British Mystery Classics - Arthur Morrison Edition (Illustrated). Morrison Arthur

and who wouldn’t have the thing in their places now for anything. So that it must be taken to keep, and that’s a thing nobody but the maddest of collectors would do, just such persons as—” and the inspector nodded again toward Mr. Woollett’s quarters. “Take that with the other circumstances,” he added, “and I think you’ll agree it’s worth while looking a little farther that way. Of course some of the work—taking off the lock and so on—looks rather like a regular burglar, but it’s just possible that any one badly wanting the cameo would like to hire a man who was up to the work.”

      “Yes, it’s possible.”

      “Do you know anything of Hahn, the agent?” Plummer asked, a moment later.

      “No, I don’t. Have you found him yet?”

      “I haven’t yet, but I’m after him. I’ve found he was at Charing Cross a day or two ago, booking a ticket for the Continent. That and his failing to turn up to-day seem to make it worth while not to miss him if we can help it. He isn’t the sort of man that lets a chance of drawing a bit of money go for nothing.”

      They returned to the room. “Well,” said Lord Stanway, “what’s the result of the consultation? We’ve been waiting here very patiently, while you two clever men have been discussing the matter on the roof.”

      On the wall just beneath the trap-door a very dusty old tall hat hung on a peg. This Hewitt took down and examined very closely, smearing his fingers with the dust from the inside lining. “Is this one of your valuable and crusted old antiques?” he asked, with a smile, of Mr. Claridge.

      “That’s only an old hat that I used to keep here for use in bad weather,” Mr. Claridge said, with some surprise at the question. “I haven’t touched it for a year or more.”

      “Oh, then it couldn’t have been left here by your last night’s visitor,” Hewitt replied, carelessly replacing it on the hook. “You left here at eight last night, I think?”

      “Eight exactly—or within a minute or two.”

      “Just so. I think I’ll look at the room on the opposite side of the landing, if you’ll let me.”

      “Certainly, if you’d like to,” Claridge replied; “but they haven’t been there—it is exactly as it was left. Only a lumber-room, you see,” he concluded, flinging the door open.

      A number of partly broken-up packing-cases littered about this room, with much other rubbish. Hewitt took the lid of one of the newest-looking packing-cases, and glanced at the address label. Then he turned to a rusty old iron box that stood against a wall. “I should like to see behind this,” he said, tugging at it with his hands. “It is heavy and dirty. Is there a small crowbar about the house, or some similar lever?”

      Mr. Claridge shook his head. “Haven’t such a thing in the place,” he said.

      “Never mind,” Hewitt replied, “another time will do to shift that old box, and perhaps, after all, there’s little reason for moving it. I will just walk round to the police-station, I think, and speak to the constables who were on duty opposite during the night. I think, Lord Stanway, I have seen all that is necessary here.”

      “I suppose,” asked Mr. Claridge, “it is too soon yet to ask if you have formed any theory in the matter?”

      “Well—yes, it is,” Hewitt answered. “But perhaps I may be able to surprise you in an hour or two; but that I don’t promise. By the by,” he added suddenly, “I suppose you’re sure the trap-door was bolted last night?”

      “Certainly,” Mr. Claridge answered, smiling. “Else how could the bolt have been broken? As a matter of fact, I believe the trap hasn’t been opened for months. Mr. Cutler, do you remember when the trap-door was last opened?”

      Mr. Cutler shook his head. “Certainly not for six months,” he said.

      “Ah, very well; it’s not very important,” Hewitt replied.

      As they reached the front shop a fiery-faced old gentleman bounced in at the street door, stumbling over an umbrella that stood in a dark corner, and kicking it three yards away.

      “What the deuce do you mean,” he roared at Mr. Claridge, “by sending these police people smelling about my rooms and asking questions of my servants? What do you mean, sir, by treating me as a thief? Can’t a gentleman come into this place to look at an article without being suspected of stealing it, when it disappears through your wretched carelessness? I’ll ask my solicitor, sir, if there isn’t a remedy for this sort of thing. And if I catch another of your spy fellows on my staircase, or crawling about my roof, I’ll—I’ll shoot him!”

      “Really, Mr. Woollett—” began Mr. Claridge, somewhat abashed, but the angry old man would hear nothing.

      “Don’t talk to me, sir; you shall talk to my solicitor. And am I to understand, my lord”—turning to Lord Stanway—“that these things are being done with your approval?”

      “Whatever is being done,” Lord Stanway answered, “is being done by the police on their own responsibility, and entirely without prompting, I believe, by Mr. Claridge—certainly without a suggestion of any sort from myself. I think that the personal opinion of Mr. Claridge—certainly my own—is that anything like a suspicion of your position in this wretched matter is ridiculous. And if you will only consider the matter calmly—”

      “Consider it calmly? Imagine yourself considering such a thing calmly, Lord Stanway. I won’t consider it calmly. I’ll—I’ll—I won’t have it. And if I find another man on my roof, I’ll pitch him off!” And Mr. Woollett bounced into the street again.

      “Mr. Woollett is annoyed,” Hewitt observed, with a smile. “I’m afraid Plummer has a clumsy assistant somewhere.”

      Mr. Claridge said nothing, but looked rather glum, for Mr. Woollett was a most excellent customer.

      Lord Stanwood and Hewitt walked slowly down the street, Hewitt staring at the pavement in profound thought. Once or twice Lord Stanway glanced at his face, but refrained from disturbing him. Presently, however, he observed: “You seem, at least, Mr. Hewitt, to have noticed something that has set you thinking. Does it look like a clue?”

      Hewitt came out of his cogitation at once. “A clue?” he said; “the case bristles with clues. The extraordinary thing to me is that Plummer, usually a smart man, doesn’t seem to have seen one of them. He must be out of sorts, I’m afraid. But the case is decidedly a most remarkable one.”

      “Remarkable in what particular way?”

      “In regard to motive. Now it would seem, as Plummer was saying to me just now on the roof, that there were only two possible motives for such a robbery. Either the man who took all this trouble and risk to break into Claridge’s place must have desired to sell the cameo at a good price, or he must have desired to keep it for himself, being a lover of such things. But neither of these has been the actual motive.”

      “Perhaps he thinks he can extort a good sum from me by way of ransom?”

      “No, it isn’t that. Nor is it jealousy, nor spite, nor anything of that kind. I know the motive, I think—but I wish we could get hold of Hahn. I will shut myself up alone and turn it over in my mind for half an hour presently.”

      “Meanwhile, what I want to know is, apart from all your professional subtleties—which I confess I can’t understand—can you get back the cameo?”

      “That,” said Hewitt, stopping at the corner of the street, “I am rather afraid I can not—nor anybody else. But I am pretty sure I know the thief.”

      “Then surely that will lead you to the cameo?”

      “It