IV

After his lunch Mr. Colson called and called again at Bedford Mansions,

but neither Dorrington nor his telegram had been heard of. At something

near five o'clock, however, when he had made up his mind to wait,

restless as he was, Dorrington appeared, fresh and complacent.

"Hope you haven't been waiting long?" he asked. "Fact is I got no

opportunity for lunch till after four, so I had it then. I think I'd

fairly earned it. The case is finished."

"Finished? But there's Kanamaro to be arrested. I've found----"

"No, no--I don't think anybody will be arrested at all; you'll read

about it in the evening papers in an hour, I expect. But come into the

rooms. I have some things to show you."

"But I assure you," Mr. Colson said, as he entered the door of

Deacon's rooms, "I assure you that I got as good as a confession from

Kanamaro--he let it slip in ignorance of what I knew. Why do you say

that nobody is to be arrested?"

"Because there's nobody alive who is responsible for Mr. Deacon's

death. But come--let me show you the whole thing; it's very simple."

He led the way to the room where the body had been found, and paused

before the four-armed idol. "Here's our old friend Hachiman," he said,

"whom you half fancied might have had something to do with the tragedy.

Well, you were right. Hachiman had a good deal to do with it, and with

the various disasters at Copleston's too. I will show you how."

The figure, which was larger than life-size, had been set up

temporarily on a large packing-case, hidden by a red cloth covering.

Hachiman was represented in the familiar Japanese kneeling-sitting

position, and the carving of the whole thing was of an intricate and

close description. The god was represented as clad in ancient armour,

with a large and loose cloak depending from his shoulders and falling

behind in a wilderness of marvellously and deeply carved folds.

"See here," Dorrington said, placing his fingers under a projecting

part of the base of the figure, and motioning to Mr. Colson to do the

same. "Lift. Pretty heavy, eh?"

The idol was, indeed, enormously heavy, and it must have required the

exertions of several strong men to place it where it was. "It seems

pretty solid, doesn't it?" Dorrington continued. "But look here." He

stepped to the back of the image, and, taking a prominent fold of the

cloak in one hand, with a quick pull and a simultaneous rap of the

other fist two feet above, a great piece of the carved drapery lifted

on a hinge near the shoulders, displaying a hollow interior. In a dark

corner within a small bottle and a fragment of rag were just visible.

"See there," said Dorrington, "there wouldn't be enough room in there

for you or me, but a small man--a Japanese priest of the old time,

say--could squat pretty comfortably. And see!"--he pointed to a small

metal bolt at the bottom of the swing drapery--"he could bolt himself

safely in when he got there. Whether the priest went there to play the

oracle, or to blow fire out of Hachiman's mouth and nose I don't know,

though no doubt it might be an interesting subject for inquiry; perhaps

he did both. You observe the chamber is lined with metal, which does

something towards giving the thing its weight, and there are cunning

little openings among the armour-joints in front which would transmit

air and sound--even permit of a peep out. Now Mr. Deacon might or might

not have found out this back door after the figure had been a while in

his possession, but it is certain he knew nothing of it when he bought

it. Copleston knew nothing of it, though the thing has stood in his

place for months. You see it's not a thing one would notice at once--I

never should have done so if I hadn't been looking for it." He shut the

part, and the joints, of irregular outline, fell into the depths of the

folds, and vanished as if by magic.

"Now," Dorrington went on, "as I told you, Copleston knew nothing of

this, but one of his men found it out. Do you happen to have heard of

one Samuel Castro, nicknamed 'Slackjaw,' a hunchback whom Copleston

employed on odd jobs?"

"I have seen him here. He called, sometimes with messages, sometimes

with parcels. I should probably have forgotten all about him were

it not that he was rather an extraordinary creature, even among

Copleston's men, who are all remarkable. But did he----"

[Illustration: "SLACKJAW."]

