Mrs. Crowl surveyed Denzil Cantercot so stonily and cut him his beef so
savagely that he said grace when the dinner was over. Peter fed his
metaphysical genius on tomatoes. He was tolerant enough to allow his
family to follow their Fads; but no savory smells ever tempted him to be
false to his vegetable loves. Besides, meat might have reminded him too
much of his work. There is nothing like leather, but Bow beefsteaks
occasionally come very near it.
After dinner Denzil usually indulged in poetic reverie. But to-day he
did not take his nap. He went out at once to "raise the wind." But there
was a dead calm everywhere. In vain he asked for an advance at the
office of the "Mile End Mirror," to which he contributed scathing
leaderettes about vestrymen. In vain he trudged to the city and offered
to write the "Ham and Eggs Gazette" an essay on the modern methods of
bacon-curing. Denzil knew a great deal about the breeding and
slaughtering of pigs, smoke-lofts and drying processes, having for years
dictated the policy of the "New Pork Herald" in these momentous matters.
Denzil also knew a great deal about many other esoteric matters,
including weaving machines, the manufacture of cabbage leaves and snuff,
and the inner economy of drain-pipes. He had written for the trade
papers since boyhood. But there is great competition on these papers. So
many men of literary gifts know all about the intricate technicalities
of manufactures and markets, and are eager to set the trade right.
Grodman perhaps hardly allowed sufficiently for the step backward that
Denzil made when he devoted his whole time for months to "Criminals I
Have Caught." It was as damaging as a debauch. For when your rivals are
pushing forward, to stand still is to go back.
In despair Denzil shambled toilsomely to Bethnal Green. He paused before
the window of a little tobacconist's shop, wherein was displayed a
placard announcing
"PLOTS FOR SALE."
The announcement went on to state that a large stock of plots was to be
obtained on the premises--embracing sensational plots, humorous plots,
love plots, religious plots, and poetic plots; also complete
manuscripts, original novels, poems and tales. Apply within.
It was a very dirty-looking shop, with begrimed bricks and blackened
woodwork. The window contained some musty old books, an assortment of
pipes and tobacco, and a large number of the vilest daubs unhung,
painted in oil on Academy boards, and unframed. These were intended for
landscapes, as you could tell from the titles. The most expensive was
"Chingford Church," and it was marked 1s. 9d. The others ran from 6d. to
1s. 3d., and were mostly representations of Scotch scenery--a loch with
mountains in the background, with solid reflections in the water and a
tree in the foreground. Sometimes the tree would be in the background.
Then the loch would be in the foreground. Sky and water were intensely
blue in all. The name of the collection was "Original oil paintings done
by hand." Dust lay thick upon everything, as if carefully shoveled on;
and the proprietor looked as if he slept in his shop window at night
without taking his clothes off. He was a gaunt man with a red nose, long
but scanty black locks covered by a smoking cap, and a luxuriant black
mustache. He smoked a long clay pipe, and had the air of a broken-down
operatic villain.
"Ah, good afternoon, Mr. Cantercot," he said, rubbing his hands, half
from cold, half from usage; "what have you brought me?"
"Nothing," said Denzil, "but if you will lend me a sovereign I'll do you
a stunner."
The operatic villain shook his locks, his eyes full of pawky cunning.
"If you did it after that it would be a stunner."
What the operatic villain did with these plots, and who bought them,
Cantercot never knew nor cared to know. Brains are cheap to-day, and
Denzil was glad enough to find a customer.
"Surely you've known me long enough to trust me," he cried.
"Trust is dead," said the operatic villain, puffing away.
"So is Queen Anne," cried the irritated poet. His eyes took a dangerous
hunted look. Money he must have. But the operatic villain was
inflexible. No plot, no supper.
Poor Denzil went out flaming. He knew not where to turn. Temporarily he
turned on his heel again and stared despairingly at the shop window.
Again he read the legend:
"PLOTS FOR SALE."
He stared so long at this that it lost its meaning. When the sense of
the words suddenly flashed upon him again, they bore a new significance.
He went in meekly, and borrowed fourpence of the operatic villain. Then
he took the 'bus for Scotland Yard. There was a not ill-looking servant
girl in the 'bus. The rhythm of the vehicle shaped itself into rhymes in
his brain. He forgot all about his situation and his object. He had
never really written an epic--except "Paradise Lost"--but he composed
lyrics about wine and women and often wept to think how miserable he
was. But nobody ever bought anything of him, except articles on
bacon-curing or attacks on vestrymen. He was a strange, wild creature,
and the wench felt quite pretty under his ardent gaze. It almost
hypnotized her, though, and she looked down at her new French kid boots
to escape it.
