The Greatest Works of Fergus Hume - 22 Mystery Novels in One Edition. Fergus Hume

from his chair and stumping up and down the room; ‘I’m going to find out who did it, and then I’ll grind her to powder; I’ll twist her neck off, curse her.’

      ‘Is it a woman?’ asked Barty, who now began to think of making a retreat, for Slivers, with his one eye blazing, and his cork arm swinging rapidly to and fro, was not a pleasant object to contemplate.

      This unguarded remark recalled Slivers to himself.

      ‘That’s what I want to find out,’ he replied, sulkily, going back to his chair. ‘Have some more whisky?’

      ‘No, thanks,’ answered Barty, going to the door, ‘I’m late as it is for my engagement; ta, ta, old chap, I hope you’ll drop on the he or she you’re looking for; but you’re quite wrong, Villiers has bolted with the nugget, and that’s a fact, sir,’ and with an airy wave of his hand Barty went out, leaving Slivers in anything but a pleasant temper.

      ‘Bah! you peacock,’ cried this wicked old man, banging his wooden leg against the table, ‘you eye-glass idiot—you brainless puppy—I’m wrong, am I? we’ll see about that, you rag-shop.’ This last in allusion to Barty’s picturesque garb. ‘I’ve found out all I want from you, and I’ll track her down, and put her in gaol, and hang her—hang her till she’s as dead as a door nail.’

      Having given vent to this pleasant sentiment, Slivers put on his hat, and, taking his stick, walked out of his office, but not before Billy saw his intention and had climbed up to his accustomed place on the old man’s shoulder. So Slivers stumped along the street, with the cockatoo on his shoulder, looking like a depraved Robinson Crusoe, and took his way to the Wattle Tree Hotel.

      ‘If,’ argued Slivers to himself, as he pegged bravely along, ‘if Villiers wanted to get rid of the nugget he’d have come to me, for he knew I’d keep quiet and tell no tales. Well, he didn’t come to me, and there’s no one else he could go to. They’ve been looking for him all over the shop, and they can’t find him; he can’t be hiding or he’d have let me know; there’s only one explanation—he’s been murdered—but not for the gold—oh, dear no—for nobody knew he had it. Who wanted him out of the way?—his wife. Would she stick at anything?—I’m damned if she would. So it’s her work. The only question is did she do it personally or by deputy. I say deputy, ‘cause she’d be too squeamish to do it herself. Who would she select as deputy?—Vandeloup! Why?—‘cause he’d like to marry her for her money. Yes, I’m sure it’s him. Things look black against him: he stayed in town all night, a thing he never did before—leaves the supper at a quarter to twelve, so as to avoid suspicion; waits till Villiers comes out at two in the morning and kills him. Aha! my handsome jackadandy,’ cried Slivers, viciously, suddenly stopping and shaking his stick at an imaginary Vandeloup; ‘I’ve got you under my thumb, and I’ll crush the life out of you—and of her also, if I can;’ and with this amiable resolution Slivers resumed his way.

      Slivers’ argument was plausible, but there were plenty of flaws in it, which, however, he did not stop to consider, so carried away was he by his anger against Madame Midas. He stumped along doggedly, revolving the whole affair in his mind, and by the time he arrived at the Wattle Tree Hotel he had firmly persuaded himself that Villiers was dead, and that Vandeloup had committed the crime at the instigation of Mrs Villiers.

      He found Miss Twexby seated in the bar, with a decidedly cross face, which argued ill for anyone who held converse with her that day; but as Slivers was quite as crabbed as she was, and, moreover, feared neither God nor man—much less a woman—he tackled her at once.

      ‘Where’s your father?’ he asked, abruptly, leaning on his stick and looking intently at the fair Martha’s vinegary countenance.

      ‘Asleep!’ snapped that damsel, jerking her head in the direction of the parlour; ‘what do you want?’—very disdainfully.

      ‘A little civility in the first place,’ retorted Slivers, rudely, sitting down on a bench that ran along the wall, and thereby causing his wooden leg to stick straight out, which, being perceived by Billy, he descended from the old man’s shoulder and turned the leg into a perch, where he sat and swore at Martha.

      ‘You wicked old wretch,’ said Miss Twexby, viciously—her nose getting redder with suppressed excitement—‘go along with you, and take that irreligious parrot with you, or I’ll wake my par.’

      ‘He won’t thank you for doing so,’ replied Slivers, coolly; ‘I’ve called to see him about some new shares just on the market, and if you don’t treat me with more respect I’ll go, and he’ll be out of a good thing.’

      Now, Miss Twexby knew that Slivers was in the habit of doing business with her parent, and, moreover was a power in the share market, so she did not deem it diplomatic to go too far, and bottling up her wrath for a future occasion, when no loss would be involved, she graciously asked Slivers what he’d be pleased to have.

      ‘Whisky,’ said Slivers, curtly, leaning his chin on his stick, and following her movements with his one eye. ‘I say!’

      ‘Well?’ asked Miss Twexby, coming from behind the bar with a glass and a bottle of whisky, ‘what do you say?’

      ‘How’s that good-looking Frenchman?’ asked Slivers, pouring himself out some liquor, and winking at her in a rakish manner with his one eye.

      ‘How should I know?’ snapped Martha, angrily, ‘he comes here to see that friend of his, and then clears out without as much as a good day; a nice sort of friend, indeed,’ wrathfully, ‘stopping here nearly two weeks and drunk all the time; he’ll be having delirious trimmings before he’s done.’

      ‘Who will?’ said Slivers, taking a sip of his whisky and water.

      ‘Why, that other Frenchman!’ retorted Martha, going to her place behind the bar, ‘Peter something; a low, black wretch, all beard, with no tongue, and a thirst like a lime-kiln.’

      ‘Oh, the dumb man.’

      Miss Twexby nodded.

      ‘That’s him,’ she said, triumphantly, ‘he’s been here for the last two weeks.’

      ‘Drunk, I think you said,’ remarked Slivers, politely.

      Martha laughed scornfully, and took out some sewing.

      ‘I should just think so,’ she retorted, tossing her head, ‘he does nothing but drink all day, and run after people with that knife.’

      ‘Very dangerous,’ observed Slivers, gravely shaking his head; ‘why don’t you get rid of him?’

      ‘So we are,’ said Miss Twexby, biting off a bit of cotton, as if she wished it were Pierre’s head; ‘he is going down to Melbourne the day after to-morrow.’

      Slivers got weary of hearing about Pierre, and plunged right off into the object of his visit.

      ‘That Vandeloup,’ he began.

      ‘Well?’ said Miss Twexby, letting the work fall on her lap.

      ‘What time did he come home the night he stopped here?’

      ‘Twelve o’clock.’

      ‘Get along with you,’ said Slivers, in disgust, ‘you mean three o’clock.’

      ‘No, I don’t,’ retorted Martha, indignantly; ‘you’ll be telling me I don’t know the time next.’

      ‘Did he go out again?

      ‘No, he went to bed.’

      This quite upset Slivers’ idea—as if Vandeloup had gone to bed at twelve, he certainly could not have murdered Villiers nearly a mile away at two o’clock in the morning. Slivers was puzzled, and then the light broke on him—perhaps it was the dumb man.

      ‘Did the other stay here all night also?’

      Miss Twexby nodded.