unconsidered messenger, finding Legg in prison, set to work and got
the jewels for himself. He either had more gumption than the other
people through whose hands the ‘Flitterbat Lancers’ has passed, or
else he had got some clue to the cipher during his association with
Shiels. The thing was a cryptogram, of course, of a very simple sort,
though uncommon in design. Snape was a humorous soul, too, to leave
this message here in the same cipher, on the chance of somebody else
reading the ‘Flitterbat Lancers.’”
“But,” I asked, “why did he give that slip of music to Luker’s
father?”
“Well, he owed him money, and got out of it that way. Also he
avoided the appearance of ‘flushness’ that paying the debt might have
given him, and got quietly out of the country with his spoils. Also
he may have paid off a grudge on old Luker--anyhow, the thing plagued
him enough.”
The shrieks upstairs had grown hoarser, but the broom continued
vigorously. “Let that woman out,” said the inspector, “and we’ll go
and report. Not much good looking for Snape now, I fancy. But there’s
some satisfaction in clearing up that old quarter-century mystery.”
We left the place pursued by the execrations of the broom wielder,
who bolted the door behind us, and from the window defied us to come
back, and vowed she would have us all searched before a magistrate
for what we had probably stolen. In the very next street we hove in
sight of Reuben B. Hoker in the company of two swell-mob-looking
fellows, who sheered off down a side turning at sight of our group.
Hoker, too, looked rather shy at sight of the inspector. As we
passed, Hewitt stopped for a moment and said, “I’m afraid you’ve lost
those jewels, Mr. Hoker; come to my office to-morrow, and I’ll tell
you all about it.”
III
“The meaning of the thing was so very plain,” Hewitt said to me
afterwards, “that the duffers who had the ‘Flitterbat Lancers’ in
hand for so long never saw it at all. If Shiels had made an ordinary
clumsy cryptogram, all letters and figures, they would have seen what
it was at once, and at least would have tried to read it; but because
it was put in the form of music, they tried everything else but the
right way. It was a clever dodge of Shiels’s, without a doubt. Very
few people, police officers or not, turning over a heap of old music,
would notice or feel suspicious of that little slip among the rest.
But once one sees it is a cryptogram (and the absence of bar-lines
and of notes beyond the stave would suggest that) the reading is as
easy as possible. For my part I tried it as a cryptogram at once. You
know the plan--it has been described a hundred times. See here--look
at this copy of the ‘Flitterbat Lancers.’ Its only difficulty--and
that is a small one--is that the words are not divided. Since there
are on the stave positions for less than a dozen notes, and there are
twenty-six letters to be indicated, it follows that crotchets,
quavers, and semiquavers on the same line or space must mean
different letters. The first step is obvious. We count the notes to
ascertain which sign occurs most frequently, and we find that the
crotchet in the top space is the sign required--it occurs no less
than eleven times. Now the letter most frequently occurring in an
ordinary sentence of English is _e_. Let us then suppose that this
represents _e_. At once a coincidence strikes us. In ordinary musical
notation in the treble clef the note occupying the top space would be
E. Let us remember that presently. Now the most common word in the
English language is _the_. We know the sign for _e_, the last letter
of this word, so let us see if in more than one place that sign is
preceded by two others identical in each case. If so, the probability
is that the other two signs will represent _t_ and _h_, and the whole
word will be _the_. Now it happens in no less than four places the
sign _e_ is preceded by the same two other signs--once in the first
line, twice in the second, and once in the fourth. No word of three
letters ending in _e_ would be in the least likely to occur four
times in a short sentence except _the_. Then we will call it _the_,
and note the signs preceding the _e_. They are a quaver under the
bottom line for the _t_, and a crotchet on the first space for the
_h_. We travel along the stave, and wherever these signs occur we
mark them with _t_ or _h_, as the case may be. But now we remember
that _e_, the crotchet in the top space, is in its right place as a
musical note, while the crotchet in the bottom space means _h_, which
is no musical note at all. Considering this for a minute, we remember
that among the notes which are expressed in ordinary music on the
treble stave, without the use of ledger lines, _d e_ and _f_ are
repeated at the lower and at the upper part of the stave. Therefore,
anybody making a cryptogram of musical notes would probably use one
set of these duplicate positions to indicate other letters, and as
_h_ is in the lower part of the stave, that is where the variation
comes in. Let us experiment by assuming that all the crotchets above
