worried about his debts that he went in the middle of the night to
his friend's house in order to try and borrow money from him, and yet
when, according to his own statements, he never even saw his friend,
off he went the very next morning to the country, stayed away four
days, and on his return did not make any attempt seemingly to see the
Captain or to ask him for money. Thirdly, it was equally
inconceivable that Captain Shillington should have appointed to see
Buckley at that hour of the night, however pressed the latter might
have been for money. Why should he? The next morning would have
done just as well, whether he meant to help him or whether he did
not, and, according to the testimony of the night-watchman, William
Rugger, when he was accosted by Buckley, he exclaimed in tones of
great surprise, 'Good Lord, Henry, what are you doing here?' These
are not words which a man would say to a friend whom he had appointed
to meet at this very hour.
"However, this portion of the taxi-driver's and Rugger's testimony
Buckley still strenuously denied. He could not deny the other. He
had called at Mexfield House and reluctantly admitted that it had
been nothing but 'blue funk' that had prompted him at first to hold
his tongue about that and then to deny the fact altogether.
"But, above all, there was yet another fact which to the police was
more conclusive, more damning than any other and that was that on the
Wednesday morning the Honourable Henry Buckley had called at Messrs.
Foster and Turnbull, the well-known pawnbrokers of Oxford Street, and
had pledged a pair of diamond ear-rings and a couple of valuable
bracelets there for which he received three hundred and fifty pounds.
"Here again, if Buckley had volunteered this statement, all might
have been well, but it was the pawnbrokers who gave information to
the police. It turned out that the ear-rings and the two bracelets
were the property of his sister, Lady Angela. Buckley declared that
she had given them to him, and she, very nobly, did her best to
corroborate this statement of his, but it had become impossible to
believe a word he said. Lady Angela's valiant efforts on his behalf
were thought to be unconvincing, and, as a matter of fact, the public
has never known from that day to this whether Henry Buckley stole his
sister's jewellery, or whether she gave it to him voluntarily.
§3
"Mind you, there can be no question but that the police acted very
injudiciously when they actually preferred a charge of murder against
Henry Buckley. There were two such damning flaws in the chain of
evidence that had been collected against him that the man ought never
to have been arrested. Even the magistrate was of that opinion. As
you know, if there is the slightest doubt about such a serious
charge, the magistrates will always commit a man for trial and let a
jury of twelve men pronounce on the final issue rather than decide
such grave matters on their own. But in this case there were really
no proofs. There were deductions: the accused was a young
blackguard, a moral coward and a liar. There was the blood-stained
scarf, the hat and the white carnation, there was the testimony of
the taxi-driver and the night watchman that Henry Buckley had been in
the company of Captain Shillington that night, but there was no proof
that he had murdered his friend and stolen the pearls.
"To begin with, if there had been a murder, where was it committed,
and what became of Captain Shillington's body? Of course, the police
still hope to find traces of it, but, as you know, they have not yet
succeeded. Various theories are put forward that Henry Buckley was a
member of a gang of ruffians with headquarters in some obscure corner
of London close to the river, and that he enticed the Captain there
and murdered him with the help of his criminal associates with whom
he probably shared the proceeds of the crime. But over a year has
gone by since Shillington disappeared and the police are no nearer
finding the body of the missing man.
"The magistrate dismissed the case against Henry Buckley. There was
not sufficient evidence to commit him for trial. What told most in
his favour in the end was the question of time. He was able to prove
that he was at his club in Hanover Square at half-past midnight on
the fateful night. Now, according to James Rose's testimony, it was
after midnight when he, Buckley, called at Mexfield House. Even
supposing that Shillington had arrived in the taxi five minutes
later, it was inconceivable that a man could entice another to an
out-of-the-way part of London, murder him--even if he left others to
dispose of the body--and walk back unconcernedly to Hanover Square,
all in less than half an hour. Nor were the pearls or any large sum
of money ever traced to Henry Buckley. He was just as deeply in debt
after the disappearance of Captain Shillington as he had been before.
