Produced by Stephen Lins
[Illustration: “AN’ WHICH IS THE HONOURABLE JINTLEMAN AS DO BE
BURRNIN’ TO PRISINT ME WID A BIT O’ GOOLD?”]
ADVENTURES
OF
MARTIN HEWITT
THIRD SERIES
by
ARTHUR MORRISON
ILLUSTRATED BY T.S.C. CROWTHER
LONDON
WARD, LOCK & CO., LIMITED
WARWICK HOUSE, SALISBURY SQUARE, E.C.
NEW YORK AND MELBOURNE
1896
CONTENTS
The Case of the “Flitterbat Lancers”
The Case of the Dead Skipper
The Case of Mr. Geldard’s Elopement
The Case of the late Mr. Rewse
The Affair of Mrs. Seton’s Child
The Case of the Ward Lane Tabernacle
THE CASE OF THE “FLITTERBAT LANCERS”
I
In none of the cases of investigation by Martin Hewitt which I have
as yet recorded had I any direct and substantial personal interest.
In the case I am about to set forth, however, I had some such
interest, though legally, I fear, it amounted to no more than the
cost of a smashed pane of glass. But the case in some ways was one of
the most curious which came under my notice, and completely justified
Hewitt’s oft repeated dictum that there was nothing, however romantic
or apparently improbable, that had not happened at some time in
London.
It was late on a summer evening, two or three years back, that I
drowsed in my armchair over a particularly solid and ponderous volume
of essays on social economy. I was doing a good deal of reviewing at
the time, and I remember that this particular volume had a property
of such exceeding toughness that I had already made three successive
attacks on it, on as many successive evenings, each attack having
been defeated in the end by sleep. The weather was hot, my chair was
very comfortable, the days were tiring, and the book had somewhere
about its strings of polysyllables an essence as of laudanum. Still
something had been done on each evening, and now on the fourth I
strenuously endeavoured to finish the book. Late as it was, my lamp
had been lighted but an hour or so, for there had been light enough
to read by, near the window, till well past nine o’clock. I was just
beginning to feel that the words before me were sliding about and
losing their meanings, and that I was about to fall asleep after all,
when a sudden crash and a jingle of broken glass behind me woke me
with a start, and I threw the book down. A pane of glass in my window
was smashed, and I hurried across and threw up the sash to see, if I
could, whence the damage had come.
[Illustration: “A PANE OF GLASS IN MY WINDOW WAS SMASHED.”]
I think I have somewhere said (I believe it was in describing the
circumstances of the extraordinary death of Mr. Foggatt) that the
building in which my chambers (and Hewitt’s office) were situated was
accessible--or rather visible, for there was no entrance--from the
rear. There was, in fact, a small courtyard, reached by a passage
from the street behind, and into this courtyard my sitting-room
window looked.
“Hullo, there!” I shouted. But there came no reply. Nor could I
distinguish anybody in the courtyard. It was at best a shadowy place
at night, with no artificial light after the news agent--who had a
permanent booth there--had shut up and gone home. Gone he was now,
and to me the yard seemed deserted. Some men had been at work during
the day on a drain-pipe near the booth, and I reflected that probably
their litter had provided the stone wherewith my window had been
smashed. As I looked, however, two men came hurrying from the passage
into the court, and going straight into the deep shadow of one
corner, presently appeared again in a less obscure part, hauling
forth a third man, who must have already been there in hiding. The
man--who appeared, so far as I could see, to be smaller than either
of his assailants--struggled fiercely, but without avail, and was
dragged across toward the passage leading to the street beyond. But
the most remarkable feature of the whole thing was the silence of all
three men. No cry, no exclamation, or expostulation escaped any one
of them. In perfect silence the two hauled the third across the
courtyard, and in perfect silence he swung and struggled to resist
and escape. The matter astonished me not a little, and the men were
entering the passage before I found voice to shout at them. But they
took no notice, and disappeared. Soon after I heard cab wheels in the
street beyond, and had no doubt that the two men had carried off
their prisoner.
[Illustration: “THE MAN . . . STRUGGLED FIERCELY.”]
I turned back into my room a little perplexed. It seemed probable
that the man who had been borne off had broken my window. But why? I
looked about on the floor, and presently found the missile. It was,
as I had expected, a piece of broken concrete, but it was wrapped up
in a worn piece of paper, which had partly opened out again as it lay
on my carpet, thus indicating that it had only just been hastily
crumpled round the stone. But again, why? It might be considered a
trifle more polite to hand a gentleman a clinker decently wrapped up
than to give it him in its raw state; but it came to much the same
thing after all if it were passed through a shut window. And why a
clinker at all? I disengaged the paper and spread it out. Then I saw
it to be a rather hastily written piece of manuscript music, whereof
I append a reduced facsimile:--
This gave me no help. I turned the paper this way and that, but
could make nothing of it. There was not a mark on it that I could
discover, except the music and the scrawled title, “Flitterbat
Lancers,” at the top. The paper was old, dirty, and cracked. What did
it all mean? One might conceive of a person in certain circumstances
sending a message--possibly an appeal for help--through a friend’s
window, wrapped round a stone, but this seemed to be nothing of that
sort. It was not a message, but a hastily written piece of music,
with no bars or time marked, just as might have been put down by
somebody anxious to make an exact note of an air, the time of which
he could remember. Moreover, it was years old, not a thing just
written in a recent emergency. What lunatic could have chosen this
violent way of presenting me with an air from some forgotten
“Flitterbat Lancers”? That indeed was an idea. What more likely than
that the man taken away _was_ a lunatic and the others his keepers? A
man under some curious delusion, which led him not only to fling his
old music notes through my window, but to keep perfectly quiet while
struggling for his freedom. I looked out of the window again, and
then it seemed plain to me that the clinker and the paper could not
have been intended for me personally, but had been flung at my window
as being the only one that showed a light within a reasonable
distance of the yard. Most of the windows about mine were those of
offices, which had been deserted early in the evening.
