Settling Scores

by Martin Edwards

  “Thanks very much—it’s awfully good of you. I’ll do what you advise. But isn’t there a dark horse anywhere else?”

  “Not dark to me, my boy, not dark to me. I know every man runnin’ like a book. Old Taylor—him over at the Cop—he’s got a very good lad—eighteen yards, and a very good lad indeed; and he’s a tryer this time, I know. But, bless you, my lad could give him ten, instead o’ taking three, and beat him then! When I’m runnin’ a real tryer, I’m generally runnin’ something very near a winner, you bet; and this time, mind, this time, I’m runnin’ the certainest winner I ever run—and I don’t often make a mistake. You back him.”

  “I shall, if you’re as sure as that. But who is he?”

  “Oh, Crockett’s his name—Sammy Crockett. He’s quite a new lad. I’ve got young Steggles looking after him—sticks to him like wax. Takes his little breathers in my bit o’ ground at the back here. I’ve got a cinder sprint path there, over behind the trees. I don’t let him out o’ sight much, I can tell you. He’s a straight lad, and he knows it’ll be worth his while to stick to me; but there’s some ’ud poison him, if they thought he’d spoil their books.”

  Soon afterward the two strolled toward the tap-room. “I expect Sammy’ll be there,” the landlord said, “with Steggles. I don’t hide him too much—they’d think I’d got something extra on, if I did.”

  In the tap-room sat a lean, wire-drawn-looking youth, with sloping shoulders and a thin face, and by his side was a rather short, thick-set man, who had an odd air, no matter what he did, of proprietorship and surveillance of the lean youth. Several other men sat about, and there was loud laughter, under which the lean youth looked sheepishly angry.

  “’Tarn’t no good, Sammy lad,” someone was saying. “You a makin’ after Nancy Webb—she’ll ha’ nowt to do with ’ee.”

  “Don’ like ’em so thread-papery,” added another. “No, Sammy, you aren’t the lad for she. I see her—”

  “What about Nancy Webb?” asked Kentish, pushing open the door. “Sammy’s all right, anyway. You keep fit, my lad, an’ go on improving, and some day you’ll have as good a house as me. Never mind the lasses. Had his glass o’ beer, has he?” This to Raggy Steggles, who, answering in the affirmative, viewed his charge as though he were a post, and the beer a recent coat of paint.

  “Has two glasses of mild a day,” the landlord said to Hewitt. “Never puts on flesh, so he can stand it. Come out now.” He nodded to Steggles, who rose, and marched Sammy Crockett away for exercise.

  On the following afternoon (it was Thursday), as Hewitt and Kentish chatted in the landlord’s own snuggery, Steggles burst into the room in a great state of agitation and spluttered out: “He—he’s bolted; gone away!”

  “What?”

  “Sammy—gone. Hooked it. I can’t find him.”

  The landlord stared blankly at the trainer, who stood with a sweater dangling from his hand, and stared blankly back. “What d’ye mean?” Kentish said, at last. “Don’t be a fool. He’s in the place somewhere; find him.”

  But this Steggles defied anybody to do. He had looked already. He had left Crockett at the cinder-path behind the trees, in his running-gear, with the addition of the long overcoat and cap he used in going between the path and the house, to guard against chill. “I was goin’ to give him a bust or two with the pistol,” the trainer explained, “but when we got over t’other side, ‘Raggy,’ ses he, ‘it’s blawin’ a bit chilly. I think I’ll ha’ a sweater—there’s one on my box, ain’t there?’ So in I coomes for the sweater, and it weren’t on his box, and when I found it and got back—he weren’t there. They’d seen nowt o’ him in t’ house, and he weren’t nowhere.”

  Hewitt and the landlord, now thoroughly startled, searched everywhere, but to no purpose. “What should he go off the place for?” asked Kentish, in a sweat of apprehension. “’Tain’t chilly a bit—it’s warm—he didn’t want no sweater; never wore one before. It was a piece of kid to be able to clear out. Nice thing, this is. I stand to win two years’ takings over him. Here—you’ll have to find him.”

  “Ah—but how?” exclaimed the disconcerted trainer, dancing about distractedly. “I’ve got all I could scrape on him myself; where can I look?”