Now he has gone on another tour round the world, and the
Shillingtons--mother and daughter--have given up all hopes of ever
seeing the gallant Captain, who was such a model son, again. A
little while ago the illustrated papers published photos of the two
ladies on board a P. and O. steamer bound for Australia, but the
public had forgotten all about Lady Angela's pearls and the
mysterious white carnation. No one was interested in the old lady
with the white hair and stooping figure, who was carried on board in
a chair, and who obstinately refused to be interviewed by newspaper
men eager for copy. The case is relegated, as far as the public is
concerned, to the category of undiscovered crimes."
"But," I argued, as the Old Man in the Corner became silent, absorbed
in the untying of an intricate knot which he had made a little while
ago, "surely the police have found out who the man was who accosted
Captain Shillington in Somerset Street that night, the man with the
light-coloured scarf, which was subsequently found in the river by
the side of the missing man's hat, the man who called the Captain
'Denver,' and whom the latter called 'Henry,' and was so surprised to
see. If it was not Henry Buckley, who was it?"
"Ah!" the exasperating creature retorted with a fatuous smile, "who
was it? That's just the point--a point just as dark as that a man
like Captain Shillington could be enticed at that hour of the night
to an out-of-the-way part of London, and at a moment when he had his
fiancée's jewellery worth twenty-five thousand pounds in his pocket.
Don't you think that _that_ point is absolutely inconceivable?"
"Well," I said, "it does seem----"
"Of course it does," he broke in eagerly. "I ask you: Is it likely?
At one moment we are told that Captain Shillington was a pattern of
all the virtues and that his business acumen and abilities had earned
for him not only a fortune but the admiration of all those who knew
him; and the very next we are asked to suppose that he would meekly
allow a young blackguard, whom he knew to be dishonest and
unscrupulous, to drag him 'reluctantly' to some obscure haunt of a
gang of criminals. Surely that should have jumped to the eyes of any
sane person who had studied the case."
"I don't suppose," I retorted, "that Captain Shillington allowed
Buckley to drag him very far. Most people believed at the time that
he was attacked directly he rounded the corner of Somerset Street.
There are one or two entrances to mews just about there----"
"Yes," the funny creature rejoined excitedly, "but not one nearer
than fifty yards from Mexfield House. And do you think that the
immaculate Australian would have walked ten at night with young
Buckley and with those pearls in his pocket? Why should he? He was
outside his own door. Wouldn't he have taken Henry into the house
with him if he wished to speak to him? No! No! The whole theory is
inconceivable...."
"But Captain Shillington disappeared," I argued, "and so did the
pearls, and his hat was found floating in the river, torn and
blood-stained. You cannot deny that."
"I certainly cannot deny," he replied, "that a blood-stained hat will
float on the water if it is thrown--say, from a convenient bridge."
"But the scarf?" I retorted.
"A scarf will obey the same laws of Nature as a hat."
"But surely you are not going to tell me----?"
"What?"
"That the whole thing was a confidence trick, after all?"
"I am certain that it was. A clever one, I'll admit, and even I was
puzzled at the time. I couldn't think who 'Henry' could possibly be.
It wasn't young Buckley, that was obvious. The alibi was conclusive
as to that: the miscreants who had planned to throw dust in the eyes
of the police by trying to fasten a hideous crime on that unfortunate
young Buckley set their stage rather too elaborately when they
devised the trick about the scarf. By identifying the murderer with
the wearer of the scarf, they saved Buckley from the gallows; without
it, there might have remained some doubt in the mind of some of the
jury. But, of course, it raised a tremendous puzzle. Who was the
'Henry' of Somerset Street? And was it not a curious coincidence
that he should be wearing an overcoat similar to the one habitually
worn by Henry Buckley and a white carnation, which many friends would
at once associate with that unfortunate young man? From the
examination of the puzzle to its solution was but a step. I came at
once to the conclusion that here was no coincidence, but a deliberate
attempt to impersonate Henry Buckley, the man most likely in the eyes
of the public to waylay, rob, and even murder a man whom he knew to
be in possession of valuable jewellery. Such a deliberate attempt,
therefore, argued that Captain Shillington himself must have been in
it. 'Good Lord, Henry, what in the world are you doing here?' was
obviously intended for any passer-by to hear in the same way that the
white carnation was intended for any chance passer-by to pick up.