Once more I picked up the paper, and with an idea to hear what the
‘Flitterbat Lancers’ sounded like, I turned to my little pianette and
strummed over the notes, making my own time and changing it as seemed
likely. But I make nothing of it, and could by no means extract from
the notes anything resembling an air. I considered the thing a little
more, and half thought of trying Martin Hewitt’s office door, in case
he might still be there and could offer a guess at the meaning of my
smashed window and the scrap of paper. It was most probable, however,
that he had gone home, and I was about resuming my social economy
when Hewitt himself came in. He had stayed late to examine a bundle
of papers in connection with a case just placed in his hands, and
now, having finished, came to find if I were disposed for an evening
stroll before turning in--a thing I was in the habit of. I handed him
the paper and the piece of concrete, observing, “There’s a little job
for you, Hewitt, instead of the stroll. What do those things mean?”
And I told him the complete history of my smashed window.
Hewitt listened attentively, and examined both the paper and the
fragment of paving. “You say these people made absolutely no sound
whatever?” he asked.
“None but that of scuffling, and even that they seemed to do
quietly.”
“Could you see whether or not the two men gagged the other, or
placed their hands over his mouth?”
“No, they certainly didn’t do that. It was dark, of course, but not
so dark as to prevent my seeing generally what they were doing.”
“And when you first looked out of the window after the smash, you
called out, but got no answer, although the man you suppose to have
thrown these things must have been there at the time, and alone?”
“That was so.”
Hewitt stood for half a minute in thought, and then said, “There’s
something in this; what, I can’t guess at the moment, but something
deep, I fancy. Are you sure you won’t come out now?”
On this my mind was made up. That dreadful volume had vanquished me
altogether three times already, and if I let it go again it would
haunt me like a nightmare. There was indeed very little left to read,
and I determined to master that and draft my review before I slept.
So I told Hewitt that I _was_ sure, and that I should stick to my
work.
“Very well,” he said; “then perhaps you will lend me these
articles?” holding up the paper and the stone as he spoke.
“Delighted to lend ’em, I’m sure,” I said. “If you get no more
melody out of the clinker than I did out of the paper, you won’t have
a musical evening. Good-night!”
Hewitt went away with the puzzle in his hand, and I turned once more
to my social economy, and, thanks to the gentleman who smashed my
window, conquered. I am sure I should have dropped fast asleep had it
not been for that.
II
At this time my only regular daily work was on an evening paper, so
that I left home at a quarter to eight on the morning following the
adventure of my broken window, in order, as usual, to be at the
office at eight; consequently it was not until lunchtime, when my
work was over, that I had an opportunity of seeing Hewitt. I went to
my own rooms first, however, and on the landing by my door I found
the housekeeper in conversation with a shortish, sun-browned man with
a goatee beard, whose accent at once convinced me that he hailed from
across the Atlantic. He had called, it appeared, three or four times
during the morning to see me, getting more impatient each time. As he
did not seem even to know my name, the housekeeper had not considered
it expedient to say when I was expected, nor indeed to give him any
information about me, and he was growing irascible under the
treatment. When I at last appeared, however, he left her and
approached me eagerly.
“See here, sir,” he said, “I’ve been stumpin’ these here durn stairs
o’ yours half through the mornin’. I’m anxious to _a_pologise, I
reckon, and fix up some damage.”
He had followed me into my sitting-room, and was now standing with
his back to the fireplace, a dripping umbrella in one hand, and the
forefinger of the other held up shoulder-high and pointing, in the
manner of a pistol, to my window, which, by the way, had been mended
during the morning, in accordance with my instructions to the
housekeeper.
“Sir,” he continued, “last night I took the extreme liberty of
smashin’ your winder.”
“Oh,” I said, “that was you, was it?”
“It was, sir--me. For that I hev come humbly to apologise. I trust
the draft has not discommoded you, sir. I regret the acci_dent_, and
I wish to pay for the fixin’ up and the general inconvenience.” He
placed a sovereign on the table. “I ’low you’ll call that square now,
sir, and fix things friendly and comfortable as between gentle_men_,
an’ no ill will. Shake.”
And he formally extended his hand.
I took it at once. “Certainly,” I said, “certainly. As a matter of
fact, you haven’t inconvenienced me at all; indeed, there were some
circumstances about the affair that rather interested me. But as to
the damage,” I continued, “if you’re really anxious to pay for it, do
you mind my sending the glazier to you to settle? You see, it’s only
a matter of half a crown or so at most.” And I pushed the sovereign
toward him.
“But then,” he said, looking a trifle disappointed, “there’s general
discommodedness, you know, to pay for, and the general _sass_ of the
liberty to a stranger’s winder. I ain’t no down-easter--not a Boston
dude--but I reckon I know the gentlemanly thing, and I can afford to
do it. Yes. Say now, didn’t I startle your nerves?”
