by Fergus Hume
‘It looks all square enough,’ said Kilsip, who wondered what evidence Calton could have found to contradict such a plain statement. ‘And what’s his defence?’
‘Mr Calton’s the only man as knows that,’ answered Gorby, finishing his drink, ‘but clever and all as he is, he can’t put anything in, that can go against my evidence.’
‘Don’t you be too sure of that,’ sneered Kilsip, whose soul was devoured with envy.
‘Oh! but I am,’ retorted Gorby, getting red as a turkey cock at the sneer. ‘You’re jealous you are, because you haven’t got a finger in the pie!’
‘Ah! but I may have yet.’
‘Going a-hunting yourself, are you?’ said Gorby, with an indignant snort. ‘A-hunting for what—for a man as is already caught?’
‘I don’t believe you’ve got the right man,’ remarked Kilsip, deliberately.
Mr Gorby looked upon him with a smile of pity.
‘No, of course you don’t, just because I’ve caught him; perhaps, when you see him hanged, you’ll believe it then?’
‘You’re a smart man, you are,’ retorted Kilsip, ‘but you ain’t the Pope to be infallible.’
‘And what ground have you for saying he’s not the right man?’ demanded Gorby.
Kilsip smiled, and stole softly across the room like a cat.
‘I’m not going to tell you all I know, but you ain’t so safe nor clever as you think,’ and, with another irritating smile, he went out.
Mr Gorby stared after him in indignant surprise. The fact is, Kilsip had believed firmly that Fitzgerald was the right man, but a doubt having been put into his mind by Calton, he thought he would irritate Gorby by these insinuations, though he himself knew nothing that could justify them.
‘He’s a cat and a snake,’ said Gorby, to himself, when the door had closed on his brother detective, ‘but it’s only brag; there isn’t a link missing in the chain of evidence against Fitzgerald, so I defy him to do his worst.’
At eight o’clock on that night the soft-footed and soft-voiced detective presented himself at Calton’s office, and found the lawyer impatiently waiting for him. Kilsip closed the door softly, and then taking a seat opposite to Calton, waited for him to speak. The lawyer, however, first handed him a cigar, and then producing a bottle of whisky and two glasses from some mysterious recess, he filled one and pushed it towards the detective.
Kilsip accepted these little attentions with the utmost gravity, yet they were not without their effect on him, as the keen-eyed lawyer saw. Calton was a great believer in diplomacy, and never lost an opportunity of inculcating it into young men starting in life. ‘Diplomacy,’ said Calton, to one young aspirant for legal honours, ‘is the oil we cast on the troubled waters of social, professional, and political life; and if you can, by a little tact, manage mankind, you are pretty certain to get on in this world.’ Of course, he practised what he preached, and knowing that Kilsip had that feline nature which likes to be stroked and made much of, he paid him these little attentions, which he well knew would make the detective willing to do everything in his power to help him. Calton also knew the dislike that Kilsip entertained for Gorby, and so, by dexterous management, he calculated upon twisting him, clever as he was, round his finger, and, as subsequent events showed, he had not reckoned wrongly. Having thus got him into a sympathetic frame of mind, and in a humour to bend his best energies to the work he wanted him to do, Calton started the conversation.
‘I suppose,’ he said, leaning back in his chair, and watching the wreaths of blue smoke curling from his cigar. ‘I suppose you know all the ins and outs of the hansom cab murder?’
‘I should rather think so,’ said Kilsip, with a curious light in his queer eyes. ‘Why, Gorby does nothing but brag about it, and his smartness, in catching the supposed murderer.’
‘Aha!’ said Calton, leaning forward, and putting his arms on the table. ‘Supposed murderer. Eh! Does that mean that he hasn’t been convicted by a jury, or do you think that Fitzgerald is innocent?’
Kilsip stared hard at the lawyer, in a vague kind of way, slowly rubbing his hands together.
‘Well,’ he said at length, in a deliberate manner, ‘before I got your note I was convinced Gorby had got a hold of the right man, but when I heard that you wanted to see me, and knowing you are defending the prisoner, I guessed that you must have found out something in his favour which you want me to look after.’
