The Mystery of a Hansom Cab

by Fergus Hume

  ‘You’re takin’ a plan of the ’ouse to rob it, are you?’ she said. ‘Well, you needn’t, ’cause there ain’t nothin’ to rob, the silver spoons as belonged to my father’s mother ’avin’ gone down my ’usband’s throat long ago, an’ I ain’t ’ad money to buy more. I’m a lone pusson as is put on by brutes like you, an’ I’ll thank you to leave the fence I bought with my own ’ard earned money alone, and git out.’

  Mrs Hableton stopped short for want of breath, and stood shaking her trowel, and gasping like a fish out of water.

  ‘My dear lady,’ said the man at the fence, mildly, ‘are you—’

  ‘No I ain’t,’ retorted Mrs Hableton, fiercely, ‘I ain’t neither a member of the ’Ouse nor a school teacher to answer your questions. I’m a woman as pays my rates an’ taxes and don’t gossip nor read yer rubbishin’ newspapers, nor care for the Russings no how, so git out.’

  ‘Don’t read the papers,’ repeated the man, in a satisfied tone, ‘ah! that accounts for it.’

  Mrs Hableton stared suspiciously at the man who made such a peculiar remark. He was a burly looking man, with a jovial red face, clean shaved, and sharp shrewd-looking grey eyes which kept twinkling like two stars. He was well dressed in a suit of light clothes, and wore a stiffly starched white waistcoat with a massive gold chain stretched across it. Altogether he gave Mrs Hableton the impression of being a well-to-do tradesman, and she mentally wondered what he wanted.

  ‘What d’y want?’ she asked abruptly.

  ‘Does Mr Oliver Whyte live here?’ asked the stranger.

  ‘He do, an’ he don’t,’ answered Mrs Hableton, epigramatically. ‘I ain’t seen ’im for over a week, so I s’pose he’s gone on the drink like the rest of ’em, but I’ve put sumthin’ in the paper as ’ill pull him up pretty sharp, and let ’im know I ain’t a carpet to be trod on, an’ if you’re a friend of ’im, you can tell ’im from me ’e’s a brute, an’ it’s no more but what I expected of ’im, ’e bein’ a male.’

  The stranger waited placidly during the outburst, and Mrs Hableton having stopped for want of breath, he interposed quietly—

  ‘Can I speak to you for a few moments?’

  ‘An’ who’s a-stoppin’ of you?’ said Mrs Hableton defiantly. ‘Go on with you, not as I expects the truth from a male, but go on.’

  ‘Well, really,’ said the other looking up at the cloudless blue sky and wiping his face with a gaudy red silk pocket handkerchief, ‘it is rather hot, you know, and—’

  Mrs Hableton did not give him time to finish, but walking to the gate, opened it with a jerk.

  ‘Use yer legs and walk in,’ she said, and the stranger having done so, she led the way into the house, and into a small neat sitting-room which seemed to overflow with antimacassars, wool mats, and wax flowers. There was also a row of emu eggs on the mantelpiece, a cutlass on the wall, and a grimy line of hard-looking little books, set in a stiff row on a shelf, presumably for ornament, as they looked too unpleasant to tempt anyone to read them. The furniture was of horsehair, and everything was hard and shiny, so when the stranger sat down in the slippery looking armchair that Mrs Hableton pushed towards him, he could not help thinking it had been stuffed with stones it felt so cold and hard. The lady herself sat opposite to him in another hard chair, and having taken the handkerchief off her head, folded it carefully, laid it on her lap, and then looked straight at her unexpected visitor.

  ‘Now then,’ she said, letting her mouth fly open so rapidly that it gave one the impression that it was moved by strings like a marionette, ‘who are you? what are you? and what do you want?’

  The stranger put his red silk handkerchief into his hat, placed it on the table, and answered deliberately—

  ‘My name is Gorby, I am a detective, I want Mr Oliver Whyte.’

  ‘He ain’t here,’ said Mrs Hableton, thinking that Whyte had got into trouble, and was going to be arrested.

  ‘I know that,’ answered Mr Gorby.

  ‘Then where is ’e?’

  Mr Gorby answered abruptly, and watched the effect of his words.

  ‘He is dead.’

  Mrs Hableton got quite pale and pushed back her chair. ‘No,’ she cried, ‘he never killed ’im, did ’e?’

  ‘Who never killed him?’ queried Mr Gorby sharply.

  Mrs Hableton evidently knew more than she intended to tell, for, recovering herself with a violent effort, she answered evasively.

