The Third R. Austin Freeman Megapack

by R. Austin Freeman

  “You had better say what you mean by ‘the pickle tub,’” said the Superintendent.

  “It is a big tub of brine what they pickles their herrings and cabbage in. There wasn’t much in it but brine just then. They filled it up with fish and cabbage the next day.”

  “And about this rope that you say they had ready. What do you know about that?”

  “It was a bit about a couple of fathoms long that was cut off a rope that belonged to Gomorrah. I don’t know where he got it. But I know the rope because he brought the piece to me and asked me to show him how to make a noose in it. That was the day before they did the gent in. Of course, I didn’t know what he wanted it for, so I made a running bowline in the end just to show him.”

  “I see,” said the Superintendent (and no doubt he did); “what happened next?”

  “Well,” replied Trout, “when they’d done him in, they’d got to dispose of the body. For the time being they stowed it away in the cellar, and a rare fright they got while it was there; for some coves brought an egg-chest to the house in a mighty hurry. They thought Powis was inside it, but when they opened it a strange young man popped out. I fancy it was this young gentleman,” he added, indicating me, “and a pretty narrow squeak he had; for Ebbstein thought he was a spy, and, being in a blue funk about the body that he’d got in his cellar, he wanted to do the young man in to make things safe. But the bloke what had brought the case wasn’t going to be mixed up with any throat slitting—of course, he didn’t know anything about the body downstairs—so they locked the young man up in Jonas Markovitch’s room, and he got out of the window and hiked off.

  “However, that’s another story. To come back to this job: the night they did the gent in, Gomorrah comes to me and says that him and Ebbstein is in difficulties. He says the gent was took ill—had a stroke, or somethink—and died suddenly, and they don’t know what to do with the body. He asks me if I know of any safe place where they could plant it, where it wouldn’t be found for a little while. Of course, he didn’t say anything about the murder at that time. If he had, I wouldn’t have had anything to do with the business. But as it seemed to be just an accident, I didn’t see no harm in giving ’em a bit of advice.

  “Now, I happened to know Stratford pretty well. Got a married sister what lives there. And I knowed about those empty houses in Piper’s Row, so I told Gomorrah about them and he thought they’d suit to a ‘T.’ So he asked me to take Zichlinsky and Shemrofsky down to the place and show ’em the way; and he gave me a bunch of skeleton keys and some tools to get in. But I didn’t want ’em; for when I went down there that night with Zichlinsky and Shemrofsky and picked out a likely-looking house, I found I could open the door with my own latch-key. So I told Zichlinsky that I would lend him the latch-key when he wanted to get into the house. And I did. I lent him the key on the Sunday afternoon and he give it me back the next morning.”

  “You didn’t go with him to Stratford when he took the body there?”

  “Me! Not much. He wanted me to, but I wasn’t going to be mixed up in the business.”

  “Do you know who did go with him?”

  “No. I don’t know as anybody did. Anyhow, it wasn’t me.”

  “When did you first hear about the murder?”

  “Not until after the body was found. When I heard about it being found hanging in the wash’us, I smelt a rat. So I asked Gomorrah about it and then he let on by degrees. He wasn’t quite himself just then on account of a knock on the head that he got from this young gentleman. First he put it all on to Zichlinsky, but afterwards I got the whole story out of him.”

  The Superintendent waited for some further observations, but as none were forthcoming, he asked: “Is that all you’ve got to tell us?”

  “That’s the lot, sir,” Trout replied with cheerful finality, adding, “and quite enough too.”

  “Not quite enough, Trout,” the Superintendent corrected. “There’s one other little matter that we want some information about. Have you got that small object about you, Mr. Brodribb?”

  Mr. Brodribb had, and presently produced it from an envelope which he took out of his letter case. As he laid it down on the clean, white blotting pad, I recognised with something of a thrill my long-lost and deeply lamented emerald.

  Mr. Trout regarded it stolidly, and, when the Superintendent asked him what he could tell us about it, he promptly replied: “Nothing.”

