WHAT THE SERGEANT KNEW
Unfortunately, before Paul and the solicitor could come quite face
to face with the redoubtable Silas Q. Pinkerton of New York, the great
detective (who wore glasses and really looked short-sighted) got a
good chance of scrutinising the London journalist’s features. The
effect, too, was certainly electrical. No sooner did he do so than all
his bold swagger and impudent stare seemed to vanish.
Almost instantly he stopped with a gesture of confusion. Then
recovering himself he bent down and again fumbled with his boot-laces.
Finally, sheer panic got him in her clutches, and, dropping all
pretence, he cried out suddenly, “Excuse me, I’ve forgotten
something,” and tore off down a street leading to The Crescent as
though he were pursued by a ghost.
Spencer Holmes, the lawyer, stopped half petrified with astonishment.
“Now what’s up?” he asked helplessly, and then he caught sight of
Paul, who was simply holding both his sides with laughter, quite
heedless of appearance.
“That’s good indeed,” chuckled Paul. “The mighty Silas has forgotten
something, I can see, but it’s only his own name!”
“Then he’s not a detective at all,” questioned Holmes, giving a low
whistle. “He’s down here under false pretences. He’s not even a
Yankee!”
“No more than I am,” replied Paul. “He is simply a loafer in the
streets of the city, glad to run here and there for anyone who will
give him a glass of beer and a sandwich and an occasional
half-a-crown. Two years ago, I remember, he attached himself to
Ventris Blake. Everything that Blake saw, said, thought, or felt, or
imagined he said, saw, thought or ought to feel, he threw into the
form of a paragraph and carted it about from newspaper office to
newspaper office in the hope that some particularly weak and
good-natured sub-editor would buy the news from him at a rate of a
penny or three half-pence a line. At that time I was on a smart,
almost brilliant sheet that had made a reputation for the pungency and
accuracy of its financial criticism, and he simply haunted our city
editor, who never took a line from him on principle, but used him as a
study for a play he was writing--a study of a species of financial
parasite often found, it is true, but seldom so completely developed
in the epidermis.”
“And what was his name then if it wasn’t Pinkerton?”
“His nick-name, I remember very well,” returned Paul. “That was
‘Sawdust.’ The boys about the place gave it to him for some obscure
reason that he was ‘comfortable for the feet.’ His real name, I know,
had some association with that because I remember telling the
youngsters that their jest was not as clever as it looked. Now what
was the connection?” He paused and thought. Then he seemed to
recollect. “Yes, I know now,” he went on. “His right name always
loomed up when you spoke to him, from the bottom of his shirt front.
Whether his landlady was afraid she would lose him--or the shirt, I
don’t know, but there it was in very big letters--Josiah Sawdry!”
“The same surname as that of Ventris Blake’s private secretary, the
ugly little Jew, who gave evidence against Mr. Hudson at Bow Street,
and declared he actually witnessed the sham marriage at Peterborough.”
“By Jove, I never thought of that,” cried Paul. “Then he’s down here
for no good, we may be quite certain. He means mischief to Arthur for
some personal reason of Blake’s. Can’t we get him nabbed for going
about with a wrong name and falsely pretending to be a private
detective?”
Spencer Holmes shook his head. “No, I think not,” he replied. “Anybody
can call themselves what they like in name so long as they don’t
commit a fraud in doing so,--for instance, obtain goods by false
pretences. As for being a private detective, we can all call ourselves
that. It’s the proper official police detectives that are the real
persons that matter, and to personate one of these is certainly a
crime punishable by imprisonment, but he has never held himself out to
be one of these.”
“Then he can spy on us and shadow us just as much as he pleases?”
“I am afraid so. At all events, I know nothing in the law to prevent
him if he does it quietly and peaceably, and doesn’t create any fuss.
None the less, he doesn’t seem over anxious to come close to you, does
he?”
And both of the men laughed as they recalled his ignominious flight.
“Well,” said Paul finally, “if we can’t get him one way we may manage
to catch him another. I remember the last time he called at my old
office very well, for I had put my old silver watch on my desk to see
I didn’t get late with any of the editions, and sure enough, when my
back was turned it had gone and old ‘Sawdust’ with it. The lad who
runs errands for me swore he saw ‘Sawdust’ nip it up and slip it into
his pocket, but from that time to this I have never thought of
worrying about the matter further. Might not we, however, use this as
a weapon against him, and, without threatening him, let him see if he
doesn’t desert Ventris Blake and come over on our side, we will have
him arrested on the spot for robbery from a newspaper office?”
