When the organ-grinder appeared in a distracted state at the Office,
his face was quite familiar to me through seeing him on the streets
and at race-courses and other gatherings with his organ. He was a
big-bodied, swarthy man, with a full black beard, and, of course,
till that moment I had taken him for an Italian. To hear the Irish
brogue come pouring in a torrent out of his mouth, therefore, was
a little startling. His very grief, and earnestness, and evident
unconsciousness of anything ludicrous added comicality to the
discovery, and it was with the greatest difficulty that I restrained
a smile while he incoherently made known his loss.
“The savings of tin years tuck from me in a lump,” he groaned, with
a shower of lamentations; “and however the thafe did it, or found
out where my money was, or that I had any to stale, I can’t for the
life of me tell; for even my friend Tom Joson here thought I hadn’t a
penny, and didn’t know where it was kept.”
The friend thus alluded to bobbed to me, and I recognised him also as
a street musician. He was a lame man, and used a crutch and stick to
move about, and his instrument was a tin whistle. Sometimes, I think,
he used two of these whistles tied together, and he affected to be
much more lame and helpless than he really was. His favourite “pitch”
was to squat cross-legged at the edge of the pavement on the Mound
with his crutch and stick ostentatiously displayed before him, and
a tin mug placed on the kerb ready for contributions, and there he
droned out his tunes, generally of a plaintive character, for hours
together, with wonderful taste and skill. He got drunk at times, and
became troublesome, and had to go to jail to cool down.
That was the man who now bobbed to me, and shook his head dolefully
over his friend’s misfortune.
“I came here to show him the way, and introduce him to the great
detective,” Joson volunteered, with a sympathetic snifter and cringe.
“Yes, having been here so often yourself, you were quite qualified
for that task,” I dryly returned, whereat the lame man cringed and
bobbed again, and affected to take the observation as a very good
joke, though his mental remarks, I feel sure, were quite unfit for
publication.
“You say you have lost a bag of money,” I continued to the
organ-grinder, after taking down his name as Peter M^cCarthy. “How
did it happen, and how much money did the bag contain?”
“’Twasn’t lost—’twas stole from me,” cried the organ-grinder, with a
fresh burst of expletives on the head of the robber; “and there was
two hundred and seven golden sovereigns in the bag—two hundred and
seven, sur. ’Twas a heap of money, and it was so pleasant to feel
the gold running through your fingers. But I’m afeared I’ll never
touch it again. And I worked hard for it, sur; if I’d coined every
sovereign of it out of me own blood it couldn’t have been got slower.
Tin years! och, if I lose it, I may creep into me grave.”
“You were foolish to carry such a large sum about with you,” I could
not help observing.
“I didn’t carry it about with me—it had got too heavy for that,”
quickly returned the organ-grinder. “Faith, I only wish I’d never
given up carrying it, and I’d have had it now. No; I had it stowed
away in a hole of the chimney of my house, where no living being
could get at it.”
“And yet it was taken—how do you explain that?”
“I can’t explain it. I only know that it’s gone,” he answered with
a mysterious look, much as if he thought some greedy ghosts had
been at work removing his hidden pile. “My house is a garret in the
Grassmarket. I’ll take you to it, and show you the place whenever you
like. The landlord is a hawker called Jimmy Poulson. He has the other
two rooms; but he can’t get into my place at any time, as I’ve a lock
on the dure, which I had put on myself, which no one can pick.”
At the mention of Jimmy Poulson’s name, Tom Joson, the lame man,
jerked his head to me significantly.
“I’ve always till now thought Jimmy an honest man,” continued the
organ-grinder, “and even if he had got into my house while I was
out, how could he have known I had money, or got it out without
leaving marks?”
“Ay, how?” groaned the lame man in sympathy.
“You see, sur,” pursued the other, “I never had a fire on in my room,
for the agreement was I was to get the use of Jimmy’s kitchen and
fire for a shilling a week extra, so I had a board made to fit the
fire-place, and I had that always fixed in while I was out. I’ll tell
ye how I fixed it so as nobody could move it without me knowing. I
always pasted a paper over the edges, and the paper had generally a
picture on it. If any one had tuck it down when I was out the paper
picture must have shown the cracks and tears. Last night when I got
home there wasn’t a scratch or tear in the paper—this morning the
same; but when I took out the board with my own hands I found that
the hole in the chimney was empty, and my bag of gold stole away.”
