The Third R. Austin Freeman Megapack

by R. Austin Freeman

  “A simple method occurs to me,” said Mr. Toke “It is this. On receiving notice in some prearranged manner that a sample is to be delivered, I draw my car up at night in a quiet place, opposite a blank wall, with the doors locked, but the rear window open. I then leave it for a few minutes unattended. It would be quite easy for a passer-by to drop a small parcel in at the window unobserved and pass on. A few suitable localities could be designated by numbers for greater safety in making arrangements.”

  Mr. Hughes considered this proposal, and, on the whole, approved.

  “It would work all right,” said he, “provided both parties keep to the principle of a square deal. Otherwise, the party who dropped his goods into the other man’s window would take a biggish risk.”

  “Quite so,” agreed Mr. Toke. “That is why I emphasized the necessity for scrupulous fair dealing on both sides.”

  They spent some time in settling a few details and in arranging a simple code for use in unavoidable letters. Then Hughes rose as if to depart. But, as he was turning away from the table, he paused and then sat down again.

  “There is one little affair that we might settle as I am here,” said he. He unbuttoned his coat and from an inner pocket produced a little wash-leather bag. From this he extracted a ring set with a single large emerald and laid it down on the table.

  “Any offers?” he asked.

  Mr. Toke took it up and examined it.

  “A fine stone,” he remarked, approvingly; “a very fine stone. Well cut, too. These step-cut stones often have the table too large. I can offer you thirty pounds for this ring.”

  “It is worth a good deal more than that,” said Hughes.

  “It is,” agreed Mr. Toke. “It might fetch sixty at a suitable auction. I will give you forty-five if I may sell it publicly and say where I got it. Is that possible?”

  “No,” replied Hughes. “I am selling it on commission, and I don’t know where the vendor got it.”

  “Then,” said Toke, “thirty is the outside price. You see, this is an important stone. Someone is sure to have the particulars of it—the measurements and weight—so it could be identified. If I take it, I shall either have to have it re-cut or put it into store for a year or two. Still, you might get a better price from someone else.”

  Hughes, however, knew that he certainly would not; having tried a fence, who offered him ten pounds. But he did not mention this fact. He merely replied:

  “Very well. I suppose you know best. I’ll take thirty, if you can’t offer any more.”

  Accordingly the amount was paid—in cash—and Mr. Hughes took his leave.

  We need not pursue the details of the subsequent transactions. The visible parties to those transactions were Toke and Hughes; and, as both of them were reasonable men, the necessary conditions were loyally observed and everything went fairly smoothly. Toke made it a rule to give the best prices that were economically possible; and these were so much better than those obtainable from the regular fences that Hughes found it practicable to purchase illicit goods from certain practitioners other than Dobey, with the result that Mr. Toke was almost embarrassed by the magnitude of the transactions. Yet it was all to the good. For the increased amount of capital at his disposal enabled him not only to make more important purchases in his own legitimate line, but to indulge in the luxury, dear to the true collector’s heart, of keeping specially choice pieces which he would otherwise have had to sell.

  But it had another effect; and a very queer effect it was. There was a side to Mr. Toke’s character which we have not had occasion to mention, because, in the ordinary affairs of life, it did not show itself. But the fact is, that there was in Mr. Toke’s mental make-up a very definite streak of the miser. It was very strange. In his daily business of life, and even in his domestic affairs, he was a perfectly normal man, with a banking account and investments, an ordered financial system, and a completely rational sense of values. Yet, behind it all was that queer mental twist; and, when it showed itself, Mr. Didbury Toke was a miser—a genuine miser, too, of the real “Blackberry Jones” brand.

  But perhaps it was not so very strange, after all. For Mr. Toke was a born collector; and what is a miser but a collector of a rather irrational kind? A collector whose joy is in mere possession, regardless of the qualities—other than intrinsic value—of the things possessed? At any rate, there it was; and it must be mentioned because certain consequences, directly traceable to it, have to be recorded hereafter. And, for the same reason, it is necessary to describe briefly the ways in which this queer trait manifested itself.