“Yes,” said Spencer Holmes thoughtfully, “I think with care and tact
we can manage that. But what can we gain out of it?”
“Many things,” responded Paul cheerfully. “First and foremost, it will
stop his espionage on you. Secondly, he will supply Ventris Blake with
all the false information we chose to submit to him, and so won’t
cover the ground with any more spies, less scrupulous perhaps,
certainly more dangerous. Thirdly--and this is the most important--he
will reveal to us why he was sent here, and all that the millionaire
said to him when he posted him off from London.”
“Splendid!” returned the ever-cautious Holmes. “Luckily, I know where
he puts up. It’s at the Grand--the same hotel as I do. Now, whilst you
go and take your room at the Crown, and then run along to the
police-station to see Hudson, I’ll slip up there, to his bedroom and
nab him. Otherwise, he may take fright altogether and leave
Scarborough, whereas, if we can only fix him right he’s much more
useful selling his employer’s secrets to us!” And swinging off in the
direction of the Spa Bridge, he soon disappeared from sight.
At first Paul was sorry that he had not confided more to this shrewd
but kind-hearted advocate. Somehow, he got the idea that if he had
only told him exactly his suspicion that the real murderer of Aimée
Blake was no less a personage than the millionaire himself, that the
lawyer might have turned his interview with the supposed detective to
better advantage. Against this, he had to set the fact that up to the
present he had nothing but his own belief to go upon. That belief
might be worth little or it might be worth much--only patient,
persistent investigation would prove, but certainly the lawyer himself
was better employed thwarting the prosecution, proving an alibi, and
conducting the defence from its strong and obvious stand-point.
“No, I must carry through this crusade against Blake alone,” Paul
argued in the end. “If I succeed, well and good--if I fail, dear old
Arthur won’t be injured: for his own innocence will then have a
chance, although I alas! know too much of the so-called courts of
justice, to expect that innocence in itself is bound to triumph.”
A few hours later he entered the police-station and, as soon as he
revealed his identity and his object, he was permitted to interview
his friend in the presence of a burly sergeant who had been told off
to watch the prisoner for fear he should commit suicide!
Luckily he found Arthur bold, quiet, but resolute. The first shock of
the charge had worn off, and now he had risen to face the ordeal,
strong in a knowledge of his own freedom from stain. Very patiently
but eagerly he listened to all Paul had to tell him about
Winifred--about her flight from St. Sepulchre’s Vicarage--their
adventures with those Three Glass Eyes, which culminated in that
terrible scene outside Gray’s Inn, when Eleanor Kaufmann had reeled
against a trotting horse and had been picked up dead. True, his face
clouded at first when he heard that later Winifred had decided to seek
a refuge once again in her uncle’s home--he could not easily believe
that any good could come from association with a man like Russell
Langford--but when Paul had argued the matter out as one of tactics
and comparative safety from Ventris Blake’s persecution, he acquiesced
in the course that had been adopted.
The consultation, however, was broken into rather suddenly by the
police officer.
“I don’t want to hurry you, gentlemen,” said he, “but it’s my duty to
remind you that in a few minutes the prisoner here will have to go
before the magistrates, and you both had better prepare your minds for
it.”
“It’s purely formal, I suppose,” queried Paul rising from the truckle
bed on which he had been seated with Arthur and nodding pleasantly to
the sergeant.
The man pursed up his mouth and looked mysterious. “I did hear,” he
muttered slowly, “that it won’t be formal, as you call it, by no
manner of means. Indeed, a man in the office as ought to know (he’s a
detective they’ve borrowed for this job from Leeds) whispered to me
that they’ve got a most tremendously important witness to produce this
time, that will knock the stuffin’ out of all of you!”
“And who is that pray?” cried Arthur rising and advancing to form the
group.
“Why it’s a telegraph clerk at the post-office at Scarborough, who
will say you stopped him on the street the night of the murder and
offered him a heavy bribe to tell you how to ‘tap’ the wires!”
“What a thundering lie!” interjected Paul.