“Not a bit,” I answered, laughing. “In fact, you did me a service by
preventing me going to sleep just when I shouldn’t; so we’ll say no
more of that.”
“Well--there was one other little thing,” he pursued, looking at me
rather sharply as he slowly pocketed the sovereign. “There was a bit
o’ paper round that pebble that came in here. Didn’t happen to notice
that, did you?”
“Yes, I did. It was an old piece of manuscript music.”
“That was it--just. Might you happen to have it handy now?”
“Well,” I said, “as a matter of fact a friend of mine has it now. I
tried playing it over once or twice, as a matter of curiosity, but I
couldn’t make anything of it, and so I handed it to him.”
“Ah!” said my visitor, watching me narrowly, “that’s a nailer, is
that ‘Flitterbat Lancers’--a real nailer. It whips ’em all. Nobody
can’t get ahead of that. Ha, ha!” He laughed suddenly--a laugh that
seemed a little artificial. “There’s music fellers as ’lows to set
right down and play off anything right away that can’t make anything
of the ‘Flitterbat Lancers.’ That was two of ’em that was monkeyin’
with me last night. They never could make anythin’ of it at all, and
I was tantalizing them with it all along till they got real mad, and
reckoned to get it out o’ my pocket and learn it off quiet at home,
and stop all my chaff. Ha, ha! So I got away for a bit, and bein’ a
bit lively after a number of tooth-lotions (all three was much that
way), just rolled it round a stone and heaved it through your winder
before they could come up, your winder bein’ the nearest one with a
light in it. Ha, ha! I’ll be considerable obliged if you’ll get it
from your friend right now. Is he stayin’ hereabout?”
The story was so ridiculously lame that I determined to confront my
visitor with Hewitt, and observe the result. If he had succeeded in
making any sense of the “Flitterbat Lancers,” the scene might be
amusing. So I answered at once, “Yes; his office is only on the floor
below; he will probably be in at about this time. Come down with me.”
We went down, and found Hewitt in his outer office. “This
gentleman,” I told him with a solemn intonation, “has come to ask for
his piece of manuscript music, the ‘Flitterbat Lancers.’ He is
particularly proud of it, because nobody who tries to play it can
make any sort of tune out of it, and it was entirely because two dear
friends of his were anxious to drag it out of his pocket and practice
it over on the quiet that he flung it through my window-pane last
night, wrapped round a piece of concrete.”
The stranger glanced sharply at me, and I could see that my manner
and tone rather disconcerted him. But Hewitt came forward at once.
“Oh, yes,” he said. “Just so--quite a natural sort of thing. As a
matter of fact, I quite expected you. Your umbrella’s wet--do you
mind putting it in the stand? Thank you. Come into my private office.”
We entered the inner room, and Hewitt, turning to the stranger, went
on: “Yes, that is a very extraordinary piece of music, that
‘Flitterbat Lancers.’ I have been having a little practice with it
myself, though I’m really nothing of a musician. I don’t wonder you
are anxious to keep it to yourself. Sit down.”
The stranger, with a distrustful look at Hewitt, complied. At this
moment, Hewitt’s clerk, Kerrett, entered from the outer office with a
slip of paper. Hewitt glanced at it, and crumpled it in his hand. “I
am engaged just now,” was his remark, and Kerrett vanished.
“And now,” Hewitt said, as he sat down and suddenly turned to the
stranger with an intent gaze, “and now, Mr Hoker, we’ll talk of this
music.”
The stranger started and frowned. “You’ve the advantage of me, sir,”
he said; “you seem to know my name, but I don’t know yours.”
Hewitt smiled pleasantly. “My name,” he said, “is Hewitt--Martin
Hewitt, and it is my business to know a great many things. For
instance, I know that you are Mr Reuben B. Hoker, of Robertsville,
Ohio.”
[Illustration: “MR. HOKER.”]
The visitor pushed his chair back, and stared. “Well--that gits me,”
he said. “You’re a pretty smart chap, anyway. I’ve heard your name
before, of course. And--and so you’ve been a-studyin’ of the
‘Flitterbat Lancers,’ have you?” This with a keen glance in Hewitt’s
face. “Well, well, s’pose you have. What’s your opinion?”
“Why,” answered Hewitt, still keeping his steadfast gaze on Hoker’s
eyes, “I think it’s pretty late in the century to be fishing about
for the Wedlake jewels, that’s all.”
These words astonished me almost as much as they did Mr Hoker. The
great Wedlake jewel robbery is, as many will remember, a traditional
story of the sixties. I remembered no more of it at the time than
probably most men do who have at some time or another read up the
_causes célèbres_ of the century. Sir Francis Wedlake’s country house
had been robbed, and the whole of Lady Wedlake’s magnificent
collection of jewels stolen. A man named Shiels, a strolling
musician, had been arrested and had been sentenced to a long term of
penal servitude. Another man named Legg--one of the comparatively
wealthy scoundrels who finance promising thefts or swindles and
pocket the greater part of the proceeds--had also been punished, but
only a very few of the trinkets, and those quite unimportant items,
had been recovered. The great bulk of the booty was never brought to
light. So much I remembered, and Hewitt’s sudden mention of the
Wedlake jewels in connection with my broken window, Mr Reuben B.
Hoker, and the “Flitterbat Lancers,” astonished me not a little.
