Mrs. Crowl surveyed Denzil Cantercot so stonily and cut him his beef so
savagely that he said grace when the dinner was over. Peter fed his
metaphysical genius on tomatoes. He was tolerant enough to allow his
family to follow their Fads; but no savoury smells ever tempted him to be
false to his vegetable loves. Besides, meat might have reminded him too
much of his work. There is nothing like leather, but Bow beefsteaks
occasionally come very near it.
After dinner Denzil usually indulged in poetic reverie. But to-day he did
not take his nap. He went out at once to "raise the wind." But there
was a dead calm everywhere. In vain he asked for an advance at the office
of the _Mile End Mirror_, to which he contributed scathing leaderettes
about vestrymen. In vain he trudged to the City and offered to write the
_Ham and Eggs Gazette_ an essay on the modern methods of bacon-curing.
Denzil knew a great deal about the breeding and slaughtering of pigs,
smoke-lofts and drying processes, having for years dictated the policy of
the _New Pork Herald_ in these momentous matters. Denzil also knew a
great deal about many other esoteric matters, including weaving machines,
the manufacture of cabbage leaves and snuff, and the inner economy of
drain-pipes. He had written for the trade papers since boyhood. But there
is great competition on these papers. So many men of literary gifts know
all about the intricate technicalities of manufactures and markets, and
are eager to set the trade right. Grodman perhaps hardly allowed
sufficiently for the step backwards that Denzil made when he devoted his
whole time for months to _Criminals I have Caught_. It was as damaging as
a debauch. For when your rivals are pushing forwards, to stand still is
to go back.
In despair Denzil shambled toilsomely to Bethnal Green. He paused before
the window of a little tobacconist's shop, wherein was displayed a
placard announcing
"PLOTS FOR SALE."
The announcement went on to state that a large stock of plots was to be
obtained on the premises--embracing sensational plots, humorous plots,
love plots, religious plots, and poetic plots; also complete manuscripts,
original novels, poems, and tales. Apply within.
It was a very dirty-looking shop, with begrimed bricks and blackened
woodwork. The window contained some musty old books, an assortment of
pipes and tobacco, and a large number of the vilest daubs unhung, painted
in oil on Academy boards, and unframed. These were intended for
landscapes, as you could tell from the titles. The most expensive was
"Chingford Church," and it was marked IS. 9d. The others ran from 6d. to
IS. 3d., and were mostly representations of Scottish scenery--a loch with
mountains in the background, with solid reflections in the water and a
tree in the foreground. Sometimes the tree would be in the background.
Then the loch would be in the foreground. Sky and water were intensely
blue in all. The name of the collection was "Original oil-paintings done
by hand." Dust lay thick upon everything, as if carefully shovelled on;
and the proprietor looked as if he slept in his shop-window at night
without taking his clothes off. He was a gaunt man with a red nose, long
but scanty black locks covered by a smoking-cap, and a luxuriant black
moustache. He smoked a long clay pipe, and had the air of a broken-down
operatic villain.
"Ah, good afternoon, Mr. Cantercot," he said, rubbing his hands, half
from cold, half from usage; "what have you brought me?"
"Nothing," said Denzil, "but if you will lend me a sovereign I'll do you
a stunner."
The operatic villain shook his locks, his eyes full of pawky cunning. "If
you did it after that, it _would_ be a stunner."
What the operatic villain did with these plots, and who bought them,
Cantercot never knew nor cared to know. Brains are cheap to-day, and
Denzil was glad enough to find a customer.
"Surely you've known me long enough to trust me," he cried.
"Trust is dead," said the operatic villain, puffing away.
"So is Queen Anne," cried the irritated poet. His eyes took a dangerous
hunted look. Money he must have. But the operatic villain was inflexible.
No plot, no supper.
Poor Denzil went out flaming. He knew not where to turn. Temporarily he
turned on his heel again and stared despairingly at the shop-window.