_f_ in ordinary musical notation have their usual values, and let us
set the letters over their respective notes. Now things begin to
shape. Look toward the end of the second line: there is the word
_the_ and the letters _f f t h_, with another note between the two
_f_s. Now that word can only possibly be _fifth_, so that now we have
the sign for _i_. It is the crotchet on the bottom line. Let us go
through and mark the _is_. And now observe. The first sign of the lot
is _i_, and there is one other sign before the word _the_. The only
words possible here beginning with _i_, and of two letters, are_ it_,
_if_,_ is_ and _in_. Now we have the signs for _t_ and _f_, so we
know that it isn’t _it_ or _if_. _Is_ would be unlikely here, because
there is a tendency, as you see, to regularity in these signs, and
_t_, the next letter alphabetically to _s_, is at the bottom of the
stave. Let us try _n_. At once we get the word _dance_ at the
beginning of line three. And now we have got enough to see the system
of the thing. Make a stave and put G A B C and the higher D E F in
their proper musical places. Then fill in the blank places with the
next letters of the alphabet downward, _h i j_, and we find that _h_
and _i_ fall in the places we have already discovered for them as
crotchets. Now take quavers, and go on with _k l m n o_, and so on as
before, beginning on the A space. When you have filled the quavers,
do the same with semiquavers--there are only six alphabetical letters
left for this--_u v w x y z_. Now you will find that this exactly
agrees with all we have ascertained already, and if you will use the
other letters to fill up over the signs still unmarked you will get
the whole message:--
_“‘In the Colt Row ken over the coals the fifth dancer slides says
Jerry Shiels the horney.’_
[Illustration: “THE FIFTH DANCER SLIDES.”]
“‘Dancer,’ as perhaps you didn’t know, is thieves’ slang for a
stair, and ‘horney’ is the strolling musician’s name for a cornet
player. Of course the thing took a little time to work out, chiefly
because the sentence was short, and gave one few opportunities. But
anybody with the key, using the cipher as a means of communication,
would read it as easily as print. Snape used the same cipher in his
jocular little note to the next searcher in the Colt Row staircase.
“As soon as I had read it, of course I guessed the purport of the
‘Flitterbat Lancers.’ Jerry Shiels’s name is well-known to anybody
with half my knowledge of the criminal records of the century, and
his connection with the missing Wedlake jewels, and his death in
prison, came to my mind at once. (The police afterwards, by the way,
soon identified his old house in Colt Row from their records.)
Certainly here was something hidden, and as the Wedlake jewels seemed
most likely, I made the shot in talking to Hoker.”
“But you terribly astonished him by telling him his name and
address. How was that?”
Hewitt laughed aloud. “That,” he said; “why, that was the thinnest
trick of all. Why, the man had it engraved at large all over the
silver band of his umbrella handle. When he left his umbrella
outside, Kerrett (I had indicated the umbrella to him by a sign) just
copied the lettering on one of the ordinary visitors’ forms, and
brought it in. You will remember I treated it as an ordinary
visitor’s announcement. Kerrett has played that trick before, I
fear.” And he laughed again.
On the afternoon of the next day Reuben B. Hoker called on Hewitt and
had half an hour’s talk with him in his private room. After that he
came up to me with half a crown in his hand. “Sir,” he said,
“everything has turned out a durned sell. I don’t want to talk about
it any more. I’m goin’ out o’ this durn country. Night before last I
broke your winder. You put the damage at half a crown. Here is the
money. Good-day to you, sir.”
And Reuben B. Hoker went out into the tumultuous world.
THE CASE OF THE DEAD SKIPPER
I
It is a good few years ago now that a suicide was investigated by a
coroner’s jury before whom Martin Hewitt gave certain simple and
direct evidence touching the manner of the death, and testifying to
the fact of its being a matter of self-destruction. The public got
certain suggestive information from the bare newspaper report, but
they never learnt the full story of the tragedy that led up to the
suicide that was so summarily disposed of.
The time I speak of was in Hewitt’s early professional days, not
long after he had left Messrs. Crellan’s office, and a long time
before I myself met him. At that time fewer of the police knew him
and were aware of his abilities, and fewer still appreciated them at
their true value. Inquiries in connection with a case had taken him
early one morning to the district which is now called “London over
the border,” and which comprises West Ham and the parts there
adjoining. At this time, however, the district was much unlike its
present self, for none of the grimy streets that now characterize it
had been built, and even in its nearest parts open land claimed more
space than buildings.