  “That isn’t much,” the officer remarked. “Perhaps if I tell you something about it you’ll remember something more. You probably know that Powis is in detention awaiting his trial. Now, this stone was in his possession, and he says that you sold it to him.”

  “Well,” protested Trout, “supposing I did. It ain’t got nothin’ to do with this other business.”

  “But it has a great deal,” said the Superintendent. “This stone was in a ring which is known to have been on the person of the gentleman who was murdered. This is the ring that it came from” (here the Superintendent took from his pocket and laid on the blotting pad a rather massive gold ring in which was an empty oval space); “and this ring was found in the possession of Jonas Markovitch, who says that he bought it from you.”

  “He’s a liar,” exclaimed Trout, indignantly. “He sold me the stone, himself. He took it out of the ring because it wasn’t no good to him, as he was going to melt down the metal. I gave him a bob for it and I sold it to Powis for five bob. Markovitch told me he found the ring on the work-room floor.”

  “Well, why didn’t you say so at first, Trout?” said the Superintendent in a tone of mild reproach.

  “I forgot,” replied Trout, adding irrelevantly: “besides, I couldn’t see that it mattered.”

  As it appeared that he had nothing further to communicate, his statement was read over to him, and, when he had suggested one or two trifling alterations, he signed it with considerable effort and the addition of two good-sized blots which he endeavoured to lick up. The addition of the Superintendent’s signature completed the formalities and the prisoner was then conducted back to the other room. As the door closed behind him, the Superintendent uttered a grunt of satisfaction.

  “Not so bad,” said he. “With your evidence, Doctor, and Mr. Gray’s and these two statements, we may say that we have a complete case.”

  “You think these two men will be willing to go into the witness box?” asked Mr. Brodribb.

  “Oh, they will be willing enough,” replied the Superintendent, “seeing that their evidence tends to clear them of being directly concerned in the murder.”

  “What about Singleton?” Dr. Thorndyke asked. “Will he swear to Zichlinsky’s fingerprint?

  “Yes,” the Superintendent answered. “He would have sworn to it before, only that it seemed impossible, and that he has such a holy terror of you since that Hornby case. But now he is ready to swear to it and give details as to the agreement of the separate features. So we have got a strong case even without these statements. But, Lord! Doctor, you haven’t left us much glory. Here is your information” (he took a paper from his pocket and opened it before him), “describing the whole crime in close detail, and here are these two statements; and, making allowance for a few obvious lies, they are identical. The only weak spot was the murder charge against ‘Madame,’ as they call her; and she has solved that difficulty by throwing in her hand. Her suicide almost amounts to a confession—for although she hadn’t been charged with the murder, she must have seen that she was going to be—and it will have put the fear of God into the others.”

  “Speaking of the others,” said Dr. Thorndyke, “do you propose to offer the three principals the opportunity to make voluntary statements?”

  “Of course, they can if they like,” the Superintendent replied, “but I have advised them to say nothing until they have consulted their Rabbi or a lawyer. As they will be on trial for their lives, it would not be proper to encourage them to talk at this stage. No doubt they will elect to give evidence at their tria
l, and each of them will try to clear himself by incriminating the others. But that is their lookout.”

  “With regard to David Hardcastle,” said Mr. Brodribb, “I assume that you take the same view as I do: that he had no hand in the affair at all.”

  “That is so,” was the reply. “We have nothing against him. He seems to be right outside the picture. He would be, you know. This is not an English type of crime. It is pretty certain that Madame kept him entirely in the dark about the whole affair. And now, gentlemen, I think we have finished for the present and I am very much obliged to you for your help. You will be kept informed as to any further developments.”

  With this, the meeting broke up; and as it seemed that my valuable services were no longer in demand at Mr. Brodribb’s office, I was released (with a substantial fee for my attendance), after a cordial hand-shake with the four gentlemen, and went forth to view the neighbourhood of Westminster and to reflect upon the surprising circumstances in which I had become involved.

