Capital Crimes: London Mysteries

by Martin Edwards

  Tregarthen!—I had not seen Tregarthen for three years—not since soon after the affair of the Taplin mystery. He and I, working independently of the police, had tried to find Mendoba, the murderer of Dr Francis Taplin; like the police, we had failed to do so. Then I had turned to other matters, and Tregarthen had gone away somewhere and I had not heard of him since; he was always a strangely mysterious person, and so I had not been surprised at his silence. But here he was in London again—and I knew his peculiar hand-writing well enough—and yet I had not seen him at any of his usual haunts—which were also mine—nor heard of his return.

  ‘This is an affair!’ I informed myself. ‘Tregarthen is back. Tregarthen is up to something. Tregarthen is watching somebody. That somebody has something to do with those chambers in Budge Row. Perhaps if I had looked up I should have seen Tregarthen’s striking face confronting me from one of the opposite windows. However, I have done as I was told. Now, Tregarthen wants to see me. Also, which is possibly more important—he wants to see Killingley. I think—I am disposed to think—that this means that Tregarthen will be glad of a little professional assistance.’

  I found that astute young gentleman, my clerk Killingley, improving his knowledge of men and things by a studious reading of the Sporting Times. I introduced the matter in hand to him at once.

  ‘Killingley, you remember Mr Tregarthen?’

  Killingley’s sharp eyes gleamed intelligent affirmation.

  ‘Case of Taplin and Mendoba,’ he replied. ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Mr Tregarthen is back in town. He wants to see me at his rooms in the Albany at four o’clock.’

  Killingley laid one hand on my diary; the other on his fountain-pen.

  ‘Also,’ I added, ‘he desires to see you.’

  ‘Same time and place, sir?’ asked Killingley, making notes.

  ‘Same time and place,’ I answered. ‘We’ll go together.’

  So, four o’clock found my clerk and myself in Tregarthen’s eminently comfortable parlour in his excellent rooms. He had not come in, but every-thing betokened his immediate arrival. There was a bright, warm fire; there was tea laid out for three; there was a soft-footed man-servant ready to do service whenever he was wanted. And suddenly there was a sound of footsteps in the little hall, and the door opened and Tregarthen entered, and stripping off a big ulster presented to my astonished eyes the face and figure—minus the eye-patch and the crutch—of the tiger-selling gazer of Budge Row.

  I was for the moment too much surprised to speak, for it had never entered my head that Tregarthen was the man to whom I had given a shilling, much less that it was from that man that the note came. And Tregarthen saw my surprise, and laughed as he went across to a sideboard and helped himself to a stiff glass of whiskey.

  ‘Ugh!’ he exclaimed, shivering a little. ‘That’s about the coldest job I ever took on, Campenhaye. I’m chilled through. Well, and how are you? But wait until I’ve got these rags off and changed into something clean, and then we’ll talk. I’ve had a stiff day of it—and I don’t know that I’ve done much good, either. But perhaps you and Killingley can help.’

  Then, leaving us still mystified, he disappeared, to come back in ten minutes in a comfortable tweed suit, brisk and bustling.

  ‘Now, we’ll talk, over a cup of tea,’ he said, as his man brought in a steaming kettle. ‘Well, how’ve you been going on and what’s doing, eh?’

  ‘A more fitting topic will be—what are you doing?’ I answered. ‘Why this disguise? Why expose yourself to the whistling winds and sorry sleet of Budge Row, on as vile a day as ever I remember? Also—which is somewhat pertinent—why hurry me away from my business there?’

  Tregarthen helped himself to hot buttered muffin and took a generous mouthful.

  ‘I don’t know what your business was,’ he said, nonchalantly; ‘but I’m jolly well certain it wasn’t as important as mine—which your distinguished presence in that place might have interfered with. You’re known, my boy—you’re known!’

  ‘To about one person in each twenty-five thousand of the numerous millions in this city,’ I retorted. ‘And that’s a high estimate.’

  ‘You’re known well enough to, at any rate, one man who might have gone in and out of that entry in which you were standing,’ he said calmly. ‘And I didn’t want that man to see you there.’

  ‘And who’s he, pray?’ I asked.

