at liberty to
reveal, and one or two complications I have happily been enabled to
unravel for him.
But, staunch as Spenser Hale holds the belief that no detective
service on earth can excel that centring in Scotland Yard, there is
one department of activity in which even he confesses that Frenchmen
are his masters, although he somewhat grudgingly qualifies his
admission by adding that we in France are constantly allowed to do
what is prohibited in England. I refer to the minute search of a house
during the owner's absence. If you read that excellent story, entitled
_The Purloined Letter_, by Edgar Allan Poe, you will find a record of
the kind of thing I mean, which is better than any description I, who
have so often taken part in such a search, can set down.
Now, these people among whom I live are proud of their phrase, 'The
Englishman's house is his castle,' and into that castle even a
policeman cannot penetrate without a legal warrant. This may be all
very well in theory, but if you are compelled to march up to a man's
house, blowing a trumpet, and rattling a snare drum, you need not be
disappointed if you fail to find what you are in search of when all
the legal restrictions are complied with. Of course, the English are a
very excellent people, a fact to which I am always proud to bear
testimony, but it must be admitted that for cold common sense the
French are very much their superiors. In Paris, if I wish to obtain an
incriminating document, I do not send the possessor a _carte postale_
to inform him of my desire, and in this procedure the French people
sanely acquiesce. I have known men who, when they go out to spend an
evening on the boulevards, toss their bunch of keys to the concierge,
saying,--
'If you hear the police rummaging about while I'm away, pray assist
them, with an expression of my distinguished consideration.'
I remember while I was chief detective in the service of the French
Government being requested to call at a certain hour at the private
hotel of the Minister for Foreign Affairs. It was during the time that
Bismarck meditated a second attack upon my country, and I am happy to
say that I was then instrumental in supplying the Secret Bureau with
documents which mollified that iron man's purpose, a fact which I
think entitled me to my country's gratitude, not that I ever even
hinted such a claim when a succeeding ministry forgot my services. The
memory of a republic, as has been said by a greater man than I, is
short. However, all that has nothing to do with the incident I am
about to relate. I merely mention the crisis to excuse a momentary
forgetfulness on my part which in any other country might have been
followed by serious results to myself. But in France--ah, we
understand those things, and nothing happened.
I am the last person in the world to give myself away, as they say in
the great West. I am usually the calm, collected Eugène Valmont whom
nothing can perturb, but this was a time of great tension, and I had
become absorbed. I was alone with the minister in his private house,
and one of the papers he desired was in his bureau at the Ministry for
Foreign Affairs; at least, he thought so, and said,--
'Ah, it is in my desk at the bureau. How annoying! I must send for
it!'
'No, Excellency,' I cried, springing up in a self-oblivion the most
complete, 'it is here.' Touching the spring of a secret drawer, I
opened it, and taking out the document he wished, handed it to him.
It was not until I met his searching look, and saw the faint smile on
his lips that I realised what I had done.
'Valmont,' he said quietly, 'on whose behalf did you search my house?'
'Excellency,' I replied in tones no less agreeable than his own,
'tonight at your orders I pay a domiciliary visit to the mansion of
Baron Dumoulaine, who stands high in the estimation of the President
of the French Republic. If either of those distinguished gentlemen
should learn of my informal call and should ask me in whose interests
I made the domiciliary visit, what is it you wish that I should
reply?'
'You should reply, Valmont, that you did it in the interests of the
Secret Service.'
'I shall not fail to do so, Excellency, and in answer to your question
just now, I had the honour of searching this mansion in the interests
of the Secret Service of France.'
The Minister for Foreign Affairs laughed; a hearty laugh that
expressed no resentment.
'I merely wished to compliment you, Valmont, on the efficiency of your
search, and the excellence of your memory. This is indeed the document
which I thought was left in my office.'
I wonder what Lord Lansdowne would say if Spenser Hale showed an equal
familiarity with his private papers! But now that we have returned to
our good friend Hale, we must not keep him waiting any longer.
* * * * *
I well remember the November day when I first heard of the Summertrees
case, because there hung over London a fog so thick that two or three
times I lost my way, and no cab was to be had at any price. The few
cabmen then in the streets were leading their animals slowly along,
making for their stables. It was one of those depressing London days
which filled me with ennui and a yearning for my own clear city of
Paris, where, if we are ever visited by a slight mist, it is at least
clean, white vapour, and not this horrible London mixture saturated
with suffocating carbon. The fog was too thick for any passer to read
the contents bills of the newspapers plastered on the pavement, and as
there were probably no races that day the newsboys were shouting what
they considered the next most important event--the election of an
American President. I bought a paper and thrust it into my pocket. It
was late when I reached my flat, and, after dining there, which was an
unusual thing for me to do, I put on my slippers, took an easy-chair
before the fire, and began to read my evening journal. I was
distressed to learn that the eloquent Mr. Bryan had been defeated. I
knew little about the silver question, but the man's oratorical powers
had appealed to me, and my sympathy was aroused because he owned many
silver mines, and yet the price of the metal was so low that
apparently he could not make a living through the operation of them.
