“Yes, master. I’ll let nothing go without the money.”
“And count it before you let the things go out of your hands.”
“Yes, master.”
While Jones had been giving these instructions, he had been making a pretence of a wash in the old woman’s tub from pure suds, and when he dismissed her with a nod, he seized a grimy old towel and rubbed his face with it. It seemed as if Jones was in an awful hurry, for he had not finished with the towel when he had crossed the littered yard, and was giving some more orders to a sharp-looking boy of about thirteen who had been occupied in washing bottles in a dilapidated shed.
“Con!”
“Yes, sir.”
“I’m going out for an hour or so, and the old woman is to mind the shop; you keep your eye on her.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Let her sit in the chair and count the money. Do you serve, and mind don’t give one penny of credit!”
“Very well, sir.”
“And watch the old woman well; see that she doesn’t get slipping a penny now and then into some corner of her gown. I’ve known her do it afore.”
“I’ll watch her close, sir.”
“That’s right And see you keep account of every penny’s worth you let go.”
“I’ll be very careful, sir.”
* * * *
Ten minutes afterwards, old Jones was scuttling away down the street pretty easy in his mind, because he had put in practice his favourite receipt for keeping people honest. “Set one to watch the other!” he would say, “that’s the way to do it! You don’t want no detectives if you set one to watch the other!”
Very few would have recognised the two happy faces that beamed behind old Jones’s counter that afternoon to be those of the stupid, hopeless-looking old woman who was previously slopping grimy rags at the back, and the half-discontented one of the boy who had listened with such outward respect to a master he both disliked and despised.
The old woman, who was no other than old Jones lawful wife, sat in Jones chair stiffly and upright, with her hands folded on a clean white apron and a broad-bordered, starched muslin cap on her unsteady head. Her withered old face was beaming with pride and delight, and with an air of dignity that was pitiful when one knew its short lived nature. The one happiness of poor old Mrs. Jones was in being permitted to play at keeping shop, for it was only play after all. Con doing in reality whatever was necessary in the small sales. Con was very busy just now wiping down the counter and “tidying up things a bit,” as he was wont to call it when speaking to Mrs. Jones.
“Isn’t this fine!” cried the gratified old creature with a child’s unreasoning delight. “If the master would go away oftener and let us keep shop, Con, wouldn’t it be nice?”
“It would,” answered the boy with some decision, “but no sich luck. Some old men die, but the likes of him never dies.”
“I wish he would die,” Mrs. Jones said in a deep whisper to the lad. “I’m allays a wishing it. If he did there would be no one to knock me about, and I would sit in the shop allays. I wish that dead hearse would stop right under his window some night, I do!”
“Did you ever see the dead hearse, Mrs. Jones?” questioned the boy as he ceased his rubbing at the counter and looked at the old woman curiously.
“I did,” she replied with an energetic nod that set her wide cap frills bobbing. “I seen it one night last March. The master he woke me up to see it. It was passing the window, and stopped opposite Grinder’s. Mrs. Grinder, she died next day but one. That’s the reason I wouldn’t never sleep in that front room again; and, besides, the master he was allays a-knockin’ me about for snorin’. I don’t snore He does.”
“Aye! Jones wanted to get you out of his room, missis and he wasn’t short of an excuse. I know!”
This unexpected remark was made by no other than Jerry Swipes, whose lanky figure had entered the shop unobserved in the deep interest attached to the “dead hearse,” as poor old Mrs. Jones called it. Con stared at the man, but Mrs. Jones was on her dignity and bridling asked what business it was of Jerry Swipes?
“None, missis, none whatsomever, only no man as is a man likes to see a lawful wife med a slave of and beat when another woman—but it’s none of my business. Con, hand me a threepenny plug and a pipe.”
“You don’t know what you’re talking of, Jerry Swipes!” cried Mrs. Jones with angry suspicion. “It was my own doin’s as made me go to sleep in the back room.”
“Was it? Oh, then, maybe you knows what Jones does of a night since you left. If ye doesn’t, jest watch him, and you’ll see, that’s all.”