"He murdered Mr. Deacon, I think," Dorrington replied, "as I fancy I

can explain to you. But he won't hang for it, for he was drowned this

afternoon before my eyes, in an attempt to escape from the police. He

was an extraordinary creature, as you have said. He wasn't English--a

half-caste of some sort I think--though his command of language, of the

riverside and dock description, was very free; it got him his nickname

of Slackjaw among the longshoremen. He was desperately excitable, and

he had most of the vices, though I don't think he premeditated murder

in this case--nothing but robbery. He was immensely strong, although

such a little fellow, and sharp in his wits, and he might have had

regular work at Copleston's if he had liked, but that wasn't his

game--he was too lazy. He would work long enough to earn a shilling

or so, and then he would go off to drink the money. So he was a

sort of odd on-and-off man at Copleston's--just to run a message or

carry something or what not when the regular men were busy. Well, he

seems to have been smart enough--or perhaps it was no more than an

accident--to find out about Hachiman's back, and he used his knowledge

for his own purposes. Copleston couldn't account for missing things in

the night--because he never guessed that Castro, by shutting himself

up in Hachiman about closing time, had the run of the place when

everybody had gone, and could pick up any trifle that looked suitable

for the pawnshop in the morning. He could sleep comfortably on sacks

or among straw, and thus save the rent of lodgings, and he could

accept Hachiman's shelter again just before Copleston turned up to

start the next day's business. Getting out, too, after the place was

opened, was quite easy, for nobody came to the large store-rooms till

something was wanted, and in a large place with many doors and gates,

like Copleston's, unperceived going and coming was easy to one who knew

the ropes. So that Slackjaw would creep quietly out, and in again by

the front door to ask for a job. Copleston noticed how regular he had

been every morning for the past few months, and thought he was getting

steadier! As to the things that got smashed, I expect Slackjaw knocked

them over, getting out in the dark. One china vase, in particular,

had been shifted at the last moment, probably after he was in his

hiding-place, and stood behind the image. That was smashed, of course.

And these things, coming after the bad voyage of the ship in which he

came over, very naturally gave poor Hachiman an unlucky reputation.

"Probably Slackjaw was sorry at first when he heard that Hachiman

was bought. But then an idea struck him. He had been to Mr. Deacon's

rooms on errands, and must have seen that fine old plate in the

sitting-room. He had picked up unconsidered trifles at Copleston's

by aid of Hachiman--why not acquire something handsome at Deacon's

in the same way? The figure was to be carried to Bedford Mansions as

soon as work began on Wednesday morning. Very well. All he had to do

was to manage his customary sojourn at Copleston's over Tuesday night,

and keep to his hiding-place in the morning. He did it. Perhaps the

men swore a bit at the weight of Hachiman, but as the idol weighed

several hundredweights by itself, and had not been shifted since it

first arrived, they most likely perceived no difference. Hachiman, with

Slackjaw comfortably bolted inside him (though even _he_ must have

found the quarters narrow) jolted away in the waggon, and in course of

time was deposited where it now stands.

"Of course all I have told you, and all I am about to tell you, is

no more than conjecture--but I think you will say I have reasons.

From within the idol Slackjaw could hear Mr. Deacon's movements, and

no doubt when he heard him take his hat and stick and shut the outer

door behind him, Hachiman's tenant was glad to get out. He had never

had so long and trying a sojourn in the idol before, though he _had_

provided himself this time with something to keep his spirits up--in

that little flat bottle he left behind. Probably, however, he waited

some little time before emerging, for safety's sake. I judge this

because I found no signs of his having started work, except a single

small knife-mark on the plate case. He must have no more than begun

when Mr. Deacon came back for his letters. First, however, he went

and shut the bedroom window, lest his movements might be heard in

some adjacent rooms; the man who was painting said he heard that, you

remember. Well, hearing Mr. Deacon's key in the lock, of course he

made a rush for his hiding-place--but there was no time to get in and

close up before Mr. Deacon could hear the noise. Mr. Deacon, as he

entered, heard the footsteps in the next room, and went to see. The

result you know. Castro, perhaps, crouched behind the idol, and hearing

Mr. Deacon approaching, and knowing discovery inevitable, in his mad

fear and excitement, snatched the nearest weapon and struck wildly at

his pursuer. See! here are half a dozen heavy, short Japanese swords

at hand, any one of which might have been used. The thing done, Castro

had to think of escape. The door was impossible--the hall-porter was

already knocking there. But the man had no key--he could be heard

moving about and calling for one. There was yet a little time. He

wiped the blade of the weapon, put it back in its place, took the keys

from the dead man's pocket, and regained his concealment in the idol.

