The Occult Detective Megapack: 29 Classic Stories

by Fitz-James O'Brien

  Strange to say this assertion, though it touched the weakest part of old Jones (the region of his pocket), convinced him of Turner’s sincerity, and before many minutes had elapsed the woodman’s cart was in the old storekeeper’s yard. Jones sent Con and Mrs. Jones into the shop while a new load was packed into the bottom of the conveyance and covered with a layer of wood that made all, as Turner declared, look quite natural.

  Few could have guessed in what a state of excitement old Jones had lately been, had they looked into the shop after Turner’s departure and seen him, spectacles on nose, apparently absorbed in the paper; at least, Jerry Swipes didn’t guess it when he entered with a wicked grin on his dirty visage, and with Constable Lumsden at his heels.

  “I hope I don’t intrude, Mister Jones,” sneered Jerry, who had evidently managed an extra glass somewhere. “Allow me to introduce me friend, Constable Lumsden.”

  “Stash that!” cried Lumsden angrily, as he pushed Jerry out of his way very unceremoniously and advanced to the counter. “I’m here on duty, Jones. We have received information that you are carrying on a sort of private distillery here in contravention to the laws, and we’re hero to search the premises.”

  “Search and be hanged to you!” was the very unexpected reply; “but by the heavens above me, if that drunken thief comes inside my private premises—I’ll brain him, so help me !”

  “Will you?” retorted the pot-valiant Swipes. “Maybe two could play at that game; though if it comes to brains it’s very little you’d have to let out. Stand back, Lumsden, and let me blacken that old villain’s eyes.”

  “If you don’t keep quiet, Swipes, I’ll put you out myself,” was all the comfort the angry man got from his unwilling companion, who went on to Jones—

  “You may as well let us in peacefully, Jones. There’s two constables in the back yard by this time, and there’s no earthly use offering any resistance.”

  “I’m offering no resistance; didn’t I tell you to search? There’s the door open; but I say again, if that informer crosses that threshold, I’ll fell him.”

  “Oh, I’m an informer, eh? D’ye hear that, Lumsden? By George, the old fool is giving himself away. It seems there’s something to inform on, eh?”

  “Hold your jaw, Swipes. You had better go ’round to the back; there’s no use having any unnecessary row.” And the young policeman went behind the counter to the door that old Jones was still holding open with shaking hands.

  Jerry, finding himself in a minority, did as Lumsden had suggested, and went ’round to the yard, cursing Jones all the way. Jones immediately shut the shop door and barred it behind him, going out then after the young policeman to see what disturbance they would make among his household gods.

  That part of the household gods represented by poor Mrs. Jones was in such a state of bewildered surprise at the advent of two strange men in blue entering her slovenly kitchen that the entrance of another from the shop-way added nothing to her confusion. Lumsden, as befitting the fact that he was co-informer, took the lead in what followed, his first action being to proceed towards Jones own bedroom and order it to be opened.

  “My information is that the door of a cellar opens in a closet of this room,” he said importantly, “and that in that cellar is the still.”

  Without a word Jones unlocked the door and flung it open. At this moment Jerry Swipes, fortified by the presence of so many policemen, advanced to push his way into Jones’s room; and, without another word of warning, the old man who had been a pugilist in his young days lifted his fist and struck Swipes so heavily between the eyes that the half-drunk man fell to the floor almost as if he had been shot.

  “I had a right to do it!” cried Jones. “I warned him! I put no hindrance in the way of the police, but that man I’ll not let cross my threshold! Clear out o’ this, or I’ll let you have it double!”

  Jerry, who was picking himself up with difficulty, turned to go, but as he did, he uttered a threat that was remembered against him afterwards.

  “Do you see them?” he asked, pointing to the drops of blood on the floor. “You drew ’em from my face, but by heaven, I’ll let every drop out of your heart for ’em,” and he staggered blindly out to the yard.