As for Hoker, he did his best to hide his perturbation, but with
little success. “Wedlake jewels, eh?” he said; “and--and what’s that
to do with it, anyway?”
“To do with it?” responded Hewitt, with an air of carelessness.
“Well, well, I had my idea, nothing more. If the Wedlake jewels have
nothing to do with it, we’ll say no more about it, that’s all. Here’s
your paper, Mr Hoker--only a little crumpled. Here also is the piece
of cement. If the Wedlake jewels have nothing to do with the affair
you may possibly want that too--I can’t tell.” He rose and placed the
articles in Mr Hoker’s hand, with the manner of terminating the
interview.
Hoker rose, with a bewildered look on his face, and turned toward
the door. Then he stopped, looked at the floor, scratched his cheek,
and finally, after a thoughtful look, first at me and then at Hewitt,
sat down again emphatically in the chair he had just quitted, and put
his hat on the ground. “Come,” he said, “we’ll play a square game.
That paper has something to do with the Wedlake jewels, and, win or
lose, I’ll tell you all I know about it. You’re a smart man--you’ve
found out more than I know already--and whatever I tell you, I guess
it won’t do me no harm; it ain’t done me no good yet, anyway.”
“Say what you please, of course,” Hewitt answered, “but think first.
You might tell me something you’d be sorry for afterward. Mind, I
don’t invite your confidence.”
“Confidence be durned! Say, will you listen to what I say, and tell
me if you think I’ve been swindled or not? There ain’t a creature in
this country whose advice I can ask. My 250 dollars is gone now, and
I guess I won’t go skirmishing after it any more if you think it’s no
good. Will you do so much?”
“As I said before,” Hewitt replied, “tell me what you please, and if
I can help you I will. But remember, I don’t ask for your secrets.”
“That’s all right, I guess, Mr Hewitt. Well, now, it was all like
this.” And Mr Reuben B. Hoker plunged into a detailed account of his
adventures since his arrival in London.
Relieved of repetitions, and put as directly as possible, it was as
follows: Mr Hoker was a wagon-builder, had made a good business from
very humble beginnings, and intended to go on and make it still a
better. Meantime, he had come over to Europe for a short holiday--a
thing he had promised himself for years. He was wandering about the
London streets on the second night after his arrival in the city,
when he managed to get into conversation with two men at a bar. They
were not very prepossessing men altogether, though flashily dressed.
Very soon they suggested a game of cards. But Reuben B. Hoker was not
to be had in that way, and after a while they parted. The two were
amusing fellows enough in their way, and when Hoker saw them again
the next night in the same bar, he made no difficulty in talking with
them freely. After a time, and after a succession of drinks, they
told him that they had a speculation on hand--a speculation that
meant thousands if it succeeded--and to carry out which they were
only waiting for a paltry sum of £50. There was a house, they said,
in which they were certain was hidden a great number of jewels of
immense value, which had been deposited there by a man who was now
dead. Exactly in what part of the house the jewels were to be found
they did not know. There was a paper, they said, which was supposed
to contain some information, but as yet they hadn’t quite been able
to make it out. But that would really matter very little if once they
could get possession of the house. Then they would simply set to work
and search from the topmost chimney to the lowermost brick if
necessary. Anyhow, the jewels must be found sooner or later. The only
present difficulty was that the house was occupied, and that the
landlord wanted a large deposit of rent down before he would consent
to turn out his present tenants and give them possession at a higher
rental. This deposit and other expenses, would come to at least £50,
and they hadn’t the money. However, if any friend of theirs who meant
business would put the necessary sum at their disposal, and keep his
mouth shut, they would make him an equal partner in the proceeds with
themselves; and as the value of the whole haul would probably be
something not very far off £20,000, the speculation would bring a
tremendous return to the man who was smart enough to see the
advantage of putting down his £50.
Hoker, very distrustful, skeptically demanded more detailed
particulars of the scheme. But these the two men (Luker and Birks
were their names, he found, in course of talking) inflexibly refused
to communicate.
“Is it likely,” said Luker, “that we should give the ’ole thing away
to anybody who might easily go with his £50 and clear out the
bloomin’ show? Not much. We’ve told you what the game is, and if
you’d like to take a flutter with your £50, all right; you’ll do as
well as anybody, and we’ll treat you square. If you don’t--well,
don’t, that’s all. We’ll get the oof from somewhere--there’s blokes
as ’ud jump at the chance, I can tell you--only they’re inconvenient
blokes to deal with, as I’ll explain if you come in with us. Anyway,
we ain’t going to give the show away before you’ve done somethin’ to
prove you’re on the job, straight. Put your money in, and you shall
know as much as we do.”
Then there were more drinks, and more discussion. Hoker was still
reluctant, though tempted by the prospect, and growing more
venturesome with each drink.
“Don’t you see,” said Birks, “that if we was a-tryin’ to ’ave you we
should out with a tale as long as yer arm, all complete, with the
address of the ’ouse and all. Then I s’pose you’d lug out the pieces
on the nail, without askin’ a bloomin’ question. More fool you,
that’s all. As it is, the thing’s so perfectly genuine that we’d
rather lose the chance and wait for some other bloke to find the
money than run a chance of givin’ the thing away. It ain’t you wot’ll
be doin’ a favour, mind. If it’s anybody, it’s us. Not that we want
to talk of favours at all, if you come to that. It’s a matter o’
business, simple and plain, that’s all it is. If you’re willin’ to
come in with the money that we can’t do without--very well. If you
ain’t, very well too, only we ain’t goin’ to give the thing away to
an outsider. It’s a question of either us trustin’ you with a chance
of collarin’ £20,000, or you trustin’ us with a paltry £50. We don’t
lay out no ’igh moral sentiments, we only say the weight o’ money is
all on one side. Take it or leave it, that’s all. ’Ave another
Scotch?”