  Tregarthen took a hearty gulp of tea and looked over the rim of his cup at Killingley and myself with eyes that seemed to be sizing us up.

  ‘You remember the Francis Taplin case?’ he said suddenly. ‘Yes, well, it’s Mendoba that I’m after.’

  ‘What—again?’ I exclaimed.

  ‘Again? Well, now, I’ve been after him ever since, and for a long time before that,’ replied Tregarthen. ‘But call it again, if you like. Certainly, it’s a new trail.’

  ‘And Mendoba’s here in London?’ I asked, greatly surprised.

  ‘I believe he’s in Budge Row,’ he answered. ‘But—so far, I haven’t seen him. And—I want to see him. Yes—I want to see that man pretty badly, Campenhaye. So—you and Killingley must help me.’

  I glanced at Killingley, who was steadily devoting himself to tea and plum cake, and keeping his eyes fixed on our host.

  ‘All right,’ I said. ‘But before Killingley and I start out to help people, we like to know what it’s all about. Eh?’

  ‘I’m going to tell you,’ answered Tregarthen. ‘That’s what I got you here for—I don’t know that you’ll be much use, Campenhaye, but I believe Killingley might be. You’re known—he isn’t.’

  ‘Don’t be too sure of that,’ I said. ‘Killingley is a person of importance. Half the swell crooks in town know him.’

  ‘But Mendoba doesn’t, and he knows Mendoba,’ said Tregarthen quickly.

  Killingley cleared his jaws of plum cake.

  ‘Excuse me, sir,’ he said. ‘I saw Mr Mendoba with a beard and a wig. If you consult your memory you will find that Mr Mendoba left wig and beard behind him in the railway carriage at Charing Cross after he had blown out Dr Taplin’s brains.’

  ‘That’s so,’ agreed Tregarthen. ‘All the same, I think you’ll be useful—I remember you. Well, you see it’s this way, Campenhaye. I’ve just come back from the States. Never mind, just now, what my business there was—I may tell you about it when we’ve more leisure. But suffice it to say that while I was in New York I rendered a highly important service to a well-known business man who had the grace to be properly grateful. And, one night, having dined me very, very well at the Knickerbocker Club, he not only grew still more grateful but extremely confidential.’

  ‘“Look here,” said he, ‘I guess you know a good many of the secrets of the secret side of London life?’

  ‘“Some,” said I. ‘But not all by a long way.’

  ‘“I guess not,” he said with a wink. ‘And I daresay I know one or two that you don’t know—just as you’ll know a good many that I never even heard of.’

  ‘“I should think so,” said I. For I knew, d’you see, Campenhaye, that he was on this side a good deal and knew his way about. ‘Yes,’ I said, ‘that’s more than likely both ways.’

  ‘“D’you ever go in for a flutter in stocks?’ he asked, eyeing me keenly.

  ‘“I have done so when I’d money that I wasn’t particular about losing,’ I answered.

  ‘“All the same, you’d rather it came back to you with more sticking to it?’ he remarked.

  ‘“Naturally,’ I replied. ‘I should.’

  ‘We were in a quiet corner, and there was no one near, but he edged himself closer, looking round as men do when they’ve something remarkably confidential to tell you.

  ‘“Did you ever hear of the Magician of Cannon Street?’ said he, with another keen look.

  ‘“Never,’ I answered. �
�Who’s he?’

  ‘He laughed at that.

  ‘“Heaven knows!’ he replied. ‘Re-incarnation of Confucius or Socrates, or of old Abe Lincoln—anyhow, he’s a wise man, magic or no magic.’

  ‘“And what does he do?’ I asked.

  ‘“Ah! that’s it!’ he said. ‘I guess you’re aware that most of the big bugs in the money world are uncommonly superstitious?’

  ‘“No, I didn’t, but I knew that sportsmen—that is to say, racing-men—are,’ I answered.

  ‘“Same thing,’ said he. ‘Well, sir, it’s a fact that this fellow who’s known as the Magician of Cannon Street to a very, very select coterie of moneyed men who love to speculate, is a swell hand at telling his clients what their luck’s likely to be. That’s a fact—I’ve proved it.’

  ‘“What does he exactly do?’ I asked. ‘Gaze into crystals, or consult the stars, or read your palm, or what?’