“Stole away!” echoed the lame man, like an obedient chorus, with a
doleful shake of the head.
“Then I wondered how it was I hadn’t seen Jimmy for three days,
for I’d never known him to be away so long before,” continued the
organ-grinder. “You see, we have both keys to fit the outer door, and
when Jimmy’s away I just look after things for him. He’s a bachelor,
and so am I, and likely to keep so if I don’t get back my money. Oh,
what will my poor darlin’, Honora, say when she hears of me being
robbed!” he moaned, flying off at a tangent again. “She’s waited
for me for ten years, and the money was to fulfil a vow I made as a
penance to me sowl, for I wance struck my mother, and knocked her
senseless, and I vowed before God that if He’d restore her I’d save,
and slave, and scrape, and stint myself, and never marry my own
devoted girl till I’d bought the little bit of land and the house for
the owld paiple to end their days in peace; and another year would
have done it. Surely the blessed Lord above us, that heard my vow
and helped me to keep it, won’t let me be sent broken-hearted to the
grave with this cruel loss?”
“You ought to have put the money in the bank,” I said severely. “The
interest alone during these years would have amounted to something
handsome, and allowed you to fulfil your purpose by this time.”
“I couldn’t trust a bank,” he said, with the national prejudice in
every word and tone. “When the bank broke I’d have blamed myself
for my simplicity and foolishness, but now I blame nobody but the
black-hearted thafe. If it’s Jimmy Poulson that’s done it, he’ll
never prosper in this world; for it’s not me alone he’s wronged, but
the owld paiple, that are less able to bear it, and my sweet colleen,
that would lay down her life for me.”
“Oh, but Mr M^cGovan will soon run him down,” observed the lame man,
hopefully.
I was not so sure of that, for, supposing the thief to be Poulson,
that worthy had already got three days’ start. As yet, however, I was
by no means certain that there had been any thief in the case. When
I had got from the organ-grinder a description of the land of houses
in which he lived, I found that it was one well known to me as one
of the ricketiest buildings in the quarter, and I quickly formed a
theory, from his description of the place and circumstances, that
seemed to offer the only feasible explanation. He had thrust the
bag of money into a hole inside the chimney; that hole might have
been deeper than he thought; might have led into another chimney;
and so, in thrusting in the treasure, it was possible he might have
sent it tumbling down, like a gift from heaven, into some wretched
abode beneath. I said little of this idea at the moment, but anxiety
to test the matter induced me to go with the queer pair to the
organ-grinder’s garret. It was a poor place, and very small. There
was a bed at one side, and a window jutting out on the slates. This
window was fastened with two thick screw nails on the inside, and
had not been opened for years. I tried with all my strength to open
it, but it did not yield in the slightest. The place was very tidy
and clean, considering that no woman ever got within the door. I
turned to the fire-place, beside which stood a square board very much
papered over on one side, but showing clean white wood and two cross
spars on the other. This fitted the fire-place exactly. Directed by
the organ-grinder I reached up inside the fire-place and soon touched
a recess in the wall of the chimney. It was a mistake to call it a
hole; it was a mere ledge in the wall on which a bag of money might
have rested easily, but in which it could scarcely be said to be
hidden. There was no soot in the chimney, and my fingers were not
even soiled by the inspection. My theory, of course, was completely
knocked on the head, but I immediately formed another.
Looking up the chimney I could see daylight at quite a short distance
above. The vent was nearly straight till near the fire-place,
where it widened considerably. The organ-grinder was positive that
the strange door of his safe and its fastenings had been quite
untampered with before he himself opened it. He declared that if it
had been he should have detected the fact at a glance. The money
therefore had not come out at that door; neither had it gone through
the wall or down any other chimney; there remained therefore but one
way for its abstraction, that was—up the chimney. The lame man Joson,
who assisted me officiously during the examination, was anxious when
I had concluded to learn what theory I had formed in regard to the
robbery, but I did not enlighten him; and though the second theory,
like the first, proved to be not quite correct, it was perhaps as
well that I said nothing of it at the time. No such caution is
necessary here, however, and I may state the theory. I had often
seen ragamuffins fishing down the street gratings or inaccessible
areas for odds and ends dropped by passers by, their fishing-tackle
generally consisting of a long bit of twine and a piece of wood or
stone, the under side of which was coated with tar or some such
sticky substance. Sometimes, instead of a tarred stone, there was a
well-sharpened table fork, which was simply lowered and let “dab”
into the article to be hoisted.
