The Victorian Villains Megapack

by Arthur Morrison

  Dorrington was thinking. “Yes,” he said presently, “it is certainly a strange affair altogether. Let us see the odd-job man now—the man who was in the basement below the window. Or rather, find out where he is and leave me to find him.”

  Mr. Colson stepped out and spoke with the hall-porter. Presently he returned with news. “He’s gone!” he said. “Bolted!”

  “What—the man who was in the basement?”

  “Yes. It seems the police questioned him pretty closely yesterday, and he seized the first opportunity to cut and run.”

  “Do you know what they asked him?”

  “Examined him generally, I suppose, as to what he had observed at the time. The only thing he seems to have said was that he heard a window shut at about one o’clock. Questioned further, he got into confusion and equivocation, more especially when they mentioned a ladder which is kept in a passage close by where he was painting. It seems they had examined this before speaking to him, and found it had been just recently removed and put back. It was thick with dust, except just where it had been taken hold of to shift, and there the hand-marks were quite clean. Nobody was in the basement but Dowden (that is the man’s name), and nobody else could have shifted that ladder without his hearing and knowing of it. Moreover, the ladder was just the length to reach Deacon’s window. They asked if he had seen anybody move the ladder, and he most anxiously and vehemently declared that he had not. A little while after he was missing, and he hasn’t reappeared.”

  “And they let him go!” Dorrington exclaimed. “What fools!”

  “He may know something about it, of course,” Colson said dubiously; “but with that sword missing, and knowing what we do of Kanamaro’s anxiety to get it at any cost, and—and”—he glanced toward the other room where the idol stood—“and one thing and another, it seems to me we should look in another direction.”

  “We will look in all directions,” Dorrington replied. “Kanamaro may have enlisted Dowden’s help. Do you know where to find Kanamaro?”

  “Yes. Deacon has had letters from him, which I have seen. He lived in lodgings near the British Museum.”

  “Very well. Now, do you happen to know whether a night porter is kept at this place?”

  “No, there is none. The outer door is shut at twelve. Anybody coming home after that must ring up the housekeeper by the electric bell.”

  “The tenants do not have keys for the outer door?”

  “No; none but keys for their own rooms.”

  “Good. Now, Mr. Colson, I want to think things over a little. Would you care to go at once and ascertain whether or not Kanamaro is still at the address you speak of?”

  “Certainly, I will. Perhaps I should have told you that, though he knows me slightly, he has never spoken of his father’s sword to me, and does not know that I know anything about it. He seems, indeed, to have spoken about it to nobody but Deacon himself. He was very proud and reticent in the matter; and now that Deacon is dead, he probably thinks nobody alive knows of the matter of the sword but himself. If he is at home what shall I do?”

  “In that case keep him in sight and communicate with me, or with the police. I shall stay here for a little while. Then I shall get the hall-porter (if you will instruct him before you go) to show me the ladder and the vicinity of Dowden’s operations. Also, I think I shall look at the back staircase.”

  “But that was found locked, with the key inside.”

  “Well, well, there are ways of managing that, as you would know if you knew as much about housebreaking as I do. But we’ll see.”

  III

  Mr. Colson took a cab for Kanamaro’s lodgings. Kanamaro was not in, he found, and he had given notice to leave his rooms. The servant at the door thought that he was going abroad, since his boxes were being packed, apparently for that purpose. The servant did not know at what time he would be back.

  Mr. Colson thought for a moment of reporting these facts at once to Dorrington, but on second thoughts he determined to hurry to the City and make inquiry at some of the shipping offices as to the vessels soon to leave for Japan. On the way, however, he bethought him to buy a shipping paper and gather his information from that. He found what he wanted from the paper, but he kept the cab on its way, for he happened to know a man in authority at the Anglo-Malay Company’s office, and it might be a good thing to take a look at their passenger list. Their next ship for Yokohama was to sail in a few days.

  But he found it unnecessary to see the passenger list. As he entered one of the row of swing doors which gave access to the large general and inquiry office of the steamship company, he perceived Keigo Kanamaro leaving by another. Kanamaro had not seen him. Mr. Colson hesitated for a moment, and then turned and followed him.