Listening open mouthed to these strange words of the disreputable customer, Con had mechanically laid the required articles on the counter. In an instant the tobacco and pipe were transferred to Jerry’s pocket, and his ragged ulster wrapped over them.
“Put ’em down, me boy,” he said with a leer as he made for the door. “Me credit’s always good with Mr. Jones. Yes, missis, that’s what I say—watch him an you’ll know.”
“Oh, Mrs. Jones, he’s never paid for ’em!” cried Con. “The master’ll kill us!”
“Watch him an’ you’ll know,” murmured the old woman, on whom Jerry’s words appeared to have made a strange impression. She was staring at the door out of which Jerry had just passed, with her brows bent together, and a queer, thoughtful look in her faded eyes that puzzled the boy.
“Please. Mrs. Jones,” reiterated Con, “that Swipes took the pipe and baccy without paying for it. What’ll we do? The master’ll kill us.
“Watch him and you’ll know,” again murmured the completely absorbed old woman; “and it’s true. He used to go somewheres at night. I’ve missed him.”
Fortunately for Con’s peace of mind at this moment, there entered two legitimate customers who put a few shillings in the till, and distracted Mrs. Jones’s thoughts again. It was painful even to the boy to see her pluming herself in the chair, and feeling so proud and happy, when it was so certain that at the first sound of her master’s harsh voice she would drop into the cringing, half-stupid slave, who seemed to have no idea beyond the avoidance, by unselfish service, of the kicks and thumps the brute was in the habit of bestowing on her whenever he wanted some object to explode his temper on.
* * * *
By this time Constable Lumsden had worked ’round his beat and was in the vicinity of “Jones’s Corner” again. As he was about to pass the door, he looked in and, seeing only the boy and the half idiotic face of an old woman behind the counter, he changed his mind and entered. Mrs. Jones bridled immediately. The poor old creature had a very exaggerated idea of a policeman’s importance, and, being a woman, was not, perhaps, insensible to the young chap’s ruddy and healthy looking face. Con was not so 1 sure of Lumsden. He had a town boy’s detestation of all bobbies, big and little, young and old, and would just as soon have seen a big brown snake wandering into the shop as that young man in blue.
“Is Jones at home?” asked Lumsden.
“No, sir, he’s gone out on business. This is Mrs. Jones.”
“Yes,” she nodded proudly as she smoothed down the white apron with both trembling hands. “I’m keeping shop. I’d like to keep shop every day.”
“Would you?” Lumsden asked, with a suspicious look into the childish looking face, for the constable was not quite sure whether she was laughing at him or was in reality half-witted. But he was soon at his ease, for it was impossible to doubt the want of intellect so plainly pictured in the vacant, withered features. “I suppose, now, you sell everything here?”
“Yes,” she answered proudly, “everythink.”
“I was just wishing for a glass of something,” Lumsden said, in a low tone, as he glanced towards the quiet street. “There’s no one about; I’ll take a glass of spirits, please,” and he quietly laid a shilling on the counter.
“Oh, we don’t keep no drink here, sir,” quickly returned Con, as he pushed back the shilling, f
or which the unconscious old woman’s hand was already outstretched.
“I wasn’t talking to you,” snapped the constable. “Are you Jones’s son?”
“No, sir, I’m only hired; but I’ve been with them a good while.”
“You’re too precious sharp,” Lumsden said, with a frown that he believed sufficient to overcome the sharpest youngster in the city. “Missis, can’t you sell me a glass of something?”
“The master takes a glass often,” she mumbled, “but he never gives me none. I don’t know where he keeps his bottle; s’pect it’s in the front room. Master allays locks the front room when he goes out.”
“Hum, give me sixpen’ worth of lollies, boy;” and the discontened constable pushed back the shilling on which the old woman’s eyes were fixed greedily.
Con weighed the lollies and was graciously presented with some of them for his own use.
“Did you ever see this ghost of a hearse that haunts this neighbourhood?” asked Lumsden of the lad, as he decided that the old woman was not worth talking to.