  ‘“No hanky-panky,’ he answered. ‘It’s all done without ornament. Supposing you’re thinking of doing this, that, or the other, you go to him and tell him your schemes. He tells you whether you’re to go in or not. That’s all.’

  ‘“And do you mean to say that the chap’s always right?’ I exclaimed. ‘If he is, it’s a big order.’

  ‘“No, he isn’t always right,’ he answered. ‘But he’s a winner five times out of six—or, maybe, nine times out of ten. You see,’ he added, poking his finger into my ribs, ‘you see, I’ve tried him, and I know some other men who’ve also tried him.’

  ‘Well, now, I know, Campenhaye, as I daresay you know, that there is this sort of thing going on in town here. I know of two remarkably astute city financiers who never undertake any serious deal until they’ve consulted some sybil or siren who hangs out in mysteriously lighted and heavily scented rooms off New Bond Street; but I’d never heard of this Cannon Street prophet, and I said so again.

  ‘“Just so,’ said my New York friend. ‘I knew you hadn’t—he deals with a very, very select coterie. Now, look here, as you’ve done me a real good turn, I’ll do you one. I’ll give you an introduction to this man—and if ever you’re thinking of doing anything important go to him for advice—and for a tip.’

  ‘“Oh!’ I said. ‘So he gives tips, does he? A sharp observer of the markets, eh?’

  ‘“Put it at that,’ said he. ‘But you take my introduction—you’ll never regret it.’

  ‘Well, I never refuse anything on principle—and I said I was much obliged to him, and what was this magician’s name, and where did he sit in his particular cave or cell, or whatever it was?

  ‘“There’s no hanky-panky,’ he answered. ‘No magic circles, and no yellow robes, and no fool’s caps—all’s plain business. The address is Contango Chambers, Budge Row, Cannon Street, London, England, and the man’s name is plain Mister Morton. And—here’s the letter of introduction.’

  ‘And with that he furtively slipped into my hand a ring, once more looking round as if to make sure that he wasn’t observed. And, humouring him, though I didn’t see that it was in any way necessary, I, too, stole a furtive glance at what he had given me. And I saw then, Campenhaye, my boy, that what he really had given me was a clue to the whereabouts of our precious friend, Mendoba!’

  Killingley and I were by this time too much interested to be ready with words, and Tregarthen smiled triumphantly, and went on:

  ‘To Mendoba!’ he repeated. ‘The very man I wanted! Now, then, what was this clue? You won’t remember, Campenhaye, because you only saw him twice, that Mendoba wore a very curious ring—a signet ring, on the shield of which was a device which I have never seen before. But here’s the ring which my New York friend presented to me—to save explanations, I may as well say that it is, in reality, a duplicate of that worn by Mendoba. There are, I found out, a certain number of these duplicates in existence, and each forms a passport to the presence of the Magician of Cannon Street.’

  I took the ring which Tregarthen handed to me, and Killingley and I carefully examined it. It was a plain gold ring, having on its upper rim a circular shield on which was deeply engraved a curious arabesque device. Tregarthen indicated that with the tip of his finger.

  ‘I told you,’ he said, ‘that Mendoba has Spanish, Moorish, and Arab blood in him—I believe that this device has something to do with his family. Anyway, I’ll stake all I’ve got that this is an exact duplicate of the ring which Mendoba wore when I knew him. And I believe that the Magician of Cannon Street is—Mendoba.’

  ‘Well?’ I said, not yet quite sure of what Tregarthen was after. ‘And what then?’

  ‘I only landed at Plymouth yesterday morning,’ he continued. ‘Naturally, I wanted to find out all I could about my man as soon as possible. I knew that it would be of no use to present myself at Budge Row, because I should have had to go in the attire and semblance of a man of probity and standing, and this sword-cut on my cheek would instantly have been recognised by Mendoba—if Mendoba is the Magician. So I adopted the disguise in which you saw me—it’s one that I’ve found very useful more than once in the city—old, crippled soldier, you know, and the black patch over the eye partly hides and also draws attention away from the scar. I went down there early this morning; my object was to keep a strict watch on the entrance to Contango Chambers in the hope of seeing Mendoba enter or leave. Well, I saw you, Campenhaye, and drove you off, for I knew that Mendoba would recognise you at once if he caught half a glimpse of you. Also, I saw one or two famous financial magnates who were doubtless on their way to consult the Magician. But I never saw Mendoba—that is, I never saw anybody whom I should have believed to be Mendoba. And there’s where a difficulty comes in. For you see, Campenhaye, I never saw Mendoba except when he wore that disguise of grey wig and beard which he discarded in the railway carriage at Charing Cross after he’d blown out Francis Taplin’s brains. Eh?’

