MR. MAITLAND GOES SHOPPING
ELDOR STREET, Tottenham, was one of thousands of drab and ugly
thoroughfares that make up the central suburbs of London. Imagine two
rows of houses set on either side of a straight street, lighted at
economic intervals by yellow lamps. Each house has a protuberance,
called a bay window; each house is separated from the road by iron
railings pierced by an iron gate. There is a tiny forecourt in which the
hardiest of shrubs battle desperately for existence; there is one
recessed door, and on the floor above two windows exactly alike.
Elk found himself in Eldor Street at nine o’clock that night. The rain
was pelting down, and the street in consequence was a desert. Most of
the houses were dark, for Eldor Street lives in its kitchens, which are
back of the houses. In the front window of No. 47 one crack of light
showed past the edge of the lowered blind, and, creeping up to the
window, he heard, at long intervals, the mumble of conversation.
It was difficult to believe that he was standing at the door of Ezra
Maitland’s home. That morning the newspapers had given prominence to the
newest speculation of Maitlands Consolidated—a deal involving something
over a million. And the master-mind of the concern lived in this
squalor!
Whilst he was standing there, the light was extinguished and there came
to him the sound of feet in the uncarpeted passage. He had time to reach
the obscurity of the other side of the street, when the door opened and
two people came out: Maitland and the old woman he had seen. By the
light of a street-lamp he saw that Maitland wore an overcoat buttoned to
his chin. The old woman had on a long ulster, and in her hand she
carried a string bag. They were going marketing! It was Saturday night,
and the main street, through which Elk had passed, had been thronged
with late shoppers—Tottenham leaves its buying to the last, when food
can be had at bargain prices.
Waiting until they were out of sight, Elk walked down the street to the
end and turned to the left. He followed a wall covered with posters
until he reached a narrow opening. This was the passage between the
gardens—a dark, unlighted alleyway, three feet wide and running between
tar-coated wooden fences. He counted the gates on his left with the help
of his flash-lamp, and after a while stopped before one of them and
pushed gently. The gate was locked—it was not bolted. There was a
keyhole that had the appearance of use. Elk grunted his satisfaction,
and, taking from his pocket a wallet, extracted a small wooden handle,
into which he fitted a steel hook, chosen with care from a dozen others.
This he inserted into the lock and turned. Evidently the lock was more
complicated than he had expected. He tried another hook of a different
shape, and yet another. At the fourth trial the lock turned and he
pushed open the door gently.
The back of the house was in darkness, the yard singularly free from the
obstructions which he had anticipated. He crossed to the door leading
into the house. To his surprise it was unfastened, and he replaced his
tools in his pocket. He found himself in a small scullery. Passing
through a door into the bare passage, he came to the room in which he
had seen the light. It was meanly and shabbily furnished. The arm-chair
near the fireplace had broken springs, there was an untidy bed in one
corner, and in the centre of the room a table covered with a patched
cloth. On this were two or three books and a few sheets of paper covered
with the awkward writing of a child. Elk read curiously.
“Look at the dog,” it ran. “The man goes up to the dog and the dog barks
at the man.”
There was more in similar strain. The books were children’s primers of
an elementary kind. Looking round, he saw a cheap gramophone and on the
sideboard half a dozen scratched and chipped records.
The child must be in the house. Turning on the gas, he lit it, after
slipping a bolt in the front door to guard against surprise. In the more
brilliant light, the poverty of the room staggered him. The carpet was
worn and full of holes; there was not one article of furniture which had
not been repaired at some time or other. On the dingy sideboard was a
child’s abacus—a frame holding wires on which beads were strung, and by
means of which the young are taught to count. A paper on the mantelpiece
attracted him. It was a copy of the million pound contract which
Maitland had signed that morning. His neat signature, with the
characteristic flourish beneath, was at the foot.
Elk replaced the paper and began a search of the apartment. In a
cupboard by the side of the fireplace he found an iron money-box, which
he judged was half-full of coins. In addition, there were nearly a
hundred letters addressed to E. Maitland, 47 Eldor Street, Tottenham.
Elk, glancing through them, recognized their unimportance. Every one was
either a tradesman’s circular or those political pamphlets with which
candidates flood their constituencies. And they were all unopened. Mr.
Maitland evidently knew what they were also, and had not troubled to
examine their contents. Probably the hoarding instincts of age had made
him keep them. There was nothing else in the room of interest. He was
certain that this was where the old man slept—where was the child?
Turning out the light, he went upstairs. One door was locked, and here
his instruments were of no avail, for the lock was a patent one and was
recently fixed. Possibly the child was there, he thought. The second
room, obviously the old woman’s, was as meanly furnished as the parlour.
Coming back to the landing, his foot was poised to reach the first stair
when he heard a faint “click.” It came from below, and was the sound of
a door closing. Elk waited, listening. The sound was not repeated, and
he descended softly. At first he thought that the old man had returned,
and was trying his key on the bolted door, but when he crept to the door
to listen, he heard no sound, and slipping back the bolt, he went to the
second of the rooms on the ground floor and put his light on the door.