  CHAPTER XVIII

  The Wheel of Fortune

  (Jasper Gray’s Narrative)

  To most of us a retrospect of life presents a picture of a succession of events each of which is visibly connected with those that have gone before. Times change indeed and we change with them; but the changes are gradual, progressive, evolutionary. The child grows up to manhood and in so doing reacts on his environment in such a way as to set up in it responsive changes. But he remains the same person and his environment remains substantially the same environment. Though both alter insensibly from day to day and from year to year, there is no point at which the connection of the present with the past is definitely broken.

  This is the common experience; to which my own offers a striking exception. For into my life there came a break with the past so sudden and complete that in a few moments I not only passed into a totally new environment but even seemed, in a sense, to have acquired a new personality.

  The break came on the third day after my attendance at the police headquarters. I can recall the circumstances with the most intense vividness; as well I may, for, with the material gain was linked an irreparable loss that has left a blank in my life even unto this day. I was still on leave from Sturt and Wopsalls, ‘standing by’ at Mr. Brodribb’s request, for possible, and unknown, duties, and having nothing to do on this particular morning had taken up my position in a reasonably comfortable chair to listen while Pontifex expounded the Latin language to one of his pupils.

  How clearly the picture rises before me as I write! The shabby room, ill-furnished and none too clean; the deal table—its excessive dealiness partially cloaked by a threadbare cover—invitingly furnished with one or two books and a little pile of scribbling paper; and the two figures that faced one another across the table—Pontifex, sitting limply in his Windsor elbow-chair and looking strangely old and frail, and the stolid pupil with eyes sullenly downcast at his book. I watched them both, but especially Pontifex, noting uneasily how he seemed to have aged and withered within the last week or two and wondering how much of the change was attributable respectively to Mr. Brodribb or Johnny Walker; and noting, further, that the latter was conspicuously in abeyance at the moment.

  Mr. Cohen, the present recipient of instruction, was not a promising pupil. It was not that he was a fool. By no means. I had seen him conducting the business of the paternal pawnbroker’s shop and could certify as to his being most completely on the spot; so much so that my mission (as Ponty’s agent) turned out a financial failure. But Mr. Cohen’s genius was exclusively commercial. As a classical scholar he was hopeless. Poor Ponty groaned at the sound of his footsteps on the stair.

  This morning the subject of study was Virgil’s Georgics, Book Four, of which the opening paragraph had been dealt with, painfully and incompletely, in the previous lesson.

  “Now, Mr. Cohen,” said Pontifex, with a cheerful and encouraging air, “we begin with verse eight, which introduces the subject of the poem. Principio sedes apibus statioque pelenda. Let us hear how you render that into English.”

  Mr. Cohen glared sulkily at his book, but rendering there was none beyond certain inward mutterings which had a suspiciously expletive quality. Pontifex waited patiently awhile, and then, as no further sound was forthcoming, he made a fresh start.

  “Perhaps we shall simplify matters if we attack the translation word by word. Let us take the first word, Principio. How shall we translate Principio, Mr. Cohen?”

  Mr. Cohen reflected and at length pronounced the word “Principal,” possibly influenced unconsciously by some reminiscence of the three golden balls.

  “No,” said Pontifex, “that will hardly do. Possibly, if you recall the opening sentence of the Gospel of St. John in the Vulgate. In principio erat verbum—ahem—” here Ponty pulled up short, suddenly realising that Mr. Cohen was probably not familiar with the Gospel of St. John in the Vulgate or any other form. After a short pause he continued: “Shall we say ‘to begin with’ or ‘in the first place’?”

  “Yes,” Mr. Cohen agreed promptly, “that’s all right.”

  “Very well,” said Ponty. “Now take the next word, sedes.”

  “Seeds,” suggested Mr. Cohen.

  “Not seeds,” Ponty corrected mildly. “We must not allow ourselves to be misled by analogies of sound. Think of the word sedentary. What is the distinguishing characteristic of a sedentary person, Mr. Cohen?”

