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

seen that sort of suits o’ clothes before. People have ‘em who don’t pay hotel bills and such-like. You’re a very good pick-lock, by the way, Mr. Hewitt. I never saw anything quicker and neater.”

      “But I know he had a lot of clothes,” Mrs. Beckle protested. “I’ve seen them.”

      “Very likely—very likely indeed,” the inspector answered. “But they’re gone now, and Mr. Foster’s gone with ‘em.”

      “But—but the girl didn’t say he had any bundles with him when he went out?”

      “No, she didn’t; and she didn’t say he hadn’t, did she? She won’t say anything about him, and she says she won’t, plump. Even supposing he hadn’t got them with him this morning that signifies nothing. The clothes are gone, and anybody intending a job of that sort”—the inspector jerked his thumb significantly towards the skipper’s room—“would get his things away quietly first so as to have no difficulty about getting away himself afterwards. No; the thing’s pretty plain now, I think; and I’m afraid Mr. Foster’s a pretty bad lot. Anyway I shouldn’t like to be in his shoes.”

      “Nor I,” Hewitt assented. “Evidence of that sort isn’t easy to get over.”

      “Come, Mrs. Beckle,” the inspector said, “do you mind coming into the front room with us? The body’s covered over with a rug.”

      The landlady disliked going, it was plain to see, but presently she pulled herself together and followed the men. She peeped once distrustfully round the door to where the body lay and then resolutely turned her back on it.

      “His watch and chain are gone and whatever else he had in his pockets,” the inspector said. “I think you said he had a ring?”

      “Yes, one—a thick gold one.”

      “Then that’s gone too. Everything’s turned upside down, and probably other things are stolen too. Do you miss any?”

      “Yes,” Mrs. Beckle replied, looking round, but avoiding with her eyes the rug-covered heap near the fireplace. “There was a sextant on the mantelpiece; it was his; and he kept one or two other instruments in that drawer “—pointing to one which had been turned out—“but they seem to be gone now. And there was a small ship, carved in ivory, and worth money, I believe—that’s gone. I don’t know about his clothes; some of them may be stolen or they may not.” She stepped to the bed and turned back the coverlet. “Oh,” she added, “the sheets are gone from the bed too!”

      “Usual thing,” the inspector remarked; “wrap up the swag in a sheet, you know—makes a convenient bundle. Nothing else missing?”

      The landlady took one more look round and said doubtfully, “No, no, I don’t think so. Oh, but yes,” she suddenly added, “uncle’s hook.”

      “Oh,” remarked the inspector with dismal jocularity, “he’s took uncle’s hook as well as his own, has he? What was uncle’s hook like?”

      “It wasn’t of much value,” Mrs. Beckle explained; “but I kept it as a memorial. My great uncle, who died many years ago, was a sea-captain too, and had lost his left hand by accident. He wore a hook in its place—a hook made for him on board his vessel. It was an iron hook screwed into a wooden stock. He had it taken off in his last illness and gave it to me to mind against his recovery. But he never got well, so I’ve kept it over since. It used to hang on a nail at the side of the chimney-breast.”

      “No wounds about the body that might have been made with a hook like that, doctor, were there?” the inspector asked.

      “No, no wounds at all but the one.”

      “Well, well,” the inspector said, moving toward the door, “we’ve got to find Foster now, that’s plain. I’ll see about it. You’ve sent to the mortuary you say, doctor? All right. You’ve no particular reason for sending the girl out of doors to-day, I suppose, Mrs. Beckle?”

      “I can keep her in, of course,” the landlady answered. “It will be inconvenient, though.”

      “Ah, then keep her in, will you? We mustn’t lose sight of her. I’ll leave a couple of men here, of course, and I’ll tell them she mustn’t be allowed out.”

      Hewitt and the surgeon went downstairs and parted at the door. “I shall be over again to-morrow morning,” Hewitt said, “about that other matter I was speaking of. Shall I find you in?”

      “Well,” the doctor answered, “at any rate they will tell you where I am. Good morning.”

      “Good morning,” Hewitt answered, and then stopped. “I’m obliged for being allowed to look about upstairs here,” he said. “I’m not sure what the inspector has in his mind, by the way; but I should think whatever I noticed would be pretty plain to him, though naturally he would be cautious about talking of it before others, as I was myself. That being the case it might seem rather presumptuous in me to make suggestions, especially as he seems fairly confident. But if you have a chance presently of giving him a quiet hint you might draw his special attention to two things—the charred paper that I took from the fireplace and the missing hook. There is a good deal in that, I fancy. I shall have an hour or two to myself, I expect, this afternoon, and I’ll make a small inquiry or two on my own account in town. If anything comes of them I’ll let you know to-morrow when I see you.”

      “Very well, I shall expect you. Goodbye.”

      Hewitt did not go straight away from the house to the railway station. He took a turn or two about the row of houses, and looked up each of the paths leading from them across the surrounding marshy fields. Then he took the path for the station. About a hundred yards along, the path reached a deep muddy ditch with a high hedge behind it, and then lay by the side of the ditch for some little distance before crossing it. Hewitt stopped and looked thoughtfully at the ditch for a few moments before proceeding, and then went briskly on his way.

      That evening’s papers were all agog with the mysterious murder of a ship’s captain at West Ham, and in next morning’s papers it was announced that Henry Foster, a seafaring man, and lately mate of a trading ship, had been arrested in connection with the crime.

      II.

      That morning Hewitt was at the surgeon’s house early. The surgeon was in, and saw him at once. His own immediate business being transacted, Hewitt learned particulars of the arrest of Foster. “The man actually came back of his own accord in the afternoon,” the surgeon said. “Certainly he was drunk, but that seems a very reckless sort of thing, even for a drunken man. One rather curious thing was that he asked for Pullin as soon as he arrived, and insisted on going to him to borrow half-a-sovereign. Of course he was taken into custody at once, and charged, and that seemed to sober him very quickly. He seemed dazed for a bit, and then, when he realised the position he was in, refused to say a word. I saw him at the station. He had certainly been drinking a good deal; but a curious thing was that he hadn’t a cent of money on him. He’d soon got rid of it all, anyhow.”

      “Did you say anything to the inspector as to the things I mentioned to you?”

      “Yes, but he didn’t seem to think a great deal of them. He took a look at the charred paper and saw that one piece had evidently been a cheque on the Eastern Consolidated Bank, but the other he couldn’t see any sort of sign upon. As to the hook, he seemed to take it that that was used to fasten in the knot of the bundle, to carry it the more easily.”

      “Well,” Hewitt said, “I think I told you yesterday that I should make an inquiry or two myself? Yes, I did. I’ve made those inquiries, and now I think I can give the inspector some help. What is his name, by the way?”

      “Truscott. He’s a very good sort of fellow, really.”

      “Very well. Shall I find him at the station?”

      “Probably, unless he’s off duty; that