Hewitt’s business lay with the divisional surgeon of police, who
had, he found, been called away from his breakfast to a patient.
Hewitt followed him in the direction of the patient’s house, and met
him returning. They walked together, and presently, as they came in
sight of a row of houses, a girl, having the appearance of a
maid-of-all-work, came running from the side door of the end house--a
house rather larger and more pretentious than the others in the row.
Almost immediately a policeman appeared from the front door, and,
seeing the girl running, shouted to Hewitt and his companion to stop
her. This Hewitt did by a firm though gentle grasp of the arms; and,
turning her about, marched her back again. “Come, come,” he said,
“you’ll gain nothing by running away, whatever it is.” But the girl
shuddered and sobbed, and cried incoherently, “No, no--don’t; I’m
afraid. I don’t like it, sir. It’s awful. I can’t stop there.”
She was a strongly-built, sullen-looking girl, with prominent
eyebrows and a rather brutal expression of face; consequently her
extreme nervous agitation, her distorted face and her tears were the
more noticeable.
“What is all this?” the surgeon asked as they reached the front door
of the house. “Girl in trouble?”
The policeman touched his helmet. “It’s murder, sir, this time,” he
said, “that’s what it is. I’ve sent for the inspector, and I’ve sent
for you too, sir; and of course I couldn’t allow anyone to leave the
house till I’d handed it over to the inspector. Come,” he added to
the girl, as he saw her indoors, “don’t let’s have any more o’ that.
It looks bad, I can tell you.”
“Where’s the body?” asked the surgeon.
“First-floor front, sir--bed-sittin’-room. Ship’s captain, I’m told.
Throat cut awful.”
“Come,” said the surgeon, as he prepared to mount the stairs. “You’d
better come up too, Mr. Hewitt. You may spot something that will help
if it’s a difficult case.”
Together they entered the room, and, indeed, the sight was of a sort
that any maid-servant might be excused for running away from. Between
the central table and the fireplace the body lay, fully clothed, and
the whole room was in a great state of confusion, drawers lying about
with the contents spilt, boxes open, and papers scattered about. On a
table was a bottle and a glass.
“Robbery, evidently,” the surgeon said as he bent to his task. “See,
the pockets are all emptied, and partly protruding at the top. The
watch and chain has been torn off, leaving the swivel in the
button-hole.”
“Yes,” Hewitt answered, “that is so.” He had taken a rapid glance
about the room, and was now examining the stove, a register, with
close attention. He shut the trap above it and pushed to the room
door. Then very carefully, by the aid of the feather end of a quill
pen which lay on the table, he shifted the charred remains of a piece
or two of paper from the top of the cold cinders into the fire
shovel. He carried them to the sideboard, nearer the light from the
window, and examined them minutely, making a few notes in his
pocket-book, and then, removing the glass shade from an ornament on
the mantel-piece, placed it over them.
“There’s something that _may_ be of some use to the police,” he
remarked, “or may not, as the case may be. At any rate, there it is,
safe from draughts, if they want it. There’s nothing distinguishable
on one piece, but I think the other has been a cheque.”
The surgeon had concluded his first rapid examination, and rose to
his feet. “A very deep cut,” he said, “and done from behind, I think,
as he was sitting in his chair. Death at once, without a doubt, and
has been dead seven or eight hours I should say. Bed not slept in,
you see. Couldn’t have done it himself, that’s certain.”
“The knife,” Hewitt added, “is either gone or hidden. But here is
the inspector.”
The inspector was a stranger to Hewitt, and looked at him
inquiringly till the surgeon introduced him and mentioned his
profession. Then he said, with the air of one unwillingly relaxing a
rule of conduct, “All right, doctor, if he’s a friend of yours. A
little practice for you, eh, Mr. Hewitt?”
“Yes,” Hewitt answered modestly. “I haven’t had the advantage of any
experience in the police force, and perhaps I may learn. Perhaps also
I may help you.”
This did not seem to strike the inspector as a very luminous
probability, and he stepped to the landing and ordered up the
constable to make his full report. He had brought another man with
him, who took charge of the door. By this time, thinly populated as
was the neighbourhood, boys had begun to collect outside.
