Hagar of the Pawn-Shop

by Fergus Hume

  “Strange that the boots should have been pawned in London,” thought Hagar, when she finished reading this article, “and stranger still that they should have been pawned by that Irish lad! On the day he came here, he said the boots had been given to him five days previously. It is two days since then, so that in all makes seven days. H’m! To-day is the twenty-first of August, so I suppose Kerris must have given the boots to Micky on the fourteenth. Let me see the date of the crime.”

  On examination she found that the murder had been committed on the night of the twelfth of August, and that Kerris had been arrested on the thirteenth. Here Hagar came to a full stop and reflected. If Kerris had been in jail on the fourteenth—as from the report in the paper he undoubtedly was—he could not have given the boots to Micky on that day. Yet the Irish lad had confessed to receiving the boots at Marlow, and had given a time which, as reckoned out by Hagar, corresponded with the fourteenth of the month. But on that day the man who owned the boots was under lock and key.

  “There’s something wrong here,” said Hagar to herself, on making this discovery. “Perhaps Kerris is innocent in spite of the evidence of the boots. What am I to do?”

  It was difficult to say. Certainly the accused man did not assert his innocence—a fact which was rather astonishing on the face of it. No one would let themselves be hanged for a murder which they did not commit. Yet, if Kerris were guilty, he must have had an accomplice, else how could the boots have been given to the Irish tramp when their owner was in prison? The man, thought Hagar, might be innocent after all, in spite of his strange silence. Still, not knowing all the circumstances of the case—save the garbled and bare report in the newspaper—the girl did not, and could not, make up her mind in the matter. At the present moment, her sole course was to write and state that the boots had been pawned. This Hagar did at once, and the next day received a visit from the detective who had charge of the case.

  He was called Julf, a lean, tall, dark and solemn creature, who went very cautiously to work—especially in cases of murder. He had a conscience, he said, and would never forgive himself did he hang the wrong criminal. Julf knew how often circumstantial evidence helped to condemn the innocent; how likely even the most acute detective was to be deceived by outward appearances; and how intricate and dark were the paths which led to the discoveries of mysterious crimes. Hence he was slow and circumspect in his dealings.

  On arriving at the Lambeth pawn-shop he examined the boots, asked Hagar a few questions, and then sat down with her to thresh out the matter. Julf saw that the girl was shrewd and clever from the remarks she had made anent the pawning of the boots; so he was quite willing to discuss the affair freely with her. In contrast to many self-sufficient detectives, Julf always believed that two heads were better than one, especially when the second head was that of a woman. He had a great respect for the instinct of the weaker sex.

  “I’m afraid the man’s guilty, right enough,” he said, in his solemn way. “He had quarreled with Sir Leslie over this girl, and had been dismissed for insolence. Besides, he was seen coming out of the park at ten o’clock—just after the murder!”

  “Had he his gun with him?”

  “No; but that’s no matter. Sir Leslie was shot through the heart with a pistol. Now, Kerris had a pistol, but that can’t be found either. You didn’t have a pistol pawned here, did you?”

  “Nothing was pawned but the boots,” said Hagar, “and Kerris could not have given them to Micky; it seems that he was in prison on the day the lad got them.”

  “That is true enough. We must find this boy, and learn who gave him the boots on that day. But if Kerris is innocent, why doesn’t he say so?”

  “It is a mystery,” sighed Hagar. “You say that Kerris’s pistol cannot be found?”

  “No, not in his house; so I daresay he flung it away after killing Sir Leslie.”

  “Oh, ho!” said Hagar, shrewdly, “then the weapon with which the murder was committed can’t be found either.”

  “But the pistol is the same; Kerris used it, and then got rid of it.”

  “Why don’t you search for it?”

  “We have searched everywhere, but it cannot be found.”

  “Have you drained the pond near which the crime was committed?”

  “Why, no,” said Julf, meditatively; “we haven’t done that. It’s a good idea!”