‘Right!’ said Calton, laconically.
‘As Mr Fitzgerald said he met Whyte at the corner and hailed the cab’—went on the detective.
‘How do you know that?’ interrupted Calton, sharply.
‘Gorby told me.’
‘How the devil did he find out?’ cried the lawyer, with genuine surprise.
‘Because he is always poking and prying about,’ said Kilsip, forgetting in his indignation that such poking and prying formed part of detective business. ‘But at any rate,’ he went on quickly, ‘if Mr Fitzgerald did leave Mr Whyte, the only chance he’s got of proving his innocence is that he did not come back, as the cabman alleged.’
‘Then, I suppose, you think that Fitzgerald will prove an alibi,’ said Calton.
‘Well, sir,’ answered Kilsip, modestly, ‘of course you know more about the case than I do, but that is the only defence I can see he can make.’
‘Well, he’s not going to put in such a defence.’
‘Then he must be guilty,’ said Kilsip, promptly.
‘Not necessarily,’ returned the barrister, dryly.
‘But if he wants to save his neck, he’ll have to prove an alibi,’ persisted the other.
‘That’s just where the point is,’ answered Calton. ‘He doesn’t want to save his neck.’
Kilsip, looking rather bewildered, took a sip of whisky, and waited to hear what Mr Calton had to say on the subject.
‘The fact is,’ said Calton, lighting a fresh cigar, ‘he’s got some extraordinary idea in his head about keeping where he was on that night secret.’
‘I understand,’ said Kilsip, gravely nodding his head. ‘Women?’
‘Nothing of the sort,’ retorted Calton, hastily. ‘That’s what I thought at first, but I was wrong; he went to see a dying woman who wanted to tell him something.’
‘What about?’
‘That’s just what I can’t tell you,’ answered Calton quickly. ‘It must have been something important, for she sent for him in great haste—and he was by her bedside between the hours of one and two on Friday morning.’
‘Then he did not return to the cab?’
‘No, he did not, he went to keep his appointment, but for some reason or another, won’t tell where this appointment was. I went to his rooms today and found this half-burnt letter, asking him to come.’
Calton handed the letter to Kilsip, who placed it on the table, and examined it carefully.
‘This was written on Thursday,’ said the detective.
‘Of course—you can see that from the date, and Whyte was murdered on Friday the 27th.’
‘It was written at something Villa Toorak,’ pursued Kilsip, still examining the paper. ‘Oh! I understand, he went down there.’
‘Hardly,’ retorted Calton in a sarcastic tone. ‘He couldn’t very well go down there, have an interview, and be back in East Melbourne in one hour—the cabman Royston can prove that he was at Russell Street at one o’clock, and his landlady, that he entered his lodging in East Melbourne at two—no, he wasn’t at Toorak.’
‘When was this letter delivered?’
‘Shortly before twelve o’clock, at the Melbourne Club, by a girl, who, from what the waiter saw of her, appears to be a disreputable individual—you will see it says bearer will await him at Bourke Street, and as another street is mentioned, and as Fitzgerald, after leaving Whyte, went down Russell Street to keep his appointment, the most logical conclusion is, that the bearer of the letter waited for him at the corner of Bourke and Russell streets. Now,’ went on the la
wyer, ‘I want to find out who the girl that brought the letter is!’
‘But how?’
‘God bless my soul, Kilsip! How stupid you are,’ cried Calton, his irritation getting the better of diplomacy. ‘Can’t you understand—that paper came from one of the back slums—therefore, it must have been stolen.’
A sudden light flashed into Kilsip’s eyes.
‘Talbot Villa, Toorak,’ he cried quickly, snatching up the letter again, and examining it with great attention, ‘where that burglary took place.’
‘Exactly,’ said Calton smiling complacently. ‘Now do you understand what I want—you must take me to the crib in the back slums where the articles stolen from the house in Toorak were hidden. This paper’—pointing to the letter—‘is part of the swag left behind, and must have been used by someone there. Brian Fitzgerald obeyed the directions given in the letter, and he was there at the time of the murder.’