But, of course, the cry that he was a plutocrat, and a reputed
millionaire over and over again, was bound to defeat him in a
democracy where the average voter is exceedingly poor and not
comfortably well-to-do as is the case with our peasants in France. I
always took great interest in the affairs of the huge republic to the
west, having been at some pains to inform myself accurately regarding
its politics, and although, as my readers know, I seldom quote
anything complimentary that is said of me, nevertheless, an American
client of mine once admitted that he never knew the true inwardness--I
think that was the phrase he used--of American politics until he heard
me discourse upon them. But then, he added, he had been a very busy
man all his life.
I had allowed my paper to slip to the floor, for in very truth the fog
was penetrating even into my flat, and it was becoming difficult to
read, notwithstanding the electric light. My man came in, and
announced that Mr. Spenser Hale wished to see me, and, indeed, any
night, but especially when there is rain or fog outside, I am more
pleased to talk with a friend than to read a newspaper.
'_Mon Dieu_, my dear Monsieur Hale, it is a brave man you are to
venture out in such a fog as is abroad tonight.'
'Ah, Monsieur Valmont,' said Hale with pride, 'you cannot raise a fog
like this in Paris!'
'No. There you are supreme,' I admitted, rising and saluting my
visitor, then offering him a chair.
'I see you are reading the latest news,' he said, indicating my
newspaper, 'I am very glad that man Bryan is defeated. Now we shall
have better times.'
I waved my hand as I took my chair again. I will discuss many things
with Spenser Hale, but not American politics; he does not understand
them. It is a common defect of the English to suffer complete
ignorance regarding the internal affairs of other countries.
'It is surely an important thing that brought you out on such a night
as this. The fog must be very thick in Scotland Yard.'
This delicate shaft of fancy completely missed him, and he answered
stolidly,--
'It's thick all over London, and, indeed, throughout most of England.'
'Yes, it is,' I agreed, but he did not see that either.
Still a moment later he made a remark which, if it had come from some
people I know, might have indicated a glimmer of comprehension.
'You are a very, very clever man, Monsieur Valmont, so all I need say
is that the question which brought me here is the same as that on
which the American election was fought. Now, to a countryman, I should
be compelled to give further explanation, but to you, monsieur, that
will not be necessary.'
There are times when I dislike the crafty smile and partial closing of
the eyes which always distinguishes Spenser Hale when he places on the
table a problem which he expects will baffle me. If I said he never
did baffle me, I would be wrong, of course, for sometimes the utter
simplicity of the puzzles which trouble him leads me into an intricate
involution entirely unnecessary in the circumstances.
I pressed my fingertips together, and gazed for a few moments at the
ceiling. Hale had lit his black pipe, and my silent servant placed at
his elbow the whisky and soda, then tiptoed out of the room. As the
door closed my eyes came from the ceiling to the level of Hale's
expansive countenance.
'Have they eluded you?' I asked quietly.
'Who?'
'The coiners.'
Hale's pipe dropped from his jaw, but he managed to catch it before it
reached the floor. Then he took a gulp from the tumbler.
'That was just a lucky shot,' he said.
'_Parfaitement_,' I replied carelessly.
'Now, own up, Valmont, wasn't it?'
I shrugged my shoulders. A man cannot contradict a guest in his own
house.
'Oh, stow that!' cried Hale impolitely. He is a trifle prone to strong
and even slangy expressions when puzzled. 'Tell me how you guessed
it.'
'It is very simple, _mon ami_. The question on which the American
election was fought is the price of silver, which is so low that it
has ruined Mr. Bryan, and threatens to ruin all the farmers of the west
who possess silver mines on their farms. Silver troubled America, ergo
silver troubles Scotland Yard.
'Very well, the natural inference is that someone has stolen bars of
silver. But such a theft happened three months ago, when the metal
was being unloaded from a German steamer at Southampton, and my dear
friend Spenser Hale ran down the thieves very cleverly as they were
trying to dissolve the marks off the bars with acid. Now crimes do not
run in series, like the numbers in roulette at Monte Carlo. The
thieves are men of brains. They say to themselves, "What chance is
there successfully to steal bars of silver while Mr. Hale is at
Scotland Yard?" Eh, my good friend?'
'Really, Valmont,' said Hale, taking another sip, 'sometimes you
almost persuade me that you have reasoning powers.'