“No it ain’t,” sturdily contended the sergeant, pulling out a box of
snuff which he held invitingly in the direction of Paul. “It’s true
enough, and don’t get your hair off about it, or you’ll go bald and
catch cold and die from water on the brain.”
And, in spite of themselves as it were, both men had to laugh
heartily. The next minute the expected summons came.
As at Bow Street, the place was packed with press-men and artists and
friends of the sitting magistrates; but the buzz of excitement died
down as the magistrates’ clerk said very gravely: “Put forward Arthur
Hudson,” and with a white set face Arthur strode to the dock and
bowing to the Bench, stood close against the rail.
This time, the Treasury were represented, and Ventris Blake was not. A
Mr. Scarth rose and said he appeared to prosecute, but as it would be
necessary to ask for a still further remand, all he would do would be
to call, in addition to those who had appeared at Bow Street, one more
witness--Henry Drummond, a telegraph clerk, engaged at Scarborough.
After this, the proceedings became formal for a time, as the old
witnesses practically repeated their evidence to the effect that
Arthur had stayed a night at the refreshment house near the scene of
the crime: had bought the stick with which the poor woman was done to
death: and had been seen in a greenhouse washing the blood off his
hands. Only when the new witness, Drummond, a telegraph operator, put
in an appearance, did the excitement sensibly increase. He proved to
be a fair young fellow of twenty-five, with blue eyes and a bluff
straightforward manner that made a most favourable impression on the
court.
His story, too, had elements of the dramatic. He told how on the night
of the murder he had gone for a walk along the Filey Road, and was
just returning home when he was met by an anxious and haggard man, who
first of all asked him for a match, which he gave him, and who then
insisted on getting into conversation with him. Finally the stranger
led the conversation round to the case with which any dishonest person
could “tap” the wires belonging to the Government, and could take on
an instrument of his own a record of any message that passed over that
section.
At first witness fell into the trap and discussed the problem as
though he were talking to a fellow operator anxious if possible to do
away with the overhead wire system, and to substitute wireless
telegraphy in its place. The man too posed at first as an amateur,
anxious to discuss theories of transmission more than practices, but
finally he seemed to throw prudence to the winds--talked darkly of a
plot to ruin him by doctors and asylum attendants at York, which he
must prevent at all hazards--and offered witness five hundred pounds,
in a bundle of bank-notes, which he produced, to tell him how “to do
the trick,” so that he could foil these villains, whom he alleged,
sought his life.
Confused and bewildered by his earnestness, witness tried to slip off
with a half-promise that he would give the offer his best
consideration. That was useless. By this time they had reached a
lonely part of the road against an overhanging cliff, and seeing that
he was prevaricating, the stranger became most furious--caught him by
the silk muffler he was wearing--and threatened to strangle him unless
he yielded the information he sought.
Finally, witness told him how the thing was done, but at the
suggestion of the Mayor who presided, and was a Post-office official
himself, it was agreed between the prosecution and Mr. Spencer Holmes
who defended, that the explanation should not be stated in public.
“Nearly all crimes are imitated,” said the mayor wisely. “I am
practically certain if Mr. Drummond reveals the way the
telegraph-wires can be ‘tapped’ and their secrets taken off, dozens of
bold and resolute criminals will act on the information, and will
telegraph messages for purposes of Stock Exchange frauds, absolute
thefts, and the fouler uses of blackmail. Only the other day I read of
a gang of scoundrels that chartered a vessel and went off the West
Coast of Africa, and fished up the cable to South Africa, purposely to
doctor messages from members of the London Stock Exchange to
Johannesburg, so that the market could be ‘rigged’ in their interest.
Luckily, a patriotic Englishman came forward and stopped them before
they’d done any harm, but if those pranks can be played with a cable,
what cannot be done to the great trunk wires, as they pass over some
of our most lonely roads? As a matter of fact, public servants cannot
be too careful!” And, forgetting that poor Arthur’s guilt was not
proved yet, he actually turned and frowned at the prisoner as though
he were a very daring and dangerous malefactor.