‘I understand,’ said Kilsip, with a gratified purr. ‘There were four men engaged in that burglary and they hid the swag at Mother Guttersnipe’s crib, in a lane off Little Bourke Street—but hang it, a swell like Mr Fitzgerald, in evening dress, couldn’t very well have gone down there unless—’
‘He had someone with him, well known in the locality,’ finished Calton, rapidly. ‘Exactly. That woman who delivered the letter at the club guided him. Judging from the waiter’s description of her appearance, I should think she was pretty well known about the slums.’
‘Well,’ said Kilsip rising and looking at his watch, ‘it is now nine o’clock, so if you like we will go the old hag’s place at once—dying woman,’ he said, as if struck by a sudden thought, ‘there was a woman died there about four weeks ago.’
‘Who was she?’ asked Calton, who was putting on his overcoat.
‘Some relation of Mother Guttersnipe’s, I fancy,’ answered Kilsip as they left the office. ‘I don’t know exactly what she was—she was called the “Queen,” and a precious handsome woman she must have been—came from Sydney about three months ago, and from what I can make out, was not long from England, died of consumption on the Thursday night before the murder.’
‘Then she must have been the woman who wrote the letter.’
‘No doubt of it,’ replied Kilsip, ‘but if Fitzgerald was there on that night, we can get plenty of witnesses to prove an alibi. I am sure of two at least, Mother Guttersnipe and her granddaughter, Sal.’
But Mr Calton was not listening—as he stepped along beside his companion, he was thinking—
‘What on earth could a woman just from England, living in a Melbourne back slum, have to tell Fitzgerald about Madge Frettlby?’
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
A WOMAN OF THE PEOPLE
Bourke Street is always more crowded than Collins Street, especially at night. The theatres are there, and of course there is invariably a large crowd collected under the electric lights. Fashion does not come out after dark to walk about the streets, but prefers to roll along in her carriage; therefore, the block in Bourke Street at night is slightly different from that of Collins Street in the day.
The restless crowd which jostles and pushes along the pavements is grimy in the main, but the grimyness is lightened in many places by the presence of the ladies of the demi-monde, who flaunt about in gorgeous robes of the brightest colours. These gay-plumaged birds of ill-omen collect at the corners of the streets, and converse loudly with their male acquaintances till desired by some white-helmeted policeman to move on, which they do, after a good deal of unnecessary chatter. Round the doors of the hotels a number of ragged and shabby-looking individuals collect, who lean against the walls criticising the crowd, and waiting till some of their friends ask them to have a glass, a request they obey with suspicious alacrity.
Further on, a crowd of horsey-looking men are standing under the Opera House verandah, and one hears nothing but sporting talk about the coming Cup, and odds being given and taken on the cracks of the day. Then here and there are ragged street Arabs, selling matches and newspapers; and against the verandah post, in the full blaze of the electric light, leans a weary, draggled-looking woman, one arm clasping a baby to her breast, and the other holding a pile of newspapers, while she drones out in a hoarse voice, ‘’Erald, third ’dition, one penny!’ until the ear wearies of the constant repetition.
Cabs rattle incessantly along the street; here a fast-looking hansom with a rakish horse bearing some gilded youth to his club—there a dingy-looking vehicle drawn by a lank quadruped, which staggers blindly down the street. Alternating with these, carriages dash along with their well-groomed horses, and within, the vision of bright eyes, white dresses, and the sparkle of diamonds. Then further up, just on the verge of the pavement, a band, consisting of three violins and a harp is stationed, which is playing a German waltz to an admiring crowd of attentive spectators.
If there is one thing which the Melbourne folk love more than another, it is music, their fondness for which is only equalled by their admiration for horse racing. Any street band which plays at all decently may be sure of a good audience, and a substantial remuneration for their playing. Some writer has described Melbourne as Glasgow, with the sky of Alexandria; and certainly the beautiful climate of Australia, so Italian in its brightness, must have a great effect on the nature of such an adaptable race as the Anglo-Saxon.