The policeman’s story was simple. As he passed on his beat he had
been called by three women, who had a light ladder planted against
the window-sill of the room. They feared something was wrong with the
occupant of the room, they said, as they could not make him hear, and
his door was locked; therefore they had brought the ladder to look in
at the window, but now each feared to go and look. Would he, the
policeman, do so? He mounted the ladder, looked in at the window, and
saw--what was still visible. He had then, at the women’s urgent
request, entered the house, broken in the door, and found the body to
be dead and cold. He had told the women at once, and warned them, in
the customary manner, that any statement they might be disposed to
volunteer would be noted and used as evidence. The landlady, who was
a widow, and gave her name as Mrs. Beckle, said that the dead man’s
name was Abel Pullin, and that he was a captain in the merchant
service, who had occupied the room as a lodger since the end of last
week only, when he had returned from a voyage. So far as she knew, no
stranger had been in the house since she last saw Pullin alive on the
previous evening, and the only person living in the house, who had
since gone out, was Mr. Foster, also a seafaring man, who had been a
mate, but for some time had had no ship. He had gone out an hour or
so before the discovery was made--earlier than usual, and without
breakfast. That was all that Mrs. Beckle knew, and the only other
persons in the house were the servant and a Miss Walker, a school
teacher. They knew nothing; but Miss Walker was very anxious to be
allowed to go to her school, which, of course, he had not allowed
till the inspector should arrive.
[Illustration: “HE MOUNTED THE LADDER AND LOOKED IN AT THE WINDOW.”]
“That’s all right,” the inspector said. “And you’re sure the door
was locked?”
“Yes, sir, fast.”
“Key in the lock?”
“No, sir. I haven’t seen any key.”
“Window shut, just as it is now?”
“Yes, sir; nothing’s been touched.”
The inspector walked to the window and opened it. It was a
wooden-framed casement window, fastened by the usual turning catch at
the side, with a heavy bow handle. He just glanced out and then swung
the window carelessly to on its hinges. The catch, however, worked so
freely that the handle dropped and the catch banged against the
window frame as he turned away. Hewitt saw this, and closed the
casement properly, after a glance at the sill.
The inspector made a rapid examination of the clothing on the body,
and then said, “It’s a singular thing about the key. The door was
locked fast, but there’s no key to be seen inside the room. Seems it
must have been locked from the outside.”
“Perhaps,” Hewitt suggested, “other keys on this landing fit the
lock. It’s commonly the case in this sort of house.”
“That’s so,” the inspector admitted, with the air of encouraging a
pupil. “We’ll see.”
They walked across the landing to the nearest door. It had a small
round brass scutcheon, apparently recently placed there. “Yale lock,”
said the inspector. “That’s no good.” They went to the third door,
which stood ajar.
“Seems to be Mr. Foster’s room,” the inspector remarked; “here’s the
key inside.”
They took it across the landing and tried it. It fitted Captain
Pullin’s lock exactly and easily. “Hullo!” said the inspector, “look
at that!”
Hewitt nodded thoughtfully. Just then he became aware of somebody
behind him, who had arrived noiselessly. He turned and saw a mincing
little woman, with a pursed mouth and lofty expression, who took no
notice of him, but addressed the inspector. “I shall be glad to know,
if you please,” she said, “when I may leave the house and attend to
my duties. My school has already been open for three-quarters of an
hour, and I cannot conceive why I am detained in this manner.”
“Very sorry, ma’am,” the inspector replied. “Matter of duty, of
course. Perhaps we shall be able to let you go presently. Meanwhile
perhaps you can help us. You’re not obliged to say anything, of
course, but if you do we shall make a note of it. You didn’t hear any
uncommon noise in the night, did you?”
“Nothing at all. I retired at ten, and I was asleep soon after. I
know nothing whatever of the whole horrible affair, and I shall leave
the house entirely as soon as I can arrange.”
“Did you have any opportunity of observing Mr. Pullin’s manners or
habits?” Hewitt asked.
“Indeed, no. I saw nothing of him. But I could hear him very often,
and his language was not of the sort I could tolerate. He seemed to
dominate the whole house with his boorish behaviour, and he was
frequently intoxicated. I had already told Mrs. Beckle that if his
stay were to continue mine should cease. I avoided him, indeed,
altogether, and I know nothing of him.”
“Do you know how he came here? Did he know Mrs. Beckle or anybody
else in the house before?”
“That also I can’t say. But Mrs. Beckle, I believe, knew all about
him. In fact I have sometimes thought there was some mysterious
connection between them, though what I cannot say. Certainly I cannot
understand a landlady keeping so troublesome a lodger.”
“You have seen a little more of Mr. Foster, of course?”