  Hagar sighed impatiently. “I wish I had this case in my own hands!” she said, sharply; “I believe I’d find the assassin.”

  “We have found him,” replied the detective, stolidly. “Kerris killed Sir Leslie.”

  “I don’t believe it!”

  “Then why doesn’t he deny it?”

  “I can’t say. Is Kerris much in love with this Laura Brenton?” asked Hagar, turning her large bright eyes on Julf.

  “I should think so! He’s madly in love with her.”

  “And she with him?”

  “Oh, I don’t say that,” replied Julf; “that is quite another thing. I fancy from what I have heard that she gave far too much encouragement to that young baronet. Kerris evidently had cause for jealousy; so I do not wonder he killed Sir Leslie.”

  “You have yet to prove that he did.”

  “Bah!” said Julf, rising to take his leave. “He quarreled with the baronet: he was discharged. His own pistol is missing, and the dead man was shot with a pistol. Then there is the evidence of the boots with his initials on the soles. You can’t get over that. Don’t you talk nonsense, my girl; there is a strong case against Kerris.”

  “I can see that; but there is one point in his favor. He did not give those boots to Micky.”

  “Evidently not. But to prove that point we must find the lad.”

  This was easier said than done, for Micky and his mother had disappeared as completely as though the earth had swallowed them up. All the police and detective forces in London tried to find the boy, but could not. Yet on his evidence turned the whole case. And all this time George Kerris, in the Marlow prison, refused to open his mouth. Most people believed him to be guilty on the evidence of the boots; but Hagar, on the evidence of the pawning, insisted that he was innocent. Still, she could not understand why he held his tongue at such a crisis.

  It has been stated several times that Hagar found her life in the pawn-shop extremely dull, and seized every opportunity to gain for herself a little diversion. A chance of amusement in unraveling the mystery of the boots offered itself now; and this she resolved to take. Also, the conduct of the case would necessitate a visit into the country; and, weary of the narrow streets of Lambeth, Hagar eagerly desired a breath of fresh air. She left the shop in charge of an elderly man, who had been her assistant since Bolker’s departure, and took the train to Marlow. When she arrived there, Julf, more solemn than ever, met her at the railway station.

  “Good-day,” said he, quietly. “You see I have agreed to let you assist me in finding out the truth of this case; though to my mind the truth is already plain enough.”

  “I don’t believe it, Mr. Julf. Take my word for it, George Kerris is innocent of the crime.”

  “Is he?” said Julf, in sceptical tones; “then who is guilty?”

  “That is what I have come to find out,” retorted Hagar. “I am obliged to you for letting me help you, though, to be sure, I do so only to gratify my own curiosity. But you won’t repent of your concession. I am to have a free hand?”

  “You can do exactly as you like.”

  “Can I? Then I shall first call and see the new baronet.”

  Refusing the offer of Julf to accompany her, on the plea that she could execute her business better alone, Hagar walked to Welby Park, which was on the other side of Marlow, and asked to see Sir Lewis Crane. At first, owing to her gipsy-like appearance, she was refused admittance; but on mentioning that her business had to do with the murder of the late baronet, Sir Lewis consented to see her. When face to face with him, Hagar, for reasons of her own, examined him closely.

>   He was an ugly, elderly little creature, many years older than his dead cousin, and had a mean yellow face, stamped with an expression of avarice. Hagar had seen just such another pinched, cunning look on the face of Jacob Dix, and she knew without much trouble that the man before her was a miser. However, she wasted no time in analyzing his character—knowing that it would reveal itself in the forthcoming conversation—but at once mentioned her business.

  “I am come on the part of Mr. Julf to see about this murder,” she said, curtly.

  Sir Lewis raised his eyes. “I did not know that the Government employed lady detectives!” was his remark.

  “I am not a detective, but the owner of the shop in which the boots of George Kerris were pawned.”

  “The boots which prove his guilt,” said Crane, with an air of relief, which did not escape Hagar.

