A LITTLE HOUSEBREAKING.
The train which conveyed Mr. Harrison Smith back to London stopped at
every intermediate station and did not arrive until after ten o'clock.
He, therefore, was given leisure for thought and the result of his
thinking was to bring him perilously near the truth.
He began with the premise that somehow Anthony Barraclough had
succeeded in making good his escape--that he was even now obtaining the
concession--that he would return to London on the night of the 18th
instant at eleven o'clock in all probability carrying the document upon
his person. All this was plain sailing but against it was the
established fact that Anthony Barraclough was imprisoned in Laurence's
house. If this were indeed the case further investigation was useless.
But was it the case?
The girl Isabel Irish had said there was a plan to make his exit from
London easy but no evidence had been given to suggest that this plan,
whatever it was, had been put into operation. Torrington's syndicate
was not composed of fools and yet the kidnapping of Barraclough had
been mere child's play without a speck of opposition. His own side had
been guilty of an act of crass stupidity in failing to carry off the
servant Doran as well as his master. It was one of those tragic
oversights which occur in the most carefully laid plans.
Unquestionably Doran would have told his employers what happened on the
night of the 27th and they could hardly have failed to guess the truth.
And yet, as private information assured him, not the smallest effort
had been made to rescue the man in whose brain was a secret worth
millions. And quite suddenly the truth, or a guess at the truth,
dawned upon him. Torrington's crowd must have been aware of the
intention to kidnap Barraclough and for a reason known only to
themselves had deliberately allowed it to take place. Why? Had
another man been sent in Barraclough's place? He dismissed that theory
without dissection. The shape of Barraclough's jaw and the line of his
mouth belonged to the type that does not unduly trust his fellow men.
Why? Was another man occupying Barraclough's place--deputising for him
in his absence?
Harrison Smith struck one hand against the other. "By God," he
exclaimed. "It's the most unlikely thing in the world but I'm going to
believe it. I'm going to believe that the chap with the humorous lines
round his eyes is no more Barraclough than I am."
He alighted at Waterloo Station aglow with excitement. His first
thought was to proceed post haste to Laurence's house and lay before
them the result of his deductions, but a second and more personal
consideration dissuaded him. There had been little enough
encouragement when last he interfered. He had been rudely ordered to
leave things alone. No, he would work out this deal himself and if
anything came of it approach Van Diest and Hipps for a lion's share of
the plunder. Weeks ago it had been arranged; if by any means
Barraclough succeeded in slipping through the outposts and obtaining
the concession, he was to be quietly thugged on his return and the
paper destroyed. As Ezra Hipps had said, "If we fail to get it for
ourselves it's damn sure no one else is going to profit." Wherefore
all he had to do was to intercept the returning treasure seeker, put
him securely away and then talk business to his own employers.
Harrison Smith hailed a taxi and told the driver to go down the
Commercial Road as far as the Poplar Town Hall. This was not a job
that could be tackled single handed--on the other hand it would be
unwise to admit more people to his confidence than were absolutely
necessary. He dismissed the taxi and proceeded on foot down one of the
narrow crooked byways abounding in that region. The place was quiet
and deserted save for a few Orientals--Lascars and Chinamen--who leaned
against the walls of their dwellings in silent contemplation of the
stars.
At the side door of a small and disreputable public house he paused and
knocked thrice with the handle of his cane and presently the door was
opened by a girl. She was a Jewess and lovely to look at, with the
fresh, shameless beauty peculiar to very young girls of that faith.
Recognising Harrison Smith she smiled a welcome and said:
"You're in luck--he's sober! Upstairs, in the front room."
She smiled again, revealing a perfect row of little white teeth which
mocked the string of cheap pearls at her throat. As he climbed the
stairs Harrison Smith speculated on the odd contrast this girl
presented to her surroundings. The silk of her stockings, the bangles
and gewgaws, the ultra patent leather of her shoes, bore so little
relation to the squalor of the narrow passage with its damp stained
walls, carpetless floor and hissing gas jet. Probably nowhere in the
world do greater incongruities exist than in the East End of London.