  Here was Hewitt’s opportunity. He took Kentish aside and whispered. What he said startled the landlord considerably. “Yes, I’ll tell you all about that,” he said, “if that’s all you want. It’s no good or harm to me, whether I tell or no. But can you find him?”

  “That I can’t promise, of course. But you know who I am now, and what I’m here for. If you like to give me the information I want, I’ll go into the case for you, and, of course, I sha’n’t charge any fee. I may have luck, you know, but I can’t promise, of course.”

  The landlord looked in Hewitt’s face for a moment. Then he said, “Done! It’s a deal.”

  “Very good,” Hewitt replied; “get together the one or two papers you have, and we’ll go into my business in the evening. As to Crockett, don’t say a word to anybody. I’m afraid it must get out, since they all know about it in the house, but there’s no use in making any unnecessary noise. Don’t make hedging bets or do anything that will attract notice. Now we’ll go over to the back and look at this cinder-path of yours.”

  Here Steggles, who was still standing near, was struck with an idea. “How about old Taylor, at the Cop, guv’nor, eh?” he said, meaningly. “His lad’s good enough to win, with Sammy out, and Taylor is backing him plenty. Think he knows anything o’ this?”

  “That’s likely,” Hewitt observed, before Kentish could reply. “Yes. Look here—suppose Steggles goes and keeps his eye on the Cop for an hour or two, in case there’s anything to be heard of? Don’t show yourself, of course.”

  Kentish agreed, and the trainer went. When Hewitt and Kentish arrived at the path behind the trees, Hewitt at once began examining the ground. One or two rather large holes in the cinders were made, as the publican explained, by Crockett, in practising getting off his mark. Behind these were several fresh tracks of spiked shoes. The tracks led up to within a couple of yards of the high fence bounding the ground, and there stopped abruptly and entirely. In the fence, a little to the right of where the tracks stopped, there was a stout door. This Hewitt tried, and found ajar.

  “That’s always kept bolted,” Kentish said; “he’s gone out that way—he couldn’t have gone any other without comin’ through the house.”

  “But he isn’t in the habit of making a step three yards long, is he?” Hewitt asked, pointing at the last footmark and then at the door, which was quite that distance away from it. Besides,” he added, opening the door, “there’s no footprint here nor outside.”

  The door opened on a lane, with another fence and a thick plantation of trees at the other side. Kentish looked at the footmarks, then at the door, then down the lane, and finally back towards the house. “That’s a licker,” he said.

  “This is a quiet sort of lane,” was Hewitt’s next remark. “No houses in sight. Where does it lead?”

  “That way it goes to the Old Kilns—disused. This way down to a turning off the Padfield and Catton Road.”

  Hewitt returned to the cinder-path again, and once more examined the footmarks. He traced them back over the grass toward the house. “Certainly,” he said, “he hasn’t gone back to the house. Here is the double line of tracks, side by side, from the house—Steggles’s ordinary boots with iron tips and Crockett’s running pumps—thus they came out. Here is Steggles’s track in the opposite direction alone, made when he went back for the sweater. Crockett remained—you see various prints in those loose cinders at the end of the path where he moved this way and that, and then two or three paces toward the fence—not directly toward the door, you notice—and there they stop dead, and there are no more, either back or forward. Now, if he had wings, I should be tempted to the opinion that he flew straight away in the air from that spot—unless the earth swallowed him and closed again without le
aving a wrinkle on its face.”

  Kentish stared gloomily at the tracks, and said nothing.

  “However,” Hewitt resumed, “I think I’ll take a little walk now, and think over it. You go into the house and show yourself at the bar. If anybody wants to know how Crockett is, he’s pretty well, thank you. By-the-bye, can I get to the Cop—this place of Taylor’s—by this back lane?”

  “Yes, down to the end leading to the Catton Road, turn to the left, and then first on the right. Anyone’ll show you the Cop,” and Kentish shut the door behind the detective, who straightway walked—toward the Old Kilns.

  In little more than an hour he was back. It was now becoming dusk, and the landlord looked out papers from a box near the side window of his snuggery, for the sake of the extra light. “I’ve got these papers together for you,” he said, as Hewitt entered. “Any news?”