A moment later the witness went on with his story explaining how when
he had given the desired information, the stranger released his hold
on him, gruffly apologised for the force with which he had advanced
his arguments, and, thrusting a bundle of Bank of England notes into
his pocket, had torn off across a field, where, owing to the darkness,
he was almost instantly lost to sight. At first, witness admitted he
pinched himself to be sure he had not been the victim of some
extraordinary hallucination--some bad dream. Then he imagined the
affair was some stupid practical joke on the part of his colleagues,
but when on reaching a gas lamp he inspected the supposed bundle of
bank notes, he found they were genuine enough--and exactly of the
amount of five hundred pounds.
“It is the freak of some lunatic who has escaped from one of the York
Asylums,” he said to himself then. But finally growing nervous and
apprehensive that all was not as straightforward as it might be, and
that the maniac or criminal might actually put into practice the
information about the “tapping” of telegraph wires which he had got
possession of, he took to his heels and ran as hard as he could to the
police-station on the north side of Scarborough.
Unfortunately, he excited himself so much that the bundle of notes
must have jumped out of his pocket, for he could not find them when he
recounted his adventures to the police-superintendent in charge. In
fact, the officer in question, because he could not shew the notes,
ridiculed his story altogether, and seemed half inclined to lock him
up on a charge of being drunk and disorderly. Luckily, just then, the
news of the crime reached the officer; his story was believed; and he
and three or four constables were despatched to search for the missing
notes.
“And did you find them?” put in Mr. Scarth with a fine air of not
leading his witness, but of leaving him free to make any answer he
chose.
“No,” said Drummond frankly. “We were up all night looking for them,
but we could not discover any traces of them; and although I made many
inquiries in Scarborough, I could hear of no one who had discovered
them afterwards.”
“Look round the court,” proceeded the counsel impressively. “Do you
see the man who accosted you that night and had that violent
altercation with you?”
Drummond swung round from the magistrates whom he had been addressing
hitherto, and looked long and anxiously at Arthur who, however,
returned his gaze with a glance as keen but as non-criminal as his
own.
There was an awkward pause--and counsel grew irritated at what seemed
to all in that crowded court-room a purposeless delay. “Now then, Mr.
Drummond,” he added impatiently, “you don’t, perhaps, understand that
waits like this may cause a certain amount of misconception. Please
rouse yourself, and tell me--can you see the mysterious stranger who
asked you about ‘tapping’ those wires and bribed you with five hundred
pounds, now present in this court?”
“I can’t,” broke out from the clerk at length. “When I saw the
prisoner amongst ten or twelve others in that dirty, narrow,
ill-lighted passage an hour ago, I was certain he was the man. Now,
however, the light is stronger, and I will swear that that man in the
dock is not the one who asked me for a match and seized me by the
throat.”
For a moment there was absolute consternation in the court-house. Mr.
Scarth dropped to his seat and gazed at his opponent, Mr. Spencer
Holmes, almost dumbfounded. The latter fortunately, was on his feet in
a second, asking the magistrate’s clerk to make a special and full
note of the answer, and begging the reporters present to preserve
their shorthand records for fear any controversy should arise as to
the exact words employed.
“There is really no need to do so,” put in the witness who seemed the
least disturbed of all the parties involved. “I have not spoken at
random, I have not made up my mind without careful examination of the
prisoner. It may be out of order, but would he mind speaking to me so
that I can see if I can identify his voice even?”
“Certainly not,” began Holmes; but this time Arthur waved him aside.
“I shall be very glad to do as the witness asks me,” he returned. “I
know I am innocent, and that until last night I had never set foot in
this town. As for inquiring for a match from Mr. Drummond or
discussing possible frauds on the General Post Office, I did nothing
of the sort.”
“I am sure you didn’t,” put in Drummond impulsively. “I am convinced
the police and I have blundered over you. The man who accosted me the
night of the murder, was exactly like you to look at--but now I come
to examine your hair, your eye-brows, and the shape of your chin and
mouth, I see that yours are natural looking, whereas his were
artificial.”
“In a word,” said Spencer Holmes blandly. “Your idea is that the man
you saw was merely made up to resemble the prisoner?”
“That is so,” replied the witness. “It was a very clever make up, but
it was a make up all the same. It wasn’t the genuine article at all. I
remember I remarked his theatrical looks at the time, and when he
caught me by the throat, I seized him by the chin--with the result
that I actually got some grease paint on my fingers.”
“Why didn’t you tell the Court this earlier?” asked Mr. Scarth rising
and glowering at the witness.
