Название | The Complete Works of Arthur Morrison (Illustrated) |
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Автор произведения | Arthur Morrison |
Жанр | Языкознание |
Серия | |
Издательство | Языкознание |
Год выпуска | 0 |
isbn | 9788075833914 |
“If I went down this back staircase,” Hewitt pursued, “I suppose I should have no difficulty in gaining the street?”
“Not a bit, sir. You’d have to go a little way round to get into Finsbury Pavement, but there’s a passage leads straight from the bottom of the stairs out to Moorfields behind.”
“Yes,” remarked Mrs. Geldard bitterly, when the caretaker had left the room, “that’s the way he’s been leaving the office every day, and in disguise, too.” She pointed to the cupboard where her husband’s clothes lay. “Pretty plain proof that he was ashamed of his doings, whatever they were.”
“Come, come,” Hewitt answered deprecatingly, “we’ll hope there’s nothing to be ashamed of—at any rate till there’s proof of it. There’s no proof as yet that your husband has been disguising. A great many men who rent offices, I believe, keep dress clothes at them—I do it myself—for convenience in case of an unexpected invitation, or such other eventuality. We may find that he returned here last night, put on his evening dress and went somewhere dining. Illness, or fifty accidents, may have kept him from home.”
But Mrs. Geldard was not to be softened by any such suggestion, which I could see Hewitt bad chiefly thrown out by way of pacifying the lady, and allaying her bitterness as far as he could, in view of a possible reconciliation when things were cleared up.
“That isn’t very likely,” she said. “If he kept a dress suit here openly I should know of it, and if he kept it here unknown to me, what did he want it for? If he went out in dress clothes last night, who did he go with? Who do you suppose, after seeing those envelopes and that piece of the letter?”
“Well, well, we shall see,” Hewitt replied. “May I turn out the pockets of these clothes?”
“Certainly; there’s nothing in them of importance,” Mrs. Geldard said. “I looked before I came to you.”
Nevertheless Hewitt turned them out. “Here is a cheque-book with a number of cheques remaining. No counterfoils filled in, which is awkward. Bankers, the London Amalgamated. We will call there presently. An ivory pocket paper-knife. A sovereign purse—empty.” Hewitt placed the articles on the table as he named them. “Gold pencil case, ivory folding rule, russia-leather card-case.” He turned to Mrs. Geldard. “There is no pocket-book,” he said, “no pocket-knife and no watch, and there are no keys. Did Mr. Geldard usually carry any of these things?”
“Yes,” Mrs. Geldard replied, “he carried all four.” Hewitt’s simple methodical calmness, and his plain disregard of her former volubility, appeared by this to have disciplined Mrs. Geldard into a businesslike brevity and directness of utterance.
“As to the watch now. Can you describe it?”
“Oh, it was only a cheap one. He had a gold one stolen—or at any rate he told me so—and since then he has only carried a very common sort of silver one, without a chain.”
“The keys?”
“I only know there was a bunch of keys. Some of them fitted drawers and bureaux at home, and others, I suppose, fitted locks in this office.”
“What of the pocket-knife?”
“That was a very uncommon one. It was a present, as a matter of fact, from an engineering friend, who had had it made specially. It was large, with a tortoise-shell handle and a silver plate with his initials. There was only one ordinary knife-blade in it, all the other implements were small tools or things of that kind. There was a small pair of silver calipers, for instance.”
“Like these?” Hewitt suggested, producing those he used for measuring drawers and cabinets in search of secret receptacles.
“Yes, like those. And there were folding steel compasses, a tiny flat spanner, a little spirit level, and a number of other small instruments of that sort. It was very well made indeed; he used to say that it could not have been made for five pounds.”
“Indeed?” Hewitt cast his eyes about the two rooms. “I see no signs of books here, Mrs. Geldard—account books I mean, of course. Your husband must have kept account books, I take it?”
“Yes, naturally; he must have done. I never saw them, of course, but every business man keeps books.” Then after a pause Mrs. Geldard continued: “And they’re gone too. I never thought of that. But there, I might have known as much. Who can trust a man safely if his own wife can’t? But I won’t shield him. Whatever he’s been doing with his clients’ money he’ll have to answer for himself. Thank heaven I’ve enough to live on of my own without being dependent on a creature like him But think of the disgrace! My husband nothing better than a common thief—swindling his clients and making away with his books when he can’t go on any longer! But he shall be punished, oh yes; I’ll see he’s punished, if once I find him!”
Hewitt thought for a moment, and then asked: “Do you know any of your husband’s clients, Mrs. Geldard?”
“No,” she answered, rather snappishly, “I don’t. I’ve told you he never let me know anything of his business—never anything at all; and very good reason he had too, that’s certain.”
“Then probably you do not happen to know the contents of these drawers?” Hewitt pursued, tapping the writing-table as he spoke.
“Oh, there’s nothing of importance in them—at any rate in the unlocked ones. I looked at all of them this morning when I first came.”
The table was of the ordinary pedestal pattern with four drawers at each side and a ninth in the middle at the top, and of very ordinary quality. The only locked drawer was the third from the top on the left-hand side. Hewitt pulled out one drawer after another. In one was a tin half full of tobacco; in another a few cigars at the bottom of a box; in a third a pile of notepaper headed with the address of the office, and rather dusty; another was empty; still another contained a handful of string. The top middle drawer rather reminded me of a similar drawer of my own at my last newspaper office, for it contained several pipes; but my own were mostly briars, whereas these were all clays.
“There’s nothing really so satisfactory,” Hewitt said, as he lifted and examined each pipe by turn, “to a seasoned smoker as a well-used clay. Most such men keep one or more such pipes for strictly private use.” There was nothing noticeable about these pipes except that they were uncommonly dirty, but Hewitt scrutinised each before returning it to the drawer. Then he turned to Mrs. Geldard and said: “As to the bank now—the London Amalgamated, Mrs. Geldard. Are you known there personally?”
“Oh, yes; my husband gave them authority to pay cheques signed by me up to a certain amount, and I often do it for household expenses, or when he happens to be away.”
“Then perhaps it will be best for you to go alone,” Hewitt responded. “Of course they will never, as a general thing, give any person information as to the account of a customer, but perhaps, as you are known to them, and hold your husband’s authority to draw cheques, they may tell you something. What I want to find out is, of course, whether your husband drew from the bank all his remaining balance yesterday, or any large sum. You must go alone, ask for the manager, and tell him that you have seen nothing of Mr. Geldard since he left for business yesterday morning. Mind, you are not to appear angry, or suspicious, or anything of that sort, and you mustn’t say you are employing me to bring him back from an elopement. That will shut up the channel of information at once. Hostile inquiries they’ll never answer, even by the smallest hint, except after legal injunction. You can be as distressed and as alarmed as you please. Your husband has disappeared since yesterday morning, and you’ve no notion what has become of him; that is your tale, and a perfectly true one. You would like to know whether or not he has withdrawn his balance, or a considerable sum, since that would indicate whether or not his absence was intentional and premeditated.”
Mrs. Geldard understood and undertook to make the inquiry