any definite steps I resolved to see if Polly could not be persuaded to
exhibit his accomplishments to an indulgent stranger. For that purpose I
contrived to send Lloyd away again and have a quiet hour alone with his
bird. A piece of sugar, as everybody knows, is a good parrot bribe; but a
walnut, split in half, is a better--especially if the bird be used to it;
so I got you to furnish me with both. Polly was shy at first, but I
generally get along very well with pets, and a little perseverance soon
led to a complete private performance for my benefit. Polly would take the
match, mute as wax, jump on the table, pick up the brightest thing he
could see, in a great hurry, leave the match behind, and scuttle away
round the room; but at first wouldn't give up the plunder to _me_. It was
enough. I also took the liberty, as you know, of a general look round, and
discovered that little collection of Brummagem rings and trinkets that you
have just seen--used in Polly's education, no doubt. When we sent Lloyd
away, it struck me that he might as well be usefully employed as not, so I
got him to fetch the police, deluding him a little, I fear, by talking
about the servants and a female searcher. There will be no trouble about
evidence; he'll confess. Of that I'm sure. I know the sort of man. But I
doubt if you'll get Mrs. Cazenove's brooch back. You see, he has been to
London to-day, and by this time the swag is probably broken up."
Sir James listened to Hewitt's explanation with many expressions of assent
and some of surprise. When it was over, he smoked a few whiffs and then
said: "But Mrs. Armitage's brooch was pawned, and by a woman."
"Exactly. I expect our friend Lloyd was rather disgusted at his small
luck--probably gave the brooch to some female connection in London, and
she realized on it. Such persons don't always trouble to give a correct
address."
The two smoked in silence for a few minutes, and then Hewitt continued: "I
don't expect our friend has had an easy job altogether with that bird. His
successes at most have only been three, and I suspect he had many failures
and not a few anxious moments that we know nothing of. I should judge as
much merely from what the groom told me of frequently meeting Lloyd with
his parrot. But the plan was not a bad one--not at all. Even if the bird
had been caught in the act, it would only have been 'That mischievous
parrot!' you see. And his master would only have been looking for him."
II.
THE LOSS OF SAMMY CROCKETT.
It was, of course, always a part of Martin Hewitt's business to be
thoroughly at home among any and every class of people, and to be able to
interest himself intelligently, or to appear to do so, in their various
pursuits. In one of the most important cases ever placed in his hands he
could have gone but a short way toward success had he not displayed some
knowledge of the more sordid aspects of professional sport, and a great
interest in the undertakings of a certain dealer therein.
The great case itself had nothing to do with sport, and, indeed, from a
narrative point of view, was somewhat uninteresting, but the man who alone
held the one piece of information wanted was a keeper, backer, or "gaffer"
of professional pedestrians, and it was through the medium of his
pecuniary interest in such matters that Hewitt was enabled to strike a
bargain with him.
The man was a publican on the outskirts of Padfield, a northern town,
pretty famous for its sporting tastes, and to Padfield, therefore, Hewitt
betook himself, and, arrayed in a way to indicate some inclination of his
own toward sport, he began to frequent the bar of the Hare and Hounds.
Kentish, the landlord, was a stout, bull-necked man, of no great
communicativeness at first; but after a little acquaintance he opened out
wonderfully, became quite a jolly (and rather intelligent) companion, and
came out with innumerable anecdotes of his sporting adventures. He could
put a very decent dinner on the table, too, at the Hare and Hounds, and
Hewitt's frequent invitation to him to join therein and divide a bottle of
the best in the cellar soon put the two on the very best of terms. Good
terms with Mr. Kentish was Hewitt's great desire, for the information he
wanted was of a sort that could never be extracted by casual questioning,
but must be a matter of open communication by the publican, extracted in
what way it might be.
"Look here," said Kentish one day, "I'll put you on to a good thing, my
boy--a real good thing. Of course you know all about the Padfield 135
Yards Handicap being run off now?"
"Well, I haven't looked into it much," Hewitt replied. "Ran the first
round of heats last Saturday and Monday, didn't they?"
"They did. Well"--Kentish spoke in a stage whisper as he leaned over and
rapped the table--"I've got the final winner in this house." He nodded his
head, took a puff at his cigar, and added, in his ordinary voice. "Don't
say nothing."
"No, of course not. Got something on, of course?"
"Rather! What do you think? Got any price I liked. Been saving him up for
this. Why, he's got twenty-one yards, and he can do even time all the way!