  ‘Just so,’ I said. ‘How would you know Mendoba if you saw him?’

  ‘I’d know enough to be certain if I could have him in this room or in his room for two minutes,’ he answered. ‘But now, here’s the point. Somebody’s got to gain access to the Magician. I can’t—neither can you. But—what about Killingley? You told me, Campenhaye, that Killingley is an adept in the art of making up. Why not disguise him as—’

  But I had been thinking pretty hard while Tregarthen was speaking. And now I interrupted him.

  ‘No,’ I said. ‘Give me the ring, and I’ll see this magician chap myself. I, too, am an adept at disguise—I taught Killingley all he knows. I’ll engage that Mendoba doesn’t know me—unless he’s an extraordinarily clever man and a very cute observer. Remember, he scarcely ever saw me at that gambling-hell of his, and, when he did, it was in a half-light.’

  Tregarthen hesitated.

  ‘Mendoba is remarkably cute,’ he said, ‘and as to his ability, I reckon he’s one of the most able men I’ve ever had to do with. I was amazed when he so far lost his head as to revenge himself on Taplin as he did—I suppose his southern blood got the better of him. But, do you really think that you’d better tackle the job, seeing that he has seen you? It’s my impression that if Mendoba ever took stock of anybody he’d remember their every eyelash for fifty years.’

  ‘I’ll engage that I could present myself to you this very evening and that you wouldn’t know me,’ I answered. ‘You can trust me, if you like.’

  And Killingley spoke for the first time.

  ‘Leave it to the guv’nor, sir,’ he said. ‘I fancy myself a bit in that line, but he’s far beyond me.’

  Tregarthen handed over the ring again.

  ‘All right,’ he said. ‘Now, then, let’s settle the details.’

  When Tregarthen and I had fixed matters up, my duty was a very simple one. I was to present myself, made up according to my own liking, at Contango Chambers next morning at eleven o’clock, and to exhibit the ring as credentials
, and to ask for Mr Morton. Tregarthen carefully posted me as to what I was to do and say on being admitted to the presence of the Magician of Cannon Street: the rest was left to me. As to Tregarthen himself, he was to resume his rôle of gazer; Killingley was to act as I judged best.

  And so all that being settled, Killingley and I left our host and walked away together, and as we stepped out of the Albany into Piccadilly I asked my companion what he thought of this adventure. For Killingley was a great hand at thinking, and he had been unusually silent during the recent conversation.

  ‘What I think, sir,’ he answered, ‘is, that this man, if he is Mendoba, will be a stiff customer to tackle.’

  ‘That goes without saying, Killingley,’ I said. ‘He will.’

  ‘You’ll go armed, of course?’ he continued.

  ‘I shall.’

  ‘All the same,’ he went on, ‘I don’t believe much in that, sir. A revolver isn’t much use nowadays—it’s clumsy and out of date. I think I had better keep an eye on you. How do you propose to go, sir?’

  We discussed that point. The result of our discussion was that after an early dinner Killingley and I spent the first part of the evening in concocting and arranging my disguise. And as I am a great believer in details and in rehearsal, I made myself up with infinite care and precision as a middle-aged man of an eminently but quietly and unobtrusively prosperous appearance, slightly inclined to stoutness (I am normally spare, not to say slender), slightly grizzled as to moustache and hair (I am normally clean-shaven, and my hair is of distinctly raven hue), and much bronzed as if from close acquaintance with the southern sun. When all was finished and I was clothed in the fine linen and purple of a moneyed magnate (I always possess a very considerable and exhaustive wardrobe in order to be prepared to cope with any emergency), Killingley uttered words of admiration.

  ‘You were right in saying that Mr Tregarthen wouldn’t know you, sir,’ he exclaimed. ‘He wouldn’t.’