  In the good old days before the war, Mr. Toke was accustomed to keep, in one of the rooms adjoining the gallery at the Manor House, in which his collection was lodged, a drawer filled with sovereigns. It was a secret hoard, not provided for current use, but, like the rest of the collection, a treasure to be enjoyed by mere gloating and contemplation. At night, when the gallery door was locked, he would bring it out and set it on the table. Then, in the genuine “Blackberry Jones” manner, he would sit himself down to gloat over its glittering contents, taking up handfuls of the shining coins or spreading them out on the table in rows or geometrical patterns.

  Perhaps there was something to be said for this rather odd pursuit. The Sovereign was a handsome coin, particularly as to the reverse, which displayed Pistrucci’s magnificent St. George. But, though Mr. Toke was far from unappreciative of Pistrucci’s masterpiece, it was not that work of art which endeared the coins to his heart, as subsequent events proved. For, in the days that followed the war, he was compelled to make inroads on his treasure to carry out some of his foreign deals, and to furnish himself for his journeys abroad. Gradually, the golden contents of the drawer dwindled, until only a hundred or so of the coins were left.

  It was at this point that the inflow of ill-gotten wealth came to his relief. The parcels of jewellery that Mr. Hughes dropped periodically in through the window of his car consisted principally of “trade” articles, which, however valuable intrinsically, were of no artistic merit. Mr. Toke’s procedure was to pick out the stones and dispose of them through the ordinary trade channels. Their sale yielded him a modest profit, and with this he was content, at least for a time. But presently the gold mountings began to accumulate. If the transactions had been lawful ones, be would simply have taken these mountings to a bullion dealer and realized the value of the gold. But the gold mounts were precisely the most recognizable parts of the “swag.” It was quite impracticable to dispose of them in the state in which they came to him.

  Then he decided to melt them down; and, to this end, he provided himself with a small crucible furnace that burned coke or charcoal—there was no gas at the Manor House—and was fitted with a foot bellows. He also obtained a few crucibles, one or two jewellers ingot moulds, and the necessary tongs and other implements; and with these appliances he set to work to reduce the miscellaneous collection of stoneless jewellery to neat little ingots, each of which he carefully marked with a punch to show its “fineness” in carats.

  But even this did not quite solve the difficulty. For, as we have seen, Mr. Toke was an eminently cautious gentleman, and it was borne in on him that the sale of gold ingots on a somewhat considerable scale was a proceeding that might, in the course of time, lead to inconvenient enquiries. He was known as a dealer in stones. But gold ingots were things that needed to be accounted for. He decided, at least for the present, not to run the risk.

  So, by degrees, the ingots accumulated. But Mr. Toke was not disturbed. On the contrary, the larger his stock grew—and it grew apace—the less desirous did he become to dispose of it. For a curious change had come over him. Gradually, the affection that he had felt for the sovereigns transferred itself to the growing pile of ingots; and at nights, when he had turned out the surviving remnants of coins from the drawer, he would bring forth the ingots from the cupboard where they were secreted and lay them out on the table or build them up into little stacks. And as the s
tacks grew steadily in size and number, he would think of his partners and their mysterious activities with pleasant anticipations of yet further additions to his hoard; which was rapidly becoming more real to him than the less visible wealth that was represented by the figures in his bank books and his lists of investments.

  Occasionally he found himself speculating on the part that Mr. Hughes played in this curious, unlawful business. Was he a receiver, pure and simple, or was he an actual operator? On the rare occasions when they met, Hughes maintained the most profound reticence. Mr. Toke’s view was that Hughes and Dobey formed a small firm to which Hughes contributed the brains and power of contrivance, and Dobey the manual skill and executive ability.

  Possibly he was right. At any rate, as we have said, all went well and smoothly, and Dobey, more fortunate than most of his fellow practitioners, continued to keep out of the clutches of the law.

