ON THE HEELS OF JAMES MULLEN
I had already decided that my next destination must be Stanby, where it
would be necessary to pay a visit to Professor Lawrance’s hair-cutting
establishment. But first I had to read the letters I had secured, so
I turned into a small quiet-looking hotel and, having ordered dinner,
asked that I might have the use of a bedroom. Then I rang for a jug
of boiling water, and on its arrival I dived into the folds of my
umbrella, and having brought up the two epistles which were there
secreted I proceeded to hold them over the steam until the gum was so
moist that it was possible to open them.
The letter for Green was, as I have said, directed to himself in his
own writing. It contained nothing more important than a sheet of
blank notepaper, which, as the reader will already have surmised, had
evidently been sent as a “blind,” its purpose being to afford the
inquiry agent an excuse for calling at the shop where it had been
delivered.
The letter addressed to Mr. Henry Jeanes--that which had attracted
my attention from the fact of its bearing the postmark of the very
town in Norway where I had reason to believe Mullen’s sister was
staying--promised to be more interesting, and it was with no little
eagerness that I opened it and read as follows:--
“JAMES,--Your letter to hand. I cannot reply at present, as Stanley
has gone to Bergen; but I will write you again on his return.
“F.”
Though short, and unimportant as regards contents, this letter was
of the highest importance in other respects. Firstly, because it was
evidently from Mrs. Stanley Burgoyne, and intended for the eye of James
Mullen, and so in every way confirmed the genuineness of the letter I
had found in Green’s cigar-case; and secondly, because it disclosed
some information that I might otherwise have had much difficulty in
discovering--the name under which Mullen’s correspondence was being
addressed to him.
It was of the highest importance--if Mullen was to fall into the
trap which I was preparing for him--that he should have no cause to
suspect his correspondence was again being tampered with; so, as it
was possible that Mrs. Burgoyne might refer to this epistle in a later
letter, I carefully resealed the note and handed it to the postman,
whom I saw delivering letters in the street where the shop whence I had
obtained it was situated.
“What’s this?” he said when he had looked at it.
“You dropped it when making your last call,” I answered.
He looked surprised at first, and afterwards suspicious. “I don’t
remember seeing that letter when I sorted my delivery,” he said; “and
I ain’t in the habit of dropping letters in the street--been at it too
long for that. How do I know this ain’t a put-up job?”
“Give it me back at once, you insolent fellow,” I replied, “and I’ll
do what I ought to have done at first--take it to the head office and
report you to the postmaster for negligence. I go out of my way to do
you a courtesy, and perhaps save you from getting into trouble for
carelessness in the execution of your duty, and I get insulted for my
pains. Give it me back, or come with me to the head office and we’ll
soon put this matter right.”
“I humbly ask your pardon, and hope there is no offence, sir, I am
sure,” he answered, with a change of manner which showed that he did
not relish the threat of being reported for negligence. “I’ll see the
letter’s delivered all right, and I’m much obliged to you, sir, I am
sure, and hope you won’t think no more of it.”
“I’m not sure that I oughtn’t to take the letter to the office now,” I
said. “However, I don’t want to get a man into trouble for an accident,
but keep a civil tongue in your head another time, young man, or you’ll
not get off so cheaply as you have this.”
He touched his cap, and promising to profit by my advice, slipped the
letter in with what I supposed were others bearing the same address;
so wishing him good-day I entered a stationer’s shop and purchased a
couple of envelopes and two sheets of paper. Each sheet of paper I
folded and put into an envelope, which I then addressed in pencil to
myself, at the post-office, Stanby. Then, after posting them, I made my
way to the station and took a ticket to Stanby.
As I had to wait some time for a train, besides changing twice at
junctions, it was late when I reached that town, and I had some
difficulty in finding Professor Lawrance’s hair-cutting establishment,
which was in a side street, and was already closed for the night. On
the other side of the way, and only a few doors down, was a not very
clean-looking temperance hotel and coffee palace, and here I secured
a bedroom and sitting-room, from the latter of which, as it faced the
street, I should be able to keep an eye upon every one who entered or
left Professor Lawrance’s establishment.