Having established the _mise en scène_, the two scoundrels walked
off, having previously provided themselves with a blood-stained hat,
which presently Miss Shillington would identify as the property of
her brother."
"Miss Shillington?" I broke in eagerly, "then you think that the
whole Australian family was in the conspiracy? And what about the
man Rose?"
"The whole family," he rejoined, "only consisted of two. Man and
wife most likely."
"But the man Rose?" I insisted.
"An excellent part, alternately played with remarkable skill by the
Captain and his female accomplice."
"Do reconstruct the whole thing for me," I pleaded. "I own that I am
bewildered."
And from my bag I extracted a brand-new piece of string which I
handed to him with an engaging smile. Nothing could have pleased the
fatuous creature more. With long, claw-like fingers twiddling the
string, he began leisurely:
"Nothing could be more simple. Captain Shillington takes leave of
his fiancée, having her pearls in his pocket. It is then about
half-past eleven. Henry Buckley has gone to his club, Shillington
having appointed to see him at Mexfield House soon after midnight.
There is, therefore, plenty of time. Shillington hurries home,
changes his personality into that of James Rose, as he often has done
before, and subsequently interviews Henry Buckley on the door-step.
You can see that, can't you?"
"Easily," I replied.
"Then as soon as he has got rid of Buckley, our friend the Captain
quits the personality of a snuffy, middle-aged man-servant, and
becomes himself once more. He goes back to the neighbourhood of
Mayfair, hails a taxi and drives to Mexfield House. But in the
meanwhile the female confederate--we'll call her Miss Shillington for
convenience' sake--in male attire and evening dress, wearing a light
overcoat, a light-coloured scarf and a white carnation in her
button-hole, lounges under a doorway in Somerset Street, waiting to
play her part. Now do you see how simple it all is?"
"Perfectly," I admitted. "As you said before, they had provided
themselves with a blood-stained hat, which presently they threw into
the river, together with the scarf; and what happened after that?"
"They walked home quietly and went to bed."
"What? Both of them? ... But the mother?"
"I don't believe in the mother," he retorted blandly. "Do you?"
"I thought----"
"She takes to her bed--she never sees a doctor--she and her daughter
never see any one--they have no friends--no servants save the man
Rose; put two and two together, my dear," the funny old man concluded
as he slipped the piece of string in his pocket. "Captain
Shillington was the only one in that house who ever went outside the
doors. The mother never did--no one ever saw her--the daughter had a
perpetual cold in the head--the man Rose had no one to speak for him,
no one to relate his past history, except Miss Shillington. Where is
he now? What has become of him? There's nobody to enquire after
him, so the police don't trouble. The two Shillingtons--supposed to
be mother and daughter--went back to Australia last year, but not the
man Rose. Then where is he? But I say that the two passengers on
board that P. and O. boat were not mother and daughter, but male and
female confederates in as fine a bit of rascality as I've ever seen.
And the man Rose never existed. He was just a disguise assumed from
time to time by Captain Shillington. It is not difficult, you know,
to assume a personality of that sort. The police inspectors who
questioned him had never seen Captain Shillington, and dirt and
shabby clothes are very perfect disguises. Now the pair of them are
knocking about the world somewhere, they will dispose of the pearls
to Continental dealers not over scrupulous where a good bargain can
be struck. If you will just think of Captain Shillington
impersonating James Rose and a decrepit old woman alternately, and of
Miss Shillington impersonating Henry Buckley on that one occasion,
you will see how conclusive are my deductions. I have a snapshot
here of the two Australian 'ladies,' taken on board the boat. This
muffled-up bundle of bonnet and shawl is supposed to be Mrs.
Shillington; it might as well be M. Poincaré or the Kaiser, don't you
think? And here is a snapshot of James Rose giving evidence in the
magistrate's court. Unfortunately, I have no photo of Captain
Shillington, or I could have shown you just how to trace the
personality of the handsome young man about town under that of this
snuffy, dirty, ill-kempt, unwashed, and badly clothed, stooping
figure of an out-at-elbows servant."