  It is unnecessary to enter into particulars of the unsuccessful search made by the constables of Jones’s cellar and premises generally—there was nothing whatever incriminating discovered. The unsuspected load Turner had taken had removed everything immediately connected with the still, save some empty hop pockets and sugar bags and a suspiciously smelling keg. Jones enjoyed the discomfiture of Lumsden, as indeed did his fellow constables, who were like all the world jealous of a neighbour’s good fortune.

  “I’m sorry for your disappointment, gentlemen,” said Jones with a derisive grin; “but you see, it is not always well to depend on information received from a low scoundrel. Howsomever, I’m sorry to see Mr. Lumsden look so down in the mouth. I don’t mind giving him a glass of very good whiskey I happen to have here by me.”

  “Hang you and your whiskey, too!” was the young man’s not over civil reply to this kind offer, and in a few moments the police accompanied by the terribly disappointed Jerry had all cleared out by the back way. To say that Jerry was disappointed is putting it very weakly—he evinced his feelings in such threats at Jones and, indeed, at the police, who had, he fancied, cheated him in some way or another, that Lumsden was within an ace marching him off to the lockup.

  Lumsden was quite as much disappointed as the informer, though he was able to control his feelings a little better. So convinced was he that Jones had been warned and cleared his cellar out, that he determined on doing duty on his own account that night. That is, instead of going to bed or to amuse himself after his patrol was over, after dinner he returned to his beat to watch Jones’s Corner.

  He did not get to his beat till about eleven o’clock, believing that whatever illegal thing might be done on the old man’s premises would not be attempted before that hour. He had acquainted the constable on duty of his intention so that his movements should be taken no notice of and he chose as his place of watch the entrance to a narrow right-of-way opposite old Jones’s back yard.

  When he took up his post, there was a light in the shop, though it was shut, but all was darkness at the back. Jones was not the man to let his wife and Con sit up burning candles for nothing. After about half an hour’s watch, Lumsden saw the light from the shop disappear, and in a few minutes a man crossed the yard stealthily, opened Jones’s gate noiselessly, and slipped ’round the corner of the street where the door of the shop was. Lumsden was curious and followed him to the corner. There he saw small, lithe figure dart across the moonlit street and enter Turner’s wood-yard. Lumsden went back to his station, wondering what Turner was doing there at that time of night; and just then the town clock was just striking twelve.

  It was quite another hour before he saw anything else at Jones’s. Then a slinking figure crept along in the shadow of the houses, and deftly climbing Jones high fence, dropped inside. The young constable recognised Jorry Swipes instantly, and guessed at once that the low scoundrel was on the same self-imposed duty as himself, viz., watching old Jones, with the hope of making some discovery of a fresh plant. It was about half an hour before Jerry left the yard, and it was chiming the half-hour after one as he dropped out into the street again and ran down the lane.

  Another half hour, and Lumsden saw a light appear for a moment in the kitchen window. The light was very indistinct, for the window was under the back verandah where Mrs. Jones did her poor washing; but it was distinct enough for Mr. Lumsden to see it twice—once when it seemed to come and go away again, and once more when it reappeared and seemed to be suddenly put out. Believing that Jones was rambling about the place making a bestowal of some illegal machinery, Lumsden was about to climb the fence for a nearer watch when he saw something that changed his mind with a strange suddenness. The young man had heard no noise, but he felt, as it
were, that there was something moving in his vicinity. Turning involuntarily, he saw, coming down the street full in the moonlight, what seemed to be the shadow of a hearse. A sort of fear crept upon him for a moment, but he recovered himself speedily, remembering his jibes at the dead hearse that very day, and his determination to prove its mortal and tangible nature.

  The thing passed him—the shadow of a hearse—and turned Jones’s Corner noiselessly. It appeared to Lumsden’s eyes just as Jones had described it: a plain box-like hearse with a cover haped like a sarcophagus. The shape of a black horse drew it, and the shape of a man in black, with long black crêpe weepers hanging down from his hat, behind sat in front and held the shadowy reins. There is not one among the very wisest of us without some hidden superstition, however we may to try to deeeive ourselves about the fact; and young Lumsden felt a queer, cold creeping up his back in spite of his declared unbelief in the “Phanton Hearse.”