Again he read the legend
"PLOTS FOR SALE."
He stared so long at this that it lost its meaning. When the sense of the
words suddenly flashed upon him again, they bore a new significance. He
went in meekly, and borrowed fourpence of the operatic villain. Then he
took the 'bus for Scotland Yard. There was a not ill-looking servant girl
in the 'bus. The rhythm of the vehicle shaped itself into rhymes in his
brain. He forgot all about his situation and his object. He had never
really written an epic--except "Paradise Lost"--but he composed lyrics
about wine and women and often wept to think how miserable he was. But
nobody ever bought anything of him, except articles on bacon-curing or
attacks on vestrymen. He was a strange, wild creature, and the wench felt
quite pretty under his ardent gaze. It almost hypnotised her, though, and
she looked down at her new French kid boots to escape it.
At Scotland Yard Denzil asked for Edward Wimp. Edward Wimp was
not on view. Like kings and editors, detectives are difficult of
approach--unless you are a criminal, when you cannot see anything
of them at all. Denzil knew of Edward Wimp, principally because of
Grodman's contempt for his successor. Wimp was a man of taste and
culture. Grodman's interests were entirely concentrated on the problems
of logic and evidence. Books about these formed his sole reading; for
_belles lettres_ he cared not a straw. Wimp, with his flexible intellect,
had a great contempt for Grodman and his slow, laborious, ponderous,
almost Teutonic methods. Worse, he almost threatened to eclipse the
radiant tradition of Grodman by some wonderfully ingenious bits of
workmanship. Wimp was at his greatest in collecting circumstantial
evidence; in putting two and two together to make five. He would collect
together a number of dark and disconnected data and flash across them the
electric light of some unifying hypothesis in a way which would have
done credit to a Darwin or a Faraday. An intellect which might have
served to unveil the secret workings of nature was subverted to the
protection of a capitalistic civilisation.
By the assistance of a friendly policeman, whom the poet magnetised into
the belief that his business was a matter of life and death, Denzil
obtained the great detective's private address. It was near King's Cross.
By a miracle Wimp was at home in the afternoon. He was writing when
Denzil was ushered up three pairs of stairs into his presence, but he got
up and flashed the bull's-eye of his glance upon the visitor.
"Mr. Denzil Cantercot, I believe," said Wimp.
Denzil started. He had not sent up his name, merely describing himself as
a gentleman.
"That is my name," he murmured.
"You were one of the witnesses at the inquest on the body of the late
Arthur Constant. I have your evidence there." He pointed to a file. "Why
have you come to give fresh evidence?"
Again Denzil started, flushing in addition this time. "I want money," he
said, almost involuntarily.
"Sit down." Denzil sat. Wimp stood.
Wimp was young and fresh-coloured. He had a Roman nose, and was smartly
dressed. He had beaten Grodman by discovering the wife Heaven meant for
him. He had a bouncing boy, who stole jam out of the pantry without any
one being the wiser. Wimp did what work he could do at home in a secluded
study at the top of the house. Outside his chamber of horrors he was the
ordinary husband of commerce. He adored his wife, who thought poorly of
his intellect but highly of his heart. In domestic difficulties Wimp was
helpless. He could not tell even whether the servant's "character" was
forged or genuine. Probably he could not level himself to such petty
problems. He was like the senior wrangler who has forgotten how to do
quadratics, and has to solve equations of the second degree by the
calculus.
"How much money do you want?" he asked.
"I do not make bargains," Denzil replied, his calm come back by this
time. "I came here to tender you a suggestion. It struck me that you
might offer me a fiver for my trouble. Should you do so, I shall not
refuse it."
"You shall not refuse it--if you deserve it."
"Good. I will come to the point at once. My suggestion concerns--Tom
Mortlake."
Denzil threw out the name as if it were a torpedo. Wimp did not move.
"Tom Mortlake," went on Denzil, looking disappointed, "had a sweetheart."
He paused impressively.