At Scotland Yard Denzil asked for Edward Wimp. Edward Wimp was not on
view. Like kings and editors, Detectives are difficult of
approach--unless you are a criminal, when you cannot see anything of
them at all. Denzil knew of Edward Wimp, principally because of
Grodman's contempt for his successor. Wimp was a man of taste and
culture. Grodman's interests were entirely concentrated on the problems
of logic and evidence. Books about these formed his sole reading; for
_belles lettres_ he cared not a straw. Wimp, with his flexible
intellect, had a great contempt for Grodman and his slow, laborious,
ponderous, almost Teutonic methods. Worse, he almost threatened to
eclipse the radiant tradition of Grodman by some wonderfully ingenious
bits of workmanship. Wimp was at his greatest in collecting
circumstantial evidence; in putting two and two together to make five.
He would collect together a number of dark and disconnected data and
flash across them the electric light of some unifying hypothesis in a
way which would have done credit to a Darwin or a Faraday. An intellect
which might have served to unveil the secret workings of nature was
subverted to the protection of a capitalistic civilization.
By the assistance of a friendly policeman, whom the poet magnetized into
the belief that his business was a matter of life and death, Denzil
obtained the great detective's private address. It was near King's
Cross. By a miracle Wimp was at home in the afternoon. He was writing
when Denzil was ushered up three pairs of stairs into his presence, but
he got up and flashed the bull's-eye of his glance upon the visitor.
"Mr. Denzil Cantercot, I believe!" said Wimp.
Denzil started. He had not sent up his name, merely describing himself
as a gentleman.
"That is my name," he murmured.
"You were one of the witnesses at the inquest on the body of the late
Arthur Constant. I have your evidence there." He pointed to a file. "Why
have you come to give fresh evidence?"
Again Denzil started, flushing in addition this time. "I want money," he
said, almost involuntarily.
"Sit down." Denzil sat. Wimp stood.
Wimp was young and fresh-colored. He had a Roman nose, and was smartly
dressed. He had beaten Grodman by discovering the wife Heaven meant for
him. He had a bouncing boy, who stole jam out of the pantry without
anyone being the wiser. Wimp did what work he could do at home in a
secluded study at the top of the house. Outside his chamber of horrors
he was the ordinary husband of commerce. He adored his wife, who thought
poorly of his intellect, but highly of his heart. In domestic
difficulties Wimp was helpless. He could not even tell whether the
servant's "character" was forged or genuine. Probably he could not level
himself to such petty problems. He was like the senior wrangler who has
forgotten how to do quadratics, and has to solve equations of the second
degree by the calculus.
"How much money do you want?" he asked.
"I do not make bargains," Denzil replied, his calm come back by this
time. "I came to tender you a suggestion. It struck me that you might
offer me a fiver for my trouble. Should you do so, I shall not refuse
it."
"You shall not refuse it--if you deserve it."
"Good. I will come to the point at once. My suggestion concerns--Tom
Mortlake."
Denzil threw out the name as if it were a torpedo. Wimp did not move.
"Tom Mortlake," went on Denzil, looking disappointed, "had a
sweetheart." He paused impressively.
Wimp said "Yes?"
"Where is that sweetheart now?"
"Where, indeed?"
"You know about her disappearance?"
"You have just informed me of it."
"Yes, she is gone--without a trace. She went about a fortnight before
Mr. Constant's murder."
"Murder? How do you know it was a murder?"
"Mr. Grodman says so," said Denzil, startled again.
"H'm! Isn't that rather a proof that it was suicide? Well, go on."
"About a fortnight before the suicide, Jessie Dymond disappeared. So
they tell me in Stepney Green, where she lodged and worked."
"What was she?"
"She was a dressmaker. She had a wonderful talent. Quite fashionable
ladies got to know of it. One of her dresses was presented at Court. I
think the lady forgot to pay for it; so Jessie's landlady said."
"Did she live alone?"
"She had no parents, but the house was respectable."
"Good-looking, I suppose?"
"As a poet's dream."
"As yours, for instance?"
"I am a poet; I dream."
"You dream you are a poet. Well, well! She was engaged to Mortlake?"
"Oh, yes! They made no secret of it. The engagement was an old one. When
he was earning 36s. a week as a compositor they were saving up to buy a
home. He worked at Railton and Hockes', who print the 'New Pork Herald.'
I used to take my 'copy' into the comps' room, and one day the Father of
the Chapel told me all about 'Mortlake and his young woman.' Ye gods!
How times are changed! Two years ago Mortlake had to struggle with my
caligraphy--now he is in with all the nobs, and goes to the 'at homes'
of the aristocracy."