Mr. Alfred Bolt, minus coat, collar, tie and shoes, was seated in an
arm chair, his feet reposing upon the mantel-piece. At his elbow was a
glass of whiskey and water with a slice of lemon floating on the
surface. His waistcoat was undone and the white of his shirt
emphasised the enormous girth of his corporation. His legs were short,
his hands fat, his face round and margined with a half circle of hair
beneath the chin. At the first glance you would have taken him for the
model from which Will Owen must have illustrated the stories of W. W.
Jacobs. One would have expected him to remind the passer-by that it
was "a nice day for a sail" or alternatively to demand "Any more for
the Skylark?" But a closer inspection would have shaken the foundation
of so simple a belief for Mr. Alfred Bolt's eyes were not of the honest
kind worn by men who go down to the sea in ships. They were close set,
narrow lidded, cunning, piggy little eyes that caused unrest to look
upon.
At the sight of Harrison Smith he removed his feet from the mantelpiece
and extended an open armed welcome.
"Welcome and thrice welcome, my dear brother," he intoned in an
admirable imitation of the accepted ecclesiastical method. "I rejoice
indeed to observe that you are now in Holy Orders." Then with a drop
into the vernacular. "Blind me, Smith, what the hell are you doing
with your collar back to front?"
Harrison Smith gave a hurried explanation.
"But I thought that job was cleared up," said Bolt.
"Maybe it is, but there's a chance of a big coup that no one expected.
Now, if you care to take a hand."
Mr. Bolt fancied himself as a mimic, indeed he harboured the opinion
that he was a peer even to the late Sir Henry Irving in the matter of
"take offs." He could imitate a cat or a Chinaman, while his thumb
nail impressions of sundry Hebraic neighbours were only rivalled by his
flawless caricatures of natives of Germany or the New Hebrides. But
best of all he loved to assume the inflexion, guise and bearing of a
member of the clergy--a circumstance very possibly explained by the
fact that his own private life was as far removed from the office of
virtue as could be imagined.
"Be unafraid, my son," quoth he. "If your heart is full speak into my
listening ear and may a blessing fall on your confession." Then
fashioning a trumpet with his two hands he bellowed like a fog horn:
"Becky! A drop of whiskey hot for the gent." And while the
refreshment was being procured he observed parenthetically: "A nice
little piece, ain't she? Very smart and dossy. Come on, Smith, my
boy--my jolly old beau--dear old cracker, soak up the juice of the
barley and expound the tale of woe."
Harrison Smith wasted no time in explaining the case while Bolt
listened with great concentration, nodding approval at this point or
that.
"Hm! Worth trying anyway," he agreed. "What do you want me to do?"
"Take over my place at Clyst St. Mary. Can't explain why but I've a
sort of notion things may happen there. It's a queer household--lot of
smart girls looking after an old woman--Barraclough's mother."
"What's she like?"
"Never got near enough to find out. Decent enough old thing. Goes to
church a lot."
"Shrewd?"
"Never struck me so at a distance. Might be anything--bit of a
fool--mostly are--that old country sort."
Mr. Bolt mused.
"Goes to church, does she." His eyes travelled over Harrison Smith's
black garments. "Why didn't you call?"
"Didn't strike me. Fancy she knows very little."
"'Curs to me," said Bolt, "I might do the clergyman stunt myself in
those parts. I've got some stuff. A bit of the old Wesley--'Quiet
harbourage from the turmoil of city life, my dear lady. An occasional
hour in your beautiful garden.' That's the ticket."
"Then get off straight away. There's a train at five a.m. from
Waterloo. You can have my room at the pub. I'll give you a note to
the proprietor."
"And assuming I meet brother Barraclough?"
"Get him," responded Harrison Smith laconically. "Make as little fuss
as possible but get him."
Mr. Bolt nodded and the piggy little eyes twinkled greedily.
"Trust me," he said. "Anything else you want?"
Harrison Smith thought for a moment.
"That chap Dirk," he said. "Could you find him for me?"
"Sure."
"Then tell him to meet me at Paddington tomorrow morning 9.50."
"Right."
"And you might lend me that bunch of spring-lock keys."
"Going to have a squint at that guide book?" queried Bolt shrewdly as
he turned over the contents of a table drawer in search of the keys.
"Going to have a try," came the answer.
Bolt rippled out a fat, greasy chuckle.