I then went to bed, but was up early next morning and called at
the post-office, where the two envelopes which I had posted on the
preceding day at Cotley were awaiting me. These I took with me to
my room at the hotel, and having bought a piece of india-rubber on
the way I rubbed out the pencilled name and address, after which I
re-addressed the envelope in ink to Mr. Henry Jeanes, at Professor
Lawrance’s Hair-cutting Rooms, Stanby, imitating as closely I could the
handwriting of the barber at Cotley, of whose calligraphy I had secured
a specimen.
Most of my readers will already have guessed why I troubled to post
these pencil-addressed letters to myself at Cotley, and then, after
rubbing out the direction, re-addressed them in ink to Jeanes, at
Professor Lawrance’s establishment at Stanby, but as some may fail to
do so, I had better perhaps explain myself.
If a letter for Jeanes should be forwarded on to Professor Lawrance’s
rooms from Cotley, that letter it would be my business, by hook or by
crook, to abstract. But to do this without attracting suspicion, it
would be necessary to have a dummy letter with which to replace it,
and the dummy would have to bear the Cotley postmark, and be directed
in a hand as much resembling the handwriting on the original letter as
possible. How to arrange all this had puzzled me at first, for though I
did not anticipate any difficulty in hitting upon a pretext by which to
obtain a specimen of the Cotley barber’s handwriting, or in imitating
that handwriting when obtained, I could not see how to get over the
difficulty of the postmark. A postmark is not an easy thing to forge
without specially prepared tools, and until the idea occurred to me of
posting at Cotley a letter addressed in pencil to myself at Stanby,
and then rubbing out the address and re-addressing it to Jeanes, I
was rather at a loss to know how to effect my purpose. However, the
difficulty was now satisfactorily surmounted, and armed with my dummy
letters I set out to make the acquaintance of Professor Lawrance.
He was an extremely unprepossessing, not to say villainous-looking man,
and regarded me with what I could not help thinking was a suspicious
eye when I entered. I submitted to be shaved and shampooed, both of
which operations he performed badly, though he regaled me meanwhile
with his views in regard to the winner of the Derby, and also of a
prize-fight which was coming off that day.
“By-the-bye,” I said, as I was drawing on my gloves, “can one have
letters addressed here?”
“No,” he replied shortly, “yer can’t. It don’t pay--on the usual
terms.”
“I know that,” I said, “or I shouldn’t have asked you. But I’m willing
to pay special terms.”
“Is it ’orses?” he inquired gruffly.
“Yes, horses,” I said, taking up the cue which he had given me; “but
it’s a fool’s game, and I’ve lost a lot of money over it already.”
“Ah!” with a grin. “And yer’ve got a hintroduction, of course. I don’t
take on customers of that sort without a hintroduction. It ain’t safe.”
The affair was panning out beyond my reckoning, but from what had
transpired I felt sure that I should be safe in assuming he was more of
a betting agent than a barber, and that the wisest thing for me to do
would be, by bluffing boldly, to lead him to suppose I knew all about
him; so I nodded assent as airily as possible, and as if his question
had been a mere matter of course.
“Who is it?” he asked point blank.
“Morrison,” I replied, without a moment’s hesitation--“Henry Morrison,
of Doncaster. You recollect him--tall man, clean-shaven and small eyes.
Wears a fawn coat and a brown billycock. He said any money I put on
with you would be quite safe.”
The barber nodded. “Like as not, though I don’t rekerllect him from yer
description. Well, wot d’yer want me to back?”
“Ah, that’s what I wish _you_ to tell me,” I said--this time at least
with absolute truthfulness, for as a matter of fact I did not know as
much as the name of one of the horses, or what was the race which we
were supposed to be discussing.
“Greased Lightning’s the lay,” he said. “It’s a dead cert. I can get
yer level money now. It’ll be four to two hon to-morrow. How much are
yer going to spring?”
I replied that he could put a “flimsy” on for me; and after he had
entered the amount and my name--which I gave as Henry Watson--in a
greasy notebook, I wished him good morning, promising to call again
soon to see if there were any letters.
The rest of the day I spent for the most part in my bedroom watching
the customers who patronised Professor Lawrance’s saloon; nor was my
vigil without result in assisting me to form an opinion as to the class
of business which was there carried on. Not more than a dozen people
entered the establishment during the day, and the majority of them
had called neither to be shaved nor to have their hair cut. My reason
for coming to this conclusion was not that I had such telescopic and
microscopic eyes as to be able to detect in every case whether the
caller had been under the barber’s hand since his entrance, but because
most of Professor Lawrance’s customers did not remain inside his shop
more than half a minute, and because, too, I saw a letter in the hand
of more than one of those who came out. And as the postman never
passed the door without making a delivery, and the callers were all
more or less horsey in dress and appearance, the evidence seemed to
point pretty clearly to the fact that Professor Lawrance was, as I had
already surmised, more of a betting agent than a barber.