Whether or not he took the keys with the idea of again attempting theft

when the room was left empty I don't know--most likely he thought they

would aid him in escape. Anyway, he didn't attempt theft, but lay in

his concealment--and a pretty bad time he must have had of it--till

night. Probably his nerve was not good enough for anything more than

simple flight. When all was quiet, he left the rooms and shut the door

behind him. Then he lurked about corridors and basements till morning,

and when the doors were opened, slipped out unobserved. That's all.

It's pretty obvious, once you know about Hachiman's interior."

"And how did you find out?"

"When you left me here I considered the thing. I put aside all

suspicions of motive, the Japanese and his sword and the rest of it,

and addressed myself to the bare facts. Somebody _had_ been in these

rooms when Mr. Deacon came back, and that somebody had murdered him.

The first thing was to find how this person came, and where he came

from. At first, of course, one thought of the bedroom window, as the

police had done. But reflection proved this unlikely. Mr. Deacon had

entered his front door, was inside a few seconds, and then was murdered

close by the figure of Hachiman. Now if anybody had entered by the

window for purposes of robbery, his impulse on hearing the key in the

outer door (and such a thing could be heard all over the rooms, as I

tested for myself)--his impulse, I say, would be to retreat by the way

he had come, that is by the window. If, then, Mr. Deacon had overtaken

him before he could escape, the murder might have taken place just as

it had done, but it would have been _in the bedroom_, not in a room

in the opposite direction. And any thief's attention would naturally

be directed at first to the gold plate--indeed, I detected a fresh

knife-mark in the door of the case, which I will show you presently.

Now, as you see by the arrangement of the rooms, the retreat from the

plate case to the bedroom window would be a short one, whereas the

murderer must in fact have taken a longer journey in the opposite

direction. Why? Because he had _arrived_ from that direction, and his

natural impulse was to retreat by the way he had come. This might have

been by the door to the back stairs, but a careful examination of this

door and its lock and key convinced me that it had not been opened.

The key was dirty, and to have turned it from the opposite side would

have necessitated the forcible use of a pair of thin hollow pliers

(a familiar tool to burglars), and these must have left their mark

on the dirty key. So I turned back to the idol. _This_ was the spot

the intruder had made for in his retreat, and the figure had been

brought into the place the very morning of the murder. Also, things

had disappeared from its vicinity at Copleston's. More--it was a large

thing. What if it were hollow? One has heard of such things having been

invented by priests anxious for certain effects. Could not a thief

smuggle himself in that way?

"The suggestion was a little startling, for if it were the right one

the man might be hiding there at that moment. I gave the thing half an

hour's examination, and in the end found what I have shown you. It was

not the sort of thing one would have found out without looking for it.

Look at it even now. Although you have seen it open, you couldn't point

to the joints."

Dorrington opened it again. "Once open," he went on, "the thing

was pretty plain. Here is the rag--perhaps it was Castro's

pocket-handkerchief--used to wipe the weapon. It is stained all over,

and cut, as you will observe, by the sharp edge. Also, you may see

a crumb or two--Slackjaw had brought food with him, in case of a

long imprisonment. But chiefly observe the bottle. It is a flat,

high-shouldered, 'quartern' bottle, such as publicans sell or lend to

their customers in poor districts, and as usual it bears the publican's

name--J. Mills. It's a most extraordinary thing, but it seems the fate

of almost every murderer, no matter how cunning, to leave some such

damning piece of evidence about, foolish as it may seem afterward.

I've known it in a dozen cases. Probably Castro, in the dark and in

his excitement, forgot it when he quitted his hiding-place. At any

rate it helped me and made my course plain. Clearly this man, whoever

he was, had come from Copleston's. Moreover, he was a small man, for

the space he had occupied would be too little even for a man of middle

height. Also he bought drink of J. Mills, a publican; if J. Mills

carried on business near Copleston's so much the easier my task would

seem. Before I left, however, I went to the basement and inspected the

ladder, the removal of which had caused the police so much exercise.

Then it was plain why Dowden had cleared out. All his prevarication

and uneasiness were explained at once, as the police might have seen

if they had looked _behind_ the ladder as well as at it. For it had

been lying lengthwise against the wooden partition which formed the

back of the compartments put up to serve the tenants as wine-cellars.