If the article happened to lie in any corner “off the plumb,” some
difficulty was generally experienced in the fishing, though even then
captures were sometimes made by setting the fork or sticky stone in
motion, pendulum wise, and at the proper moment letting it fall on
the article. Now, applying this knowledge to the organ-grinder’s
money-bag, it seemed to me quite likely that it had been fished
out in the same fashion, though I was doubtful if a fork or even a
sticky stone could have laid hold of a money-bag of green flannel,
especially when that bag was weighted with 207 sovereigns. But even
supposing the “fishing” theory correct, boys do not generally wander
along roofs fishing down chimneys for possible hoards.
To fish down that chimney implied a knowledge that the gold was
there, and that knowledge, the organ-grinder insisted, had been till
that day confined strictly to his own breast. Even his own relations
in the west of Ireland, he declared, knew nothing of his hiding-place
or the amount of his savings. In saying so he possibly spoke what
he believed to be the truth. It is possible to betray many a secret
without ever using the tongue or opening the lips, and certainly
without ever knowing or dreaming that we have revealed what we are
striving to conceal. I therefore made no comment on these strong
statements, but sought by a series of indirect questions to discover
whom he consorted with most, and, above all, who was favoured so far
as to be admitted into this house of his, as he chose to dignify the
garret.
Only two persons, so far as I could learn, were thus favoured, and
these were the landlord, Jimmy Poulson, and the lame man, Tom Joson.
The organ-grinder did not make a confidant of either of these men,
but if one of them had a higher place in his esteem than the other,
that one was Joson. I suspect the organ-grinder was inclined to be
miserly, and liked Joson, because the lame man treated him to drink
without ever asking him to return the compliment.
The street whistle-player, unlike his dear friend, was a married
man, and never got into difficulties with the police except by
getting drunk and quarrelling with his wife. He had therefore got
into a habit of shunning public-houses when he wanted a comfortable
spree—as he knew only too well that there he would be unerringly
hunted out by his wife—and going instead to the organ-grinder’s
garret, where, after the labours of the day, they could enjoy in
peace what was denied to Joson elsewhere. Much of this I drew out
of the organ-grinder after getting rid of Joson, by sending him out
for some writing-paper and ink. When I had drawn from him all I
wished, I began to speculate as to whether it was not possible that
both Poulson and Joson had participated in the robbery. If I had had
any choice in the matter, I should rather have blamed the lame man
than the hawker. Poulson was a hard-working man, and had never been
through our hands, while the lame man was a bit of an imposition,
had often been in jail, though not for stealing, and was exceedingly
cunning besides. But there was the condemning fact—Poulson had run
off and disappeared, while the lame man not only remained, but had
been the adviser and guide of the organ-grinder in seeking the aid of
the police. Still I could not see what interest the lame man could
have had in so constantly seeking the society of the organ-grinder.
What object could he have in view? Had he suspected that the man kept
a hoard somewhere about the room, and determined to find out where
that hide was?
These were some of the thoughts which troubled me, but I put them
past for after consideration, while I made arrangements with the
organ-grinder to try a curious experiment, first binding him to
absolute secrecy, even from his “friend, Tom Joson.” The lost
money-bag had been made out of a piece of the green cloth which had
covered M^cCarthy’s organ when he was overtaken by rain. He had made
the bag himself, and said he would know it again among a thousand. I
asked him if he could make one a little like it in size, to which he
promptly answered that he could, and out of the same stuff. I then
left him, and returned late at night, and long after it was dark.