  ‘He never killed himself.’

  Mr Gorby looked at her keenly, and she returned his gaze with a defiant stare.

  ‘Clever,’ muttered the detective to himself, ‘knows something more than she chooses to tell, but I’ll get it out of her.’ He paused a moment and then went on smoothly, ‘Oh, no, he did not commit suicide; what makes you think so?’

  Mrs Hableton did not answer, but rising from her seat went over to a hard and shiny-looking sideboard from whence she took a bottle of brandy and a small wineglass. Half filling the glass, she drank it off, and returned to her seat. ‘I don’t take much of that stuff,’ she said, seeing the detective’s eyes fixed curiously on her, ‘but you ’ave given me such a turn that I ’ad to take something to steady my nerves; what do you want me to do?’

  ‘Tell me all you know,’ said Mr Gorby, keeping his eyes fixed on her face, which thereupon changed, and grew a shade paler.

  ‘Where was Mr Whyte killed?’ she asked.

  ‘He was murdered in a hansom cab on the St Kilda Road.’

  ‘In the open street?’ she asked, in a startled tone.

  ‘Yes, in the open street.’

  ‘Ah!’ she drew a long breath, and closed her lips firmly.

  Mr Gorby said nothing as he saw that she was deliberating whether to tell or not, and a word from him might seal her lips, so, like a wise man, he kept silent. He obtained his reward sooner than he expected.

  ‘Mr Gorby,’ she said at length, ‘I ’ave ’ad a ’ard struggle all my life which it came along of a bad husband, who was a brute and a drunkard, so, God knows, I ain’t got much inducement to think well of the lot of you, but—murder,’ she shivered slightly though the room was quite warm, ‘I didn’t think of that.’

  ‘In connection with whom?’

  ‘Mr Whyte, of course,’ she answered hurriedly.

  And who else?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘Then there is nobody else?’

  ‘Well, I don’t know—I’m not sure’

  The detective was puzzled.

  ‘What do you mean?’ he asked.

  ‘I will tell you all I know,’ said Mrs Hableton, ‘an’ if ’e’s innocent, God will ’elp ’im.’

  ‘If who is innocent?’

  ‘I’ll tell you everythin’ from the start,’ said Mrs Hableton, ‘an’ you can judge for yourself.’

  Mr Gorby assented, and she began:

  ‘It’s only two months ago since I decided to take in lodgers; but charrin’s ’ard work, and sewin’s tryin’ for the eyes. So, bein’ a lone woman ’avin’ bin badly treated by a brute, who is now dead, which I was allays a good wife to ’im, I thought lodgers ’ud ’elp me a little, so I put a notice in the paper, an’ Mr Oliver Whyte took the rooms two months ago.’

  ‘What was he like?’

  ‘Not very tall, dark face, no whiskers nor moustache, an’ quite the gentleman.’

  ‘Anything peculiar about him?’

  Mrs Hableton thought for a moment.

  ‘Well,’ she said at length, ‘he ’ad a mole on his left temple, but it was covered with ’is ’air, an’ few people ’ud ’ave seen it.’

  ‘The very man,’ said Gorby to himself, ‘I’m on the right path.’

  ‘Mr Whyte said ’e ’ad just come from England,’ went on the woman.

  ‘Which,’ murmured Mr Gorby, ‘accounts for the corpse not being recognised by friends.’

  ‘He took the rooms, an’ said ’e’d stay with me for six months an’ paid a week’s rent in advance, an’ ’e al
lays paid up reg’lar like a respectable man, tho’ I don’t believe in ’em myself. He said ’e’d lots of friends, an’ used to go out every night.’

  ‘Who were his friends?’

  ‘That I can’t tell you, for ’e were very close, an’ when ’e went out of doors I never know’d where ’e went, which is jest like ’em; for they ses they’re goin’ to work, an’ you finds ’em in the beershop. Mr Whyte told me ’e was a-goin’ to marry a heiress, ’e was.’

  ‘Ah!’ interjected Mr Gorby, sapiently.

  ‘He ’ad only one friend as I ever saw—a Mr Moreland—who comed ’ere with ’im, an’ was allays with ’im—brotherlike.’

  ‘What is this Mr Moreland like?’

  ‘Good-lookin’ enough,’ said Mrs Hableton sourly, ‘but ’is ’abits weren’t as good as ’is face—’andsom is as ’andsom does is what I ses.’

