The Complete Works of Arthur Morrison (Illustrated). Arthur Morrison

the body they found, among other things—money and a watch, and the like—a piece of an addressed envelope, used to hold a few pins—the pins stuck in and the paper rolled up, you know. There was just enough of it to guess the address by—that of the office next door; and it was the only clue they had. So they came along here at once and knocked up the housekeeper. He went with them and instantly recognised Denson, disguised in labourer’s clothes, but Denson, he says, unmistakably.”

      “And the mark on the forehead?”

      “That is very odd. It is an outlined triangle, rather less than an inch along each side. It is quite red, he says, and seems to be done in a greasy, sticky sort of ink or colour.”

      “Was anything found—the diamonds?”

      “No. He says there was money—two or three five-pound notes, I believe, some small change, a watch, keys and so forth; but there’s not a word of diamonds.”

      I paused in my dressing. “Does that mean that the murderer has got them?” I asked. Hewitt pursed his lips and shook his head. “It may mean that,” he said, “but does it look altogether like it when five-pound notes are left? On the other hand, there is the disguise; the only reason that we know of for that would be that he was bolting with the diamonds. But the really puzzling thing is the mark on the forehead. Why that? Of course, the picturesque and romantic thing to suppose is that it is the mark of some criminal club or society. But criminal associations, such as exist, don’t do silly things like that. When criminals rob and murder, they don’t go leaving their tracks behind them purposely—they leave nothing that could possibly draw attention to them if they can help it; also, they don’t leave five-pound notes. But I’m off to have a look at that mark. Inspector Plummer is in charge of the case—you remember Plummer, don’t you, in the Stanway Cameo case, and two or three others? Well, Plummer is an old friend of mine, and not only am I interested in this matter myself, but now that it becomes a case of murder, I must tell the police all I know, merely as a loyal citizen. I’ve an idea they will want to ask our friend Mr. Samuel some very serious questions.”

      “Will you go now?”

      “Yes, I must waste no more time. You get your breakfast and look out for me, or for a message.”

      Hewitt was off to Vine Street, and I devoted myself to my toilet and my breakfast, vastly mystified by this tragic turn in a matter already puzzling enough.

      It was not a messenger, but Hewitt himself, who came back in less than an hour. “Come,” he said, “Plummer is below, and we are going next door, to Denson’s office. I’ve an idea that we may get at something at last. The police are after Samuel hot-foot. They think he should be made sure of in any case without delay; and I must say they have some reason, on the face of it.”

      We joined Plummer at once—I have already spoken of Plummer in my accounts of several of Hewitt’s cases in which I met him—and we all turned into the office next door. There we found a very frightened and bewildered office boy, whom Denson had given a holiday yesterday, after sending him down to Samuel. He had come to his work as usual, only to meet the housekeeper’s tale of the murder of his master and the end of his business prospects. He had little or no information to impart. He had only been employed for a month or six weeks, and during that time his work had been practically nothing.

      Plummer nodded at this information, and sniffed comprehensively at the office furniture. “I know this sort o’ stuff,” he said. “This is the way they fit up long firm offices and such. This place was taken for the job, that’s plain, by one or both of ‘em.”

      The boy’s address was taken, and he was given a final holiday, and asked to send up the housekeeper as he went out. Plummer passed Hewitt a bunch of keys.

      The housekeeper entered. “Now, Hutt,” said Martin Hewitt, “you were saying yesterday, I think, that the main front door was the only entrance and exit for this building?”

      “That’s so, sir—the only one as anybody can use, except me.”

      “Oh! then there is another, then?”

      “Well, not exactly to say an entrance, sir. There’s a small private door at the back into the court behind, but that’s only opened to take in coals and such, and I always have the key. This house isn’t like yours, sir; you have no back way into the court as we have. It’s a convenience, sometimes.”

      “Ah, I’ve no doubt. Do you happen to have the key with you?”

      “It’s on the bunch hanging up in my box, sir. Shall I fetch it?”

      “I should like to see it, if you will.”

      The housekeeper disappeared, and presently returned with a large bunch of keys.

      “This is the one, Mr. Hewitt,” he explained, lifting it from among the rest.

      Hewitt examined it closely, and then placed beside it one from the bunch Plummer had given him. “It seems you’re not the only person who ever had a key exactly like that, Hutt,” he said. “See here—this was found in Mr. Denson’s pocket.”

      Plummer nodded sagaciously. “All in the plant,” he said. “See—it’s brand new; clean as a new pin, and file marks still on it.”

      “Take us to this back door, Hutt,” Hewitt pursued. “We’ll try this key. Is there a back staircase?”

      There was a small back staircase, leading to the coal-cellars, and only used by servants. Down this we all went, and on a lower landing we stopped before a small door. Hewitt slipped the key in the lock and turned it. The door opened easily, and there before us was the little courtyard which I think I have mentioned in one of my other narratives—the courtyard with a narrow passage leading into the next street.

      Martin Hewitt seemed singularly excited. “See there,” he said, “that is how Denson left the building without passing the housekeeper’s box! And now I’m going to make another shot. See here. This key on Denson’s bunch attracted my attention because of its noticeable newness compared with most of the others. Most of the others, I say, because there is one other just as bright—see! This small one. Now, Hutt, do you happen to have a key like that also?”

      Hutt turned the key over in his hand and glanced from it to his own bunch. “Why, yes, sir!” he said presently. “Yes, sir! It’s the same as the key of the fire-hose cupboards!”

      “Does that key fit them all? How many fire-hose cupboards are there?”

      “Two on each floor, sir, one at each end, just against the mains. And one key fits the lot.”

      “Show us the nearest to this door.”

      A short, narrow passage led to the main ground-floor corridor, where a cupboard lettered “Fire Hose” stood next the main and its fittings. “We have to keep the hose-cupboards locked,” the housekeeper explained apologetically, “‘cause o’ mischievous boys in the offices.”

      This key fitted as well as the other. A long coil of brown leather hose hung within, and in a corner lay a piece of chamois leather evidently used for polishing the brass fittings. This Hewitt pulled aside, and there beneath it lay another and cleaner piece of chamois leather, neatly folded and tied round with cord. Hewitt snatched it up. He unfastened the cord; he unrolled the leather, which was sewn into a sort of bag or satchel; and when at last he spread wide the mouth of this satchel, light seemed to spring from out of it, for there lay a glittering heap of brilliants!

      “What!” cried Plummer, who first got his speech. “Diamonds! Samuel’s diamonds!”

      “Diamonds, at any rate,” replied Hewitt, “whether Samuel’s or somebody else’s. But they can’t have been there long. How often is this cupboard opened?”

      “Every Saturday reg’lar, sir,” replied