“Because you didn’t ask me,” promptly responded Drummond. “I told the
police superintendent about it at the time, but he said it wasn’t
material--and indeed it wasn’t until I saw I had been led away by a
series of accidental resemblances to half swear away an innocent man’s
life.”
“Well, at all events the prisoner is remanded,” said the Mayor whose
rising was a signal for a general break up of the court, and Arthur
was hurried off to the adjacent cells, while Spencer Holmes and Paul
drew together and held a whispered consultation.
“At last we have won a move,” put in Paul, with a nod in the direction
of Drummond. “Now tell me how you got on with Silas Q. Pinkerton.”
“Splendidly,” answered the lawyer with a quiet chuckle. “First of all,
of course, he wanted to throw me through the window, but when he saw I
had got the ‘drop’ on him he collapsed and begged abjectly for mercy.”
“But what is he doing down here?” queried the journalist.
“He has been sent hither by Ventris Blake as you suspected. His
instructions are to ‘shadow’ me and to report all that I discover.
Apart from this, however, he has got some wonderful secret of his own
which he wants to sell to us. He swears it will clear Arthur Hudson
from all these dreadful charges, and will convict a party we have
never even spoken to yet--of the murder of poor Aimée Blake and the
personation of our friend Arthur at Peterborough.”
“Does he mean Ventris Blake?”
“No, I asked him that, and he not only assured me it was not he, but
he actually laughed at the idea!”
“Then--who can it be?” cried Paul half in despair.
“All the same,” he continued, “I don’t attach much importance to his
clue. He may have stumbled on something the police have missed since
he has been in Scarborough, but that is not very likely, I think. My
own impression to-day is that when we have probed to the bottom we
shall find Ventris Blake is the real criminal, for he, and he alone,
had the best interest in seeing that poor woman in her grave!”
“That is where I differ from you,” Holmes answered. “On the face of
it, of course, it looks the likeliest course to work on, but in crimes
like murder, you get many and strange surprises. For instance, Aimée
Blake may have had some clandestine love affair, some other dark
passage in her life that neither you nor I nor the millionaire could
ever hope to guess at.”
“Then,” said Paul in some surprise, “you don’t think old ‘Sawdust,’ as
the boys dubbed him, is a colossal humbug!”
“Not altogether,” replied the lawyer. “Only take your time over him.
Don’t appear to jump at the secret he has to sell you. Busy yourself
about something else for a time, and let him come to you. After all,
he is not in this beautiful sea-side resort for his health. He wants
money like the rest of us--and, if he has failed to get it out of
Blake, as he seems to have done, judging by what you tell me about the
paragraphs he used to hawk about concerning the millionaire, he’ll not
be likely to lose sight of us when he’s in touch with possible
wealth.”
“At all events, I shan’t upset my plan of campaign for him. You can
believe in him if you like. I consider I have a more pressing duty to
go over the scene of the crime, and to sift the evidence of residents
on the Filey road which the police have rejected.”
And with a quick word of farewell, Paul took his way out of the police
court. Already indeed his mind was made up and course of action
decided upon. In fact, he had barely gone thirty or forty yards in the
direction of the main thoroughfare before he came upon one of the
principal places he sought--a cheap and quick jobbing printer’s. This
he entered and begging the loan of a pencil (a thing by the way your
true journalist seldom possesses), and a large piece of paper, he drew
out the following poster, of which he ordered a thousand copies should
be posted over all the best boardings in Scarborough and Filey:--
WILFUL MURDER.
£500 REWARD.
WHEREAS it has come to the knowledge of the lawyer engaged for the
defence of Arthur Hudson who now stands charged of the wilful murder
of Aimée Blake, that certain residents in this district are
withholding certain information that will tend to prove the innocence
of the accused.
This, therefore, is to invite them to come forward, and to put all the
facts they are acquainted with relating to the sad affair before the
undersigned, who will give £500 reward to the man, woman, or child
who supplies such information as will lead to the arrest of the real
criminal other than Arthur Hudson.
(Signed) Paul Renishaw,
Crown Hotel,
Scarborough
GOD SAVE THE KING!