"Radical M. P.'s," murmured Wimp, smiling.
"While I am still barred from the dazzling drawing-rooms, where beauty
and intellect foregather. A mere artisan! A manual laborer!" Denzil's
eyes flashed angrily. He rose with excitement. "They say he always was a
jabberer in the composing-room, and he has jabbered himself right out of
it and into a pretty good thing. He didn't have much to say about the
crimes of capital when he was set up to second the toast of 'Railton and
Hockes' at the beanfeast."
"Toast and butter, toast and butter," said Wimp genially. "I shouldn't
blame a man for serving the two together, Mr. Cantercot."
Denzil forced a laugh. "Yes; but consistency's my motto. I like to see
the royal soul immaculate, unchanging, immovable by fortune. Anyhow,
when better times came for Mortlake the engagement still dragged on. He
did not visit her so much. This last autumn he saw very little of her."
"How do you know?"
"I--I was often in Stepney Green. My business took me past the house of
an evening. Sometimes there was no light in her room. That meant she was
downstairs gossiping with the landlady."
"She might have been out with Tom?"
"No, sir; I knew Tom was on the platform somewhere or other. He was
working up to all hours organizing the eight hours working movement."
"A very good reason for relaxing his sweethearting."
"It was. He never went to Stepney Green on a week night."
"But you always did."
"No--not every night."
"You didn't go in?"
"Never. She wouldn't permit my visits. She was a girl of strong
character. She always reminded me of Flora Macdonald."
"Another lady of your acquaintance?"
"A lady I know better than the shadows who surround me; who is more real
to me than the women who pester me for the price for apartments. Jessie
Dymond, too, was of the race of heroines. Her eyes were clear blue, two
wells with Truth at the bottom of each. When I looked into those eyes my
own were dazzled. They were the only eyes I could never make dreamy." He
waved his hand as if making a pass with it. "It was she who had the
influence over me."
"You knew her then?"
"Oh, yes. I knew Tom from the old 'New Pork Herald' days, and when I
first met him with Jessie hanging on his arm he was quite proud to
introduce her to a poet. When he got on he tried to shake me off."
"You should have repaid him what you borrowed."
"It--it--was only a trifle," stammered Denzil.
"Yes, but the world turns on trifles," said the wise Wimp.
"The world is itself a trifle," said the pensive poet. "The Beautiful
alone is deserving of our regard."
"And when the Beautiful was not gossiping with her landlady, did she
gossip with you as you passed the door?"
"Alas, no! She sat in her room reading, and cast a shadow--"
"On your life?"
"No; on the blind."
"Always one shadow?"
"No, sir. Once or twice, two."
"Ah, you had been drinking."
"On my life, not. I have sworn off the treacherous wine-cup."
"That's right. Beer is bad for poets. It makes their feet shaky. Whose
was the second shadow?"
"A man's."
"Naturally. Mortlake's, perhaps?"
"Impossible. He was still striking eight hours."
"You found out whose? You didn't leave it a shadow of doubt?"
"No; I waited till the substance came out."
"It was Arthur Constant."
"You are a magician! You--you terrify me. Yes, it was he."
"Only once or twice, you say?"
"I didn't keep watch over them."
"No, no, of course not. You only passed casually. I understand you
thoroughly."
Denzil did not feel comfortable at the assertion.
"What did he go there for?" Wimp went on.
"I don't know. I'd stake my soul on Jessie's honor."
"You might double your stake without risk."
"Yes, I might! I would! You see her with my eyes."
"For the moment they are the only ones available. When was the last time
you saw the two together?"
"About the middle of November."
"Mortlake knew nothing of their meetings?"
"I don't know. Perhaps he did. Mr. Constant had probably enlisted her in
his social mission work. I knew she was one of the attendants at the big
children's tea in the Great Assembly Hall early in November. He treated
her quite like a lady. She was the only attendant who worked with her
hands."
"The others carried the cups on their feet, I suppose?"
"No; how could that be? My meaning is that all the other attendants were
real ladies, and Jessie was only an amateur, so to speak. There was no
novelty for her in handing kids cups of tea. I daresay she had helped
her landlady often enough at that--there's quite a bushel of brats below
stairs. It's almost as bad as at friend Crowl's. Jessie was a real
brick. But perhaps Tom didn't know her value. Perhaps he didn't like
Constant to call on her, and it led to a quarrel. Anyhow, she's
disappeared, like the snowfall on the river. There's not a trace. The
landlady, who was such a friend of hers that Jessie used to make up her
stuff into dresses for nothing, tells me that she's dreadfully annoyed
at not having been left the slightest clue to her late tenant's
whereabouts."
"You have been making inquiries on your own account apparently."