  CHAPTER IV

  Mr. Toke’s Indiscretion

  In a remote corridor at the top of a large building in Holborn the rather infrequent visitors might have seen a door, glazed with opaque glass, on which was painted the name of Mr. Arthur Hughes. No further information was vouchsafed; but if the directory had been consulted it would have been ascertained that Mr. Hughes was a patent agent. His practice was not extensive; but still, on certain rare occasions, stray members of that peculiarly optimistic class, prospective patentees, discovered his existence by means of the directory aforesaid, and subjected him to a mild surprise by appearing in his office.

  Their visits were not unwelcome; for, though the business that they brought was of little enough value, they rendered possible the keeping of books which could be produced in evidence of a bona fide industry.

  The visitor, however, who appeared on a certain afternoon was not one of these clients, nor was he connected with the patent industry; being, in fact, none other than Mr. Didbury Toke. Mr. Toke was a good deal out of breath, having climbed the long staircase as a matter of precaution, and now sat panting across the table behind which Mr. Hughes was seated, regarding him with undisguised impatience.

  “It’s a devil of a way up,” said Mr. Toke.

  “It is if you are fool enough to walk,” was the ungracious reply. “Why the deuce don’t you use the lift?”

  “Well,” Mr. Toke explained, “one is apt to meet people in a lift, or at least be seen and possibly remembered, by the lift girl, at any rate. It is better to avoid contacts as far as possible.”

  “You’re mighty careful,” said Hughes, sourly. “You’re glad enough to mop up the profits of our little enterprises, but you don’t mean to take any of the risks.”

  “Not if I can help it,” Toke admitted. “Why should I? And what good would it be if I did?”

  The question was so obviously reasonable (since the safety of each member of the firm was essential to the well-being of the others) that Hughes was reduced to a non-committal snort; and might have left it at that had not Toke rather untactfully added: “And I am not aware that you are in the habit of exposing yourself unnecessarily.”

  Mr. Hughes was apparently in a somewhat irritable state of mind, for he took needless umbrage at this remark.

  “Oh,” he exclaimed, “so you think so, too, do you?”

  “Too?” repeated Toke, interrogatively.

  “Yes. You are taking up the same position as that infernal Dobey.”

  “I hope not,” said Mr. Toke. “But what is Dobey’s position?

  “In effect the same as yours. He says that he takes all the risks while we take most of the profits.”

  “I did not say that,” Mr. Toke protested. “I admit that I keep out of harm’s way to the best of my ability. And, really, I suppose, as a matter of fact, Dobey does take more risks than we do.”

  “Do you?” snarled Hughes. “How do you know what risks I take?”

  Mr. Toke had to admit that he knew very little about the matter. “But,” he continued, “there is no use in mutual fault-finding. We each have our respective parts to play, and each of us is indispensable to the others.”

  “That isn’t Dobey’s view,” said Hughes. “I have discovered that he has been doing some jobs on his own, and what is worse, he has found some other market for the swag. He is a slippery devil. Thanks to me, he has been able to work in safety, and do uncommonly well. Now he thinks he knows all there is to know, and he is going to work on his own and stick to all the stuff that he collects—the ungrateful bounder!”

  Mr. Toke expressed his profound disgust at this base conduct of the unappreciative gas-fitter. “But, after all,” he added optimistically, “I suppose he is not the only pebble on the beach.”

  “No,” Hughes admitted, “but he is a pretty big pebble, from our point of view. We can’t afford to lose his little contributions. But it is not only that. Now that he seems to have gone off on his own, and knows that I have spotted him, he may give us trouble, especially if he should get into a tight place. As I said before, he is a slippery devil. But he had better look out. If I see any signs of his making trouble, I shall make things most unpleasantly lively for him. However, he hasn’t starved us out yet. I have got quite a nice little collection from another artist. Got it here, too. I don’t usually bring stuff to this place, but I had to, on this occasion. So here it is, all ready for you to take away when we have settled preliminaries.”

  “Oh, dear!” exclaimed Mr. Toke, “how very unfortunate! I can’t possibly take it now. I called to tell you that I am just starting on a longish tour on the Continent.”