He threw a bundle of newspaper cuttings down on the table. I gazed
at them still puzzled, but nevertheless convinced that he was right.
When I looked up again, I only saw a corner of his shabby checked
ulster disappearing through the swing doors.
X
THE MYSTERY OF THE MONTMARTRE HAT
§1
"It was during a foggy, rainy night in November a couple of years
ago," the Old Man in the Corner said to me that day, "that the
inhabitants of Wicklow Lane, Southwark, were startled by a terrible
row proceeding from one of the houses down the street. There was a
lot of shouting and banging, then a couple of pistol-shots, after
that nothing more. It was then just after midnight. The dwellers in
Wicklow Lane are all of them poor, they are all of them worried with
the cares of large families, small accommodation, and irregular work,
all of which we must take it make for indifference to other people's
worries, and above all, to other people's quarrels. Rows were not an
unknown occurrence in Wicklow Lane, not always perhaps at dead of
night and not necessarily accompanied by pistol-shots, but
nevertheless sufficiently frequent not to arouse more than passing
interest. Half-a-dozen tousled heads--no more--were thrust out of
the windows to ascertain what this particular row was about; but as
everything was quiet again, as no police was in sight to whom one
might give directions, and as the mixture of rain and fog was
particularly unpleasant, the tousled heads after a few minutes
disappeared again, and once more peace reigned in Wicklow Lane.
"Of course the next morning the event of the night was mentioned and
mildly discussed, both by the men whilst going to their work and by
the ladies whilst scrubbing their doorsteps. Every one agreed that
the pistol-shots were fired soon after midnight, but no one seemed to
be very clear in which particular house the row had occurred. Two or
three of the people who lived in No. 11 and No. 15 respectively would
have it that it occurred 'next door,' but as the house next door to
them both could only be the one between them, namely No. 13, and as
No. 13 had been empty for months, this testimony was at first
strongly discounted.
"Presently, however, a helmeted and blue-coated representative of the
law came striding leisurely down the lane. Within a minute or two he
was surrounded by a number of excited ladies, all eager to give him
their own version of the affair. You can see him, can't you?" the
Old Man in the Corner went on with a grin, "stalking up the street,
his thumbs thrust into his belt, his face wearing that marvellous
look of impassivity peculiar to the force, and followed by this
retinue of gesticulating ladies, dressed in what they happened to
have picked up in neighboring 'ole clo'' shops, and by a sprinkling
of callow youths and unkempt, unshaven men. You can see him solemnly
plying the knocker on the dilapidated front door of No. 13, while for
the space of a minute or two the gesticulating ladies, the youths,
and the men were silent and motionless. But not a sound came in
response to the Bobby's vigorous knocking. The house was silent as
the grave; just above the front door a weather-worn board, swaying
and creaking in the wind, mutely gave it out that the lease of these
desirable premises was to be sold, and that the key could be had on
application to Messrs. J D. Whiskin and Sons, of Newnham Road, S.E.
The ladies, with cheeks blanched under the grime, looked aghast at
one another; the youths tittered nervously, the men swore. No one
appeared altogether displeased. Here was a real excitement at last
to vary the monotony of life, something that would keep gossip alive
at the White Lion for many a day to come. The majestic
representative of the law then blew his whistle. This broke the
spell of silence and voluble tongues started wagging again. Soon the
second representative of the law appeared, as ponderous, as impassive
as his mate. He was quickly put in possession of all the known and
unknown facts connected with the mysterious occurrence. Leaving his
mate in charge, he stalked off to get assistance.
"Well, you remember no doubt what happened after that. A police
inspector called straightway on Messrs. Whiskin and Sons, and
elicited from them the information that effectively No. 13 Wicklow
Lane was for sale, had been for some time, and that on the previous
morning--it was, of course, Thursday--a well-dressed gentleman had
called to make enquiries about the house. Young Mr. Whiskin gave him
the key and asked him to be sure and return it before 1 p.m. as the
office closed early on Thursdays. Well, the gentleman hadn't come
back yet with the key, but Mr. Whiskin was not troubling much about
that, there being nothing in the house--nor for a matter of that in
the street--likely to tempt a thief. Young Mr. Whiskin thought that
he would be able to identify the gentleman if he saw him again. He
had rather a red face and a thick nose, which suggested that he was
accustomed to good living, rough ginger-coloured hair, and a straggly
ginger beard and walrus moustache, all of which gave him rather a
peculiar appearance. He wore a neat brown lounge-suit, a light
overcoat, and grey Homburg hat, and he was carrying a large parcel
under his arm. Mr. Whiskin added that he had never seen the man
before or since.