The talk went on and the drinks went on, and it all ended, at
“chucking-out time,” in Reuben B. Hoker handing over five ten-pound
notes, with smiling, though slightly incoherent, assurances of his
eternal friendship for Luker and Birks.
In the morning he awoke to the realization of a bad head, a bad
tongue, and a bad opinion of his proceedings of the previous night.
In his sober senses it seemed plain that he had been swindled. He had
heard of the confidence trick, to which many Americans had
unaccountably fallen victims (for to him the trick had always seemed
very thin), and he had sworn that something better than the
confidence trick would be required to get over _him_. But now there
seemed no doubt that this was no more than the confidence trick over
again, in a new and more impudent form. All day he cursed his fuddled
foolishness, and at night he made for the bar that had been the scene
if the transaction, with little hope of seeing either Luker or Birks,
who had agreed to be there to meet him. There they were, however,
and, rather to his surprise, they made no demand for more money. They
asked him if he understood music, and showed him the worn old piece
of paper containing the manuscript “Flitterbat Lancers.” The exact
spot, they said, where the jewels were hidden was supposed to be
indicated somehow and somewhere on that piece of paper. Hoker did not
understand music, and could find nothing on the paper that looked in
the least like a direction to a hiding-place for jewels or anything
else.
Luker and Birks then went into full particulars of their project.
First, as to its history. First, as to its history. The jewels were
the famous Wedlake jewels, which had been taken from Sir Francis
Wedlake’s house in 1866 and never heard of again. A certain Jerry
Shiels had been arrested in connection with the robbery, had been
given a long sentence of penal servitude, and had died in gaol. This
Jerry Shiels was an extraordinarily clever criminal, and travelled
about the country as a street musician. Although an expert burglar,
he very rarely perpetrated robberies himself, but acted as a sort of
travelling fence, receiving stolen property and transmitting it to
London or out of the country. He also acted as the agent of a man
named Legg, who had money, and who financed any likely-looking
project of a criminal nature that Shiels might arrange or recommend.
Luker and Birks explained that there were many men of this class, and
that it was to them that they had referred on the previous evening,
when they said that there were “blokes that would jump at the chance”
of financing the present venture.
Jerry Shiels travelled with a “pardner”--a man who played the harp
and acted as his assistant and messenger in affairs wherein Jerry was
reluctant to appear personally. When Shiels was arrested, he had in
his possession a quantity of printed and manuscript music, and after
his first remand his “pardner,” Jimmy Snape, applied for the music to
be given up to him, in order, as he explained, that he might earn his
living. No objection was raised to this, and Shiels was quite willing
that Snape should have it, and so it was handed over. Now among the
music was a small slip, headed “Flitterbat Lancers,” which Shiels had
shown to Snape before the arrest. In case of Shiels being taken,
Snape was to take this particular slip to Legg as fast as he could.
The slip indeed carried about it, in some unexplained way, which Legg
understood, an indication of the place in which Shiels had concealed
the bulk of the Wedlake jewels, and the whole proceeding was an
ingenious trick invented by Shiels (and used before, it was supposed)
to communicate with Legg while under arrest.
Snape got the music, but, as chance would have it, on that very day
Legg himself was arrested, and soon after was sentenced also to a
term of years. Snape hung about in London for a little while, and
then emigrated. Before leaving, however, he gave the slip of music to
Luker’s father, a rag-shop keeper, who was a friend of his, and to
whom he owed money. He explained its history, and hoped that Luker
senior would be able to recoup himself for the debt, and a good deal
over. Then he went. Luker senior had made all sorts of fruitless
efforts to get at the information concealed in the paper. He had held
it to the fire to bring up concealed writing, had washed it, had held
it to the light till his eyes ached, had gone over it with a
magnifying glass--all in vain. He had got musicians to strum out the
notes on all sorts of instruments--backwards, forwards, alternately,
and in every other way he could think of. If at any time he fancied a
resemblance in the resulting sound to some familiar song-tune, he got
that song and studied all its words with loving care, upside-down,
right-side up--every way. He took the words “Flitterbat Lancers” and
transposed the letters in all directions, and did everything else he
could think of. In the end he gave it up, and died. Now lately, Luker
junior had been impelled with a desire to see into the matter. He had
repeated all the parental experiments, and more, with chemicals, and
with the same lack of success. He had taken his “pal” Birks into his
confidence, and together they had tried other experiments
still--usually very clumsy ones indeed--till at last they began to
believe that the message had probably been written in some sort of
invisible ink which the subsequent washings and experiments had
erased altogether. But he had done one other thing: he had found the
house which Shiels rented at the time of his arrest, and in which a
good quantity of stolen property--not connected with the Wedlake
case--was discovered. Here, he argued, if anywhere, Jerry Shiels had
hidden the jewels. There was no other place where he could be found
to have lived, or over which he had sufficient control to warrant his
hiding valuables therein. Perhaps, once the house could be properly
examined, something about it might give a clue as to what the message
of the “Flitterbat Lancers” meant. At any rate, message or none,
anybody in possession of the house, with a certain amount of
patience, secrecy, and thoroughness, could in time make himself
master of every possible hiding-place, and could completely excavate
the back yard. The trouble was that the house was occupied, and that
money was wanted to get possession. It was with the view of providing
this that they had decided to broach the subject to Hoker.