  ‘I wonder if he knows anything about this affair,’ muttered Gorby to himself. ‘Where is Mr Moreland to be found?’ he asked aloud.

  ‘Not knowin’, can’t tell,’ retorted the landlady, ‘’e used to be ’ere reg’lar, but I ain’t seen ’im for over a week.’

  ‘Strange! very!’ thought Gorby, shaking his head, ‘I should like to see this Mr Moreland. I suppose it’s probable he’ll call again?’ he remarked aloud.

  ‘’Abit bein’ second nature I s’pose he will,’ answered the woman, ‘’e might call at any time, mostly ’avin’ called at night.’

  ‘Ah! then I’ll come down this evening on chance of seeing him,’ replied the detective, ‘coincidences happen in real life as well as in novels, and the gentleman in question may turn up in the nick of time. Now, what else about Mr Whyte?’

  ‘About two weeks ago, or three, I’m not cert’in which, a gentleman called to see Mr Whyte; ’e was very tall, and wore a light coat.’

  ‘Ah! a morning coat?’

  ‘No; ’e was in evenin’ dress, and wore a light coat over it, an’ a soft ’at.’

  ‘The very man,’ said the detective below his breath, ‘go on.’

  ‘He went into Mr Whyte’s room, an’ shut the door. I don’t know how long they were talkin’ together; but I was sittin’ in this very room and heard their voices git angry, and they were a-swearin’ at one another, which is the way with men, the brutes. I got up an’ went into the passage in order to ask ’em not to make such a noise, when Mr Whyte’s door opens, an’ the gentleman in the light coat comes out, and bangs along to the door. Mr Whyte ’e comes to the door of ’is room, an’ ’e ’ollers out, “She is mine; you can’t do anything;” an’ the other turns with ’is ’and on the door an’ says, “I can kill you, an’ if you marry ’er I’ll do it, even in the open street.”’

  ‘Ah!’ said Mr Gorby, drawing a long breath, ‘and then?’

  ‘Then he bangs the door to, which it’s never shut easy since, an’ I ain’t got no money to get it put right, an’ Mr Whyte walks back to his room laughing.’

  ‘Did he make any remark to you?’

  ‘No; except he’d bin worried by a loonatic.’

  ‘And what was the stranger’s name?’

  ‘That I can’t tell you, as Mr Whyte never told me. He was very tall with a fair moustache, an’ dressed as I told you.’

  Mr Gorby was satisfied.

  ‘That is the man,’ he said to himself, ‘who got into the hansom cab and murdered Whyte; there’s no doubt of it! Whyte and he were rivals for the heiress.’

  ‘What d’y think of it?’ said Mrs Hableton curiously.

  ‘I think,’ said Mr Gorby slowly, with his eyes fixed on her, ‘I think that there is a woman at the bottom of this crime.’

  CHAPTER SIX

  MR GORBY MAKES FURTHER DISCOVERIES

  When Mr Gorby left Possum Villa no doubt remained in his mind as to who had committed the murder. The gentleman in the light coat had threatened to murder Whyte even in the open street—these last words being especially significant—and there was no doubt that he had carried out his threat. The committal of the crime was merely the fulfilment of the words uttered in anger. What the detective had now to do was to find who the gentleman in the light coat was, where he lived, and, having found out these facts, ascertain his doings on the night of the murder.

  Mrs Hableton had described him, but was ignorant of his name, and her very vague description might apply to dozens of young men in Melbourne. There was only one person who, in Mr Gorby’s opinion, could tell the name of the gentleman in the light coat, and that was Moreland, the intimate friend of the dead man. They appeared from the landlady’s description to have been so friendly that it was more than likely Whyte would have told Moreland all about his angry visitor. Besides, Moreland’s knowledge of his dead friend’s life and habits might be able to supply the answer as to whom Whyte’s death would have been a gain, and whom the heiress was the deceased boasted he was going to marry.

  What puzzled the detective was that Moreland should be ignorant of his friend’s tragic death, seeing that the papers were full of the murder, and that the reward gave an excellent description of the personal appearance of the deceased. The only way in which Gorby could account for Moreland’s extraordinary silence was that he was out of town, and had neither seen the papers nor heard anyone talking about the murder. If this was the case he might either stay away for an indefinite time or might come back after a few days. At all events it was worthwhile going down to St Kilda in the evening on the chance that Moreland might have returned to town, and would call to see his friend. So, after his tea, Mr Gorby put on his hat, and went down to Possum Villa, on what he could not help acknowledging to himself was a very slender possibility.