“Well, yes. He has been here so much longer. He was more endurable
than was Captain Pullin, certainly, though _he_ was not always sober.
The two did not love one another, I believe.”
There the inspector pricked his ears. “They didn’t love one another,
you say, ma’am. Why was that?”
“Oh, I don’t really know. I fancy Mr. Foster wanted to borrow money
or something. He used to say Captain Pullin had plenty of money, and
had once sunk a ship purposely. I don’t know whether or not this was
serious, of course.”
Hewitt looked at her keenly. “Have you ever heard him called Captain
Pullin of the _Egret_?” he asked.
“No, I never heard the name of any vessel.”
“There’s just one thing, Miss Walker,” the inspector said, “that I’m
afraid I must insist on before you go. It’s only a matter of form, of
course. But I must ask you to let me look round your room--I shan’t
disturb it.”
Miss Walker tossed her head. “Very well then,” she said, turning
toward the door with the Yale lock, and producing the key; “there it
is.” And she flung the door open.
The inspector stepped within and took a perfunctory glance round.
“That will do; thank you,” he said; “I am sorry to have kept you. I
think you may go now, Miss Walker. You won’t be leaving here to-day
altogether, I suppose?”
“No, I’m afraid I can’t. Good-morning.”
As she disappeared by the foot of the stairs the inspector remarked
in a jocular undertone, “Needn’t bother about _her._ She isn’t strong
enough to cut a hen’s throat.”
Just then Miss Walker appeared again and attempted to take her
umbrella from the stand--a heavy, tall oaken one. The ribs, however,
had become jammed between the stand and the wall; so Miss Walker,
with one hand, calmly lifted the stand and disengaged the umbrella
with the other. “My eyes!” observed the inspector, “she’s a bit
stronger than she looks.”
The surgeon came upon the landing. “I shall send to the mortuary
now,” he said. “I’ve seen all I want to see here. Have you seen the
landlady?”
“No. I think she’s downstairs.”
They went downstairs and found Mrs. Beckle in the back room, much
agitated, though she was not the sort of woman one would expect to
find greatly upset by anything. She was thin, hard, and rigid, with
the rigidity and sharpness that women acquire who have a long and
lonely struggle with poverty. She had at first very little to say.
Captain Pullin had lodged with her before. Last night he had been in
all the evening, and had gone to bed about half-past eleven, and a
quarter of an hour later everybody else had done so, and the house
was fastened up for the night. The front door was fully bolted and
barred, and it was found so in the morning. No stranger had been in
the house for some days. The only person who had left before the
discovery was Mr. Foster, and he went away when only the servant was
up. This was unusual, as he usually took breakfast in the house. What
had frightened the girl so much, she thought, was the fact that after
the door had been burst open she peeped into the room, out of
curiosity, and was so horrified at the sight that she ran out of the
house. She had always been a hard-working girl, though of sullen
habits.
The inspector made more particular inquiries as to Mr. Foster, and
after some little reluctance Mrs. Beckle gave her opinion that he was
very short of money indeed. He had lost his ship sometime back
through a neglect of duty, and he was not of altogether sober habits;
he had consequently been unable to get another berth as yet. It was a
fact, she admitted, that he owed her a considerable sum for rent, but
he had enough clothes and nautical implements in his boxes to cover
that and more.
Hewitt had been watching Mrs. Beckle’s face very closely, and now
suddenly asked, with pointed emphasis, “How long have you known Mr.
Pullin?”
Mrs. Beckle faltered, and returned Hewitt’s steadfast gaze with a
quick glance of suspicion. “Oh,” she said, “I have known him, on and
off, for a long time.”
“A connection by marriage, of course?” Hewitt’s hard gaze was still
upon her.
Mrs. Beckle looked from him to the inspector and back again, and the
corners of her mouth twitched. Then she sat down and rested her head
on her hand. “Well, I suppose I must say it, though I’ve kept it to
myself till now,” she said resignedly. “He’s my brother-in-law.”
“Of course, as you have been told, you are not obliged to say
anything now; but the more information you can give the better chance
there may be of detecting your brother-in-law’s murderer.”
“Well, I don’t mind, I’m sure. It was a bad day when he married my
sister. He killed her--not at once, so that he might have been hung
for it, but by a course of regular brutality and starvation. I hated
the man!” she said, with a quick access of passion, which however she
suppressed at once.
“And yet you let him stay in your house?”