"Pleasure to work with you, Smith," said he. "Yes indeed. Though it's
a bit risky putting one over on the Dutchman." He fell into a thick,
guttural "S'bad--s'bad pizness. Dese servants wass ver' insubordinate.
S'bad. Well, good luck, ole boy."
They shook hands cordially.
The Commercial Road was deserted when Harrison Smith came out of the
narrow byway. The chance of finding a conveyance was small but his
practical sense suggested turning into the West India Dock Road where,
at the gates of the dock, he had the good fortune to secure a
dilapidated four-wheeler. Progress was painfully slow and hours seemed
to pass before they finally turned out of the broad cobbled highway and
passed through the silent empty city. Two o'clock was striking when he
dismissed the cab in Piccadilly. At his own rooms in Crown Court, St.
James's, he changed into ordinary clothes and proceeded on foot to
Albemarle Street. Before the entrance to Crest Chambers Harrison Smith
stopped and broke into a torrent of imprecation. He had forgotten that
the downstairs door would be shut. It was of heavy mahogany and
secured by an ordinary variety of lock against which the bunch of keys
in his pocket were of no service whatsoever. He was shaking his fist
angrily when the sound of footsteps accompanied by a snatch of song
attracted his attention. A young man in evening dress, wearing an
opera hat at a raffish angle and carrying his hands in his trousers
pockets turned out of the adjoining side street and approached the spot
where he was standing. A single glance was enough to convince Harrison
Smith that the young man was in a state of spiritual exaltation
bordering on ecstasy. The words of a song he sang sounded unnaturally
clear--like music from another planet.
"I'm one of the ruins that Cromwell knocked about a bit," he sang over
and over again as though the words contained relish enough to justify
any limit of repetition. Coming abreast of Harrison Smith he halted
abruptly and, rocking on his heels, broke into a cherubic smile.
"Goo' man," he said. "Les-see, it's ol' Petersh, ishn't it?"
"That's it," said Harrison Smith, "old Peters."
With startling suddenness the young man produced a latch key and thrust
it into Harrison Smith's palm.
"Ope' th' door, ol' top. Ope' door an' we'll have a quick lil' spot
together."
Here was unlooked for good fortune of which Harrison Smith lost no time
in availing himself. Lending a trifling support to his impromptu host
they entered the building and ascended in the electric lift to the
fourth floor. There was a brass plate on the front door which informed
the curious that the owner of the flat was called Royston.
"Just a quick one," said Smith as they entered a comfortable sitting
room adorned by photographs of lovely ladies. "I've had a trying day
and want to turn in."
"T'hell with that," said Royston. "Wha's matter with seein' in the
dawn?"
He produced a bottle of whiskey and two glasses--not without casualties
among their fellows--set them on a coffin stool and fell into a deep
arm chair.
"Help 'self and help me--'cos I'm ver' tired--ov' tired."
Harrison Smith embraced the opportunity of pouring out a perfect
deadener for his host into which he discreetly added a pinch of cigar
ash from a convenient stump (a concoction which in the absence of more
potent drugs will produce very gratifying results).
While he was so employed Mr. Royston descanted freely on the subject of
lovely women in the choice of which he declared himself to be an
epicure.
"See that one--pho' frame--piano. Tho'bred--perfect tho'bred--a
darling--love 'er--love 'em all."
"That's the talk," said Harrison Smith who was cursing the enforced
delay. "Drink her health, old man, and no heel taps."
Mr. Royston rose nobly to the occasion and swallowed the contents of
his glass at a single gulp.
"Blesh 'em!" he said. "Blesh 'em."
He seized the arm of his chair while the room spun round him in a dizzy
whirl.
"Blast you, Petersh," he cried. "Thash pre-war whiskey. Sh-shot me
clean through the brain pan. C-caught in the brewersh web."
He swayed a little and settled down on the floor by sections. Harrison
Smith stooped and put a cushion beneath his head.
"All ri' soon--qui' all ri'. Fac' is I'm one of the ruins Crom'll
knocked about a bit." The voice tailed away into a deep, slumberous
groan.