  And now Mr. Colson became suddenly seized with a burning fancy to play the subtle detective on his own account. Plainly Kanamaro feared nothing, walking about thus openly, and taking his passage for Japan at the chief office of the first line of steamships that anybody would think of who contemplated a voyage to Japan, instead of leaving the country, as he might have done, by some indirect route, and shipping for Japan from a foreign port. Doubtless, he still supposed that nobody knew of his errand in search of his father’s sword. Mr. Colson quickened his pace and came up beside the Japanese.

  Kanamaro was a well-made man of some five feet eight or nine—remarkably tall for a native of Dai Nippon. His cheek-bones had not the prominence noticeable in the Japanese of the lower classes, and his pale oval face and aquiline nose gave token of high sikozu family. His hair only was of the coarse black that is seen on the heads of all Japanese. He perceived Mr. Colson, and stopped at once with a grave bow.

  “Good morning,” Mr. Colson said. “I saw you leaving the steamship office, and wondered whether or not you were going to leave us.”

  “Yes—I go home to Japan by the next departing ship,” Kanamaro answered. He spoke with an excellent pronunciation, but with the intonation and the suppression of short syllables peculiar to his countrymen who speak English. “My beesness is finished.”

  Mr. Colson’s suspicions were more than strengthened—almost confirmed. He commanded his features, however, and replied, as he walked by Keigo’s side, “Ah! Your visit has been successful, then?”

  “It has been successful,” Kanamaro answered, “at a very great cost.”

  “At a very great cost?”

  “Yes—I did not expect to have to do what I have done—I should once not have believed it possible that I could do it. But”—Kanamaro checked himself hastily and resumed his grave reserve—“but that is private beesness, and not for me to disturb you with.”

  Mr. Colson had the tact to leave that line of fishing alone for a little. He walked a few yards in silence, and then asked, with his eyes furtively fixed on the face of the Japanese, “Do you know of the god Hachiman?”

  “It is Hachiman the warrior; him of eight flags,” Kanamaro replied. “Yes, I know, of course.”

  He spoke as though he would banish the subject. But Mr. Colson went on—

  “Did he preside over the forging of ancient sword-blades in Japan?” he asked.

  “I do not know of preside—that is a new word. But the great workers of the steel, those who made the katana in the times of Yoshitsuné and Taiko-Sama, they hung curtains and made offerings to Hachiman when they forged a blade—yes. The great Muramasa and the great Masamuné and Sanénori—they forged their blades at the foot of Hachiman. And it is believed that the god Inari came unseen with his hammer and forged the steel too. Though Hachiman is Buddhist and Inari is Shinto. But these are not things to talk about. There is one religion, which is yours, and there is another religion, which is mine, and it is not good that we talk together of them. There are things that people call superstition when they are of another religion, though they may be very true.”

  They walked a little farther, and
then Mr. Colson, determined to penetrate Kanamaro’s mask of indifference, observed—

  “It’s a very sad thing this about Mr. Deacon.”

  “What is that?” asked Kanamaro, stolidly.

  “Why, it is in all the newspapers!”

  “The newspapers I do not read at all.”

  “Mr. Deacon has been killed—murdered in his rooms! He was found lying dead at the feet of Hachiman the god.”

  “Indeed!” Kanamaro answered politely, but with something rather like stolid indifference. “That is very sad. I am sorry. I did not know he had a Hachiman.”

  “And they say,” Mr. Colson pursued, “that something has been taken!”

  “Ah, yes,” Kanamaro answered, just as coolly; “there were many things of much value in the rooms.” And after a little while he added, “I see it is a little late. You will excuse me, for I must go to lunch at my lodgings. Good-day.”

  He bowed, shook hands, and hailed a cab. Mr. Colson heard him direct the cabman to his lodgings, and then, in another cab, Mr. Colson made for Dorrington’s office.