We weighted the new money-bag with a quantity of coppers which the
organ-grinder had taken in the streets, and then placed it on the
ledge in the chimney. I then mounted to the roof and easily found the
right chimney top, as I had made M^cCarthy light a candle and place
it within the fire-place. I then lowered the “fishing tackle” I had
prepared for my experiment. This was a leaden sinker at the end of a
string, to which was attached an arrangement of hooks, which could
not have failed to catch the money-bag if I could only have brought
them near it. But there was the difficulty. I fished and fought
away for half an hour, but I could never get swing enough on that
sinker to bring the hooks near the bag, though I knew exactly where
the bag lay, which was more than the thief could have known. As the
fire-place widened considerably from the chimney proper, I could not
see the bag for which I was fishing, and in the end I gave up the
attempt, almost convinced that the robbery had not been effected
by any such means. I had gone there after dark to make my queer
experiment with a view to keeping the thing as quiet as possible,
and also because I thought it likely that the real attempt had been
made under like conditions. While doing so I was, without knowing it,
within a few feet of what would have given me the real clue to the
mystery—I might almost have touched it with my hand—and yet I saw
nothing, and left the roof rather more puzzled than when I ascended.
Had I gone in daylight all that might have been different.
I had now done with experiments, and set myself to something
practical by hunting for the absconding hawker. The finding of his
whereabouts was no difficult matter. He was well known, and though
out of the city, he had to pursue his calling to get a living, and so
a few messages across the adjoining counties soon revealed the fact
that Poulson, after an eccentric tour, was returning to Edinburgh
for a fresh stock. I was surprised at the news. I had fully expected
that a man with 207 stolen sovereigns in his possession would not
only cease working for a while, but give the scene of his exploit a
wide berth for some time to come. At length I heard that he was in
the city, and went to his house to look for him. As I had expected,
he was not there, and had not been near the place. There was another
place known to him, as I had discovered through Tom Joson, the lame
man, in which any one who had means could hide for any length of
time. I had been in that den before, and went there direct.
It was a quiet place, down near the bottom of the North Back
Canongate. The house was entered by an outside stair in a dark court,
where there were excellent corners for concealment.
I took up my position there as soon as it was dark, and had not
been long there before I saw a man enter the court, take in all the
bearings of the place much as I had done myself, and then select
a corner quite as good as my own. In this he ensconced himself so
coolly that in sheer wonder I crossed the court and grabbed him by
the shoulder. Then in the dim light I recognised a sheriff-officer
well known to me.
“Hullo! are you watching for some one too?” I exclaimed.
“Yes, and a bonnie chase I’ve had,” he growled in a whisper. “It’s a
hawker called Poulson——”
“Ah, indeed! and what do you want him for?”
“Oh, just an affiliation case—decree for ten pounds and expenses, and
the usual aliment. I’ve been all over Fife after him, and he knows
it. Fourpence a mile will never pay me for all the trouble I’ve had.
I know he’s in here, but I’ll wait till he comes out. I wouldn’t go
into that den for a hundred pounds. They’d jump on me and stave in my
ribs, or break my leg as soon as look at me.”
“Then, if you’re sure he’s in here, let’s go in together,” I
answered; “I’ll warrant they won’t jump on me, or break my leg
either. I want Poulson, too; what are we to do with him when we get
him, eh?—halve him?”
“Oh, you can keep him if we get him,” he returned, with a gruesome
shrug of the shoulders. “He’ll be as safe with you as any one.”
We ascended the stair and knocked, and after some delay were
admitted. Poulson, they said, was not there, and of course we did not
see him. After locking the outer door on the inside and pocketing the
key, I went over the three rooms. In the windows of two apartments
adjoining each other there were fixed boxes, with lids, which
appeared to be used as seats.
I lifted the lid of one. There was nothing inside, and the space
revealed was only about three feet long by a foot and a half deep. I
got into the next room after a little, and saw the exact counterpart
of this box seat in the window of that. It also was empty, but in
length was rather shorter than the other. Something about one of the
ends attracted my attention, and I put my hand to it. The whole end
moved a little. I touched a small nail in the centre and pulled it.
The end slid easily towards me, and, looking through, I saw that the
two window seats were one compartment with a movable division. In the
long end—that is the end I had searched first—Poulson was lying on
his side, and he looked considerably astonished when I hauled him out
by the leg.
But when we got him out of the house, and he learned that he was
wanted by me more than the sheriff-officer, his surprise increased.
He could not understand it at all. When we got him to the Central,
and the charge was made known, he broke out into the most indignant
protestations of innocence. He had never heard of the robbery of the
organ-grinder’s money-bag, and had not dreamt of the man possessing
such a sum.