Hoker, of course, was anxious to know where the house in question
stood, but this Luker and Birks would on no account inform him.
“You’ve done your part,” they said, “and now you leave us to do ours.
There’s a bit of a job about gettin’ the tenants out. They won’t go,
and it’ll take a bit of time before the landlord can make them. So
you just hold your jaw and wait. When we’re safe in the ’ouse, and
there’s no chance of anybody else pokin’ into the business, then you
can come and help find the stuff if you like. But you ain’t goin’ to
’ave a chance of puttin’ in first for yourself this journey, you bet.”
Hoker went home that night sober, but in much perplexity. The thing
might be genuine, after all; indeed, there were many little things
that made him think it was. But then, if it were, what guarantee had
he that he would get his share, supposing the search turned out
successful? None at all. But then it struck him for the first time
that these jewels, though they may have lain untouched so long, were
stolen property after all. The moral aspect of the affair began to
trouble him a little, but the legal aspect troubled him more. That
consideration, however, he decided to leave over, for the present at
any rate. He had no more than the word of Luker and Birks that the
jewels (if they existed) _were_ those of Lady Wedlake, and Luker and
Birks themselves only professed to know from hearsay. At any rate,
his £50 was gone where he felt pretty sure he would have a difficulty
in getting it back from, and he determined to wait events. But at
least he made up his mind to have some little guarantee for his
money. In accordance with this resolve, he suggested, when he met the
two men the next day, that he should take charge of the slip of music
and make an independent study of it. This proposal, however, met with
an instant veto. The whole thing was now in their hands, Luker and
Birks laid it down, and they didn’t intend letting any of it out. If
Hoker wanted to study the “Flitterbat Lancers,” he could do it in
their presence, and if he were dissatisfied he could go to the next
shop. Altogether it became clear to the unhappy Hoker that now he had
parted with his money he was altogether at the mercy of these
fellows, if he wished to get any share of the plunder, or even to see
his money back again. And if he made any complaint, or if the matter
became at all known, the affair would be “blown upon,” as they
expressed it, and his money would be gone. Mostly, though, he
resented their bullying talk, and he determined to get even in the
matter of the music. He resolved to make up a piece of paper, folded
as like the slip as possible, and substitute one for the other at
their next meeting. Then he would put the “Flitterbat Lancers” in
some safe place, and face his fellow-conspirators with a hand of
cards equal to their own. He carried out his plan the next evening
with perfect success, thanks to a trick of “passing” cards which he
had learned in his youth, and thanks also to the contemptuous
indifference with which Luker and Birks had begun to regard him. He
got the slip in his pocket, and left the bar. He had not gone far,
however, before Luker discovered the trick, and soon he became
conscious of being followed. He looked for a cab, but he was in a
dark street, and no cab was near. Luker and Birks turned the corner
and began to run. He saw they must catch him, and felt no doubt that
it they did he would lose the slip of paper, the £50, and everything.
They were big, active fellows, and could probably do as they liked
with him--especially since he could not call for help without risking
an exposure of their joint enterprise. Everything depended now on his
putting the “Flitterbat Lancers” out of their reach, but where he
could himself recover it. Then it would form a sort of security for
his share of the venture. He ran till he saw a narrow passage-way on
his right, and into this he darted. It led into a yard where stones
were lying about, and in a large building before him he saw the
window of a lighted room a couple of floors up. It was a desperate
expedient, but there was no time for consideration. He wrapped a
stone in the paper and flung it with all his force through the
lighted window. Even as he did it he heard the feet of Luker and
Birks as they hurried down the street. The rest of the adventure in
the court I myself saw.
Luker and Birks kept Hoker in their lodgings all that night. They
searched him unsuccessfully for the paper; they bullied, they swore,
they cajoled, they entreated, they begged him to play the game square
with his pals. Hoker merely replied that he had put the “Flitterbat
Lancers” where they couldn’t easily find it, and that he intended
playing the game square so long as they did the same. In the end they
released him, apparently with more respect for his cuteness than they
had before entertained, advising him, at any rate, to get the paper
into his possession as soon as he could. With this view he repaired
again to the scene of his window-smashing exploit, and having
ascertained the exact position of the window in the building, began
his morning’s attack on my outer door.
“And now,” said Mr. Hoker, in conclusion of his narrative, “perhaps
you’ll give me a bit of Christian advice. You’re up to as many moves
as most people over here. Am I playin’ a fool-game running after
these toughs, or ain’t I? I wouldn’t have told you what I have, of
course, if it wasn’t clear that you’d got hold of the hang of the
scheme somehow. Say, now, is it all a swindle?”
Hewitt shrugged his shoulders. “It all depends,” he said, “on your
friends Luker and Birks, as you may easily see for yourself. They may
want to swindle you of your money and of the proceeds of the
speculation, as you call it, or they may not. I’m afraid they’d like
to, at any rate. But perhaps you’ve got some little security in this
piece of paper. One thing is plain: they certainly believe in the
deposit of jewels themselves, else they wouldn’t have taken so much
trouble to get the paper back, on the chance of seeing some way of
using it after they had got into the house they speak of.”
