The Third R. Austin Freeman Megapack

by R. Austin Freeman

  We groped our way up the dim staircase and came out on the rather sordid and ill-lighted landing where the empty dust-bin confirmed the suggestion of an absent tenant. But we did not stop to examine the landing. Walking up to the grim iron-bound door, above which the name of Mr. J. Gillum could be read on a painted label, now rather faded and dirt-stained, we listened for a few moments and then tapped on the massive oak panel. Perhaps the word “tapped” is inadequate, for Benson, who carried a stout stick of some hard and heavy wood, applied it in the manner of a battering-ram with such effect that the place resounded with the blows and I expected some protest from the office below.

  “Well,” said Benson, after banging away for a couple of minutes, “I think we may take it that there is no one at home. Shall we go round and hear what your porter man has got to tell us?”

  “I think we had better,” I replied; and forthwith led the way down the steep stairs, my state of mind by no means improved by the unpleasant fashion in which the noise of Benson’s hammerings had echoed through the building. In fact, I found myself growing distinctly nervous and, as we made our way towards the passage in which the porter’s lodge was situated, I began to consider what we had better do if we could get no more satisfactory tidings of the missing man. But I still had some hopes that the porter might be able to resolve the mystery or at least give us a hint of some kind.

  A hearty pull at the pendent handle outside the lodge door elicited a cheerful jangle from within; and in a few moments the door opened and Mr. Weech appeared, fully attired as usual in his long frock coat and tall silk hat. Whether he slept in that hat I cannot guess, but it seemed that he wore it constantly from the time when he arose in the morning until he retired at night. At least, that was my impression, for I never saw him without it. He now regarded me benevolently through his spectacles and then cast an enquiring glance at my companion.

  “We have called, Mr. Weech,” said I, “to make one or two enquiries and see if you can help us. A rather unaccountable thing has happened. My friend, Mr. Gillum, seems to be absent from his chambers. We have hammered at his door and can’t get any answer, and my friend here, Mr. Benson, tried yesterday and the day before, but he also could not make anybody hear.”

  Mr. Weech retired for a few moments, apparently to fetch an umbrella, for he reappeared with one in his hand; and thus fortified, he again inspected me, first through his spectacles and then over them and replied in a tone of mild protest:

  “But what about it, Mr. Mortimer? A gentleman is not bound to stay in his chambers if he doesn’t want to. He isn’t under any contract to be in residence excepting at his own convenience and by his own choice. Probably he has gone out of town for a few days. Gentlemen frequently do; and they are not under any obligation to give notice of their intentions. That is the advantage of living in chambers.”

  “Yes,” I replied, “but that is not quite the position. Mr. Gillum had an appointment with Mr. Benson at his chambers and it was a rather special one, definitely made by letter. Mr. Gillum could hardly have gone away for a holiday and ignored this engagement.”

  Here I gave Mr. Weech a slight sketch of the circumstances to which he listened with interest and growing attention.

  “M’yes,” he agreed, when I had finished, “it does sound a little remarkable, the way you put it. Of course, he might have overlooked the matter, but that doesn’t seem likely. Still, I certainly have not seen him about the Inn for the last day or two.”

  “When did you last see him?” Benson asked.

  Mr. Weech considered for a few moments. “Now, let me see,” said he. “I met him one evening just outside the Hall. He was coming down towards Fleet Street. Now, when would that be? I should say it would be about ten days ago. He reflected again and then confirmed his estimate with the definite statement: “Yes. Ten days ago it was. I can fix it by the fact that one of our tenants, who was a bit in arrears with his rent, came to the lodge to settle up. And very glad I was. The Court don’t like rents to get behindhand.”

  “Very well, Mr. Weech,” said I. “You haven’t seen him for ten days. Now is that at all unusual?”

  Mr. Weech, having duly considered the question, decided that it was slightly unusual. “You see,” he explained, “I am pretty constantly up and down the Inn and I tend to run up against the resident tenants, particularly if they are fairly regular in their habits, as Mr. Gillum is. I should think I must have met him nearly every day since he came here. And he is a rather sociable man and likes to stop for a bit of a chat.”

  “Then,” said I, “that seems to confirm our idea that there is something unusual about this affair. I suppose you don’t happen to have a duplicate key of his chambers?”

  Mr. Weech seemed to stiffen at my suggestion. “We don’t usually keep duplicate keys of gentle men’s chambers,” he replied. “The agreements stipulate that the tenants shall have full use and enjoyment of their premises, which would not be the case if we reserved either the right or the means of entry. But, as a matter of fact, I have a duplicate key of Mr. Gillum’s chambers. I offered it to him, but he said that he had no use for a second key, and he thought that it might be as well for me to keep it in case he might lose his or in the event of some emergency arising. But why do you ask?”

  “Well,” I said a little diffidently, “it occurred to me that it might be as well, if you had a key, just to look in and see that all is as it should be.”