A minute later Harrison Smith was at the door of Barraclough's flat on
the landing below. The fourth key on the bunch turned the latch and
silently as a cat he slipped into the hall. A quick observation of the
chambers above had given him a fair idea of which room was which and he
had no trouble in locating the study door in the dark. Before turning
on a light he assured himself that the window curtains were drawn. He
realised the need to be very silent in all his actions since
Barraclough's servant was in all probability sleeping on the premises
and ex-service men of the regular army have an awkward knack of
sleeping lightly. He closed the door without even a click from the
latch, then turned up a standard lamp that stood on the writing table.
In the pen tray beneath the lamp was a blue pencil--a new one--since
obviously it had never been sharpened and the chalk point was scarcely
worn at all. The other end of the pencil had been deeply bitten in a
dozen places, a circumstance which Harrison Smith noted with
satisfaction. The other pencils and pens in the tray bore no teeth
marks. It was reasonable, therefore, to surmise that its owner had
been engaged in some knotty and puzzling problem at the time of use.
"I believe the girl was on the right track," he muttered to himself and
turned his attention to the bookshelves. One of the cases was given
over entirely to a collection of local guide books surprisingly
complete in map and detail. There were four volumes dealing with
Cornwall and it was only the matter of a moment to find the one to
which Isabel had referred. Bringing it to the light Harrison Smith
hastily turned over the pages until he came to the squared map that
showed the village of Polperro. But here disappointment awaited
him--for not a sign of the blue pencil mark showed upon the page. He
was on the point of closing the book when he made a discovery.
The light striking across the paper revealed the fact that the surface
in places bore a polished appearance. The reason was significant.
Barraclough, leaving nothing to chance, had erased the pencil marks
with indiarubber. If anything could emphasise the value of his
discovery surely it was this and Harrison Smith fairly tingled with
excitement. He picked up a magnifying glass and closely examined the
erasement. There had been a line drawn round the village and on the
outskirts, where three cottages clustered together, was the impression
of a single dot. At roughly a mile inland from the village where a
footpath converged with the road was another dot, seemingly situated in
the middle of a clump of trees.
Harrison Smith was satisfied. He hastily dropped the book into his
pocket, restored its fellows to their former position on the shelves
and tiptoed across the room to extinguish the light. Thus far Fortune
had favoured him, but she is a capricious lady wont to change her
allegiance with startling suddenness. If there had been a length of
yellow flex to the electric standard the accident would never have
happened. It is simply asking for trouble to use red flex on a red
carpet. Harrison Smith's foot tangled in the wire and down came the
table lamp with a crash. Simultaneously there came a shout from
another part of the flat. For a second Harrison Smith stood spellbound
at the disaster he had caused--robbed of the power of action.
It was the sound of bare feet pattering on the parquet of the hall that
restored his senses and as the door of the room flew open he stamped on
the still burning electric bulb lying at his feet. The detonation as
it flew into fragments came simultaneously with the sharp, stinging
report of a small calibre pistol. The room was plunged into utter
darkness in which could be heard the sound of two men breathing and the
zinging of the mantelpiece brasses from the double explosion. Then
silence--no movement--and the mind of Harrison Smith worked like a
streak of lightning. His hand was on the back of a heavy arm chair and
the touch of it suggested an idea.
He gave a thin, whispering sigh and cried out in a high pitched voice.
"My God! You've killed me!"
Then he tilted back the arm chair and allowed it to fall with a soft
thud to the floor.
Another silence, then the sound of a man moving forward. Harrison
Smith side stepped and, keeping in touch with the wall, navigated
through the darkness toward the door.
"Serve you damn well right," said Doran in a voice that was startlingly
near.
Harrison Smith's luck had returned. He found the door and passed
through it and down the hall as quietly as a draught. He heard a click
as Doran switched up the lights, followed by an oath. Then he streaked
down the main stairway with a flight and a half start. A second was
lost at the hall door fumbling for the latch and in that second Doran
fired again but missed. As Harrison Smith shot out into Albemarle
Street he collided heavily with a constable, attracted to the scene by
the noise of the shots, but him he overturned to such good effect that
he was crossing Piccadilly before the blast of the inevitable whistle
screeched through the night. There was no further opposition to his
progress and in St. James's Street he fell into a walk and finally
entered his own apartment unobserved.
A little breathless but entirely satisfied he flung himself on the bed
for a couple of hours' sleep.