“If I had thought it,” he added, “I would have asked him to lend me
enough to get over this difficulty.”
He was locked up, and every search made for the stolen sovereigns,
but without success; and after a few days’ detention he was handed
over to the sheriff-officer. As he pledged himself to pay all his
debts, he was released under certain conditions.
This fact having been made known to me, I had him strictly watched,
as I had the idea that the money would be drawn from that pile of
sovereigns taken from the organ-grinder. No such call, however,
was made upon that store. Poulson proceeded to “realise” upon his
furniture and effects, and with that and the little money he had for
buying a new stock, he managed to clear himself of the disagreeable
surveillance of the sheriff-officer. He was still being watched
closely by M^cSweeny, and as he soon became conscious of the
fact, he became very unhappy. His recent misfortunes had somewhat
broken his spirit, and he began to drink and loaf about instead
of bestirring himself to retrieve his position. There was not the
slightest indication that he had the organ-grinder’s sovereigns
hidden anywhere; and in his straits he was dependent chiefly upon
the organ-grinder and the lame man, Tom Joson. One day when he had
reached his last coin and was groaning over the fact that he was
the object of such attention from the police, it was proposed to him
by the lame man that he should get rid of the espionage by a sudden
flight.
“I’ll lend you enough to pay your passage to London,” said the
generous Joson confidentially; “and to tell you a secret, I’m
thinking of going there myself if I can manage to give the wife the
slip.”
The offer was jumped at by the hawker, the more so as Joson told him
he would give him a trifle to start with when he should reach the
metropolis. One afternoon, accordingly, they met at an appointed
place, and walked towards Granton together. As a touching proof of
his confidence, the lame man entrusted Poulson with a bundle of his
to carry. The bundle was not very large, but it was heavy. When they
reached Trinity, the lame man said he could walk no further, and
took a penny ride by rail for the rest of the way, the agreement
being that they were to meet on board the steamer. M^cSweeny, who
had got word of the movement from the organ-grinder, was already
at the ticket office at Granton Pier. The lame man went on board
unchecked. Half an hour later Poulson appeared, carrying the bundle
given him by the lame man, and was promptly stopped by M^cSweeny. The
weight of the bundle gave my chum great hope, and for once he was
not disappointed. When the bundle was opened at the station-house,
there was found within a bag of coarse green cloth, containing 203
sovereigns. Then the hawker confessed that he had got the bundle from
the lame man to carry, but was well laughed at for his pains. By that
time the London steamer had sailed, and it appeared probable that the
lame man had gone with it, for he was nowhere to be found. M^cSweeny
was very proud of his capture, but while he was thus engaged I had
been busy in another quarter. A slater had gone up on to the roof
of the house upon which I had made my fishing experiment, and found
there a long iron rod, bent at the end and fitted with a sharp hook.
The moment I got word of this discovery I made the circuit of the
district to find the nearest blacksmith, and from him I learned that
the rod had been made to order by him for “a lame man who played the
whistle on the streets.” Back to the organ-grinder I went, and tried
the patent rod down his chimney with perfect success. I hooked up the
dummy bag at the very first attempt. At the same time I drew from the
organ-grinder a confession that “in drink” he was very loquacious
and communicative. I had now no doubt but he had in some such
unguarded moment allowed the lame man to draw from him part of his
secret, the man’s native cunning and ingenuity filling up the blanks.
I now wished very much to see Joson, and with that end in view took
the night mail for London. I was in the city long before the steamer
arrived, and waiting for it at the wharf when it slowly crept up the
river. No tender relative could have looked out for a dear friend
with more anxious solicitude than I did for the face of the cripple
whistle-player, and, as luck had it, his was almost the first face I
saw.
He was looking over the taffrail, and evidently viewing the lively
scene with great interest, for he saw no one—not even me—till my hand
was laid upon his arm with the words—
“Well, Joson, I’m glad to see you. I hope you’ve had a good passage?”
The kind inquiry was never answered. Joson appeared to collapse at
the very sight of my face, and submitted to be led away without
a murmur. Poulson would have had some difficulty in proving his
innocence, had not the lame man made a clean breast of it, and
pleaded guilty with a view to shortening his own sentence.
For a long time there was one whistler less in the streets, and the
organ-grinder’s motto ever after was, “Save me from my friends!”