MR. JALLANBY--SHIP BROKER
There were reasons, other than the suddenly excited desire to follow
this business out to whatever end it might come at, which induced me
to consent to the detective's suggestion that I should go to Hull with
him. As I had said to Solomon Fish, I knew Hull--well enough. In my
very youthful days I had spent an annual holiday there, with
relatives, and I had vivid recollections of the place.
Already, in those days, they had begun to pull Hull to pieces, laying
out fine new streets and open spaces where there had been
old-fashioned, narrow alleys and not a little in the slum way. But
then, as happily now, there was still the old Hull of the ancient High
Street, and the Market Place, and the Land of Green Ginger, and the
older docks, wharves, and quays; it had been amongst these survivals
of antiquity, and in the great church of Holy Trinity and its scarcely
less notable sister of St. Mary in Lowgate that I had loved to wander
as a boy--there was a peculiar smell of the sea in Hull, and an
atmosphere of seafaring life that I have never met with elsewhere,
neither in Wapping nor in Bristol, in Southhampton nor in Liverpool;
one felt in Hull that one was already half-way to Bergen or Stockholm
or Riga--there was something of North Europe about you as soon as you
crossed the bridge at the top of Whitefriargate and plunged into masts
and funnels, stacks of fragrant pine, and sheds bursting with foreign
merchandise. And I had a sudden itching and half-sentimental desire to
see the old seaport again, and once more catch up its appeal and its
charm.
"Yes, I'll certainly go with you, Scarterfield!" I repeated. "In for a
penny, in for a pound, they say. I wonder, though, what we are in for!
You think, really, we're on the track of Netherfield Baxter?"
"Haven't a doubt of it!" asserted Scarterfield, as he turned over the
pages of the railway guide. "That man who's just gone was right--that
was Baxter he saw. With who knows what of mystery and crime and all
sorts of things behind him!"
"Including the murder of one of the Quicks?" I suggested.
"Including some knowledge of it, anyway," he said. "It's a clue, Mr.
Middlebrook, and I'm on it. As this man was in Hull, there'll be news
of him to be picked up there--very likely in plenty."
"Very well," said I. "I'm with you. Now let's be off."
Going southward by way of Newcastle and York, we got to Hull that
night, late--too late to do more than eat our suppers and go to bed at
the Station Hotel. And we took things leisurely next morning,
breakfasting late and strolling through the older part of the town
before, as noon drew near, we approached the Goose and Crane. We had
an object in selecting time and place. Fish had told us that the man
whom he had seen in company with our particular quarry, the supposed
Baxter, had come into the queer old inn in his shirt-sleeves and
without his hat--he was therefore probably some neighbouring shop or
store-keeper, and in the habit of turning into the ancient hostelry
for a drink about noon. Such a man--that man--Scarterfield hoped to
encounter. Out of him, if he met him, he could hope to get some news.
Although, as a boy, I had often seen the street front of the Goose and
Crane, I had never passed its portals. Now, entering it, we found it
to be even more curious inside than it was out. It was a fine relic of
Tudor days--a rabbit warren of snug rooms, old furniture, wide chimney
places, tiled floors; if the folk who lived in it and the men who
frequented it had only worn the right sorts of costume, we might
easily have thought ourselves to be back in "Elizabethan times." We
easily found the particular room of which Solomon Fish had
spoken--there was the door, half open, with its legend on an upper
panel in faded gilt letters, "For Master Mariners Only." But, as we
had inferred, that warning had been set up in the old days, and was no
longer a strict observance; we went into the room unquestioned by
guardians or occupants, and calling for refreshments, sat ourselves
down to watch and wait.