Elk was a man of keen observation; very little escaped him, and he was
perfectly certain that this door had been ajar when he had passed it on
entering the house. It was closed now and fastened from the inside, the
key being in the lock.
Was it the child, frightened by his presence? Elk was wise enough a man
not to investigate too closely. He made the best of his way back to the
garden passage and into the street. Here he waited, taking up a position
which enabled him to see the length of Eldor Street and the passage
opening in the wall. Presently he saw Maitland returning. The old man
was carrying the string bag, which now bulged. Elk saw the green of a
cabbage as they passed under the light. He watched them until the
darkness swallowed them up, and heard the sound of their closing door.
Five minutes later, a dark figure came from the passage behind the
houses. It was a man, and Elk, alert and watchful, swung off in pursuit.
The stranger plunged into a labyrinth of little streets with the
detective at his heels. He was walking quickly, but not too quickly for
Elk, who was something of a pedestrian. Into the glare of the main road
the stranger turned, Elk a dozen paces behind him. He could not see his
face, nor did he until his quarry stopped by the side of a waiting car,
opened the door and jumped in. Then it was that Elk came abreast and
raised his hand in cheery salutation.
For a second the man in the closed limousine was taken aback, and then
he opened the door.
“Come right in out of the rain, Elk,” he said, and Elk obeyed.
“Been doing your Sunday shopping?” he asked innocently.
The man’s hawk-like face relaxed into a smile.
“I never eat on Sundays,” he said.
It was Joshua Broad, that rich American who peddled key-rings in
Whitehall, lived in the most expensive flats in London, and found time
to be intensely interested in Ezra Maitland.
He turned abruptly as Elk seated himself.
“Say, Elk, did you see the child?”
Elk shook his head.
“No,” he said, and heard the chuckle of his companion as the car moved
toward the civilized west.
“Yes, I saw that baby,” said Mr. Broad, puffing gently at the cigar he
had lit; “and, believe me, Elk, I’ve stopped loving children. Yes, sir.
The education of the young means less than nothing to me for evermore.”
“Where was she?”
“It’s a ‘he,’” replied Broad calmly, “and I hope I’ll be excused
answering your question. I had been in the house an hour when you
arrived—I was in the back room, which is empty, by the way. You scared
me. I heard you come in and thought it was old St. Nicholas of the
Whiskers. Especially when I saw the light go on. I’d had it on when you
opened the scullery door—I left that unfastened, by the way. Didn’t
want to stop my bolt hole. Well, what do you think?”
“About Maitland?”
“Eccentric, eh? You don’t know how eccentric!”
As the car stopped before the door of Caverley House, Elk broke a long
silence.
“What are you, Mr. Broad?”
“I’ll give you ten guesses,” said the other cheerfully as they got out.
“Secret Service man,” suggested Elk promptly.
“Wrong—you mean U.S.? No, you’re wrong. I’m a private detective who
makes a hobby of studying the criminal classes—will you come up and
have a drink?”
“I will come up, but I won’t drink,” said Elk virtuously, “not if you
offer gin and orange. That visit to the United States has spoilt my
digestion.”
Broad was fitting a key in the lock of his flat, when a strange cold
sensation ran down the spine of the detective, and he laid his hand on
the American’s arm.
“Don’t open that door,” he said huskily.
Broad looked round in surprise. The yard man’s face was tense and drawn.
“Why not?”
“I don’t know . . . just a feeling, that’s all. I’m Scot by birth . . .
we’ve got a word ‘fey,’ which means something supernatural. And it says
inside me, ‘don’t open that door.’”
Broad put down his hand.
“Are you being fey or funny?” he asked.
“If I look funny,” said Elk, “I’m entitled to sue my face for libel.
There’s something at the other side of that door that isn’t good. I’ll
take an oath on it! Give me that!”
He took the key from the unwilling hand of Joshua Broad, thrust it in
the lock and turned it. Then, with a quick push, he threw open the door,
pushing Broad to the cover of the wall.
Nothing happened for a second, and then:
“Run!” cried Elk, and leapt for the stairs.
The American saw the first large billow of greenish-yellowy mist that
rolled from the open door, and followed.
The hall-porter was closing his office for the night when Elk appeared,
hatless and breathless.
“Can you ’phone the flats?—good! Get on at once to every one on and
below the third floor, and tell them on no account to open their doors.
Tell ’em to close all cracks with paper, to stop up their letter-boxes,
and open all windows. Don’t argue—do it! The building is full of poison
gas!”
He himself ’phoned the fire station, and in a few seconds the jangle of
bells sounded in the street outside, and men in gas-masks were
clattering up the stairs.
Fortunately, every tenant except Broad and his neighbour was out of town
for the week-end.
“And Miss Bassano doesn’t come in till early morning,” said the porter.
It was daylight before the building was cleared by the aid of
high-pressure air-hoses and chemical precipitants. Except that his
silver was tarnished black, and every window glass and mirror covered
with a yellow deposit, little harm had been done. A musty odour pervaded
the flat in spite of the open windows, but later came the morning breeze
to dispel the last trace of this malodorous souvenir of the attempt.
Together the two men made a search of the rooms to discover the manner
in which the gas was introduced.