"Only of the landlady. Jessie never even gave her the week's notice, but
paid her in lieu of it, and left immediately. The landlady told me I
could have knocked her down with a feather. Unfortunately, I wasn't
there to do it, for I should certainly have knocked her down for not
keeping her eyes open better. She says if she had only had the least
suspicion beforehand that the minx (she dared to call Jessie a minx) was
going, she'd have known where, or her name would have been somebody
else's. And yet she admits that Jessie was looking ill and worried.
Stupid old hag!"
"A woman of character," murmured the detective.
"Didn't I tell you so?" cried Denzil eagerly. "Another girl would have
let out that she was going. But, no! not a word. She plumped down the
money and walked out. The landlady ran upstairs. None of Jessie's things
were there. She must have quietly sold them off, or transferred them to
the new place. I never in my life met a girl who so thoroughly knew her
own mind or had a mind so worth knowing. She always reminded me of the
Maid of Saragossa."
"Indeed! And when did she leave?"
"On the 19th of November."
"Mortlake of course knows where she is?"
"I can't say. Last time I was at the house to inquire--it was at the end
of November--he hadn't been seen there for six weeks. He wrote to her,
of course, sometimes--the landlady knew his writing."
Wimp looked Denzil straight in the eyes, and said, "You mean, of course,
to accuse Mortlake of the murder of Mr. Constant?"
"N-n-no, not at all," stammered Denzil, "only you know what Mr. Grodman
wrote to the 'Pell Mell.' The more we know about Mr. Constant's life the
more we shall know about the manner of his death. I thought my
information would be valuable to you, and I brought it."
"And why didn't you take it to Mr. Grodman?"
"Because I thought it wouldn't be valuable to me."
"You wrote 'Criminals I Have Caught.'"
"How--how do you know that?" Wimp was startling him to-day with a
vengeance.
"Your style, my dear Mr. Cantercot. The unique noble style."
"Yes, I was afraid it would betray me," said Denzil. "And since you
know, I may tell you that Grodman's a mean curmudgeon. What does he want
with all that money and those houses--a man with no sense of the
Beautiful? He'd have taken my information, and given me more kicks than
ha'pence for it, so to speak."
"Yes, he is a shrewd man after all. I don't see anything valuable in
your evidence against Mortlake."
"No!" said Denzil in a disappointed tone, and fearing he was going to be
robbed. "Not when Mortlake was already jealous of Mr. Constant, who was
a sort of rival organizer, unpaid! A kind of blackleg doing the work
cheaper--nay, for nothing."
"Did Mortlake tell you he was jealous?" said Wimp, a shade of sarcastic
contempt piercing through his tones.
"Oh, yes! He said to me, 'That man will work mischief. I don't like your
kid-glove philanthropists meddling in matters they don't understand.'"
"Those were his very words?"
"His _ipsissima verba_."
"Very well. I have your address in my files. Here is a sovereign for
you."
"Only one sovereign! It's not the least use to me."
"Very well. It's of great use to me. I have a wife to keep."
"I haven't," said Denzil with a sickly smile, "so perhaps I can manage
on it after all." He took his hat and the sovereign.
Outside the door he met a rather pretty servant just bringing in some
tea to her master. He nearly upset her tray at sight of her. She seemed
more amused at the _rencontre_ than he.
"Good afternoon, dear," she said coquettishly. "You might let me have
that sovereign. I do so want a new Sunday bonnet."
Denzil gave her the sovereign, and slammed the hall door viciously when
he got to the bottom of the stairs. He seemed to be walking arm-in-arm
with the long arm of coincidence. Wimp did not hear the duologue. He was
already busy on his evening's report to headquarters. The next day
Denzil had a body-guard wherever he went. It might have gratified his
vanity had he known it. But to-night he was yet unattended, so no one
noted that he went to 46 Glover Street, after the early Crowl supper. He
could not help going. He wanted to get another sovereign. He also itched
to taunt Grodman. Not succeeding in the former object, he felt the road
open for the second.
"Do you still hope to discover the Bow murderer?" he asked the old
bloodhound.
"I can lay my hand on him now," Grodman announced curtly.
Denzil hitched his chair back involuntarily. He found conversation with
detectives as lively as playing at skittles with bombshells. They got on
his nerves terribly, these undemonstrative gentlemen with no sense of
the Beautiful.
"But why don't you give him up to justice?" he murmured.
"Ah--it has to be proved yet. But it is only a matter of time."
"Oh!" said Denzil, "and shall I write the story for you?"
"No. You will not live long enough."
Denzil turned white. "Nonsense! I am years younger than you," he gasped.
"Yes," said Grodman, "but you drink so much."