examination. He pronounced the wound to have been caused by one of
the bullets that had lodged in the wall of the front room. It had
been fired at very close range, as the flesh was singed all round the
wound. The bullet had gone right through the left deltoid, front to
back, and slightly upwards, just grazed the top of the shoulder, and
then lodged in the wall. The surgeon was inclined to think that the
wound was self-inflicted, but this theory was thought to be
untenable, because if a man was such an obviously poor shot he would
surely have chosen some other way of putting an end to himself,
unless, indeed, he was a lunatic, which might account for any
incongruity in the known facts, even to the noise--the shouting and
the banging--that all the neighbours agreed had preceded the revolver
shots.
"But there certainly was one fact which discounted the attempted
suicide theory, and that was the undoubted presence of another man
upon the scene--the man with the ginger hair and the thick nose who
had called for the key at Messrs. Whiskin and Sons, and whom several
witnesses had actually seen entering the empty house, the man with
the parcel. Now no one saw him come out again by the front door. He
must have been in the house when the foreigner with the jet-black
hair came and joined him, and he must have slipped out later on in
the dark, under cover of the fog and rain, either by the front door
when nobody happened to be passing by, or over the wall and then by
the railway cutting. Now what had brought these two men together in
an empty house, in one of the worst slums in London? One man was
wounded; where was the other? Had the revolver been dropped by one
of them in his flight or flung out of the window by a lunatic? Was
it attempted suicide by a madman, or murder consequent on a quarrel,
or blackmail? None of these questions was ever answered, nor was the
man with the ginger-coloured hair ever found. There was absolutely
no clue by which he might be traced; the earth just swallowed him up
as if he had been a spook.
"Nor was the identity of the wounded man ever satisfactorily
established. Who he was, where he came from, who were his associates
and what were his antecedents, he never revealed. He was detained in
hospital for a time, as he certainly was suffering from loss of
memory. But presently they had to let him go. He had money and he
was otherwise perfectly sane, but to every question put to him he
only answered, 'I don't know! I can't remember!' He spoke English
without the slightest trace of foreign accent; all that was foreign
about him was his jet-black hair and beard. Nor was the history of
the revolver ever traced to its source. Where was it bought? To
whom was it sold, and by whom? Nobody ever knew."
"But where did the man go after he left the hospital?" I now asked,
seeing that the funny creature looked like curling himself up in his
corner and going to sleep. "Surely he was kept under observation
when they let him out!"
"Of course he was," he replied glibly, "and for some time after that."
"Then where did he go," I reiterated, impatiently, "when he was
discharged from hospital?"
"He asked the way to the nearest public library and went straight
there; he looked down the columns of the _Morning Post_, scribbled a
few addresses on a scrap of paper, then he took a taxi and drove to
one of the private hotels in Mexborough Gate, where he engaged a
room, paying a fortnight's board and lodging in advance. Here he
lived for some considerable time. He was always plentifully supplied
with money, he bought himself clothes and linen, but where he got the
money from was never discovered. For a time he was watched both by
the police and by amateur detectives eager for copy, but nothing was
ever discovered that would clear up the mystery. From time to time
letters came for him at the hotel in Mexborough Gate. They were
addressed to 'Allen Lloyd, Esq.' which may or may not have been a
taken-up name. Presumably these letters contained remittances in
cash. They were never traced to their source. Anyway he always paid
his weekly bills at the hotel; but he never spoke to any one in the
place, nor, as far as could be ascertained, did he ever meet any one
or enter any house except the one he lodged in.
"Then one fine day he left the hotel, never to return. He went out
one afternoon and nothing has been seen or heard of him from that day
to this. The mysterious Mr. Allen Lloyd has disappeared in the
whirlpool of London, leaving no trace of his identity. He had paid
his bill at the hotel that very day. He left no debts and just a
very few personal belongings behind. To all intents and purposes the
matter was relegated in the public mind to the category of unsolved
and unsolvable mysteries."
§2
The Old Man in the Corner had paused. From the capacious pocket of
his tweed ulster he now extracted a thick piece of string; his
claw-like fingers set to work. The problem which police and public
had never been able to solve had, I had no doubt, presented few
difficulties to his agile brain.