“Through that open fireplace,” Elk pointed. “The gas is heavier than
air, and could be poured down the chimney as easily as pouring water.”
A search of the flat roof satisfied him that his theory was right. They
found ten large glass cylinders and a long rope, to which a wicker
cradle was attached. Moreover, one of the chimney-pots (easily reached
from the roof) was scratched and discoloured.
“The operator came into the building when the porter was busy—working
the lift probably. He made his way to the roof, carrying the rope and
the basket. Somebody in the street fixed the cylinders in the basket,
which the man hauled to the roof one by one. It was dead easy, but
ingenious. They must have made a pretty careful survey beforehand, or
they wouldn’t have known which chimney led to your room.”
They returned to the flat, and for once Joshua Broad was serious.
“Fortunately, my servant is on a holiday,” he said, “or he would have
been in heaven!”
“I hope so,” responded Elk piously.
The sun was tipping the roofs of the houses when he finally left, a
sleepy and a baffled man. He heard the sound of boisterous voices before
he reached the vestibule. A big car stood at the entrance of the flats,
and, seated at the wheel, was a young man in evening dress. By him sat
Lew Brady, and on the pavement was a girl in evening finery.
“A jolly evening, eh, Lola! When I get going, I’m a mover, eh?”
Ray Bennett’s voice was thick and unsteady. He had been drinking—was
within measurable distance of being drunk.
With a yell he recognized the detective as he came into the street.
“Why, it’s old Elk—the Elk of Elks! Greetings, most noble copper! Lola,
meet Elky of Elksburg, the Sherlock of Fact, the Sleuth——”
“Shut up!” hissed the savage-voiced Lew Brady in his ear, but Ray was in
too exalted a mood to be silenced.
“Where’s the priceless Gordon?—say, Elk, watch Gordon! Look after poor
old Gordon—my sister’s very much attached to Gordon.”
“Fine car, Mr. Bennett,” said Elk, regarding the machine thoughtfully.
“Present from your father?”
The mention of his father’s name seemed to sober the young man.
“No, it isn’t,” he snapped, “it belongs to a friend. ’Night, Lola.” He
pumped at the starter, missed picking up, and stamped again. “S’long,
Elk!”
With a jerk the car started, and Elk watched it out of sight.
“That young fellow is certainly in danger of knocking his nut against
the moon,” he said. “Had a good time, Lola?”
“Yes—why?”
She fixed her suspicious eyes upon him expectantly.
“Didn’t forget to turn off the gas when you went out, did you? If I was
Shylock Holmes, maybe I’d tell from the stain on your glove that you
didn’t.”
“What do you mean about gas? I never use the cooker.”
“Somebody does, and he nearly cooked me and a friend of mine—nearly
cooked us good!”
He saw her frown. Since she was a woman he expected her to be an
actress, but somehow he was ready to believe in her sincerity.
“There’s been a gas attack on Caverley House,” he explained, “and not
cooking gas either. I guess you’ll smell it as you go up.”
“What kind of gas—poison?”
Elk nodded.
“But who put it there—emptied it, or whatever is done with gas?”
Elk looked at her with that wounded expression which so justly irritated
his victims.
“If I knew, Lola, would I be standing here discussing the matter? Maybe
my old friend Shylock Holmes would, but I wouldn’t. I don’t know. It was
upset in Mr. Broad’s flat.”
“That is the American who lives opposite to us—to me,” she said. “I’ve
only seen him once. He seems a nice man.”
“Somebody didn’t think so,” said Elk. “I say, Lola, what’s that boy
doing—young Bennett?”
“Why do you ask me? He is making a lot of money just now, and I suppose
he is running a little wild. They all do.”
“I didn’t,” said Elk; “but if I’d made money and started something, I’d
have chosen a better pacemaker than a dud fighting man.”
The angry colour rose to her pretty face, and the glance she shot at him
was as venomous as the gas he had fought all night.
“And I think I’d have put through a few enquiries to central office
about my female acquaintances,” Elk went on remorselessly. “I can
understand why you’re glued to the game, because money naturally
attracts you. But what gets me is where the money comes from.”
“That won’t be the only thing that will get you,” she said between her
teeth as she flounced into the half-opened door of Caverley House.
Elk stood where she had left him, his melancholy face expressionless.
For five minutes he stood so, and then walked slowly in the direction of
his modest bachelor home.
He lived over a lock-up shop, a cigar store, and he was the sole
occupant of the building. As he crossed Gray’s Inn Road, he glanced idly
up at the windows of his rooms and noted that they were closed. He
noticed something more. Every pane of glass was misty with some yellow,
opalescent substance.
Elk looked up and down the silent street, and at a short distance away
saw where road repairers had been at work. The night watchman dozed
before his fire, and did not hear Elk’s approach or remark his unusual
action. The detective found in a heap of gravel, three rounded pebbles,
and these he took back with him. Standing in the centre of the road, he
threw one of the pebbles unerringly.
There was a crash of glass as the window splintered. Elk waited, and
presently he saw a yellow wraith of poison-vapour curl out and downward
through the broken pane.
“This is getting monotonous,” said Elk wearily, and walked to the
nearest fire alarm.