Dowden had taken three planks out of this partition, and so arranged

that they could be slipped in their places and out again without

attracting attention. What he had been taking through the holes he thus

made I won't undertake to say, but I will make a small bet that some of

the tenants find their wine short presently! And so Dowden, never an

industrious person, and never at one job long, thought it best to go

away when he found the police asking why the ladder had been moved."

"Yes, yes--it's very surprising, but no doubt you're right. Still, what

about Kanamaro and that sword?"

"Tell me exactly what he said to you to-day."

Mr. Colson detailed the conversation at length.

Dorrington smiled. "See here," he said, "I have found out something

else in these rooms. What Kanamaro said he meant in another sense to

what you supposed. _I_ wondered a little about that sword, and made a

little search among some drawers in consequence. Look here. Do you see

this box standing out here on a nest of drawers? That is quite unlike

Mr. Deacon's orderly ways. The box contains a piece of lacquer, and

it had been shifted from its drawer to make room for a more precious

piece. See here." Dorrington pulled out a drawer just below where the

box stood, and took from it another white wood box. He opened this

box and removed a quantity of wadding. A rich brocade _fukusa_ was

then revealed, and, loosening the cord of this, Dorrington displayed a

Japanese writing-case, or _suzuribako_, aged and a little worn at the

corners, but all of lacquer of a beautiful violet hue.

"What!" exclaimed Mr. Colson. "Violet lacquer!"

"That is what it is," Dorrington answered, "and when I saw it I judged

at once that Deacon had at last consented to part with his Masamuné

blade in exchange for that even greater rarity, a fine piece of the

real old violet lacquer. I should imagine that Kanamaro brought it on

Tuesday evening--you will remember that you saw Mr. Deacon for the

last time alive in the afternoon of that day. Beard seems not to have

noticed him, but in the evening hall-porters are apt to be at supper,

you know--perhaps even taking a nap now and then!"

"Then _this_ is how Kanamaro 'finished his business'!" Mr. Colson

observed. "And the 'very great cost' was probably what he had to pay

for this."

"I suppose so. And he would not have believed it possible that he

_could_ get a piece of violet lacquer in any circumstances."

"But," Mr. Colson objected, "I still don't understand his indifference

and lack of surprise when I told him of poor Deacon's death."

"I think that is very natural in such a man as Keigo Kanamaro. I

don't profess to know a very great deal about Japan, but I know that

a _samurai_ of the old school was trained from infancy to look on

death, whether his own or another's, with absolute indifference. They

regarded it as a mere circumstance. Consider how cold-bloodedly their

_hari-kiri_, their legalised suicide, was carried out!"

As they left the rooms and made for the street Mr. Colson said, "But

now I know nothing of your pursuit of Castro."

Dorrington shrugged his shoulders. "There is little to say," he said.

"I went to Copleston and asked him if any one of his men was missing

all day on Wednesday. None of his regular men were, it seemed, but he

had seen nothing that day of an odd man named Castro, or Slackjaw,

although he had been very regular for some time before; and, indeed,

Castro had not yet turned up. I asked if Castro was a tall man. No,

he was a little fellow and a hunchback, Copleston told me. I asked

what public-house one might find him at, and Copleston mentioned

the 'Blue Anchor'--kept, as I had previously ascertained from the

directory, by J. Mills. That was enough. With everything standing as it

was, a few minutes' talk with the inspector in charge at the nearest

police-station was all that was necessary. Two men were sent to make

the arrest, and the people at the 'Blue Anchor' directed us to Martin's

Wharf, where we found Castro. He had been drinking, but he knew enough

to make a bolt the moment he saw the policemen coming on the wharf.

He dropped on to a dummy barge and made off from one barge to another

in what seemed an aimless direction, though he may have meant to get

away at the stairs a little lower down the river. But he never got as

far. He muddled one jump and fell between the barges. You know what a

suck under there is when a man falls among barges like that. A strong

swimmer with all his senses has only an off chance, and a man with bad

whisky in his head--well, I left them dragging for Slackjaw when I came

away."

As they turned the corner of the street they met a newsboy running.

"Paper--speshal!" he cried. "The West-End murder--speshal! Suicide of

the murderer!"

Dorrington's conjecture that Kanamaro had called to make his exchange

on Tuesday evening proved correct. Mr. Colson saw him once more on the

day of his departure, and told him the whole story. And then Keigo

Kanamaro sailed for Japan to lay the sword in his father's tomb.

_OLD CATER'S MONEY_