"Tell me," I suggested.
He went on working away for a little while at an intricate knot, then
he said, "If you want to know more, you will have to listen to what
will seem to you an irrelevant story."
I professed my willingness to listen to anything he might choose to
tell me.
"Very well, then," he said. "Let me take your mind back to that same
winter two years ago. Do you remember the extraordinary theft of a
valuable collection of gems, the property of Sir James Narford?"
"I do."
"Do you know who Sir James Narford was?"
"I would prefer you to tell me," I replied.
"Sir James Narford," the funny creature went on glibly, "was a young
gentleman who had been employed during the war in one of the
Government departments; he was the only son of his father who was an
impoverished Irish baronet. Soon after the Armistice, Sir James went
to South America to visit some relations. He must have made a very
favourable impression on one of these--an eccentric old cousin who
died a very few months later and left to his English relative a
marvellous collection of pearls and other gems. Some of these were
of priceless value, and as is the way with anything that is out of
the common, all sorts of stories grew around the romantic legacy.
The great worth and marvellous beauty of the jewels were told and
retold, with many embellishments no doubt, in the English papers. It
was asserted that the Brazilian Government had valued them for
probate at a million pounds sterling; that there were diamonds--some
still uncut--that would make the Koh-i-noor or the Orloff look like
small bits of glass, and so on. I daresay you can remember some of
the legends that gathered around Sir James Narford's gems. By the
time the lucky owner of the fabulous treasure, who had gone out again
to Brazil in order to fetch away his jewels, had returned to England,
he was the object of universal interest and he and his gems were
photographed and paragraphed all over the place.
"But as I told you, the recipient of this princely legacy had always
been a poor man. We may take it that the payment of legacy duty on
forty thousand pounds' worth of gems had impoverished him still
further. Busybodies, of course, tried to persuade him to sell the
gems; he had numberless letters from diamond and pearl merchants,
asking for permission to see them with a view to purchase, but,
naturally enough, he didn't want to do anything in a hurry; he
deposited his treasure at the bank and then thought things over. He
didn't want to sell, for he was inordinately proud of his new
possession and of the notoriety which it had conferred upon him. It
was even rumoured that he had received more than one hint from fair
lips that if he proposed marriage, the owner of such beautiful jewels
would be certain of acceptance.
"I don't know who first suggested the idea to Sir James Narford that
he should exhibit the gems for the benefit of disabled soldiers and
sailors. It was a splendid idea; 2s. 6d. was to be charged for
admission, and after deducting expenses of rent and attendants, the
profits were to go to that very laudable charity. Suitable premises
were secured in Sackville Street. These consisted of a shop with a
large plate-glass front and a small room at the back; the entrance
was through a front door and passage, which were common to the rest
of the house, and there were two doors in the passage, one of which
gave into the shop, and the other into the back room. Sir James
spent a little money in getting up the place in modern style, and he
had some cases made for the display of the gems. The door which gave
from the passage into the shop was condemned, and a heavy piece of
furniture placed against it. The back room was only to be used as an
office and ante-room with communicating doors leading into the shop.
"In the daytime the gems were displayed in glass cases ranged right
and left of the shop; at night they were locked up in a safe which
stood in the middle of the shop, facing the plate-glass window and
with a blazing electric light kept on all night, just above the safe.
This is a very usual device with jewellers in a smaller way of
business. The policeman on night duty can see at once if there is
anything wrong.
"Everything being ready, Sir James Narford asked a distinguished lady
friend of his to declare the show open, and for the first
fortnight--this, I must tell you, was in October--there was a steady
stream of visitors, ladies for the most part, who came to gaze on the
much-advertised gems. You might wonder what pleasure there could be
in looking at things one could never hope to possess, especially at
loose gems, however precious, which, to my mind, only become
beautiful when they are mounted and set in artistic designs.