“Then I guess I’ll go on with the thing, if that’s it.”
“That depends, of course, on whether you care to take trouble to get
possession of what, after all, is somebody else’s lawful property.”
Hoker looked a little uneasy. “Well,” he said, “there’s that, of
course. I didn’t know nothin’ about that at first, and when I did I’d
parted with my money and felt entitled to get something back for it.
Anyway, the stuff ain’t found yet. When it is, why then, you know, I
might make a deal with the owner. But, say, how did you find out my
name, and about this here affair being jined up with the Wedlake
jewels?”
Hewitt smiled. “As to the name and address, you just think it over a
little when you’ve gone away, and if you don’t see how I did it,
you’re not so cute as I think you are. In regard to the jewels--well,
I just read the message of the ‘Flitterbat Lancers,’ that’s all.”
“You read it? Whew! That beats! And what does it say, and where? How
did you fix it?” Hoker turned the paper over eagerly in his hands as
he spoke.
“See, now,” said Hewitt, “I won’t tell you all that, but I’ll tell
you something, and it may help you to test the real knowledge of
Luker and Birks. Part of the message is in these words, which you had
better write down: ‘_Over the coals the fifth dancer slides, says
Jerry Shiels the horney_.’”
“What?” Hoker exclaimed, “fifth dancer slides over the coals? That’s
a mighty odd dance-figure, anyway, lancers or not. What’s it all
about?”
“About the Wedlake jewels, as I said. Now you can go and make a
bargain with Luker and Birks. The only other part of the message is
an address, and that they already know, if they have been telling the
truth about the house they intend taking. You can offer to tell them
what I have told you of the message, after they have told you where
the house is, and proved to you that they are taking the steps they
talk of. If they won’t agree to that, I think you had best treat them
as common rogues (which they are), and charge them with obtaining
your money under false pretences. But in any case don’t be
disappointed if you see very little of the Wedlake jewels.”
Nothing more would Hewitt say than that, despite Hoker’s many
questions; and when at last Hoker had gone, almost as troubled and
perplexed as ever, my friend turned to me and said, “Now, Brett, if
you haven’t lunched, and would like to see the end of this business,
hurry up!”
“The end of it?” I said. “Is it to end so soon? How?”
“Simply by a police raid on Jerry Shiels’s old house with a search
warrant. I communicated with the police this morning before I came
here.”
“Poor Hoker!” I said.
“Oh, I had told the police before I saw Hoker, or heard of him, of
course. I just conveyed the message on the music slip--that was
enough. But I’ll tell you all about it when there’s more time; I must
be off now. With the information I have given him, Hoker and his
friends may make an extra push and get into the house soon, but I
couldn’t resist the temptation to give the unfortunate Hoker some
sort of a sporting chance--though it’s a poor one, I fear. Get your
lunch as quickly as you can, and go at once to Colt Row,
Bankside--Southwark way, you know. Probably we shall be there before
you. If not, wait.”
Hewitt had assumed his hat and gloves as he spoke, and now hurried
away. I took such lunch as I could in twenty minutes, and hurried in
a cab towards Blackfriars Bridge. The cabman knew nothing of Colt
Row, but had a notion of where to find Bankside. Once in the region I
left him, and then Colt Row was not difficult to find. It was one of
those places that decay with an access of respectability, like Drury
Lane and Clare Market. Once, when Jacob’s Island was still an island,
a little farther down the river, Colt Row had evidently been an
unsafe place for a person with valuables about him, and then it
probably prospered, in its own way. Now it was quite respectable, but
very dilapidated and dirty, and looked as unprosperous as a street
well can. It was too near the river to be a frequented thoroughfare,
and too far from it to be valuable for wharfage purposes. It was a
stagnant backwater in the London tide, close though it stood to the
full rush of the stream. Perhaps it was sixty yards long--perhaps a
little more. It was certainly very few yards wide, and the houses at
each side had a patient and forlorn look of waiting for a
metropolitan improvement to come along and carry them away to their
rest. Many seemed untenanted, and most threatened soon to be
untenable. I could see no signs as yet of Hewitt, nor of the police,
so I walked up and down the narrow pavement for a little while. As I
did so, I became conscious of a face at a window of the least ruinous
house in the row, a face that I fancied expressed particular interest
in my movements. The house was an old gabled structure, faced with
plaster. What had apparently once been a shop-window, or at any rate
a wide one, on the ground floor, was now shuttered up, and the face
that watched me--an old woman’s--looked from a window next above. I
had noted these particulars with some curiosity, when, arriving again
at the street corner, I observed Hewitt approaching, in company with
a police inspector, and followed by two unmistakable “plain-clothes”
men.
“Well,” Hewitt said, “you’re first here after all. Have you seen any
more of our friend Hoker?”
“No, nothing.”
“Very well--probably he’ll be here before long, though.”
The party turned into Colt Row, and the inspector, walking up to the
door of the house with the shuttered bottom window, knocked sharply.
There was no response, so he knocked again; but equally in vain.
“All out,” said the inspector.
“No,” I said; “I saw a woman watching me from the window above not
three minutes ago.”
“Ho, ho!” the inspector replied. “That’s so, eh? One of you--you,
Johnson--step round to the back, will you? You know the courts
behind.”