I looked in next morning, ostensibly to be shaved, but in reality to
try to get sight of any letters which might have come addressed to the
Professor’s care. That worthy forestalled me by gruffly volunteering
the information that there were no letters; nor could I succeed in
leading the conversation to the subject in which I was interested.
The morning after, however, I waited until I saw some one--who
looked more like a customer in search of a barber than of a betting
agent--enter the shop, and then followed him. He was at that
moment being lathered for shaving, so after wishing the Professor
good-morning, and remarking that I was in no hurry, I took a
seat close to the mantel-shelf and pretended to read the “Daily
Telegraph.” It was on this mantel-shelf, as I was aware, that the box
containing the letters was kept, but on looking round I saw to my
dismay that the mantel-shelf had been cleared for the display of a
big coarsely-coloured picture of “The Great Fight between Slade and
Scroggins.” The picture was labelled, “To be raffled for--the proceeds
for the benefit of the widow.”
Whether this was intended as a delicate way of intimating that the
conflict had proved fatal to one of the conflicting parties, or whether
the widow in question was the relict of the artistic genius whose brain
had conceived and whose hand had drawn the picture, I am unable to
say, as particulars were not given. In regard to the details of the
raffle, however, the promoters of the enterprise had condescended to be
more explicit, as another label announced that the price of tickets was
sixpence, and that they were “to be obtained of the Professor.” I was,
however, more concerned at the moment in ascertaining what had become
of the letters, so I scanned the room carefully, shifting meanwhile the
outspread and interposed broadsheet of the “Daily Telegraph”--like a
yachtsman setting his canvas close to the wind--so as to keep myself
out of reach of the Professor’s too-inquisitive glance, and switching
my eyes from object to object until they discovered the missing letters
placed upon a rack which hung upon the wall near the window.
“It’s very dark here, or else my sight’s getting bad and I shall have
to take to glasses. I’m hanged if I can read this small print,” I said
aloud, standing up and moving towards the window, as if to get a better
light. For half a minute I pretended to read, and then I leisurely
shook out the newspaper to its fullest extent, in order to reverse the
sheet, thus hiding myself completely from the Professor’s eye.
As I did so I took the opportunity to snatch the packet of letters
from the rack. It was no easy matter to shuffle through them with one
hand and without attracting attention, but I accomplished the task
successfully, and not without result, for the bottom letter of the
packet was for Mr. Henry Jeanes, and was in the handwriting of the
barber at Cotley.
The reader will remember that I had prepared two envelopes bearing the
Cotley postmark, and addressed to Jeanes in as close an imitation of
the barber’s handwriting as possible. Into one of these envelopes I had
that morning slipped a sheet of blank paper on which was pasted the
newspaper cutting about the finding of the body of poor Green (I had a
reason for doing so which will shortly transpire), and this envelope
I was at that moment carrying just inside my sleeve. To abstract the
original letter and replace it by the dummy was the work of a few
seconds. It was well that I had come thus prepared, for in the next
instant the Professor had snatched the packet from my hand, and was
asking in a voice quivering with fury, “What the dickens I meant by
such impudence?”
“What’s the excitement?” I said, as calmly and unconsciously as
possible. “I was only looking if there was one for me? There’s no harm
done.”
“Oh, isn’t there?” he said. “But there soon will be if yer get meddling
’ere again,” and with one swiftly-searching and darkly-suspicious
glance at my face he fell to examining the letters, and, as I could see
by the movement of his lips, counting them one by one to see that none
was missing. My heart, I must confess, jumped a bit when he came to the
forgery with which I had replaced the letter I had abstracted. But the
result was apparently satisfactory, for he put the packet back upon the
rack without further comment and took up the discarded shaving brush
to continue his task. I did not feel at the best of ease when, after
the customer had paid and departed, a surly “Now then!” summoned me to
the operating chair, for it was not altogether reassuring to have a
razor, in the grip of such a ruffian, at one’s throat. But, though the
shave was accomplished with none too light a hand, and the scoundrel
drew blood by the probably intentional and malicious way in which he
rasped my somewhat tender skin, he did me no serious injury, and it
was not long before I was back at the hotel and engaged in opening the
abstracted letter.