'Thanks, comrade. Then it is not a _theft_ of silver we have now to
deal with. But the American election was fought on the _price_ of
silver. If silver had been high in cost, there would have been no
silver question. So the crime that is bothering you arises through the
low price of silver, and this suggests that it must be a case of
illicit coinage, for there the low price of the metal comes in. You
have, perhaps, found a more subtle illegitimate act going forward than
heretofore. Someone is making your shillings and your half-crowns from
real silver, instead of from baser metal, and yet there is a large
profit which has not hitherto been possible through the high price of
silver. With the old conditions you were familiar, but this new
element sets at nought all your previous formulae. That is how I
reasoned the matter out.'
'Well, Valmont, you have hit it. I'll say that for you; you have hit
it. There is a gang of expert coiners who are putting out real silver
money, and making a clear shilling on the half-crown. We can find no
trace of the coiners, but we know the man who is shoving the stuff.'
'That ought to be sufficient,' I suggested.
'Yes, it should, but it hasn't proved so up to date. Now I came
tonight to see if you would do one of your French tricks for us, right
on the quiet.'
'What French trick, Monsieur Spenser Hale?' I inquired with some
asperity, forgetting for the moment that the man invariably became
impolite when he grew excited.
'No offence intended,' said this blundering officer, who really is a
good-natured fellow, but always puts his foot in it, and then
apologises. 'I want someone to go through a man's house without a
search warrant, spot the evidence, let me know, and then we'll rush
the place before he has time to hide his tracks.'
'Who is this man, and where does he live?'
'His name is Ralph Summertrees, and he lives in a very natty little
bijou residence, as the advertisements call it, situated in no less a
fashionable street than Park Lane.'
'I see. What has aroused your suspicions against him?'
'Well, you know, that's an expensive district to live in; it takes a
bit of money to do the trick. This Summertrees has no ostensible
business, yet every Friday he goes to the United Capital Bank in
Piccadilly, and deposits a bag of swag, usually all silver coin.'
'Yes, and this money?'
'This money, so far as we can learn, contains a good many of these new
pieces which never saw the British Mint.'
'It's not all the new coinage, then?'
'Oh, no, he's a bit too artful for that. You see, a man can go round
London, his pockets filled with new coinage five-shilling pieces, buy
this, that, and the other, and come home with his change in legitimate
coins of the realm--half-crowns, florins, shillings, sixpences, and
all that.'
'I see. Then why don't you nab him one day when his pockets are
stuffed with illegitimate five-shilling pieces?'
'That could be done, of course, and I've thought of it, but you see,
we want to land the whole gang. Once we arrested him, without knowing
where the money came from, the real coiners would take flight.'
'How do you know he is not the real coiner himself?'
Now poor Hale is as easy to read as a book. He hesitated before
answering this question, and looked confused as a culprit caught in
some dishonest act.
'You need not be afraid to tell me,' I said soothingly after a pause.
'You have had one of your men in Mr. Summertrees' house, and so learned
that he is not the coiner. But your man has not succeeded in getting
you evidence to incriminate other people.'
'You've about hit it again, Monsieur Valmont. One of my men has been
Summertrees' butler for two weeks, but, as you say, he has found no
evidence.'
'Is he still butler?'
'Yes.'
'Now tell me how far you have got. You know that Summertrees deposits
a bag of coin every Friday in the Piccadilly bank, and I suppose the
bank has allowed you to examine one or two of the bags.'
'Yes, sir, they have, but, you see, banks are very difficult to treat
with. They don't like detectives bothering round, and whilst they do
not stand out against the law, still they never answer any more
questions than they're asked, and Mr. Summertrees has been a good
customer at the United Capital for many years.'
'Haven't you found out where the money comes from?'
'Yes, we have; it is brought there night after night by a man who
looks like a respectable city clerk, and he puts it into a large safe,
of which he holds the key, this safe being on the ground floor, in the
dining-room.'
'Haven't you followed the clerk?'
'Yes. He sleeps in the Park Lane house every night, and goes up in the
morning to an old curiosity shop in Tottenham Court Road, where he
stays all day, returning with his bag of money in the evening.'
'Why don't you arrest and question him?'
'Well, Monsieur Valmont, there is just the same objection to his
arrest as to that of Summertrees himself. We could easily arrest both,
but we have not the slightest evidence against either of them, and
then, although we put the go-betweens in clink, the worst criminals of
the lot would escape.'
'Nothing suspicious about the old curiosity shop?'
'No. It appears to be perfectly regular.'
'This game has been going on under your noses for how long?'
'For about six weeks.'
'Is Summertrees a married man?'
'No.'
'Are there any women servants in the house?'