  No sooner had it turned the corner and was out of sight, however, but he pulled himself together and hurried after it, determined to see the affair through. He had not far to go. I have said the thing turned the corner. It had barely done so; when Lumsden reached the front of the shop, he saw the hearse standing an front of the window he knew belonged to Jones’s bedroom, the vehicle and horse still and soundless, the man sitting on his box as if carved out of black marble.

  One moment the young man hesitated, for he was only mortal, but then he strode on toward the hearse, his steps making a loud noise on the moonlit pavement. His heart was beating quickly, but he did not stop until he was so near that by putting out his hand he should have been able to touch the hearse. He put it out, and touched nothing! He moved a little nearer, and tried again. Still there was nothing tangible, but he heard a terrible moan that seemed to come from the interior of the ghostly vehicle, and started back.

  When he looked again, the whole thing had disappeared. There was nothing in the whole length of the street but the moonlight lying upon pavement and roadway!

  Constable Lumsden stared for some minutes, and then being, as I have already said, only mortal he turned quickly, and sought the companionship of his fellow policeman whose step he fortunately heard at that moment echoing down a neighbouring cross street. The constable on the beat that night was an elderly man, and he did not laugh at Lumsden’s story.

  “I’ve heard of it often,” he said thoughtfully, “but I never saw it, and I don’t want to. They say it is a sure sign of death in the house where it stops. It was at Jones’s, you say?”

  “Yes, but was it there after all? I wonder if I could fancy it all?”

  “You ought to be the best judge of that yourself; but that the hearse has been seen there’s no manner of doubt. I’ve been on this beat over eight years, and I’ve heard of the hearse a dozen times and more.”

  “Well, whether or not I imagined the hearse, I’m certain the sound was real.”

  “What sound?”

  “Why, the awful groan I heard. It made my blood creep.”

  “You’d better go and get a sleep,” said Cooney, “or you’ll not be fit for duty tomorrow.”

  And the young man took his advice, the sight of the “Phantom Hearse” having cured him of all the interest he had lately felt in “still hunting.”

  Lumsden lodged with Cooney, who was a married man with a family, and it seemed to the young man that he had not been asleep ten minutes when he was wakened by a rough shake. Cooney was standing by the side of his bed with something in his rugged face that roused Lumsden at once.

  “What is it?” he asked.

  “It’s murder, that’s what it is. Get up at once, and be puttin’ on your clothes while I tell you. You’ll get no chance of pocketing that fifty pounds now. Old Jones was found dead in his bed this morning.”

  “Good heavens! Who found him?”

  “That little chap, Con, who lives there. It seems he had to call Jones every morning before he opened the shop at seven o’clock, and this morning when he went he found the old man so sound asleep that nothing but the last trump will waken him. The boy ran to tell me, and before Smith relieved me, the neighbourhood was in a commotion.”

  “What time is it now?”

  “Near nine. Hurry out and get your breakfast. Didn’t you tell me you saw Jerry Swipes climbing over Jones fence night?”

  “Yes.”

  And then a sudden recollection of the terrible threat Jerry had made against the old man after he was struck down recurred to Lumsden.

  “How was he murdered?”

  “Stabbed in the breast, or rather stomach, by some sharp instrument. He appears to have been lying on his back asleep from what the doctor says, and was found in a pool of his own blood. By Jove, Jerry seems to have kept his word. He swore he would let every drop out of the old man’s heart, and it looks as if he’d done it.”

  “You think it was Jerry?”

  “Can there be a doubt of it after what you saw? At all events, I went straight to his tumble-down shanty and arrested him suspicion.”

  “How did he take it?”

  “Like a man stupid—as indeed he was with the effects of yesterday’s drink. There was blood on his clothes, too, but he denies the murder, of course.”

  “Does he deny he was in Jones’s yard this morning?”

  “No; he owns to it. He says he went in hopes of finding old man in the cellar. It seems there’s some crack in the wall he can see through. Come now; if you’ve done breakfast, we’ll be down and see what we can find out. You can question the boy this time.”