  “I rather think that they prove his innocence!” was her cold reply.

  “Oh! you are talking about them having been given to that tramp when Kerris was in prison. I know all about that, as the detective told it to me. But, all the same, Kerris is guilty, else he would deny his guilt.”

  “Have you any idea why he does not do so?”

  Crane shrugged his shoulders. “No; unless it is that he knows himself to be guilty.”

  “I believe him to be innocent.”

  “Pshaw! My cousin admired Laura Brenton, who was engaged to Kerris, and was foolishly attentive to her. On that score the man was insolent; so Leslie discharged him. In commit- ting the murder, he took a double revenge.”

  “Where were you, Sir Lewis, when your cousin was killed?”

  “In the park,” replied the baronet, frankly, “After dinner my cousin and I went out for a stroll. In a short time he made some excuse to leave me, as I believe he wished to meet Laura by the Queen’s Pool. I walked in the opposite direction, and shortly afterwards I came back to I the house. Leslie had not returned, so I went to look for him, and found his dead body by the Pool.”

  “Did you hear the pistol shot?”

  “Yes; but I paid no attention to it. My cousin was in the habit of firing at a target, and I thought he might be doing so then.”

  “What! firing at a target in the twilight! Could your cousin see in the dark like a cat?” said Hagar, with irony.

  “I don’t know anything about that!” retorted Crane, snappishly. “I have told you the story, as you represent the detective Julf. I say no more!”

  “I don’t want you to say more. May I go and look at the pond?”

  “Certainly. One of the servants shall show it to you.”

  “Can’t you come yourself?” said Hagar, with a keen glance.

  Crane drew back, and his yellow face grew pale. “No,” said he, in an almost inaudible voice. “I have seen enough of that horrible place!”

  “Very good; I’ll go with the servant,” replied Hagar, and marched towards the door.

  “What do you want to see the pool for?” he asked, following.

  “I wish to find the lost pistol.”

  When Hagar had taken her departure, Sir Lewis, pale and nervous, stood near the open window. “Confound this woman!” he thought, clenching his hand. “She is far too clever; but I don’t think she’ll be quite clever enough to find that pistol,” he added, in a satisfied tone.

  The Queen’s Pool was a circular sheet of water filled with lilies, at the lower end of the park. On the way thereto Hagar asked the servant who was guiding her a few questions.

  “Was Sir Lewis poor before he got the estate?” she demanded.

  “Very poor, miss; hadn’t a sixpence but what he got from Sir Leslie.”

  “Was he on good terms with his cousin?”

  No, miss; they was quarreling fearful. On the night of the murder they had a row royal!”

  What about?” asked Hagar, turning a keen look on the man.

  “About money and that gal Laura. Sir Lewis loved her just as much as Sir Leslie; but she didn’t care a straw for either of them, being taken up with Kerris.”

  “How does she take her lover’s arrest?”

  Why, miss, she cries, and cries, and swears that he is innocent, and talks nonsense.”

  “What kind of nonsense? There may be some sense in it?”

  “I dursn’t tell you, miss,” said the servant casting a hurried look round, “it ‘ud be as much as my place is worth.”

  “Oh, I understand,” said Hagar, serenely; “this Laura says that Sir Lewis killed his cousin.”

  “Yes, she do,” replied the man, aghast at her penetration; “but how could you guess, miss, is more ——”

  “Never mind,” said Hagar, cutting him short as they arrived at the pool. “Is this the place where the murder was committed?”

  Yes, miss; we found the body there in the mud; and just beside it the marks of the boots.”

  Hagar reflected, and asked another question. “Did Sir Lewis ever visit Kerris?”

  “He did, miss, just two days afore the murder—went to see him about some game.”

  “Oh, did he?” murmured Hagar to herself. “I think there was something more than game in that visit.”