“I don’t know whether this is illegal or not,” Paul mused as he paid
the man for the printing and the posting, “but, if it is, I must stand
the racket. It’s too good a chance to get hold of the information
which the police must have had and rejected, judging by their
treatment of the telegraph operator, Drummond, to miss through any
craven fear of consequences. Leastways, I can plead my zeal outran my
discretion, and, the better to suggest this, I’ll engage a small army
of fifty sandwichmen to parade the streets of Scarborough bearing this
notice of mine in a prominent position every day for at least next
week.” And striking a bargain for this unique display also, Paul,
feeling he had made a very good start with his efforts to prove Arthur
innocent, set off on another coup.
Now it is a curious thing, but it is none the less true, that men use
the materials of life very much according to their professions. Thus
if a member of the Stock Exchange wants anything organised it is the
most natural thing for him to appeal to members of his own
profession--whether it is to get up a sweep-stake for a job lot of
hats which he has picked up cheap, or to form a society of glee
singers. The same holds good of the theatrical world. Let a prominent
actor desire to do anything out of the common--to feed a lot of hungry
children, to give some handsome present to a church, or to compile a
book of recitations--he never dreams of approaching the general
public. It’s always his brother professionals he victimises; and so it
was with Paul in his present sea of trouble.
He was, as it happened, most anxious that a properly organised search
should be made for that missing bundle of bank notes, which the
mysterious stranger had foisted on Drummond as the payment for his
tips about how telegraph wires could be tapped. Somehow he felt
convinced that, could he but get hold of this the rest of his task
would be easy enough, for, after all, Bank of England notes when they
are passed from hand to hand in England, and not on foreign
racecourses, are the most dangerously tell-tale things in the world.
The trouble was, there he was in a strange town without a friend and
without an idea as to what source he could rightly look for
assistance. In the circumstances most men would have raced hither and
thither begging advice.
Not so Paul. He was a journalist, and he knew the value of the news
lad as a factor of prime common sense; and hence, no sooner did he get
through his interview with the printer, than he walked into the office
of the local evening paper, the _Daily Post_, as it happened just at
the time when the special edition of the paper, with an account of the
murder trial, was destined to appear. There was gathered a motley
crowd of about 40 of the shrewdest urchins in the town, and, without a
word of introduction, he called out to them just as he had heard the
publisher of _The Moon_ do scores of times:--“Who wants to earn five
shillings cash down!”
“I do,” cried half a dozen voices promptly.
“Then form yourselves into a brigade and march two by two to the Filey
road. I want you to search the streets from the spot where the poor
woman Blake was killed right to the police station for the bundle of
bank notes Mr. Drummond has lost. To who ever finds it I will give a
reward of £5. But anyway you are each of you sure of 5s. for three
hours’ work.”
And, sad to relate not one boy was left to sell the special murder
edition. “The papers can wait until we get back,” they brutally
agreed,--and something like the Pied Piper of Hamelin, Paul found
himself followed by the entire staff of newslads.
Now, in every company of boys, there are three or four born leaders.
It proved so in this case, and so he had no difficulty in explaining
his plan of campaign to this mob of workers through these self
constituted lieutenants who first of all gathered around him and heard
his wishes, then slunk off and explained to their own particular set
the work expected of them, and who when anybody showed any sign of
independent thinking promptly cuffed them into subjection.
The district they had to search was quickly split into sections. At
the far end of each, a number of lads were left under the charge of a
self-elected captain, and realising that he could not even pretend to
keep a look-out on this miniature brigade’s operations, Paul told
these members of his autocratic executive to direct all of their
followers to work towards the town, and when they had covered the part
given them to search, to meet him outside the Crown Hotel and report
the results. He himself proceeded beyond the farthermost point, the
exact spot of the murder, to that little group of houses, in one of
which it was alleged Arthur had spent a night prior to the crime.
As it happened, the inevitable crowd of morbid sight-seers had drifted
into the town, to the streets adjacent to the police-station, in the
hope that, if they did not catch sight of the prisoner, they might, at
least, gaze unchecked at the other actors in this crime-drama. As a
consequence, the road was comparatively deserted, and he found himself
able to survey the ground without any unnecessary interruption.
The object, however, that fascinated him most was not the
refreshment-house, where Arthur was supposed to have taken a bed, but
the garden into which he was alleged to have retreated after the
commission of the crime itself. This place was really dark and
forbidding, and suggestive of mystery; and, almost before he quite
realised what he was doing, he had lifted the latch of the gate, and
strolled along three or four of the paths that wound away from the
high road.