  “Nothing very great. Here’s a bit of handwriting I want you to recognise, if you can. Get a light.”

  Kentish lit a lamp, and Hewitt laid upon the table half-a-dozen small pieces of torn paper, evidently fragments of a letter which had been torn up, here reproduced in facsimile.

  The landlord turned the scraps over, regarding them dubiously. “These aren’t much to recognise, anyhow. I don’t know the writing. Where did you find ’em?”

  “They were lying in the lane at the back, a little way down. Plainly they are pieces of a note addressed to someone called Sammy or something very like it. See the first piece with its ‘mmy’? That is clearly from the beginning of the note, because there is no line between it and the smooth, straight edge of the paper above; also, nothing follows on the same line. Someone writes to Crockett—presuming it to be a letter addressed to him, as I do for other reasons—as Sammy. It is a pity that there is no more of the letter to be found than these pieces. I expect the person who tore it up put the rest in his pocket and dropped these by accident.”

  Kentish, who had been picking up and examining each piece in turn, now dolorously broke out:—

  “Oh, it’s plain he’s sold us—bolted and done us; me as took him out o’ the gutter, too. Look here—‘throw them over’; that’s plain enough—can’t mean anything else. Means throw me over, and my friends—me, after what I’ve done for him. Then ‘right away’—go right away, I s’pose, as he has done. Then,” he was fiddling with the scraps and finally fitted two together, “why, look here, this one with ‘lane’ on it fits over the one about throwing over, and it says ‘poor f’ where it’s torn; that means ‘poor fool,’ I s’pose—me, or ‘fathead,’ or something like that. That’s nice. Why, I’d twist his neck if I could get hold of him; and I will!”

  Hewitt smiled. “Perhaps it’s not quite so uncomplimentary after all,” he said. “If you can’t recognise the writing, never mind. But if he’s gone away to sell you, it isn’t much use finding him, is it? He won’t win if he doesn’t want to.”

  “Why, he wouldn’t dare to rope under my very eyes. I’d—I’d—”

  “Well, well; perhaps we’ll get him to run after all, and as well as he can. One thing is certain—he left this place of his own will. Further, I think he is in Padfield now—he went toward the town I believe. And I don’t think he means to sell you.”

  “Well, he shouldn’t. I’ve made it worth his while to stick to me. I’ve put a fifty on for him out of my own pocket, and told him so; and if he won, that would bring him a lump more than he’d probably get by going crooked, besides the prize money, and anything I might give him over. But it seems to me he’s putting me in the cart altogether.”

  “That we shall see. Meantime, don’t mention anything I’ve told you to anyone—not even to Steggles. He can’t help us, and he might blurt things out inadvertently. Don’t say anything about these pieces of paper, which I shall keep myself. By-the-bye, Steggles is indoors, isn’t he? Very well, keep him in. Don’t let him be seen hunting about this evening. I’ll stay here tonight and we’ll proceed with Crockett’s business in the morning. And now we’ll settle my business, please.”

  In the morning Hewitt took his breakfast in the snuggery, carefully listening to any conversation that might take place at the bar. Soon after nine o’clock a fast dog-cart stopped outside, and a red-faced, loud-voiced man swaggered in, greeting Kentish with boisterous cordiality. He had a drink with the landlord, and said: “How’s things? Fancy any of ’em for the sprint handicap? Got a lad o’ your own in, haven’t you?”

  “Oh, yes,” Kentish replied. “Crockett. Only a young ’un—not got to his proper mark yet, I reckon. I think old Taylor’s got No. 1 this time.”

  “Capital lad,” the other replied, with a confidential nod. “Shouldn’t wonder at all. Want to do anything yourself over it?”

  “No—I don’t think so. I’m not on at present. Might have a little flutter on the grounds just for fun; nothing else.”

  There were a few more casual remarks, and then the red-faced man drove away.

  “Who was that?” asked Hewitt, who had watched the visitor through the snuggery window.

  “That’s Danby—bookmaker. Cute chap; he’s been told Crockett’s missing, I’ll bet anything, and come here to pump me. No good though. As a matter of fact, I’ve worked Sammy Crockett into his books for about half I’m in for altogether—through third parties, of course.”