'No, except that three charwomen come in every morning to do up the
rooms.'
'Of what is his household comprised?'
'There is the butler, then the valet, and last, the French cook.'
'Ah,' cried I, 'the French cook! This case interests me. So
Summertrees has succeeded in completely disconcerting your man? Has he
prevented him going from top to bottom of the house?'
'Oh no, he has rather assisted him than otherwise. On one occasion he
went to the safe, took out the money, had Podgers--that's my chap's
name--help him to count it, and then actually sent Podgers to the bank
with the bag of coin.'
'And Podgers has been all over the place?'
'Yes.'
'Saw no signs of a coining establishment?'
'No. It is absolutely impossible that any coining can be done there.
Besides, as I tell you, that respectable clerk brings him the money.'
'I suppose you want me to take Podgers' position?'
'Well, Monsieur Valmont, to tell you the truth, I would rather you
didn't. Podgers has done everything a man can do, but I thought if you
got into the house, Podgers assisting, you might go through it night
after night at your leisure.'
'I see. That's just a little dangerous in England. I think I should
prefer to assure myself the legitimate standing of being the amiable
Podgers' successor. You say that Summertrees has no business?'
'Well, sir, not what you might call a business. He is by the way of
being an author, but I don't count that any business.'
'Oh, an author, is he? When does he do his writing?'
'He locks himself up most of the day in his study.'
'Does he come out for lunch?'
'No; he lights a little spirit lamp inside, Podgers tells me, and
makes himself a cup of coffee, which he takes with a sandwich or two.'
'That's rather frugal fare for Park Lane.'
'Yes, Monsieur Valmont, it is, but he makes it up in the evening, when
he has a long dinner with all them foreign kickshaws you people like,
done by his French cook.'
'Sensible man! Well, Hale, I see I shall look forward with pleasure to
making the acquaintance of Mr. Summertrees. Is there any restriction on
the going and coming of your man Podgers?'
'None in the least. He can get away either night or day.'
'Very good, friend Hale, bring him here tomorrow, as soon as our
author locks himself up in his study, or rather, I should say, as soon
as the respectable clerk leaves for Tottenham Court Road, which I
should guess, as you put it, is about half an hour after his master
turns the key of the room in which he writes.'
'You are quite right in that guess, Valmont. How did you hit it?'
'Merely a surmise, Hale. There is a good deal of oddity about that
Park Lane house, so it doesn't surprise me in the least that the
master gets to work earlier in the morning than the man. I have also
a suspicion that Ralph Summertrees knows perfectly well what the
estimable Podgers is there for.'
'What makes you think that?'
'I can give no reason except that my opinion of the acuteness of
Summertrees has been gradually rising all the while you were speaking,
and at the same time my estimate of Podgers' craft has been as
steadily declining. However, bring the man here tomorrow, that I may
ask him a few questions.'
* * * * *
Next day, about eleven o'clock, the ponderous Podgers, hat in hand,
followed his chief into my room. His broad, impassive, immobile smooth
face gave him rather more the air of a genuine butler than I had
expected, and this appearance, of course, was enhanced by his livery.
His replies to my questions were those of a well-trained servant who
will not say too much unless it is made worth his while. All in all,
Podgers exceeded my expectations, and really my friend Hale had some
justification for regarding him, as he evidently did, a triumph in his
line.
'Sit down, Mr. Hale, and you, Podgers.'
The man disregarded my invitation, standing like a statue until his
chief made a motion; then he dropped into a chair. The English are
great on discipline.
'Now, Mr. Hale, I must first congratulate you on the make-up of
Podgers. It is excellent. You depend less on artificial assistance
than we do in France, and in that I think you are right.'
'Oh, we know a bit over here, Monsieur Valmont,' said Hale, with
pardonable pride.
'Now then, Podgers, I want to ask you about this clerk. What time does
he arrive in the evening?'
'At prompt six, sir.'
'Does he ring, or let himself in with a latchkey?'
'With a latchkey, sir.'
'How does he carry the money?'
'In a little locked leather satchel, sir, flung over his shoulder.'
'Does he go direct to the dining-room?'
'Yes, sir.'
'Have you seen him unlock the safe and put in the money?'
'Yes, sir.'
'Does the safe unlock with a word or a key?'
'With a key, sir. It's one of the old-fashioned kind.'
'Then the clerk unlocks his leather money bag?'
'Yes, sir.'
'That's three keys used within as many minutes. Are they separate or
in a bunch?'
'In a bunch, sir.'
'Did you ever see your master with this bunch of keys?'
'No, sir.'
'You saw him open the safe once, I am told?'
'Yes, sir.'
'Did he use a separate key, or one of a bunch?'