  Kanamaro’s stolidity, the lack of anything like surprise at the news of Mr. Deacon’s death, his admission that he had finished his business in England successfully—these things placed the matter beyond all doubt in Mr. Colson’s mind. Plainly he felt so confident that none knew of his errand in England, that he took things with perfect coolness, and even ventured so far as to speak of the murder in very near terms—to say that he did not expect to have to do what he had done, and would not have believed it possible that he could do it—though, to be sure, he checked himself at once before going farther. Certainly Dorrington must be told at once. That would be better than going to the police, perhaps, for possibly the police might not consider the evidence sufficient to justify an arrest, and Dorrington may have ascertained something in the meantime.

  Dorrington had not been heard of at his office since leaving there early in the morning. So Mr. Colson saw Hicks, and arranged that a man should be put on to watch Kanamaro, and should be sent instantly, before he could leave his lodgings again. Then Mr. Colson hurried to Bedford Mansions.

  There he saw the housekeeper. From him he learned that Dorrington had left some time since, promising either to be back or to telegraph during the afternoon. Also, he learned that Beard, the hall-porter, was in a great state of indignation and anxiety as a consequence of the discovery that he was being watched by the police. He had got a couple of days leave of absence to go and see his mother, who was ill, and he found his intentions and destination a matter of pressing inquiry. Mr. Colson assured the housekeeper that he might promise Beard a speedy respite from the attentions of the police, and went to his lunch.

  IV

  After his lunch Mr. Colson called and called again at Bedford Mansions, but neither Dorrington nor his telegram had been heard of. At something near five o’clock, however, when he had made up his mind to wait, restless as he was, Dorrington appeared, fresh and complacent.

  “Hope you haven’t been waiting long?” he asked. “Fact is I got no opportunity for lunch till after four, so I had it then. I think I’d fairly earned it. The case is finished.”

  “Finished? But there’s Kanamaro to be arrested. I’ve found—”

  “No, no—I don’t think anybody will be arrested at all; you’ll read about it in the evening papers in an hour, I expect. But come into the rooms. I have some things to show you.”

  “But I assure you,” Mr. Colson said, as he entered the door of Deacon’s rooms, “I assure you that I got as good as a confession from Kanamaro—he let it slip in ignorance of what I knew. Why do you say that nobody is to be arrested?”

  “Because there’s nobody alive who is responsible for Mr. Deacon’s death. But come—let me show you the whole thing; it’s very simple.”.

  He led the way to the room where the body had been found, and paused before the four-armed idol. “Here’s our old friend Hachiman,” he said, “whom you half fancied might have had something to do with the tragedy. Well, you were right. Hachiman had a good deal to do with it, and with the various disasters at Copleston’s too. I will show you how.”

  The figure, which was larger than life-size, had been set up temporarily on a large packing-case, hidden by a red cloth covering. Hachiman was represented in the familiar Japanese kneeling-sitting position, and the carving of the whole thing was of an intricate and close description. The god was represented as clad in ancient armour, with a large and loose cloak depending from his shoulders and falling behind in a wilderness of marvellously and deeply carved folds.

  “See here,” Dorrington said, placing his fingers under a projecting part of the base of the figure, and motioning to Mr. Colson to do the same. “Lift. Pretty heavy, eh?”

  The idol was, indeed, enormously heavy, and it must have required the exertions of several strong men to place it where it was. “It seems pretty solid, doesn’t it?” Dorrington continued. “But look here.” He stepped to the back of the image, and, taking a prominent fold of the cloak in one hand, with a quick pull and a simultaneous rap of the other fist two feet above, a great piece of the carved drapery lifted on a hinge near the shoulders, displaying a hollow interior. In a dark corner within a small bottle and a fragment of rag were just visible.