There were several men in this quaint old parlour; all seemed, in one
degree or another, to be connected with the sea. Men, thick-set,
sturdy, bronzed, branded in solid suits of good blue cloth, all with
that look in the eye which stamps the seafarer. Other men whom one
supposed to have something to do with sea-trade--ship's chandlers,
perhaps, or shipping-agents. We caught stray whiffs of talk--it was
all about the life of the port and of the wide North Sea that
stretches away from the Humber. And in the middle of this desultory
and apparently aimless business in came a man who, I am sure from my
first glimpse of him, was the very man we wanted. A shortish,
stiffly-built, paunchy man, with a beefy face, shrewd eyes, and a
bristling, iron-gray moustache; a well-dressed man, and sporting a
fine gold chain and a diamond pin in his cravat. But--in his shirt
sleeves, and without a hat. Scarterfield leaned nearer to me.
"Our man for a million!" he muttered.
"I think so," said I.
The new-comer, evidently well known from the familiar way in which
nods and brief salutations were exchanged for him, bustled up to the
bar, called for a glass of bitter beer and helped himself to a crust
of bread and a bit of cheese from the provender at his elbow. Leaning
one elbow on the counter and munching his snack he entered into
conversation with one or two men near him; here, again, the talk as
far as we could catch it, was of seafaring matters. But we did not
catch the name of the man in the shirt-sleeves, and when, after he had
finished his refreshment, he nodded to the company and bustled out as
quickly as he had entered, Scarterfield gave me a look, and we left
the room in his wake, following him.
Our quarry bustled down the alley and turned the corner into the old
High Street. He was evidently well known there; we saw several
passers-by exchange greetings with him. Always bustling along, as if
he were a man whose time was precious, he presently crossed the
narrow roadway and turned into an office, over the window of which was
a sign--"Jallanby, Ship Broker." He had only got a foot across his
threshold, however, when Scarterfield was at his elbow.
"Excuse me, sir," he said politely. "May I have a word with you?"
The man turned, stared, evidently recognized Scarterfield as a
stranger he had just seen in the Goose and Crane, and turned from him
to me.
"Yes?" he answered questionably. "What is it?"
Scarterfield pulled out his pocket-book and produced his official
card.
"You'll see who I am from that," he remarked. "This gentleman's a
friend of mine--just now giving me some professional help. I take it
you're Mr. Jallanby?"
The ship-broker started a little as he glanced at the card and
realized Scarterfield's calling.
"Yes, I'm Mr. Jallanby," he answered. "Come inside, gentlemen." He led
the way into a dark, rather dismal and dusty little office, and signed
to a clerk who was writing there to go out. "What is it, Mr.
Scarterfield?" he asked. "Some information?"
"You've hit it sir," replied Scarterfield. "That's just what we do
want; we came here to Hull on purpose to find you, believing you can
give it. From something we heard only yesterday afternoon, Mr.
Jallanby, a long way from here, we believe that one morning about
three weeks ago, you were in the Goose and Crane in that very room
where we saw you just now, in company with two men--smartly dressed
men, in blue serge suits and straw hats; one of them with a pointed,
golden-brown beard. Do you remember?"
I was watching the ship-broker's face while Scarterfield spoke, and I
saw that deep interest, wonder, perhaps suspicion was being aroused in
him.
"Bless me!" he exclaimed. "You don't mean to say they're--wanted?"
"I mean to say that I want to get some information about them, and
very particularly," answered Scarterfield. "You do remember that
morning, then?"
"I remember a good many mornings," said Jallanby, readily enough. "I
went across there with those two several times while they were in the
town. They were doing a bit of business with me--we often dropped in
over yonder for a glass before dinner. But--I'm surprised that--well,
to put it plainly--that detectives should be inquiring after 'em!--I
am, indeed."
"Mr. Jallanby," said Scarterfield, "I'll be plain with you. This is,
so far, merely a matter of suspicion. I'm not sure of the identity of
one of these men--it's but one I want to trace at present, though I
should like to know who the other is. But--if my man is the man I
believe him to be, there's a matter of robbery, and possibly of
murder. So you see how serious it is! Now, I'll jog your memory a bit.
Do you remember that one morning, as you and these two men were
leaving the Goose and Crane, a big seafaring-looking man stepped up to
the bearded man you were with and claimed acquaintance with him as
being one Netherfield Baxter?"
Jallanby started. It was plain that he remembered.
"I do!" he exclaimed. "Well enough! I stood by. But--he said he
wasn't. There was a mistake."