In spite of the dismal prognostications of Marcus Clarke regarding the future Australian, which he describes as being ‘a tall, coarse, strong-jawed, greedy, pushing, talented man, excelling in swimming and horsemanship,’ it is more likely that he will be a cultured, indolent individual, with an intense appreciation of the arts and sciences, and a dislike to hard work and utilitarian principles. Climatic influence should be taken into account with regard to the future Australian, and our posterity will be no more like us than the luxurious Venetians resembled their hardy forefathers, who first started to build on those lonely sandy islands of the Adriatic.
This was the conclusion Mr Calton arrived at as he followed his guide through the crowded streets, and saw with what deep interest the crowd listened to the rhythmic strains of Strauss and the sparkling melodies of Offenbach. The brilliantly lit street, with the never ceasing stream of people pouring along; the shrill cries of the street Arabs, the rattle of vehicles, and the fitful strains of music, all made up a scene which fascinated him, and he could have gone on wandering all night, watching the myriad phases of human character constantly passing beneath his eyes. But his guide, with whom familiarity with the proletarians had, in a great measure, bred indifference, hurried him away to Little Bourke Street, where the narrowness of the street, with the high buildings on each side, the dim light of the sparsely scattered gas lamps, and the few ragged looking figures slouching along, formed a strong contrast to the brilliant and crowded scene they had just left. Turning off Little Bourke Street, the detective led the way down a dark lane, which felt like a furnace owing to the heat of the night; but on looking up, Calton caught a glimpse of the blue sky far above, glittering with stars, which gave him quite a sensation of coolness.
‘Keep close to me,’ whispered Kilsip, touching the barrister on the arm; ‘we may meet some nasty customers about here.’
Mr Calton, however, did not need such a warning, for the neighbourhood through which they were passing was so like that of the Seven Dials in London, that he kept as closely to the side of his guide as did Dante to that of Virgil in the Infernal Regions. It was not quite dark, for the atmosphere had that luminous kind of haze so observable in Australian twilights, and this weird light was just sufficient to make the darkness visible. Kilsip and the barrister kept for safety in the middle of the alley, so that no one could spring upon them unaware, and they could see sometimes on the one side a man cowering back into the black shadow, or on the other a woman with disordered hair and bare bosom, leaning out of a window trying to get a breath of fresh air. There were also some children playing in the dried-up gutter, and their shrill young
voices came echoing strangely through the gloom—mingling with a bacchanalian sort of song a man was singing, as he slouched along unsteadily over the rough stones. Now and then a mild looking string of Chinamen stole along, clad in their dull hued blue blouses; either chattering shrilly, like a lot of parrots, or moving silently down the alley with a stolid Oriental apathy on their yellow faces. Here and there came a stream of warm light through an open door, and within the Mongolians were gathered round the gambling tables, playing fan-tan, or else leaving the seductions of their favourite pastime, and, gliding soft-footed to the many cookshops, where enticing-looking fowls and turkeys, already cooked, were awaiting purchasers. Kilsip, turning to the left, led the barrister down another and still narrower lane, the darkness and gloom of which made the lawyer shudder, as he wondered how human beings could live in them.
‘It is like walking in the valley of the shadow of death,’ he muttered to himself, as they brushed past a woman who was crouching down in a dark corner, and who looked up at them with an evil scowl on her white face. And, indeed, it was not unlike the description in Bunyan’s famous allegory, what with the semi-darkness, the wild lights and shadows, and the vague, undefinable forms of men and women flitting to and fro in the dusky twilight.
At last to Calton’s relief, for he felt somewhat bewildered by the darkness and narrowness of the lanes through which he had been taken, the detective stopped before a door, which he opened, and, stepping inside, beckoned to the barrister to follow. Calton did so, and found himself in a low, dark, ill-smelling passage, at the end of which they saw a faint light. Kilsip caught his companion by the arm and guided him carefully along the passage. There was much need of this caution, for Calton could feel that the rotten boards were full of holes, into which one or the other of his feet kept slipping from time to time, while he could hear the rats squeaking and scampering away on all sides. Just as they got to the end of this tunnel, for it could be called nothing else, the light suddenly went out, and they were left in complete darkness.