  “Doesn’t take enough exercise,” was the reply.

  “Very true,” Ponty admitted; “and for the reason that he usually occupies a seat. ‘Seats’ is the word we want, not seeds. ‘In the first place seats’ statioque—seats and a—and a what, Mr. Cohen?”

  “Station,” was the confident answer.

  “Excellent!” exclaimed Ponty. “Perfectly correct. Seats and a station petenda,” he paused for a moment and then, despairing of Cohen’s grammar, translated, “must be procured, or more correctly, sought. In the first place, seats and a station must be sought apibi the—for the what, Mr. Cohen?”

  “Apes,” replied Cohen, promptly.

  “No, no,” protested Ponty. “Not apes. Similarities of sound are misleading us again. Think of the English word, apiary. You know what an apiary is, Mr. Cohen?”

  Mr. Cohen said that he did, and I didn’t believe him. “Well now,” said Ponty, persuasively, “what does one keep in an apiary?”

  “Apes,” was the dogged answer.

  What the end of it would have been I shall never know, for at this point footsteps became audible, ascending the stairs. Pontifex listened uneasily and laid down his book as they reached the landing. There was a short pause, and then a soft, apologetic tapping at the door. I sprang up, and, crossing the room, threw the door open, thereby disclosing the astonishing apparition of Mr. Brodribb and Miss Stella’s mother.

  For a moment, I was so disconcerted that I could only stand, holding the door open and staring vacantly at our visitors. Not so Pontifex. At the first glance he had risen and now came forward to receive them with a dignified and rather stiff bow, and having placed chairs for them excused himself and turned to his gaping and inquisitive pupil.

  “I am afraid, Mr. Cohen,” said he, “that we shall have to suspend our studies for this morning.”

  “Right you are,” replied Cohen, rising with unscholarly alacrity. Gleefully he snatched up his book and was off like a lamplighter. As his boots clattered down the stairs, Pontifex faced Mr. Brodribb with an air of polite and rather frosty enquiry; and the latter, who had not seated himself, showed less than his usual self-possession.

  “I feel, sir,” he began hesitatingly, “that I should apologize for what must appear like an intrusion, especially after your clearly expressed desire to be left untroubled by visitors.”

  “You need have no such feeling,” replied Pontifex, “since I have no doubt that I am indebted for the honour of this visit to some unusual and sufficient circumstances.”

  “You are quite right, sir,” rejoine
d Mr. Brodribb. “Circumstances have arisen which have made it imperative that I should communicate with you. I should have hinted at them when I had the pleasure of meeting you the other day, but your reception of me was not encouraging. Now, I have no choice, and I have ventured to ask Mrs. Paul Hardcastle to accompany me in the hope that her presence may—ha—lessen the force of the impact.”

  Pontifex bowed to the lady and smiled a frosty smile. I looked at him in astonishment. The familiar Ponty seemed to have suffered some strange transformation. This cool, dignified, starchy old gentleman was a new phenomenon. But Mrs. Paul would have none of his starch. Starting up from her chair, she ran to him impulsively and took both his hands.

  “Why are you so cold to us, Sir Gervase?” she exclaimed. “Why do you hold us at arm’s length in this way? Are we not old friends? It is true that the years have drifted in between us. But we were friends when we were young, and nothing has ever befallen to weaken our friendship. We both loved dear Phillipa and we both treasure her memory. For her dear sake, if for no other, let us be friends still.”

  Pontifex softened visibly. “It is true, Constance,” he said, gently, “that my heart should warm to you for the sake of that sweet saint, of whose devotion I was so unworthy. Pardon a crabbed old man who has made the world his enemy. One does not gather gratefully the harvest of one’s own folly. Forgive me, cousin, and let us hear about your mission.”

  “It is not my mission, Sir Gervase,” she replied. “I came because Mr. Brodribb thought that my presence might make things easier for you.”