"I believe there was no mistake," said Scarterfield. "I believe that
man is Netherfield Baxter, and--it's Netherfield Baxter I want. Now,
Mr. Jallanby, what do you know of those two? In confidence!"
We had all been standing until then, but at this invitation to
disclosure the ship-broker motioned us to sit down, he himself turning
the stool which the clerk had just vacated.
"This is a queer business, Mr. Scarterfield," he said. "Robbery?
Murder? Nasty things, nasty terms to apply to folk that one's done
business with. And that, of course, was all that I did with those two
men, and all I know about them. Pleasant, good-mannered, gentlemanly
chaps I found 'em--why, Lord bless me, I dined with 'em one night at
their hotel!"
"Which hotel?" asked Scarterfield.
"Station Hotel," replied Jallanby. "They were there for ten days or
so, while they did their business with me. I never saw aught wrong
about 'em either--seemed to be what they represented themselves to be.
Certainly they'd plenty of money--for what they wanted here in Hull,
anyway. But of course, that's neither here nor there."
"What names did you know them under?" inquired Scarterfield. "And
where did they profess to come from?"
"Well, the man with the brownish beard called himself Mr. Norman
Belford," answered Jallanby. "I gathered he was from London. The other
man was a Frenchman--some French lord or other, from his name, but I
forget it. Mr. Belford always called him Vicomte--which I took to be
French for our Viscount."
Scarterfield turned and looked at me. And I, too, looked at him. We
were thinking of the same thing--old Cazalette's find on the bush in
the scrub near the beach at Ravensdene Court. And I could not repress
an exclamation.
"The handkerchief!"
Scarterfield coughed. A dry, significant cough--it meant a great deal.
"Aye!" he said. "Just so--the handkerchief! Um!" He turned to the
ship-broker. "Mr. Jallanby," he continued, "what did these two want of
you? What was their business here in Hull?"
"I can tell you that in a very few words," answered Jallanby. "Simple
enough and straight enough, on the surface. So far as I was concerned,
anyhow. They came in here one morning, told me they were staying at
the Station Hotel, and said that they wanted to buy a small craft of
some sort that a small crew could run across the North Sea to the
Norwegian fiords--the sort of thing you can manage with three or four,
you know. They said they were both amateur yachtsmen, and, of course,
I very soon found out that they knew what they were talking about--in
fact, between you and me, I should have said that they were as
experienced in sea-craft as any man could be!--I soon detected that."
"Aye!" said Scarterfield, with a nod at me. "I dare say you would."
"Well, it so happened that I'd just the very thing they seemed to
want," continued the ship-broker. "A vessel that had recently been
handed over to me for disposal, and then lying in the Victoria Dock,
just at the back here, beyond the old harbour: just the sort of craft
that they could sail themselves, with say a man, or a boy or two--I
can tell you exactly what she was, if you like."
"It might be very useful to know that," remarked Scattered, with
emphasis on the last word. "We may want to identify her."
"Well," said Jallanby, "she was a yawl about eighteen tons register;
thirty tons yacht measurement; length forty-two feet; beam thirteen;
draught seven and a half feet; square stern; coppered above the
water-line; carried main, jib-headed mizen, fore-staysail, and jib,
and in addition had a sliding gunter gaff-topsail, and----"
"Here!" interrupted Scarterfield with a smile. "That's all too
technical for me to carry in my head! If we want details, I'll trouble
you to write 'em down later. But I take it this vessel was all ready
for going to sea?"
"Ready any day," asserted Jallanby. "Only just wanted tidying up and
storing. As a matter of fact, she'd been in use, quite recently, but
she was a bit too solid for her late owner's tastes--the truth was,
she'd been originally built for a Penzance fishing-lugger--splendid
sea-going boats, those!"
"Do I understand that this vessel could undertake a longish voyage?"
asked Scarterfield. "For instance, could they have crossed, say, the
Atlantic in her?"
"Atlantic? Lord bless you, yes!" replied the ship-broker. "Or
Pacific, either. Go tens o' thousands o' miles in a craft of that
soundness, as long as you'd got provisions on board!