However, I do not profess to understand feminine mentality; all I
know is that Sir James Narford declared himself on more than one
occasion satisfied with the result of his little venture. True that
after the first fortnight the attendance at the show fell off
considerably, and a few people did wonder why Sir James should
continue to keep it open for so long. Those who had been most
curious to see the gems of fabulous value had flocked in the first
few days, after that there was only a very thin sprinkling of people
up from the country, or foreigners, who paid their 2s. 6d. admission
for the sight. But be that as it may, the jewels were certainly
getting an additional amount of advertisement, and when presently the
owner would put them for sale, as no doubt he intended to do, they
would fetch a higher figure in consequence. In the meanwhile Sir
James went on living very quietly in a small service flat in George
Street, waited on by a faithful servant, a man named Ruggles, whom he
had known for years. Every day he would stroll round to Sackville
Street to look at his treasure and to talk to one or two friends. At
six o'clock the exhibition would be closed, and Sir James would
himself deposit all the gems into the safe, lock up the premises, and
take the keys back with him to his flat. He went out very little in
society, and only occasionally to his club. His one extravagance
appeared to be a mania for travelling in all sorts of out-of-the-way
places; he had been seemingly in every corner of Europe--in
Czecho-Slovakia and Yugoslavia, in Montenegro, Bosnia, and
Bessarabia. Before this whenever he went off on his travels he would
take his man with him and shut up the flat, but on the occasion which
presently arose he left Ruggles in charge of the exhibition in
Sackville Street. This was early in November, about a fortnight
after the opening of the exhibition; and when Sir James had gone it
was Ruggles who every night at six o'clock put the gems away in the
safe and locked up the premises. He then made a point of going for a
brisk walk, and returned to the flat at about half-past seven, had
his supper, read his paper, and then went to bed at about ten o'clock
with the keys of the safe and of the Sackville Street premises
underneath his pillow.
"One of the staff in the flats at George Street always got his supper
ready for him--some cold meat, bread and cheese, and half a pint of
beer, which the lift-boy invariably fetched for him from the Crown
and Sceptre round the corner. He prepared his own breakfast in the
morning, and his other meals he took in Sackville Street. They were
sent in from one of the cheaper restaurants in Piccadilly.
"Every morning the charwoman who cleaned the steps outside the block
of flats in George Street would see Ruggles come out of the house and
walk away in the direction of Sackville Street. Even on Sundays he
would stroll round as far as the shop to see that everything was all
right.
"It was on a snowy morning in January that the charwoman failed to
see Ruggles at his accustomed time. As the quiet neighbourhood did
not as a rule lend itself much to gossip, the present opportunity was
not to be missed. The charwoman, on meeting with the lift-boy,
imparted to him the priceless news that Mr. Ruggles must either be
ill or had gone and overslept himself. Whereupon the lift-boy was
ready with the startling information that he had just observed that
one of the glass panels in the front door of Sir James Narford's flat
was broken. 'The glass wasn't broke in the evening, ten-thirty,' he
went on to say, 'when I took a party down who'd been visitin' Miss
Jenkins.'
"It seems that Miss Jenkins was maid to a lady who had a flat on the
same floor as Sir James Narford. But there was the length of a
passage with staircase and lift between the two flats, and neither
the lady nor the maid, when spoken to by the lift-boy about the
broken glass panel, had heard anything during the night. Now all
this seemed very strange, more especially as the morning hours wore
on and there was still no sign of Mr. Ruggles. The lift-boy was kept
busy for the next hour taking the staff of the service flats up and
down in his lift, as every one wished to have a look at the broken
panel, and wanted to add their quota of opinion as to what had gone
on last night in Sir James Narford's flat. At ten o'clock the
housekeeper, more responsible or more enterprising than the rest of
the staff, resolved to knock at the flat door. No answer came. She
then tried to peep through the broken glass panel, and to apply her
ear to it. For a time all was silence. The charwoman, the lift-boy,
the scullery-maid, and the head housemaid stood by on the landing,
holding their breath. Suddenly they all gave a simultaneous gasp! A
groan--distinctly a groan--was heard issuing from inside the flat!
The group of watchers looked at one another in dismay. 'What's to be
done?' they murmured.