There were two documents inside, the first of which was addressed to
Jeanes in Mrs. Stanley Burgoyne’s handwriting, and ran as follows:--
“JAMES,--We are glad to have your promise, and will carry out our
part of the contract faithfully. We shall remain here as you direct
until you telegraph the word ‘Come,’ when we shall start for England
at once, and you can count on the yacht being at the place you
mention within four days and ready to start again at a few hours’
notice. We shall be just off the boat-builder’s yard where our little
yacht is laid up.
“I do _not_ see any necessity for doing as you say in regard to
sending the present crew back to England under the pretence that we
are not likely to be using the yacht for some time, and then, after
getting the ship’s appearance altered by repainting and rechristening
her the name you mention, engaging another crew of Norwegians.
“This seems to me a very unnecessary precaution. Your connection with
us is never likely to be discovered, unless by your own confession.
However, I suppose you know best, and we will do as you say.
“F.”
The other letter was on a half-sheet of notepaper, and in the
handwriting of the barber at Cotley. Here it is:--
“RESPECTED SIR,--Mr. Green has not called since I last wrote you. But
a person named Smithers came and asked questions. I did not like the
look of him and would not tell him anything, but said I did not know
any Mr. Jeanes.--Respectfully,
“JAMES DORLEY.
“P. S.--Smithers smelt of rum. He had been drinking. He was a
low-looking man, and I did not like his eye.”
“I’m pained to hear you don’t like my eye, Mr. James--Mr. ‘Truthful
James,’” I said sarcastically as I put the letter down, glancing
sideways all the same at a mirror on the wall to see if I could
detect any sinister expression in my eye which could account for the
unfavourable opinion Mr. James had formed of that feature. “And so
you didn’t tell me anything, didn’t you, you precious rascal? Some day
I may have an opportunity of telling _you_ something, and then it is
possible you may find something else to dislike about me as well as my
eye. In the meantime I’ll take the liberty of detaining your letter,
as it would put Mullen on the alert if I let it go on to him. His
sister’s letter he must have, for if I fail to set hands on him here, I
can take him when he keeps his appointment with her on the steam yacht,
on board which he hopes to get out of the country. So I mustn’t lose a
moment in resealing her letter and getting it back by hook or by crook
to the letter-rack whence I got it. I’m not easy about the forgery
with which I replaced it. If there had chanced to be only two or three
letters waiting to be called for this morning, and I had abstracted one
without replacing it with a dummy, the Professor would be bound to have
noticed that a letter was missing. But I’m running a risk in leaving
the forged dummy there a moment longer than I can help. Mullen might
call and have it given him, or it may get sent on; and though I flatter
myself that the forgery is so well done that even Mullen is not likely
to notice any difference in the handwriting, and though it is possible
also that he will think the cutting about Green’s death had been sent
him by the Cotley barber, I’d much rather that the dummy didn’t fall
into his hands.
“To have forged a letter from the Cotley barber would have been
extremely dangerous, for I didn’t then know how the rascal addressed
Mullen. And to have enclosed a blank sheet of paper would at once
suggest the trick which had been played. The newspaper cutting was the
only thing I could think of that had the look of being a _bona fide_
enclosure from the rascal at Cotley. He had to my knowledge informed
Mullen that Green was inquiring about him, and what was more natural
than that, seeing a notice of Green’s death in the papers, he should
send it on to his principal. But all the same, the sooner I get the
dummy back into my own hands the better, for I don’t think--”
At this point I broke off my meditations abruptly. I had been sitting
in full view of Professor Lawrance’s door, and just then I saw him put
his head out, look up and down the street as if to see whether he could
safely be away for a few minutes without the probability of a customer
popping in, and then cross the road in the direction of the nearest
publichouse.
“If I’m to make the exchange, it’s now or never,” I said, snatching
up the letter from Mrs. Burgoyne which, after copying, I had put back
into its envelope and resealed. In another half-minute I had crossed
the road and was ascending the stairs which led to Professor Lawrance’s
hair-cutting establishment.