  Hewitt reached for his hat. “I’m going out for half an hour now,” he said. “If Steggles wants to go out before I come back, don’t let him. Let him go and smooth over all those tracks on the cinder-path, very carefully. And, by-the-bye, could you manage to have your son about the place today, in case I happen to want a little help out of doors?”

  “Certainly; I’ll get him to stay in. But what do you want the cinders smoothed for?”

  Hewitt smiled and patted his host’s shoulder. “I’ll explain all my little tricks when the job’s done,” he said, and went out.

  On the lane from Padfield to Sedby village stood the “Plough” beerhouse, wherein J. Webb was licensed to sell by retail beer to be consumed on the premises or off, as the thirsty list. Nancy Webb, with a very fine colour, a very curly fringe, and a wide-smiling mouth revealing a fine set of teeth, came to the bar at the summons of a stoutish old gentleman with spectacles, who walked with a stick.

  The stoutish old gentleman had a glass of bitter beer and then said, in the peculiarly quiet voice of a very deaf man: “Can you tell me, if you please, the way into the main Catton Road?”

  “Down the lane, turn to the right at the cross roads, then first to the left.”

  The old gentleman waited with his hand to his ear for some few seconds after she had finished speaking, and then resumed, in his whispering voice, “I’m afraid I’m very deaf this morning.” He fumbled in his pocket and produced a note-book and pencil. “May I trouble you to write it down? I’m so very deaf at times, that I—thank you.”

  The girl wrote the direction, and the old gentleman bade her good morning and left. All down the lane he walked slowly with his stick. At the cross roads he turned, put the stick under his arm, thrust the spectacles into his pocket, and strode away in the ordinary guise of Martin Hewitt. He pulled out his note-book, examined Miss Webb’s direction very carefully, and then went off another way altogether, toward the “Hare and Hounds.”

  Kentish lounged moodily in his bar. “Well, my boy,” said Hewitt, “has Steggles wiped out the tracks?”

  “Not yet—I haven’t told him. But he’s somewhere about—I’ll tell him now.”

  “No, don’t. I don’t think we’ll have that done, after all. I expect he’ll want to go out soon—at any rate, some time during the day. Let him go whenever he likes. I’ll sit upstairs a bit in the club-room.”

  “Very well. But how do you know Steggles will be going out?”

  “Well, he’s pretty restless after his lost protégé, isn’t he? I don’t suppose he’ll be able to remain idle long.”

  “And about Crockett. Do you give him up?”

  “Oh, no. Don�
�t you be impatient. I can’t say I’m quite confident yet of laying hold of him—the time is so short, you see—but I think I shall at least have news for you by the evening.”

  Hewitt sat in the club-room until the afternoon, taking his lunch there. At length he saw, through the front window, Raggy Steggles walking down the road. In an instant Hewitt was downstairs and at the door. The road bent eighty yards away, and as soon as Steggles passed the bend the detective hurried after him.

  All the way to Padfield town and more than half through it Hewitt dogged the trainer. In the end Steggles stopped at a corner and gave a note to a small boy who was playing near. The boy ran with the note to a bright, well-kept house at the opposite corner. Martin Hewitt was interested to observe the legend “H. Danby, Contractor,” on a board over a gate in the side wall of the garden behind this house. In five minutes a door in the side gate opened, and the head and shoulders of the red-faced man emerged. Steggles immediately hurried across and disappeared through the gate.

  This was both interesting and instructive. Hewitt took up a position in the side street and waited. In ten minutes the trainer reappeared and hurried off the way he had come, along the street Hewitt had considerately left clear for him. Then Hewitt strolled toward the smart house and took a good look at it. At one corner of the small piece of forecourt garden, near the railings, a small, baize-covered, glass-fronted notice-board stood on two posts. On its top edge appeared the words “H. Danby. Houses to be Sold or Let.” But the only notice pinned to the green baize within was an old and dusty one, inviting tenants for three shops, which were suitable for any business, and which would be fitted to suit tenants. Apply within.

  Hewitt pushed open the front gate and rang the doorbell. “There are some shops to let, I see,” he said, when a maid appeared. “I should like to see them, if you will let me have the key.”