"Did they buy her?" asked Scarterfield.
"They did--at once," replied Jallanby. "And paid the money for her--in
cash, there and then."
"Cheque?" inquired Scarterfield, laconically.
"No, sir--good Bank of England notes," answered Jallanby. "Oh, they
were all right as regards money--in my case, anyway. And you'll find
the same as regards the tradesmen they dealt with here--cash on the
spot. They fitted her out with provisions as soon as they'd got
her--that, of course, took a few days."
"And then went off--to Norway?" asked Scarterfield.
"So I understand," assented Jallanby. "That's what they said. They
were going, first of all, to Stavanger--then to Bergen--then further
north."
"Just the two of them?" asked Scarterfield.
"Why, no," replied Jallanby. "They were joined, a day or two before they
sailed, by a friend of theirs--a Chinaman. Queer combination--Englishman,
Frenchman, Chinaman. But this Chinaman, he was a swell--what we should
call a gentleman, you know--Mr. Belford told me, in private, that he
belonged to the Chinese Ambassador's suite in London."
"Oh!" said Scarterfield. "Just so! A diplomat. And where did he
stop--here?"
"Oh, he joined them at the hotel," answered Jallanby. "He'd come there
that night I dined with them. Quiet, very gentlemanly little
chap--quite the gentleman, you know."
"And--his name?" asked Scarterfield.
But the ship-broker held up a deprecating hand.
"Don't ask me!" he said. "I heard it, but I'm not up to those Chinese
names. Still, you'd find it in the hotel register, no doubt. But
really, gentlemen, you surprise me!--I should never have thought--yet,
you never know who people are, do you? Nice, pleasant, well-behaved
fellows these were, and----"
"Ah!" said Scarterfield, with deep significance. "It's a queer world,
Mr. Jallanby. Now then, for the moment, oblige me by keeping all this
to yourself. But two questions--first, how long since is it that these
chaps sailed for Bergen; second, what is the name of this smart little
vessel?"
"They sailed precisely three weeks ago next Monday," answered the
ship-broker, "and the name of the vessel is the _Blanchflower_."
We left Mr. Jallanby then, promising to see him again, and went away.
I was wondering what the detective made out of all this, and I waited
with some curiosity for him to speak. But we had got half way up the
old High Street before Scarterfield opened his lips. And then his tone
was a blend of speculation and distrust.
"Now, I wonder where those chaps have gone?" he muttered. "Of course
they haven't gone to Norway! Of course that Chinese chap wasn't from
the Chinese Legation in London! The whole thing's a bluff. By this
time they'll have altered the name of that yawl, and gone--where? In
search of that buried stuff, to be sure!"
"If the man who called himself Belford is really Baxter, he'll know
precisely where it is," I said.
"Aye, just so, Mr. Middlebrook," assented Scarterfield. "But--there's
been time in all these years to shift that stuff from one place to
another! I haven't the slightest doubt that Belford is Baxter, and
that he and his associates bought that vessel as the easiest way of
getting the stuff from wherever it's hid--but where are we to look for
them and their craft? Have they gone north or south! It would be waste
of time and money to cable to the Norwegian ports for news of
them--they're not gone there, that I'll swear."
"Scarterfield," said I, feeling convinced on the matter. "If the man's
Baxter, and he's after that stuff, he's gone north. The stuff is near
Blyth! Dead certain!"
"I dare say you're right," he said slowly. "And as I've found out all
there is to find out here in Hull, I suppose a return to Blyth is the
most advisable thing. After all, we know what to look out for on that
coast--a twenty-ton yawl, with an Englishman, a Frenchman, and a
Chinaman aboard her. Very well."
So that afternoon, after seeing the ship-broker again, and making
certain arrangements with him in case he heard anything of the
_Blanchflower_ and her crew of three queerly-assorted individuals, we
retraced our steps northward. But while Scarterfield turned off at
Newcastle for Tynemouth and Blyth, I went forward alone, for Alnwick
and Ravensdene Court.