Fact! Why, he could win runnin' back'ards. He won his heat on Monday
like--like--like that!" The gaffer snapped his fingers, in default of a
better illustration, and went on. "He might ha' took it a little easier,
_I_ think; it's shortened his price, of course, him jumpin' in by two
yards. But you can get decent odds now, if you go about it right. You take
my tip--back him for his heat next Saturday, in the second round, and for
the final. You'll get a good price for the final, if you pop it down at
once. But don't go makin' a song of it, will you, now? I'm givin' you a
tip I wouldn't give anybody else."
"Thanks, very much; it's awfully good of you. I'll do what you advise. But
isn't there a dark horse anywhere else?"
"Not dark to me, my boy, not dark to me. I know every man runnin' like a
book. Old Taylor--him over at the Cop--he's got a very good lad at
eighteen yards, a very good lad indeed; and he's a tryer this time, I
know. But, bless you, my lad could give him ten, instead o' taking three,
and beat him then! When I'm runnin' a real tryer, I'm generally runnin'
something very near a winner, you bet; and this time, mind _this_ time,
I'm runnin' the certainest winner I _ever_ run--and I don't often make a
mistake. You back him."
"I shall, if you're as sure as that. But who is he?"
"Oh, Crockett's his name--Sammy Crockett. He's quite a new lad. I've got
young Steggles looking after him--sticks to him like wax. Takes his little
breathers in my bit o' ground at the back here. I've got a cinder-sprint
path there, over behind the trees. I don't let him out o' sight much, I
can tell you. He's a straight lad, and he knows it'll be worth his while
to stick to me; but there's some 'ud poison him, if they thought he'd
spoil their books."
Soon afterward the two strolled toward the taproom. "I expect Sammy'll be
there," the landlord said, "with Steggles. I don't hide him too
much--they'd think I'd got something extra on if I did."
In the tap-room sat a lean, wire-drawn-looking youth, with sloping
shoulders and a thin face, and by his side was a rather short, thick-set
man, who had an odd air, no matter what he did, of proprietorship and
surveillance of the lean youth. Several other men sat about, and there was
loud laughter, under which the lean youth looked sheepishly angry.
"'Tarn't no good, Sammy, lad," some one was saying, "you a-makin' after
Nancy Webb--she'll ha' nowt to do with 'ee."
"Don' like 'em so thread-papery," added another. "No, Sammy, you aren't
the lad for she. I see her----"
"What about Nancy Webb?" asked Kentish, pushing open the door. "Sammy's
all right, any way. You keep fit, my lad, an' go on improving, and some
day you'll have as good a house as me. Never mind the lasses. Had his
glass o' beer, has he?" This to Raggy Steggles, who, answering in the
affirmative, viewed his charge as though he were a post, and the beer a
recent coat of paint.
"Has two glasses of mild a day," the landlord said to Hewitt. "Never puts
on flesh, so he can stand it. Come out now." He nodded to Steggles, who
rose and marched Sammy Crockett away for exercise.
* * * * *
On the following afternoon (it was Thursday), as Hewitt and Kentish
chatted in the landlord's own snuggery, Steggles burst into the room in a
great state of agitation and spluttered out: "He--he's bolted; gone away!"
"What?"
"Sammy--gone! Hooked it! _I_ can't find him."
The landlord stared blankly at the trainer, who stood with a sweater
dangling from his hand and stared blankly back. "What d'ye mean?" Kentish
said, at last. "Don't be a fool! He's in the place somewhere. Find him!"
But this Steggles defied anybody to do. He had looked already. He had left
Crockett at the cinder-path behind the trees in his running-gear, with the
addition of the long overcoat and cap he used in going between the path
and the house to guard against chill. "I was goin' to give him a bust or
two with the pistol," the trainer explained, "but, when we got over
t'other side, 'Raggy,' ses he, 'it's blawin' a bit chilly. I think I'll
ha' a sweater. There's one on my box, ain't there?' So in I coomes for the
sweater, and it weren't on his box, and, when I found it and got back--he
weren't there. They'd seen nowt o' him in t' house, and he weren't
nowhere."
Hewitt and the landlord, now thoroughly startled, searched everywhere, but
to no purpose. "What should he go off the place for?" asked Kentish, in a
sweat of apprehension. "'Tain't chilly a bit--it's warm. He didn't want no
sweater; never wore one before. It was a piece of kid to be able to clear
out. Nice thing, this is. I stand to win two years' takings over him.