"The lift-boy had the key of the flat, but as the front door was
bolted on the inside, the key in itself was no use. The housekeeper
with the air of a general in command about to order a deathly charge,
said resolutely, 'I shall force my way in!' And it was the lift-boy
who gasped, awe-stricken, 'You kin put your 'and through the broken
panel, mum, and pull the bolt.'
"Somehow this bright idea which had occurred to the lift-boy made
every one there feel still more uncomfortable. The housekeeper, who
had been so bold a while ago, stammered something about fetching the
police, and when at that precise moment the lift-bell rang, the head
housemaid declared herself ready to faint. But it was only Sir James
Narford who had rung for the lift from below. He had arrived by the
night mail from Paris, and had only his small suit-case with him.
The lift-boy had the satisfaction of being the first to impart the
exciting news to him. ''E took it badly, 'e did!' was that young
gentleman's comment on Sir James's reception of the news. Without
taking the slightest notice of the group of excited women on the
landing, Sir James went straight to his front door, thrust his hand
through the broken panel, drew back the inside bolt, and stepped into
his flat. The next moment the agitated crowd on the landing heard
him cry out, 'My God, Ruggles, what has happened?' A feeble voice
which was scarcely recognisable as that of Ruggles was then heard
talking in short, jerky sentences, and a few moments later Sir
James's voice could be distinctly heard speaking on the telephone.
"'He is telephoning for the police,' the housekeeper solemnly
announced to the staff.
"Well," the Old Man in the Corner continued after a while, "let me
shorten my tale by telling you briefly the story which Ruggles told
the police. It did not amount to a great deal, but such as it was it
revealed a degree of cunning and of daring in the ways of burglary
that have seldom been equalled. Ruggles, it seems, had as usual put
away the gems in the safe and locked up the premises in Sackville
Street and then walked home to the flat, very glad, he declared, that
his responsibility would cease before another day went by, as he
expected Sir James home from abroad the following morning. He had
his supper as usual, but when he settled down to read his paper, he
felt so sleepy that he just went and bolted the front door, placed
the keys underneath his pillow, and went straight to bed. He
remembered nothing more until he felt himself roughly shaken and
heard his master's voice calling to him. It took him some time to
collect himself; he felt dazed and his head ached terribly. When Sir
James told him that it was past ten o'clock he could not conceive how
he could have overslept himself in this way. Through force of habit
he put his hand under his pillow to grope for the keys. They had
gone! Then Sir James telephoned to the police. That was all that
Ruggles could say. His condition was pitiable; alternately bemoaning
his fate and cursing himself for a fool, he knelt at his master's
feet and with hands clasped begged for forgiveness.
"'I'd have done anything in the world for Sir James,' he kept
reiterating to the police officer, 'and 'ere I've been the ruin of
'im, just through over-sleepin'.'
"The police inspector got quite impatient with him, and at one time,
I think, he thought that the man was acting a part. But Sir James
Narford himself indignantly repudiated any suggestion of the sort.
'I would trust Ruggles,' he said emphatically, 'as I would myself. I
have known him for thirty years, and he was in my father's service
before that. I trust him with my keys, with money, with everything.
He would have plenty of opportunity to rob me comfortably if he had a
mind. What would a man of his class do with valuable gems?'
"All the same I fancy that the police did not altogether lose sight
of the possibility that Ruggles might know something about the
affair, but in spite of very clever questioning and
cross-questioning, his story never varied even in the minutest
detail. All that he added to his original statement that was of any
value was the description of a foreign visitor at Sackville Street
whom, in his own words, he 'didn't like the looks of.' This was a
youngish man, with very sallow complexion, jet-black hair and
moustache, and wearing a peculiar-looking caped overcoat and black
soft hat with a very wide brim, who had remained over half an hour in
the shop, apparently deeply interested in the gems. At one time he
asked Ruggles whether he might have the glass cases opened, so that
he could examine the stones and pearls more closely. This request
Ruggles very naturally refused. The young man then put a lot of
questions to him: 'Where did the gems come from? What was their
value? Were they insured? Where were they kept at night? Was the
safe burglar-proof or only fireproof?' and so on.
