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

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 thing in Spanish. But that island is always spoken of in Hayti as La Tortue. Now, do you see the drift of that paper pinned to Rameau’s breast?”

      “Punished by an avenger of—or from—the tortoise or La Tortue—clear enough. It would seem that the dead man had something to do with the massacre there, and somebody from the island is avenging it. The thing’s most extraordinary.”

      “And now listen. The name of Domingue’s nephew, who was Chief Minister, was Septimus Rameau.”

      “And this was César Rameau—his brother, probably. I see. Well, this is a case.”

      “I think the relationship probable. Now you understand why I was inclined to doubt that Goujon was the man you wanted.”

      “Of course, of course! And now I suppose I must try to get a nigger—the chap who wrote that paper. I wish he hadn’t been such an ignorant nigger. If he’d only have put the capitals to the words ‘La Tortue,’ I might have thought a little more about them, instead of taking it for granted that they meant that wretched tortoise in the basement of the house. Well, I’ve made a fool of a start, but I’ll be after that nigger now.”

      “And I, as I said before,” said Hewitt, “shall be after the person that carried off Rameau’s body. I have had something else to do this afternoon, or I should have begun already.”

      “You said you thought he saw the crime. How did you judge that?”

      Hewitt smiled. “I think I’ll keep that little secret to myself for the present,” he said. “You shall know soon.”

      “Very well,” Nettings replied, with resignation. “I suppose I mustn’t grumble if you don’t tell me everything. I feel too great a fool altogether over this case to see any farther than you show me.” And Inspector Nettings left on his search; while Martin Hewitt, as soon as he was alone, laughed joyously and slapped his thigh.

      There was a cab-rank and shelter at the end of the street where Mr. Styles’ building stood, and early that evening a man approached it and hailed the cabmen and the waterman. Any one would have known the new-comer at once for a cabman taking a holiday. The brim of the hat, the bird’s-eye neckerchief, the immense coat-buttons, and, more than all, the rolling walk and the wrinkled trousers, marked him out distinctly.

      “Watcheer!” he exclaimed, affably, with the self-possessed nod only possible to cabbies and ‘busmen. “I’m a-lookin’ for a bilker. I’m told one o’ the blokes off this rank carried ‘im last Saturday, and I want to know where he went. I ain’t ‘ad a chance o’ gettin’ ‘is address yet. Took a cab just as it got dark, I’m told. Tallish chap, muffled up a lot, in a long black overcoat. Any of ye seen ‘im?”

      The cabbies looked at one another and shook their heads; it chanced that none of them had been on that particular rank at that time. But the waterman said: “‘Old on—I bet ‘e’s the bloke wot old Bill Stammers took. Yorkey was fust on the rank, but the bloke wouldn’t ‘ave a ‘ansom—wanted a four-wheeler, so old Bill took ‘im. Biggish chap in a long black coat, collar up an’ muffled thick; soft wide-awake ‘at, pulled over ‘is eyes; and he was in a ‘urry, too. Jumped in sharp as a weasel.”

      “Didn’t see ‘is face, did ye?”

      “No—not an inch of it; too much muffled. Couldn’t tell if he ‘ad a face.”

      “Was his arm in a sling?”

      “Ay, it looked so. Had it stuffed through the breast of his coat, like as though there might be a sling inside.”

      “That’s ‘im. Any of ye tell me where I might run across old Bill Stammers? He’ll tell me where my precious bilker went to.”

      As to this there was plenty of information, and in five minutes Martin Hewitt, who had become an unoccupied cabman for the occasion, was on his way to find old Bill Stammers. That respectable old man gave him full particulars as to the place in the East End where he had driven his muffled fare on Saturday, and Hewitt then begun an eighteen, or twenty hours’ search beyond Whitechapel.

      At about three on Tuesday afternoon, as Nettings was in the act of leaving Bow Street Police Station, Hewitt drove up in a four-wheeler. Some prisoner appeared to be crouching low in the vehicle, but, leaving him to take care of himself, Hewitt hurried into the station and shook Nettings by the hand. “Well,” he said, “have you got the murderer of Rameau yet?”

      “No,” Nettings growled. “Unless—well, Goujon’s under remand still, and, after all, I’ve been thinking that he may know something—”