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

the staircases for people to fall over, losing shovels, and so on. He was certainly a bit careless, but, as far as we could see, quite a decent little fellow. One would never have thought him capable of committing murder for the sake of a tortoise, though he was rather fond of the animal.”

      “The tortoise is dead now, I understand?”

      “Yes.”

      “Have you a lift in this building?”

      “Only for coals and heavy parcels. Goujon used to work it, sometimes going up and down in it himself with coals, and so on; it goes into the basement.”

      “And are the coals kept under this building?”

      “No. The store for the whole row is under the next two houses—the basements communicate.”

      “Do you know Rameau’s other name?”

      “César Rameau he signed in our agreement.”

      “Did he ever mention his relations?”

      “No. That is to say, he did say something one day when he was very drunk; but, of course, it was all rot. Some one told him not to make such a row—he was a beastly tenant—and he said he was the best man in the place, and his brother was Prime Minister, and all sorts of things. Mere drunken rant! I never heard of his saying anything sensible about relations. We know nothing of his connections; he came here on a banker’s reference.”

      “Thanks. I think that’s all I want to ask. You notice,” Hewitt proceeded, turning to Nettings, “the only ink in this place is scented and violet, and the only paper is tinted and scented, too, with a monogram—characteristic of a negro with money. The paper that was pinned on Rameau’s breast is in red ink on common and rather grubby paper, therefore it was written somewhere else and brought here. Inference, premeditation.”

      “Yes, yes. But are you an inch nearer with all these speculations? Can you get nearer than I am now without them?”

      “Well, perhaps not,” Hewitt replied. “I don’t profess at this moment to know the criminal; you do. I’ll concede you that point for the present. But you don’t offer an opinion as to who removed Rameau’s body—which I think I know.”

      “Who was it, then?”

      “Come, try and guess that yourself. It wasn’t Goujon; I don’t mind letting you know that. But it was a person quite within your knowledge of the case. You’ve mentioned the person’s name more than once.”

      Nettings stared blankly. “I don’t understand you in the least,” he said. “But, of course, you mean that this mysterious person you speak of as having moved the body committed the murder?”

      “No, I don’t. Nobody could have been more innocent of that.”

      “Well,” Nettings concluded with resignation, “I’m afraid one of us is rather thick-headed. What will you do?”

      “Interview the person who took away the body,” Hewitt replied, with a smile.

      “But, man alive, why? Why bother about the person if it isn’t the criminal?”

      “Never mind—never mind; probably the person will be a most valuable witness.”

      “Do you mean you think this person—whoever it is—saw the crime?”

      “I think it very probable indeed.”

      “Well, I won’t ask you any more. I shall get hold of Goujon; that’s simple and direct enough for me. I prefer to deal with the heart of the case—the murder itself—when there’s such clear evidence as I have.”

      “I shall look a little into that, too, perhaps,” Hewitt said, “and, if you like, I’ll tell you the first thing I shall do.”

      “What’s that?”

      “I shall have a good look at a map of the West Indies, and I advise you to do the same. Good-morning.”

      Nettings stared down the corridor after Hewitt, and continued staring for nearly two minutes after he had disappeared. Then he said to the clerk, who had remained: “What was he talking about?”

      “Don’t know,” replied the clerk. “Couldn’t make head nor tail of it.”

      “I don’t believe there is a head to it,” declared Nettings; “nor a tail either. He’s kidding us.”

      Nettings was better than his word, for within two hours of his conversation with Hewitt, Goujon was captured and safe in a cab bound for Bow Street. He had been stopped at Newhaven in the morning on his way to Dieppe, and was brought back to London. But now Nettings met a check.

      Late that afternoon he called on Hewitt to explain matters. “We’ve got Goujon,” he said, gloomily, “but there’s a difficulty. He’s got two friends who can swear an alibi. Rameau was seen alive at half-past one on Saturday, and the girl found him dead about three. Now, Goujon’s two friends, it seems, were with him from one o’clock till four in the afternoon, with the exception of five minutes when the girl saw him, and then he left them to take a key or something to the housekeeper before finally leaving. They were waiting on the landing below when Goujon spoke to the housemaid, heard him speaking, and had seen him go all the way up to the housekeeper’s room and back, as they looked up the wide well of the staircase. They are men employed near the place, and seem to have good characters. But perhaps we shall find something unfavorable about them. They were drinking with Goujon, it seems, by way of ‘seeing him off.’”

      “Well,” Hewitt said, “I scarcely think you need trouble to damage these men’s characters. They are probably telling the truth. Come, now, be plain. You’ve come here to get a hint as to whether my theory of the case helps you, haven’t you?”

      “Well, if you can give me a friendly hint, although, of course, I may be right, after all. Still, I wish you’d explain a bit as to what you meant by looking at a map and all that mystery. Nice thing for me to be taking a lesson in my own business after all these years! But perhaps I deserve it.”

      “See, now,” quoth Hewitt, “you remember what map I told you to look at?”

      “The West Indies.”

      “Right! Well, here you are.” Hewitt reached an atlas from his book-shelf. “Now, look here: the biggest island of the lot on this map, barring Cuba, is Hayti. You know as well as I do that the western part of that island is peopled by the black republic of Hayti, and that the country is in a degenerate state of almost unexampled savagery, with a ridiculous show of civilization. There are revolutions all the time; the South American republics are peaceful and prosperous compared to Hayti. The state of the country is simply awful—read Sir Spenser St. John’s book on it. President after president of the vilest sort forces his way to power and commits the most horrible and blood-thirsty excesses, murdering his opponents by the hundred and seizing their property for himself and his satellites, who are usually as bad, if not worse, than the president himself. Whole families—men, women, and children—are murdered at the instance of these ruffians, and, as a consequence, the most deadly feuds spring up, and the presidents and their followers are always themselves in danger of reprisals from others. Perhaps the very worst of these presidents in recent times has been the notorious Domingue, who was overthrown by an insurrection, as they all are sooner or later, and compelled to fly the country. Domingue and his nephews, one of whom was Chief Minister, while in power committed the cruellest bloodshed, and many members of the opposite party sought refuge in a small island lying just to the north of Hayti, but were sought out there and almost exterminated. Now, I will show you that island on the map. What is its name?”

      “Tortuga.”

      “It is. ‘Tortuga,’ however, is only the old Spanish name; the Haytians speak French—Creole French. Here is a French atlas: now see the name of that island.”

      “La Tortue!”

      “La Tortue it is—the tortoise. Tortuga means the same