Here--you'll have to find him."
"Ah, but how?" exclaimed the disconcerted trainer, dancing about
distractedly. "I've got all I could scrape on him myself. Where can I
look?"
Here was Hewitt's opportunity. He took Kentish aside and whispered. What
he said startled the landlord considerably. "Yes, I'll tell you all about
that," he said, "if that's all you want. It's no good or harm to me
whether I tell or no. But can you find him?"
"That I can't promise, of course. But you know who I am now, and what I'm
here for. If you like to give me the information I want, I'll go into the
case for you, and, of course, I shan't charge any fee. I may have luck,
you know, but I can't promise, of course."
The landlord looked in Hewitt's face for a moment. Then he said: "Done!
It's a deal."
"Very good," Hewitt replied; "get together the one or two papers you have,
and we'll go into my business in the evening. As to Crockett, don't say a
word to anybody. I'm afraid it must get out, since they all know about it
in the house, but there's no use in making any unnecessary noise. Don't
make hedging bets or do anything that will attract notice. Now we'll go
over to the back and look at this cinder-path of yours."
Here Steggles, who was still standing near, was struck with an idea. "How
about old Taylor, at the Cop, guv'nor, eh?" he said, meaningly. "His lad's
good enough to win with Sammy out, and Taylor is backing him plenty. Think
he knows any thing o' this?"
"That's likely," Hewitt observed, before Kentish could reply. "Yes. Look
here--suppose Steggles goes and keeps his eye on the Cop for an hour or
two, in case there's anything to be heard of? Don't show yourself, of
course."
Kentish agreed, and the trainer went. When Hewitt and Kentish arrived at
the path behind the trees, Hewitt at once began examining the ground. One
or two rather large holes in the cinders were made, as the publican
explained, by Crockett, in practicing getting off his mark. Behind these
were several fresh tracks of spiked shoes. The tracks led up to within a
couple of yards of the high fence bounding the ground, and there stopped
abruptly and entirely. In the fence, a little to the right of where the
tracks stopped, there was a stout door. This Hewitt tried, and found ajar.
"That's always kept bolted," Kentish said. "He's gone out that way--he
couldn't have gone any other without comin' through the house."
"But he isn't in the habit of making a step three yards long, is he?"
Hewitt asked, pointing at the last footmark and then at the door, which
was quite that distance away from it. "Besides," he added, opening the
door, "there's no footprint here nor outside."
The door opened on a lane, with another fence and a thick plantation of
trees at the other side. Kentish looked at the footmarks, then at the
door, then down the lane, and finally back toward the house. "That's a
licker!" he said.
"This is a quiet sort of lane," was Hewitt's next remark. "No houses in
sight. Where does it lead?"
"That way it goes to the Old Kilns--disused. This way down to a turning
off the Padfield and Catton road."
Hewitt returned to the cinder-path again, and once more examined the
footmarks. He traced them back over the grass toward the house.
"Certainly," he said, "he hasn't gone back to the house. Here is the
double line of tracks, side by side, from the house--Steggles' ordinary
boots with iron tips, and Crockett's running pumps; thus they came out.
Here is Steggles' track in the opposite direction alone, made when he went
back for the sweater. Crockett remained; you see various prints in those
loose cinders at the end of the path where he moved this way and that, and
then two or three paces toward the fence--not directly toward the door,
you notice--and there they stop dead, and there are no more, either back
or forward. Now, if he had wings, I should be tempted to the opinion that
he flew straight away in the air from that spot--unless the earth
swallowed him and closed again without leaving a wrinkle on its face."
Kentish stared gloomily at the tracks and said nothing.
"However," Hewitt resumed, "I think I'll take a little walk now and think
over it. You go into the house and show yourself at the bar. If anybody
wants to know how Crockett is, he's pretty well, thank you. By the by, can
I get to the Cop--this place of Taylor's--by this back lane?"
"Yes, down to the end leading to the Catton road, turn to the left and
then first on the right. Any one'll show you the Cop," and Kentish shut
the door behind the detective, who straightway walked--toward the Old
Kilns.
In little more than an hour he was back. It was now becoming dusk, and the
landlord looked out papers from a box near the side window of his
snuggery, for the sake of the extra light. "I've got these papers together
for you," he said, as Hewitt entered. "Any news?"
"Nothing very great. Here's a bit of handwriting I want you to recognize,
if you can. Get a light."