"As soon as these facts became known there was more voluntary
information forthcoming. It appears that one or two of the residents
in Wicklow Lane remembered seeing a man in light overcoat and soft
grey hat, and carrying a parcel under his arm, enter No. 13 with a
latchkey. No one had taken 'pertikler notice,' however, chiefly
because the occurrence was not an unusual one. Often people would go
in to look at the empty house and come out again after inspection.
Unfortunately, too, because of this there was distinct confusion of
evidence, some witnesses declaring that the man carried a large
parcel, and that he went away again, but not until the evening;
others would have it that he had a very small parcel, and that he
wore a bowler hat; others that the man with the bowler hat was
another person altogether, and did not call till the evening, whilst
this, again, was contradicted by another witness who said that the
man who called in the evening had very conspicuous ginger-coloured
hair and beard, but that he certainly wore a bowler hat. And through
this mass of conflicting evidence there was always the fact that the
fog was very thick that night and that no one therefore was able to
swear very positively to anything.
"This, then, being all the information that could be gathered for the
moment from the outside, the police next decided to force an entry
into the empty house. Its unlucky number justified, as you know, its
sinister reputation, because the first sight that greeted the
inspector when he entered the front room on the ground floor was the
body of a man lying in a pool of blood. At first glance he looked
like a foreigner--youngish, and with jet-black hair and moustache.
By the side of him there was a damp towel, also stained with blood.
Closer examination revealed the fact that he was not dead, but he
seemed in a dead faint, and the inspector sent one of the men off at
once to telephone for the divisional surgeon.
"The wounded man was dressed in a dark suit. He had on a gold watch
of foreign make, twenty pounds in notes, and some loose silver in his
pockets, and a letter addressed to 'Allen Lloyd, Esq.' at an hotel at
Boulogne. The letter was a private one, relating unimportant family
events; it was signed by a Christian name only, and bore a London
postmark, but no address. The police inspector took charge of the
letters and the money, and as the divisional surgeon had now arrived
and was busy with the wounded man, he proceeded to examine the
premises.
"The houses in Wicklow Lane all have small yards at the back. These
yards end in a brick wall, the other side of which there is a railway
cutting. It was obvious that No. 13 had been untenanted for some
time. The dust of ages lay over window and door-frames, over broken
mantelpieces and dilapidated stoves. There was not a stick of
anything anywhere; even the rubbish in the basement--such as is found
in every empty house, residue left over by the last tenant--had been
picked over until there was nothing left but dust and a few empty
bottles.
"The front room in which the wounded man lay revealed very little.
Two bullets were found lodged in one of the walls; one, quite close
to the ceiling, suggesting that it had been fired in the air, and the
other at a height of seven feet from the ground. The dust on the
floor had certainly been disturbed, but by how many pairs of feet it
was impossible to say. On the other hand, the back room on the same
floor had quite a grim tale to tell. It gave on the small backyard
with the wall as a background, beyond which was the railway cutting.
The window in this room was open. In one corner there was an
ordinary sink which showed that water had been running from the tap
quite recently; there was a small piece of soap in the sink which had
also recently been used. On the mantelpiece a small oak-framed
mirror was propped up against the wall and beside it on the shelf
there was the remnant of a burnt-out candle and a box of matches,
half empty. And thrown down on the floor, in a corner of the room,
were a black Inverness cape and soft black hat with a very wide brim,
such as are usually affected by French students.
"It was, of course, difficult to reconstruct the assault just at
present, the wounded man being still in a state of stupor and unable
to give any account of himself, but the revolver was found lying at
the bottom of the yard close to the end wall.