  Of this she said nothing to the man, who stood on the bank, watching her searching about the place. The pool was filled with clear water, and on it the lilies floated placidly. Hagar peered in to see if there was any trace of the pistol used to kill Sir Leslie; but although the water was crystal-clear, and she searched carefully, not a sign of the weapon could she see. The grass round the pool was closely shorn, and some little distance up the slope stretched a terrace with a flight of shallow stone steps. On either side of these, at the lower end, were two pillars, bearing urns of marble sculptured in classic fashion with nymphs and dancing fauns. In these bloomed scarlet geraniums, now in full flower; and as Hagar, idly gazing around, caught sight of the vivid blossoms an idea entered her head. Dismissing the man, for whom she had no further use, she moved swiftly towards the terrace, and lifted one of the pots out of its marble urn.

  “No sign of a pistol there,” she said, replacing the pot with a sense of disappointment. “I may be wrong. Let me examine the other.”

  This time she was rewarded for her shrewd guess. At the bottom of the right-hand urn, quite concealed by the pot, she found a small pistol. On its stock there was a silver plate, and on that plate a name was engraved. At the sight of this latter the eyes of Hagar glistened with much satisfaction.

  “I thought so!” said she to herself, “and now to tell Julf!”

  The detective was waiting for her at the park gates, and looked up expectantly as she moved towards him with a smile on her face. With grim satisfaction she placed the pistol in his hand.

  “There is the weapon with which Sir Leslie was killed!” she said, in a tone of triumph. “I found it under the geranium pot in one of those urns. What do you think of that?”

  “The pistol of Kerris!” said Julf quite amazed.

  “No; not the pistol of Kerris, but of the man who murdered Sir Leslie.”

  “Kerris,” repeated Julf, with dogged obstinacy.

  “Look at the name on the silver plate, you idiot!”

  “Lewis Crane!” read the detective, stupefied then he looked up with an expression of blank astonishment on his solemn face. “What!” he muttered, “do you think Sir Lewis killed his cousin?”

  “I am sure of it!” replied Hagar, firmly. “I have just learnt from a servant that he was in love with the girl Laura also, and that he was poor and dependent upon the dead man for money. The two had a quarrel on the night of the murder, as they were walking in the park. Because of this quarrel they parted, each going different ways. Sir Lewis said that he returned home, that he heard the pistol shot, and thought that his cousin was shooting at a target—as if a man would do so in the twilight!” added the girl, contemptuously. “What he really did—Lewis, I mean—was to follow his cousin, and shoot him by the Queen’s Pool; then he hid the pistol in the marble urn, and crept back to the house to
play his comedy. I tell you, Mr. Julf, that Kerris is innocent. I said so always. Sir Lewis is the guilty person, and he slew his cousin out of jealousy of Laura Brenton, and because he wanted the dead man’s money.”

  “But the boots—the footmarks in the mud?” stammered Julf, quite confounded by this reasoning. “The marks were made by the boots of Kerris.”

  “I quite believe that,” admitted Hagar; “another portion of Sir Lewis’s very clever scheme to ward off suspicion from himself. The servant who led me to the Queen’s Pool will tell you, as he told me, that Sir Lewis just a day or two before the murder paid a visit to the cottage of Kerris. Now, it is my opinion that while there he stole the boots, and wore them on the night on which he committed the murder, with the intention of throwing the blame on Kerris, whom Laura Brenton loved. Don’t you see what his game was, Mr. Julf? He wanted to gain a title and money, so as to marry Laura: so he slew his cousin to get the first, and laid the blame—by circumstantial evidence—on George Kerris, to get the second. Now what do you say?”

  “It looks black against Sir-Lewis, certainly,” admitted Julf; “still, I cannot think that he would dare ——”

  “Bah! men dare anything to gratify their passions!” retorted Hagar, shrewdly; “besides, he thought that he made all safe for himself by wearing the boots of Kerris. It was Sir Lewis who gave the boots to Micky. Oh, if that boy could only be found!”