  “See there,” said Dorrington, “there wouldn’t be enough room in there for you or me, but a small man—a Japanese priest of the old time, say—could squat pretty comfortably. And see!”—he pointed to a small metal bolt at the bottom of the swing drapery—“he could bolt himself safely in when he got there. Whether the priest went there to play the oracle, or to blow fire out of Hachiman’s mouth and nose I don’t know, though no doubt it might be an interesting subject for inquiry; perhaps he did both. You observe the chamber is lined with metal, which does something towards giving the thing its weight, and there are cunning little openings among the armour-joints in front which would transmit air and sound—even permit of a peep out. Now Mr. Deacon might or might not have found out this back door after the figure had been a while in his possession, but it is certain he knew nothing of it when he bought it. Copleston knew nothing of it, though the thing has stood in his place for months. You see it’s not a thing one would notice at once—I never should have done so if I hadn’t been looking for it.” He shut the part, and the joints, of irregular outline, fell into the depths of the folds, and vanished as if by magic.

  “Now,” Dorrington went on, “as I told you, Copleston knew nothing of this, but one of his men found it out. Do you happen to have heard of one Samuel Castro, nicknamed ‘Slackjaw,’ a hunchback whom Copleston employed on odd jobs?”

  “I have seen him here. He called, sometimes with messages, sometimes with parcels. I should probably have forgotten all about him were it not that he was rather an extraordinary creature, even among Copleston’s men, who are all remarkable. But did he—”

  “He murdered Mr. Deacon, I think,” Dorrington replied, “as I fancy I can explain to you. But he won’t hang for it, for he was drowned this afternoon before my eyes, in an attempt to escape from the police. He was an extraordinary creature, as you have said. He wasn’t English—a half-caste of some sort I think—though his command of language, of the riverside and dock description, was very free; it got him his nickname of Slackjaw among the longshoremen. He was desperately excitable, and he had most of the vices, though I don’t think he premeditated murder in this case—nothing but robbery. He was immensely strong, although such a little fellow, and sharp in his wits, and he might have had regular work at Copleston’s if he had liked, but that wasn’t his game—he was too lazy. He would work long enough to earn a shilling or so, and then he would go off to drink the money. So he was a sort of odd on-and-off man at Copleston’s—just to run a message or carry something or what not when the regular men were busy. Well, he seems to have been smart enough—or perhaps it was no more than an accident�
��to find out about Hachiman’s back, and he used his knowledge for his own purposes. Copleston couldn’t account for missing things in the night—because he never guessed that Castro, by shutting himself up in Hachiman about closing time, had the run of the place when everybody had gone, and could pick up any trifle that looked suitable for the pawnshop in the morning. He could sleep comfortably on sacks or among straw, and thus save the rent of lodgings, and he could accept Hachiman’s shelter again just before Copleston turned up to start the next day’s business. Getting out, too, after the place was opened, was quite easy, for nobody came to the large store-rooms till something was wanted, and in a large place with many doors and gates, like Copleston’s, unperceived going and coming was easy to one who knew the ropes. So that Slack-jaw would creep quietly out, and in again by the front door to ask for a job. Copleston noticed how regular he had been every morning for the past few months, and thought he was getting steadier! As to the things that got smashed, I expect Slackjaw knocked them over, getting out in the dark. One china vase, in particular, had been shifted at the last moment, probably after he was in his hiding-place, and stood behind the image. That was smashed, of course. And these things, coming after the bad voyage of the ship in which he came over, very naturally gave poor Hachiman an unlucky reputation.

  “Probably Slackjaw was sorry at first when he heard that Hachiman was bought. But then an idea struck him. He had been to Mr. Deacon’s rooms on errands, and must have seen that fine old plate in the sitting-room. He had picked up unconsidered trifles at Copleston’s by aid of Hachiman—why not acquire something handsome at Deacon’s in the same way? The figure was to be carried to Bedford Mansions as soon as work began on Wednesday morning. Very well. All he had to do was to manage his customary sojourn at Copleston’s over Tuesday night, and keep to his hiding-place in the morning. He did it. Perhaps the men swore a bit at the weight of Hachiman, but as the idol weighed several hundredweights by itself, and had not been shifted since it first arrived, they most likely perceived no difference. Hachiman, with Slackjaw comfortably bolted inside him (though even he must have found the quarters narrow) jolted away in the waggon, and in course of time was deposited where it now stands.