“No, sir, I never did, but Mrs. Jones has seen it. Haven’t you, Mrs. Jones?”
“Seen the dead hearse? I should think so. Ha! There’s allays someone dies when that comes. I wish ’twould stop right there tonight,” and she pointed a shaky finger straight out of the shop door to the empty street, on which the afternoon sun was shining warmly. And then as if the subject brought back to her memory Jerry Swipes’ words, she repeated them to herself, with her brows again tangled into a thoughtful frown—“Jest you watch him, and you’ll see.”
“What is she muttering?”
“Oh, nothing of any consequence, sir; she’s talking to herself half the time.”
“Um! A little queer, eh?”
“A little, sir.”
“Did you never see the old chap sell a glass now?” asked the clever new policeman; and Con’s naturally rosy face grew crimson.
If there is one thing more despised than another by even the lowest Melbourne lad, it is an informer. In this case, Con had nothing to tell, but it insulted him that it should be supposed possible that he would tell, even if he knew anything.
Lumsden saw the boy’s increase of colour, and it increased his suspicions.
“No,” Con answered—without the ‘sir’ this time, you will observe—“nor I never see no spirits of any kind about, even for Mr. Jones’s own drinkin’. If he keeps any, it must be, as Mrs. Jones says, in his own room, that’s mostly always locked.”
The mention of her name aroused the old woman from an unusual absorption in thought, and she repeated over and over again—
“Yes, Con, in his own room; allays in his own room.”
In a very discontented mood, Lumsden strolled out to the pavement again, munching his lollies as he went; and it so happened that Jerry Swipes at that moment appeared at the corner of the lane, and after a sharp look up and down the empty street, beckoned to the policeman. Lumsden was inclined to stand on his dignity, and let the drunken-looking fellow come over to him if he wanted him; but all at once he remembered that this was the man old Jones had been abusing, and thinking of the probability of retaliation, he put his dignity in his pocket with the lollies and crossed the narrow street.
“Just come down here a few steps, constable; I want to speak to ye.”
Lumsden followed the speaker a few yards and then stopped. The lane was most uninviting to all senses, and two or three red-faced, loud-voiced women were in front of some old wooden cottages farther down, gossiping amid the noise of screaming babies and quarrelling children.
“If you have anything private to say, there’s no need of going any farther—there’s nothing but a dead wall here.”
“It’s the fence of Turner’s woodyard,” returned Jerry, “and I guess you’re right. We can speak low, and besides, there’s no one in the yard—I saw Turner go out five minutes ago.”
“Well, what is your business?”
“Are you game now to go halves in an informin’ business?” asked Jerry, cunningly, in reply so this question.
“Informin’? Is it about old Jones?” was the sharp return.
“The very man.”
“By Jove, I suspected it!” cried Lumsden, as he stooped and slapped his leg in thorough enjoyment. “Game? I should think so!” And then a sharp suspicion crossed his mind, and made Lumsden look steadily into the bloated face with the sharp nose. “If you are on the look-out for a reward, how is it you don’t try to keep it all to yourself?” he asked.
“D’ye think I’d ever get it if I hadn’t someone decent to me up?” Jerry asked cunningly. “I couldn’t take him in single-handed. I’d want help—and if I was the respectablest in Melbourne, there wouldn’t be a conviction without the worm.”
“Without the worm? What do you mean? What are talking about?”
“I’m talking about a still—didn’t you know it afore?”
The low whistle that gave expression to Lumsden’s surprise so prolonged that Jerry cut it short with a, “Hush.”
“I thought it was sly grog-selling,” he exclaimed. “I noticed the effect your mention of the glass of whiskey had on Jones a while ago, and I thought it was sly grog-selling. But a still! By Jove! Are you sure, man?”
“As sure as that there fence is made o wood,” was the answer, as Swipes put his hand on Turner’s fence; “an’ now just wait minnit till I see if Turner’s back.”
He stepped on a stone as he was speaking, and craned his neck in an examination of the wood-yard.