One of the plain-clothes men started off, and after waiting another
minute or two the inspector began a thundering cannonade of knocks
that brought every available head out of the window of every
inhabited room in the Row.
The woman’s face appeared stealthily at the upper window again, but
the inspector saw, and he shouted to her to open the door and save
him the necessity of damaging it. At this the woman opened the
window, and began abusing the inspector with a shrillness and fluency
that added a street-corner audience to that already congregated at
the windows.
“Go away, you blaggards!” the lady said, among other things; “you
ought to be ’orse-w’ipped, every one of ye! A-comin’ ’ere a-tryin’ to
turn decent people out o’ ’ouse and ’ome! Wait till my ’usband comes
’ome--’e’ll show yer, ye mutton-cadgin’ scoundrels! Payin’ our rent
reg’lar, and good tenants as is always been--as you may ask Mrs.
Green next door this blessed minute--and I’m a respectable married
woman, that’s what I am, ye dirty great cow-ards!”--this last word
with a low, tragic emphasis.
Hewitt remembered what Hoker had said about the present tenants
refusing to quit the house on the landlord’s notice. “She thinks
we’ve come from the landlord to turn her out,” he said to the
inspector.
“We’re not here from the landlord, you old fool!” the inspector
said, in as low a voice as could be trusted to reach the woman’s
ears. “We don’t want to turn you out. We’re the police, with a
search-warrant to look for something left here before you came; and
you’d better let us in, I can tell you, or you’ll get into trouble.”
“’Ark at ’im!” the woman screamed, pointing at the inspector. “’Ark
at ’im! Thinks I was born yesterday, that feller! Go ’ome, ye dirty
pie-stealer, go ’ome! ’Oo sneaked the cook’s watch, eh? Go ’ome!”
The audience showed signs of becoming a small crowd, and the
inspector’s patience gave out. “Here, Bradley,” he said, addressing
the remaining plain-clothes man, “give a hand with these shutters,”
and the two--both powerful men--seized the iron bar which held the
shutters, and began to pull. But the garrison was undaunted, and,
seizing a broom, the woman began to belabour the invaders about the
shoulders and head from above. But just at this moment the woman,
emitting a terrific shriek, was suddenly lifted from behind and
vanished. Then the head of the plain-clothes man who had gone round
the houses appeared, with the calm announcement, “There’s a winder
open behind, sir. But I’ll open the front door if you like.”
[Illustration: “THE WOMAN BEGAN TO BELABOUR THE INVADERS ABOUT THE
SHOULDERS AND HEAD FROM ABOVE.”]
Then there was a heavy thump, and _his_ head was withdrawn; the
broom was probably responsible. The inspector shouted impatiently for
the front door to be opened, and in a minute or two the bolts were
shot, and it swung back. The placid Johnson stood in the passage, and
as we passed in he said, “I’ve locked ’er in the back room upstairs.”
As a matter of fact we might have guessed it. Volleys of screeches,
punctuated by bangs from contact of broom and door, left no doubt.
“It’s the bottom staircase, of course,” the inspector said; and we
tramped down into the basement. A little way from the stairfoot
Hewitt opened a cupboard door, which enclosed a receptacle for coals.
“They still keep the coals here, you see,” he said, striking a match
and passing it to and fro near the sloping roof of the cupboard. It
was of plaster, and covered the under-side of the stairs.
“And now for the fifth dancer,” he said, throwing the match away and
making for the staircase again. “One, two, three, four, five,” and he
tapped the fifth stair from the bottom. “Here it is.”
The stairs were uncarpeted, and Hewitt and the inspector began a
careful examination of the one he had indicated. They tapped it in
different places, and Hewitt passed his hand over the surfaces of
both tread and riser. Presently, with his hand at the outer edge of
the riser, Hewitt spoke. “Here it is, I think,” he said; “it is the
riser that slides.”
He took out his pocket-knife and scraped away the grease and paint
from the edge of the old stair. Then a joint was plainly visible. For
a long time the plank, grimed and set with age, refused to shift; but
at last, by dint of patience and firm fingers, it moved, and in a few
seconds was drawn clean out from the end, like the lid of a
domino-box lying on its side.
Within, nothing was visible but grime, fluff, and small rubbish. The
inspector passed his hand along the bottom angle. “Here’s a hook or
something, at any rate,” he said. It was the gold hook of an
old-fashioned earring, broken off short.
Hewitt slapped his thigh. “Somebody’s been here before us,” he said
“and a good time back too, judging from the dust. That hook’s a plain
indication that jewellery was here once, and probably broken up for
convenience of carriage and stowage. There’s plainly nothing more,
except--except this piece of paper.” Hewitt’s eyes had
detected--black with loose grime as it was--a small piece of paper
lying at the bottom of the recess. He drew it out and shook off the
dust. “Why, what’s this?” he exclaimed. “More music! Why, look here!”
We went to the window, and there saw in Hewitt’s hand a piece of
written musical notation, thus:--
Hewitt pulled out from his pocket a few pieces of paper. “Here is a
copy I made this morning of the ‘Flitterbat Lancers,’ and a note or
two of my own as well,” he said. He took a pencil, and, constantly
referring to his own papers, marked a letter under each note on the
last-found slip of music. When he had done this, the letters read:--
_“You are a clever cove whoever you are but there was a cleverer
says Jim Snape the horney’s mate.”_