  Mrs Hableton opened the door for him and in silence led the way, not into her own sitting-room, but into a much more luxuriously furnished apartment, which Gorby guessed at once was that of Whyte’s. He looked keenly round the room, and his estimate of the dead man’s character was formed at once.

  ‘Fast,’ he said to himself, ‘and a spendthrift. A man who would have friends, and possibly enemies, among a very shady lot of people.’

  What led Mr Gorby to this belief was the evidences which surrounded him of Whyte’s mode of life. The room was well furnished, the furniture being covered with dark-red velvet, while the curtains on the windows and the carpet were all of the same somewhat sombre hue.

  ‘I did the thing properly,’ observed Mrs Hableton, with a satisfactory smile on her hard face. ‘When you wants young men to stop with you the rooms must be well furnished, an’ Mr Whyte paid well tho’ ’e was rather perticler about ’is food, which I’m only a plain cook, an’ can’t make them French things which spile the stomach.’

  The globes of the gas lamps were of a pale pink colour, and Mrs Hableton having lit the gas in expectation of Mr Gorby’s arrival, there was a soft roseate hue through all the room like the first faint flush of the early dawn. Mr Gorby put his hands in his capacious pockets and strolled leisurely through the room, examining everything with a curious eye. The walls were covered with pictures of celebrated horses and famous jockeys. Alternating with these were photographs of ladies of the stage, mostly London actresses, Nellie Farren, Kate Vaughan, and other burlesque stars evidently being the objects of the late Mr Whyte’s adoration. Over the mantelpiece hung a rack of pipes above which were two crossed foils, and under these a number of plush frames of all colours with pretty faces smiling out of them; a remarkable fact being that all the photographs were of ladies, and not a single male face was to be seen either on the walls, or in the plush frames.

  ‘Fond of the ladies I see,’ said Mr Gorby nodding his head towards the mantelpiece.

  ‘A set of hussies,’ said Mrs Hableton grimly, closing her lips tightly, ‘I feel that ashamed when I dusts ’em as never was—I don’t believe in gals gettin’ their picters taken with ’ardly any clothes on as if they just got out of bed, but Mr Whyte seemed to like ’em.’

  ‘Most young men do,’ answered Mr Gorby dryly, going over to the boo
kcase.

  ‘Brutes,’ said the lady of the house. ‘I’d drown ’em in the Yarrer, I would, a-settin’ ’emselves and a-callin’ ’emselves lords of creation, as if women were made for nothin’ but to earn money an’ see ’em drink it as my ’usband did which ’is inside never seemed to ’ave enough beer, an’ me a pore lone woman with no family, thank God, or they’d ’ave taken arter their father in ’is drinkin’ ’abits.’

  Mr Gorby took no notice of this tirade against men, but stood looking at Mr Whyte’s library, which seemed to consist mostly of French novels and sporting newspapers.

  ‘Zola,’ said Mr Gorby thoughtfully, taking down a flimsy yellow book rather tattered. ‘I’ve heard of him; if his novels are as bad as his reputation I shouldn’t care to read them.’

  Here a knock came at the front door, loud and decisive, on hearing which Mrs Hableton sprang hastily to her feet. ‘That may be Mr Moreland,’ she said, as the detective quickly replaced Zola in the bookcase. ‘I never ’ave visitors in the evenin’ bein’ a lone widder, and if it is ’im I’ll bring ’im in ’ere.’

  She went out, and presently Gorby who was listening intently; heard a man’s voice ask if Mr Whyte was at home. ‘No, sir, he ain’t,’ answered the landlady; ‘but there’s a gentleman in his room askin’ after ’im—won’t you come in, sir?’

  ‘For a rest, yes,’ returned the visitor, and immediately afterwards Mrs Hableton appeared, ushering in the late Oliver Whyte’s most intimate friend. He was a tall, slender man with a pink and white complexion, curly fair hair, and a drooping straw-coloured moustache—altogether a strikingly aristocratic individual. He was well-dressed in a fashionable suit of check, and had a cool, nonchalant air about him.

  ‘And where is Mr Whyte tonight?’ he asked, sinking into a chair, and taking no more notice of the detective than if he had been an article of furniture.

  ‘Haven’t you seen him lately?’ asked the detective quickly. Mr Moreland stared in an insolent manner at his questioner for a few moments, as if he were debating the advisability of answering or not. At last he apparently decided that he would, for slowly pulling off one glove he leaned back in his chair.