“You see,” said Grimsby, plaintively, as the cab threaded dingy
highways, “there is absolutely no motive. Pyke Webley seems to have
been a decent, clean-living man, with absolutely no vices as far as I
can gather. Of course, I have tried to find a woman in the case, but
the only women I’ve found are heartbroken about his death. A most
popular chap. Revenge is out of the question; robbery is out of the
question; and I’d take my oath that jealousy is out of the question.
So what am I to make of it?”
“He was strangled?”
“Yes.” Grimsby nodded. “By a very powerful man. His face is horrible
to see, and there are blue weals on his neck where the strangler’s
fingers bit into the flesh.”
“Who saw him last, alive?”
“The door-keeper of the Ham Bone Club,” came the answer, promptly. “He
dined there, stayed an hour talking to friends and then went out,
saying that he had work to do at his studio. The studio is separated
from the house by a small garden and can be entered direct from a side
entrance. There are only two servants--he was a bachelor--a cook
general and a man who has been with him for years. Neither of them
heard him come into the house, so that we presume he went straight
into the studio. Early this morning a charwoman, who comes daily,
finding the studio door locked (I mean the one that opens on the
garden) reported this to Parker (that’s the man’s name) and he came
down with the key.”
“But,” I interrupted, “Parker must surely have known before this that
his master was not in the house?”
“No!” Grimsby shook his head emphatically. “Mr. Webley often worked
late and Parker had orders never to disturb him until his bell rang.”
“I see,” said I. “So they unlocked the studio----”
“Yes,” Grimsby went on, “and found him there--lying strangled on the
floor.”
“How long had he been dead?”
“Well, the police surgeon says several hours. Everything points to the
fact that it happened shortly after he entered the place.”
“Someone may have been concealed there,” I suggested.
“God knows!” Grimsby muttered. “I can’t find a thing to work upon. And
in a case like this the first twelve hours are important. But here we
are,” he added, nervously.
At the head of that blind alley which shelters the
all-but-indescribable establishment of Moris Klaw, we directed the
taxi man to wait. This was a foggy afternoon and only dimly could we
discern the lights in front of the shop. A chill in the atmosphere
told of the nearness of old Father Thames, and as we approached that
stacked-up lumber which represented the visible stock-in-trade of the
proprietor, a singular piece of human flotsam was revealed propped
against the door-post, a fragment of cigarette adhering to the corner
of his mouth and threatening at any moment to ignite the stained and
walrus-like moustache which distinguished William, Moris Klaw’s
salesman.
“Good afternoon,” I said; “will you tell Mr. Moris Klaw that I have
called?”
“Certainly, sir,” wheezed the inebriate. “Great pleasure, sir, I’m
sure, sir.”
William paused, turned, and looked back.
“Do you mind a-waitin’ outside?” he added. “There’s a boy with red
’air ’angin’ about somewhere as ’as got ’is eye on this ’ere golf
club”--indicating a dilapidated niblick. “If we all goes in ’e’ll nip
orf with it.”
Accordingly we lingered, and:
“Moris Klaw! Moris Klaw! The devil’s come for you!” screeched the
parrot who mounted guard within.
Presently came Klaw’s unmistakable deep, rumbling voice from the
interior gloom:
“Ah! Good afternoon, Mr. Searles! Is it Detective-Inspector Grimsby
you have with you? Good afternoon, Mr. Grimsby.”
He advanced through the odorous shadows, a strange, a striking figure
and--
“Behold!” he said, “_I_ have my hat and _you_ have your cab. It is to
Chelsea you take me? Yes?”
From the lining of the flat-topped hat he took out his cylindrical
scent spray and played its contents upon his high, bald crown.
“Verbena,” he rumbled. “My guinea-pigs, they detest it, but I find it
so refreshing.” He replaced the spray in the hat, the hat on his
crown. “I have recently bought a fine pair of armadillos,” he
explained, “and they have an odour peculiar which, to me, is
objectionable.”
He regarded William, who was glancing suspiciously up and down the
narrow alley.
“William,” he admonished, “cease to dwell upon the youth with red
hair. He becomes with you an obsession. Give the sheldrake some fresh
seaweed, and if the hedgehogs continue to refuse apples, they may have
each a small piece of raw steak.”
He approached the waiting taxi cab, and on the step he paused.
“Mr. Searles, I shall buy no more hedgehogs. They are not only
delicate in captivity but one was in my bed last night.”
We all entered the cab; and:
“Now, Mr. Grimsby,” Moris Klaw continued, “tell me all about this poor
fellow who is murdered. I am expecting you. I see it is not simple. I
say, ‘The old fool from Wapping is wanted here.’”