Kentish lit a lamp, and Hewitt laid upon the table half a dozen small
pieces of torn paper, evidently fragments of a letter which had been torn
up, here reproduced in fac-simile:
[Illustration: six scraps of paper: mmy, throw them ou, right away, left
hi, hate his, lane wr]
The landlord turned the scraps over, regarding them dubiously. "These
aren't much to recognize, anyhow. _I_ don't know the writing. Where did
you find 'em?"
"They were lying in the lane at the back, a little way down. Plainly they
are pieces of a note addressed to some one called Sammy or something very
like it. See the first piece, with its 'mmy'? That is clearly from the
beginning of the note, because there is no line between it and the smooth,
straight edge of the paper above; also, nothing follows on the same line.
Some one writes to Crockett--presuming it to be a letter addressed to him,
as I do for other reasons--as Sammy. It is a pity that there is no more of
the letter to be found than these pieces. I expect the person who tore it
up put the rest in his pocket and dropped these by accident."
Kentish, who had been picking up and examining each piece in turn, now
dolorously broke out:
"Oh, it's plain he's sold us--bolted and done us; me as took him out o'
the gutter, too. Look here--'throw them over'; that's plain enough--can't
mean anything else. Means throw _me_ over, and my friends--me, after what
I've done for him! Then 'right away'--go right away, I s'pose, as he has
done. Then"--he was fiddling with the scraps and finally fitted two
together--"why, look here, this one with 'lane' on it fits over the one
about throwing over, and it says 'poor f' where its torn; that means 'poor
fool,' I s'pose--_me_, or 'fathead,' or something like that. That's nice.
Why, I'd twist his neck if I could get hold of him; and I will!"
Hewitt smiled. "Perhaps it's not quite so uncomplimentary, after all," he
said. "If you can't recognize the writing, never mind. But, if he's gone
away to sell you, it isn't much use finding him, is it? He won't win if he
doesn't want to."
"Why, he wouldn't dare to rope under my very eyes. I'd--I'd----"
"Well, well; perhaps we'll get him to run, after all, and as well as he
can. One thing is certain--he left this place of his own will. Further, I
think he is in Padfield now; he went toward the town, I believe. And I
don't think he means to sell you."
"Well, he shouldn't. I've made it worth his while to stick to me. I've put
a fifty on for him out of my own pocket, and told him so; and, if he won,
that would bring him a lump more than he'd probably get by going crooked,
besides the prize money and anything I might give him over. But it seems
to me he's putting me in the cart altogether."
"That we shall see. Meantime, don't mention anything I've told you to any
one--not even to Steggles. He can't help us, and he might blurt things out
inadvertently. Don't say anything about these pieces of paper, which I
shall keep myself. By-the-by, Steggles is indoors, isn't he? Very well,
keep him in. Don't let him be seen hunting about this evening. I'll stay
here to-night and we'll proceed with Crockett's business in the morning.
And now we'll settle _my_ business, please."
* * * * *
In the morning Hewitt took his breakfast in the snuggery, carefully
listening to any conversation that might take place at the bar. Soon after
nine o'clock a fast dog-cart stopped outside, and a red-faced, loud-voiced
man swaggered in, greeting Kentish with boisterous cordiality. He had a
drink with the landlord, and said: "How's things? Fancy any of 'em for the
sprint handicap? Got a lad o' your own in, haven't you?"
"Oh, yes," Kentish replied. "Crockett. Only a young un not got to his
proper mark yet, I reckon. I think old Taylor's got No. 1 this time."
"Capital lad," the other replied, with a confidential nod. "Shouldn't
wonder at all. Want to do anything yourself over it?"
"No, I don't think so. I'm not on at present. Might have a little flutter
on the grounds just for fun; nothing else."
There were a few more casual remarks, and then the red-faced man drove
away.
"Who was that?" asked Hewitt, who had watched the visitor through the
snuggery window.
"That's Danby--bookmaker. Cute chap. He's been told Crockett's missing,
I'll bet anything, and come here to pump me. No good, though. As a matter
of fact, I've worked Sammy Crockett into his books for about half I'm in
for altogether--through third parties, of course."
Hewitt reached for his hat. "I'm going out for half an hour now," he said.
"If Steggles wants to go out before I come back, don't let him. Let him go
and smooth over all those tracks on the cinder-path, very carefully. And,
by the by, could you manage to have your son about the place to-day, in
case I happen to want a little help out of doors?"