"It seems that two ladies who were visiting the exhibition at the
same time noticed this same young man with the sallow complexion and
the jet-black hair. They heard him questioning Ruggles and remarked
upon his foreign accent, which was neither Italian nor Spanish; they
thought he might be Portuguese. His clothes were certainly very
outlandish. The ladies had noticed the caped coat, a kind of black
Inverness, and the hat _à la_ Montmartre. The presence of this
foreigner in the shop in Sackville Street became still more
significant later on, when another fact came to light--a fact in
connection with the half-pint of beer which the lift-boy from the
flats in George Street had fetched as usual on the evening preceding
the robbery, from the Crown and Sceptre public house. A few drops of
the beer had remained in the mug beside the remnants of Ruggles's
supper. On examination the beer was found to contain chloral. The
lift-boy at first was probably too scared to throw any light on this
circumstance. He had, he declared, fetched the beer as usual from
the Crown and Sceptre, taken it up to No. 4, Sir James Narford's
flat, and put it upon the table in the sitting-room, where Mr.
Ruggles's supper was already laid for him. After repeated questions
from the police inspector, however, he recollected that on his way
from the public house to the flats, a gentleman accosted him and
asked him the way to Regent Street. The boy, holding the mug of beer
in one hand, pointed out the way with the other and probably turned
his head in the same direction as he did so. He couldn't say for
certain. The gentleman seemed stupid and didn't understand the
directions all at once; the boy had to repeat them again and again,
and altogether was in conversation with the gentleman quite a while.
It was dark at the time, but he did see that the gentleman wore a
funny sort of coat and a funny hat, and as the boy picturesquely put
it, ''E spoke queer-like, as if 'e wor a Frenchman.' To a lift-boy
presumably every foreigner is a Frenchman if he be not a German, and
though the lad's description of the coat and hat only amounted to his
calling them 'funny,' there seemed little doubt but that the man who
visited the shop in Sackville Street and the one who accosted the
lift-boy in George Street were one and the same. There was also
little doubt but that he poured the drug into the mug of beer while
the boy's head was turned away. And finally all doubts were set at
rest when the 'funny coat and hat' were discovered tied up in a
bundle in the area of an empty house, two doors higher up the street.
"Unfortunately, although these few facts were definitely established,
all traces of the man himself vanished after that. How he got into
the block of flats could not be ascertained. He might have slipped
in after the lift-boy, while the latter went upstairs with the beer,
and concealed himself somewhere in the basement. It was impossible
to say. The street-door was kept open as usual until eleven o'clock,
and until that hour the boy was in attendance at the lift; he had
been up and down several times, taking up residents or their
visitors, and while he ran to fetch the beer one of the maids saw to
the lift, if the bell rang. At eleven o'clock every evening the
street-door was closed, but not bolted; it was provided with a Yale
lock and every resident had one key, in case they came in late; the
lift was not worked after that hour, but there was a light kept on
every landing. These lights the housemaid switched off the first
thing every morning when she did the stairs, and as a matter of fact
she remembered that on that memorable morning the light on the top
floor landing--which is the landing outside Sir James Narford's
flat--was already switched off when she went to do it.
"And those are all the facts," the Old Man in the Corner went on
slowly, while he paused in his work of fashioning intricate knots in
his beloved bit of string, "all the facts that were ever known in
connection with the theft of Sir James Narford's gems. Of course, as
you may well suppose, not only the official but also the public mind
at once flew to the mysterious personage, originally found wounded in
an empty house in Wicklow Lane. There could be no shadow of doubt
that this man and the one who visited the shop in Sackville Street,
who accosted the lift-boy, drugged Ruggles's beer and robbed him of
his keys, were one and the same. There was the black caped coat, the
Montmartre hat, the jet-black hair and foreign look. True, the
wounded man of Wicklow Lane spoke English without any foreign accent,
but the latter could easily be assumed. Indeed, it all seemed plain
sailing, and as soon as the word went round about the robbery in
Sackville Street and the description was given of the foreign-looking
individual with the jet-black hair, the police thought they had a
perfectly clear case.