  “Well, you’ll just have to put off the start for a day. I can’t have the stuff here, and I certainly can’t store it while you are browsing about the Continent.”

  “But,” protested Mr. Toke, “I have made all my arrangements. I have shut up the wing of my house where I keep my collection and sealed the doors, and I have notified my solicitor that I have started.”

  “I suppose you can alter your arrangements if you please. You are your own master.”

  Mr. Toke shook his head, and was about to add some confirmatory remarks when Hughes suddenly lost what little patience he had and broke out, angrily:

  “Look here, Toke, you are going to take that stuff. You have got to. I am not going to keep it in store for months. Besides, I want the money for it. There is a hundred and fifty pounds’ worth in this parcel. You can look at it now, and, if you are afraid to take it away with you, I will plant it in your car later.”

  “But,” pleaded Toke, “I haven’t got my car. I took it to the garage this morning to be overhauled and taken care of while I am away. I should have to go by train with the confounded stuff in a handbag.”

  Mr. Hughes was on the point of demanding what the occasion of the train journey might be, seeing that the “stuff” was presumably to be deposited either at Mr. Toke’s bank or in his safe-deposit. That was how he had always understood that Mr. Toke secured his valuables. But the reference to the train journey seemed to offer a rather curious suggestion. And, Mr. Hughes being a decidedly reticent, not to say secretive, gentleman, refrained from either comment or question. But he stuck to his point, and continued to insist that the property must be transferred. If he had done so in a polite and tactful manner, all might have been well. Unfortunately, he adopted a bullying, hectoring tone that jarred heavily on Mr. Toke’s already ruffled feelings. As a result, his customary suavity gave place to a slightly forbidding manner.

  “I think,” he said stiffly, “you misunderstand the nature of our relations. I purchase from you at my convenience. You are addressing me as if I were some sort of subordinate, as you might address Dobey—who, by the way, doesn’t seem to have found your manners endearing.”

  “He will find them a good deal less endearing if, he doesn’t take care, and so will you. Don’t you come here with your damned superior airs. You are one of the firm, and I am the boss of the firm, and you have got to understand that.”

  “And suppose I don’t accept that relationship? Suppose
I retire from the firm, as you call it, and wash my hands of you? Would that suit you?”

  “It wouldn’t suit you if the police got to know that the eminently respectable Mr. Didbury Toke had been doing a roaring trade in stolen gems.”

  Mr. Toke’s face hardened. “It is a great mistake to utter threats,” he said in a warning tone. And then, in total disregard of the admirable principle that he had just laid down, he continued: “And, in fact, it would not suit you particularly well if the police should be induced to take an interest in you.”

  “But they couldn’t,” retorted Hughes. “You couldn’t prove anything against me. I’ve made it my business to see to that. In regard to this swag, the man who collected it is at one end and the man who marketed it—that’s you—is at the other. I don’t appear in it at all.”

  Mr. Toke smiled sourly. “I see,” he said, quietly, “that you don’t remember me. But my memory is better.”

  “What the devil do you mean?” Hughes demanded angrily, but with a startled expression which he failed to control.

  “Of course,” Mr. Toke continued, calmly, “I am a good deal changed. So are you since the days when you used to have a sandy moustache and a bushy head of hair. But, all the same, I recognized you at the first glance.” (Which was not quite correct. It had taken him some three months to convert a vague sense of familiarity into a definite identification.) “The sight of you carried me back to the time when I used to have connections with the assaying industry, and when a good deal was heard about a certain famous thumb-print.”

  He stopped rather abruptly—and wished that he had stopped sooner, as he noted the effect of his foolish speech. Hughes did not trouble to contest the statement, but sat gazing fixedly at the speaker; and the concentrated malignity that expressed itself in that look brought Mr. Toke suddenly to his senses. The gentle art of making enemies is an art that is practised only by fools. But Mr. Toke was not a fool, and he certainly did not want to make an enemy of Mr. Hughes. He saw clearly that reconciliation was the necessary policy, and proceeded forthwith to swallow his pride.