"Certainly; I'll get him to stay in. But what do you want the cinders
smoothed for?"
Hewitt smiled, and patted his host's shoulder. "I'll explain all my tricks
when the job's done," he said, and went out.
* * * * *
On the lane from Padfield to Sedby village stood the Plough beer-house,
wherein J. Webb was licensed to sell by retail beer to be consumed on the
premises or off, as the thirsty list. Nancy Webb, with a very fine color,
a very curly fringe, and a wide smiling mouth revealing a fine set of
teeth, came to the bar at the summons of a stoutish old gentleman in
spectacles who walked with a stick.
The stoutish old gentleman had a glass of bitter beer, and then said in
the peculiarly quiet voice of a very deaf man: "Can you tell me, if you
please, the way into the main Catton road?"
"Down the lane, turn to the right at the cross-roads, then first to the
left."
The old gentleman waited with his hand to his ear for some few seconds
after she had finished speaking, and then resumed in his whispering voice:
"I'm afraid I'm very deaf this morning." He fumbled in his pocket and
produced a note-book and pencil. "May I trouble you to write it down? I'm
so very deaf at times that I--Thank you."
The girl wrote the direction, and the old gentleman bade her good-morning
and left. All down the lane he walked slowly with his stick. At the
cross-roads he turned, put the stick under his arm, thrust his spectacles
into his pocket, and strode away in the ordinary guise of Martin Hewitt.
He pulled out his note-book, examined Miss Webb's direction very
carefully, and then went off another way altogether, toward the Hare and
Hounds.
Kentish lounged moodily in his bar. "Well, my boy," said Hewitt, "has
Steggles wiped out the tracks?"
"Not yet; I haven't told him. But he's somewhere about; I'll tell him
now."
"No, don't. I don't think we'll have that done, after all. I expect he'll
want to go out soon--at any rate, some time during the day. Let him go
whenever he likes. I'll sit upstairs a bit in the club-room."
"Very well. But how do you know Steggles will be going out?"
"Well, he's pretty restless after his lost _protégé_, isn't he? I don't
suppose he'll be able to remain idle long."
"And about Crockett. Do you give him up?"
"Oh, no! Don't you be impatient. I can't say I'm quite confident yet of
laying hold of him--the time is so short, you see--but I think I shall at
least have news for you by the evening."
Hewitt sat in the club-room until the afternoon, taking his lunch there.
At length he saw, through the front window, Raggy Steggles walking down
the road. In an instant Hewitt was down-stairs and at the door. The road
bent eighty yards away, and as soon as Steggles passed the bend the
detective hurried after him.
All the way to Padfield town and more than half through it Hewitt dogged
the trainer. In the end Steggles stopped at a corner and gave a note to a
small boy who was playing near. The boy ran with the note to a bright,
well-kept house at the opposite corner. Martin Hewitt was interested to
observe the legend, "H. Danby, Contractor," on a board over a gate in the
side wall of the garden behind this house. In five minutes a door in the
side gate opened, and the head and shoulders of the red-faced man emerged.
Steggles immediately hurried across and disappeared through the gate.
This was both interesting and instructive. Hewitt took up a position in
the side street and waited. In ten minutes the trainer reappeared and
hurried off the way he had come, along the street Hewitt had considerately
left clear for him. Then Hewitt strolled toward the smart house and took a
good look at it. At one corner of the small piece of forecourt garden,
near the railings, a small, baize-covered, glass-fronted notice-board
stood on two posts. On its top edge appeared the words, "H. Danby. Houses
to be Sold or Let." But the only notice pinned to the green baize within
was an old and dusty one, inviting tenants for three shops, which were
suitable for any business, and which would be fitted to suit tenants.
Apply within.
Hewitt pushed open the front gate and rang the door-bell. "There are some
shops to let, I see," he said, when a maid appeared. "I should like to see
them, if you will let me have the key."
"Master's out, sir. You can't see the shops till Monday."
"Dear me, that's unfortunate, I'm afraid I can't wait till Monday. Didn't
Mr. Danby leave any instructions, in case anybody should inquire?"
"Yes, sir--as I've told you. He said anybody who called about 'em must
come again on Monday."
"Oh, very well, then; I suppose I must try. One of the shops is in High
Street, isn't it?"
"No, sir; they're all in the new part--Granville Road."
"Ah, I'm afraid that will scarcely do. But I'll see. Good-day."