  We can understand the deep interest of Lumsden in this case. It was his first in the force, and the matter of the suspected illicit work in Jones’s place, together with his own intimate connection with it as co-informer, made the whole affair of importance to him. And there was what he had seen last night, too—that solemn hearse that had stood for a few moments at the dead man’s house. He could never again disbelieve in apparitions as long as he lived.

  Talking the case over, the two men walked quickly to Jones’s Corner. The shop was shut except that one shutter had been taken off to light it, and there, in pitiful state, sat Mrs. Jones, with her one decent dress—a black stuff—on, and a white apron she had actually that morning washed and ironed spread under her folded hands. Her withered old face was deathly as ashes, her cap borders scarcely seeming more blanched in colour. Looking at her for a moment, as she stared straight before her into the dim shop, among the confusion of boxes and bags, it seemed to Lumsden as if her little share of sense had been stricken out by the shock, to leave her but one remove from an idiot.

  It was not so with poor Con. He had wept until his eyes were like boiled gooseberries, and there was a look of terror in them as they seemed to wander against his will to that awful closed door. He was sitting in the yard, on a box, when Lumsden appeared, and he welcomed the young man though he was a policeman.

  “Tell me all about it,” Lumsden said, as he leaned against the fence by the boy. “It was you found him this morning wasn’t it?”

  “Oh! Yes, sir.” I haven’t got over it yet. I’ll never get over it.”

  “Oh, you will; never fear of that. When did you see Jones last—I mean alive?”

  “I didn’t see him after I went to bed about nine, sir, but I heard him, off and on, for a long time. Someone had taken the key out of his bedroom door; he blamed the police for it, I think. At all events he couldn’t find it, and went on awful. I fell asleep after a while, and then when I wakened up, I heard him saying, ‘Good night, Turner,’ and someone came out the back door.”

  “Where do you sleep, Con?”

  “In that little skill ion room at this end of the verandah; Mrs. Jones sleeps in the other one, only hers opens into the kitchen and my room doesn’t.”

  Lumsden considered a moment. If Con had heard Turner so plainly, how was it he had not heard Jerry Swipes so shortly after? And there was that light he had twice seen in the kitchen—who had carried that? />
  “You heard nothing after that, Con?”

  “Nothing, sir; I fell asleep again, and never wakened till mornin’ when Mrs. Jones called me.”

  “Oh, she called you, did she?”

  “She always calls me; Mrs. Jones is up by daylight, but the master wouldn’t let her call him—I had to do it about seven. I always knocked and he was easy wakened, but this morning I knocked and knocked and got no answer. Then I remembered about the key being lost, and I opened the door quietly and called again. I could see the bed then, and guessed something was wrong, and I went a little nearer oh and Con covered his face with a shudder.

  “What did the old woman do when you told her?”

  “She only looked stupid, and stared at me, and then when she appeared to understand, she said, ‘Yes; that she would put on her apron and mind the shop,’ and there she’s sat ever since.”

  “Con, there was someone moving about the place with a light at two o clock this morning—I saw it in the kitchen window myself. Do you think it could have been Jones?”

  “More likely Mrs. Jones, sir; she’s often awandering about the kitchen at night, and she seemed very unsettled when I went to bed last night.”

  Having got all the information he could out of the lad, Lumsden went in to see the terrible object in the guarded and darkened room, and then to visit the poor old woman, who sat in state, “minding the shop,” while her murdered husband lay within a few yards of her. If the young policeman had any hopes of getting information out of her respecting the light he had seen iu the kitchen, he lost them ere he had been speaking to her five minutes.

  “This is a sad business for you, Mrs. Jones,” said the young man in a low sympathetic tone. “Have you no neighbour that would come and sit with you?”

  “He would never let me have no neighbours,” she answered woodenly, as if a machine were speaking. “I’m minding the shop. Why doesn’t Con come in? I want Con.”

  “I’ll make him come in presently. Mrs. Jones, was it you that had a light in the kitchen at two o clock this morning?”