“No, he’s not at home yet, for the back door’s shut an’ the barrow’s not there. Come now, let us settle about it. It must done tonight, for I gave him a good many hints today, an he may be frightened.”
“He’s gone out,” said Lumsden.
“Yes, and I am afraid he’s gone to try and get rid of the plant somehow, for he must have customers for the spirits somewhere, and they’re bound to help him. The best thing that you and can do is to go up to the sergeant at once, and lay our claim to reward.”
There was a little more talk about it, and when it was over separated, so as to avoid suspicion; appointing, however, a when they were to meet at the police office in the presence of the sergeant.
* * * *
Old Jones came home very shortly after in one of his humours. At the first glimpse of his face in the doorway all brightness fell from that of the poor old wife, who hobbled to the back, leaving Con to face “the master;” and Con did with more confidence than usual for there was some money in till, and he had some news to tell Jones that might make think less of Jerry having outwitted him in the matter of the and tobacco.
“Well! Everything at sixes and sevens, I suppose?” Jones asked with a furious look around the shop. The man wanted something to swear at, for his blood was boiling within him.
“No, sir. Everything’s all right in the shop; only—” the boy hastened to add, ere Jones had time to explode—“that young bobby’s been here, sir.”
“Again! What the deuce did he want?”
“I’m afraid he was after no good, master,” replied Con, as he shook his head sagely. “He tried to get a glass of spirits out of the mistress and me; actually put the money on the counter for it.”
“What!”
“Yes, indeed, sir. He gammoned that he knew drink was sold here, but when he could get nothing out of us he bought six-pen’ worth of lollies and went away.”
Jones absolutely turned grey with apprehension as he stared at the boy.
“You are sure you didn’t tell the villain anything?”
“I had nothing to tell him, sir.”
“That’s true, Con—of course, you had nothing to tell him. You may go out and finish them bottles now.”
Jones fell into his old arm-chair behind the counter dumbfounded. He felt that he was caught in a trap and didn’t know where seek help. He had taken off his best hat, and held the old one in his hands, looking at it in a queer, bewildered way, when a m
an entered with an active step. It was Turner, the small, sharp, dark man that kept the wood-yard.
“How many hundred of wood will I bring you over, Jones?” he asked as he bent over toward the old man with a strange grin on his face.
“Not one!” shouted old Jones, as the blood rushed into face, and his eyes flashed under their overhanging brows. He had got someone to vent his rage on at last. “Not one; and I’ll never take another from you—you swindling rascal. The last was green messmate.”
“Hush, hush, Jones! You have no idea what a mess you’re in. I’ve come to give you a bit of neighbourly help, for both Jerry Swipes and the new bobby’ll be down on you in a brace of shakes.”
“Jerry Swipes! The new bobby! Oh, curse them.”
But even as the words fell from his lips, they trembled, and he put on his old hat in a hopeless way very unusual with him.
“Yes and there’s no time to waste. Jerry has been watching you by nights, it seems, and he’s found out all about the still. He’s told Lumsden, and they’ve gone up to the sergeant and agreeing to share the reward for informing between them.”
“Oh, Lord, what’ll I do?” groaned the old man.
“That’s what I’m come to tell you. I have the horse ready in the cart and the wood in it. I’m going to bring it into the yard, and you’ll pack all your whiskey into it, as well as the whole still, if we can manage it, and I’ll drive ’em off before the informers come.”
“Where will you take ’em?” Jones asked doubtfully.
“Where they’ll be safe. Never you mind so long as they don’t get ’em here.”
“But what are you doin’ it for? I never was friends with you, Bill Turner. What are you so willin’ to do this for?”
“No! You old screw, you never was friends with me, I don’t owe you so much as a thank-you for one neighbourly act. What am I a-doin of it for? What a darned fool you are to ask! I’m a-doing it for what I can make out of it, of course! Do you think I’m a fool to do it for nothing? I’ll save you a fifty-pound fine and the loss of your stock, never fear, but I’ll ask for my pay when the job’s done!”
The Occult Detective Megapack: 29 Classic Stories Page 32