  Mr. Weech shook his head decidedly. “No, sir,” said he, “I have no right to enter the chambers of any of our tenants without his express permission and authority.”

  I realised Mr. Weech’s point of view and fully agreed as to its propriety. But, having ascertained that a key was available, I made up my mind quite definitely that those chambers had got to be entered.

  “That is true enough in ordinary circumstances,” said I. “But the circumstances are not ordinary. You must see that something unusual has happened, and I may say that Mr. Benson and I are extremely uneasy. Supposing Mr. Gillum should have been taken ill or had some sort of accident.”

  Mr. Weech was visibly impressed though he made no reply, and-I proceeded to press my advantage.

  “What would people say if it should become known that he had been left in his chambers without help simply because of a mere scruple of official etiquette?”

  “Yes,” Mr. Weech admitted, “there is something in that. It would be very awkward for him, shut up there, solus cum soli, if he was seriously ill. But we don’t know that he is.”

  “We don’t,” I agreed, “but we can easily find out. Come, now, Mr. Weech, don’t stand on mere pedantic ceremony. Do the reasonable thing. Mr. Gillum may be, at this moment, lying in there, helpless, waiting for someone to succour him. We ought to go and see whether he is or not. And I am not suggesting anything irregular. Mr. Benson is his cousin and I am a responsible friend. I am only asking you to do what he would have expected you to do. You say that he left the key in your custody in case any emergency should arise. Well, an emergency has arisen and you have got the key.”

  “I should hardly call it an emergency,” Mr. Weech objected, “but still I don’t want to be obstinate. You have shown cause why a visit of inspection might reasonably be made, and, if you and Mr. Benson will take the responsibility, I will get the key and go round with you to the chambers. Then you will be able to see for yourselves whether there is or is not any foundation for your anxieties.”

  With this he went back into the lodge and presently returned carrying on his finger a couple of keys on a string loop to which was attached a wooden label.

  Together we passed up the outer passage, across the small courtyard, through the covered way (not to call it a tunnel) on which the door of the Hall opened, and, crossing the inner courtyard, approached Gillum’s entry. Our previous visit with its very audible accompaniments had evidently not passed unnoticed, for, as we walked into the entry, the door of the typewriting office opened slightly and a face appertaining to an el
derly woman appeared, surveying us with an interest that was not entirely benevolent.

  On arriving at the landing, Mr. Weech transferred his umbrella from his right hand to the left, the better to manipulate the keys, the larger of which he inserted into the lock. It was not a very good fit, but, after a few tentative turns, he succeeded in shooting back the bolt; having done which, he drew the door outwards a couple of inches and sniffed audibly. Taking the key out of the door, he drew the latter wide open and was preparing to insert the key into the lock of the inner door when he observed that the latter was slightly ajar; whereupon he pushed it open and stepped into the room.

  But he took only one two steps, and then, as he passed the open door, he stopped short, and ejaculating, “God save us!” hastily backed out. And, at the same moment, I became aware of a strange, musty, cadaverous odour.

  With all my forebodings intensified and a feeling of extreme distaste, I nevertheless ventured to step in at the open door to see what it was that had given such a shock to Mr. Weech. But my stay was little longer than his, though in that instant my eyes took in a tableau that rises vividly before me as I write. As I cleared the edge of the door, I came into view of a couch drawn up by the Window, whereon reclined a pyjama-clad figure whose aspect confirmed the worst of my fears.

  It was a horrible spectacle, that motionless figure, half strange and half familiar, with its discoloured face and the open mouth from which the two gold teeth seemed to stare out as they gleamed in the bright afternoon sunlight. I stood, as I have said, gazing at it for but a few seconds and then, sick with the horror of the sight and the the effluvium that filled the room, I hurried out an joined Mr. Weech, who stood at the head of the stairs holding a handkerchief to his nose.

  As I came out, Benson looked at me, but he asked no question. I suppose he guessed what we had seen, but his nerves were evidently stronger than ours for he strode into the room without hesitation, and pushing the door right back, opened the view into the room so far that I could see him stooping over that dreadful figure, regardless of the foul atmosphere and the obscene flies that buzzed around. He made a long and critical examination of the corpse and then turned to a small table that was placed beside the couch. This, I now noticed, bore a decanter, apparently containing whisky, a siphon, a tumbler, and a small corked bottle; and each of these objects Benson scrutinised minutely.

  At length he came out, shutting the inner door after him, and looking very grim and solemn. Evidently he was deeply moved, but, though he was a shade pale, he was quite calm and self-possessed, in striking contrast to Weech and me, whose nerves were quite unstrung by the horrid experience. He closed the outer door, and, taking the key out of the lock, silently handed it to Mr. Weech.

  “Well,” he said, “what is to be done now?”

  I suppose,” said Weech, “I had better communicate with the police. They have a telephone in the office below and I dare say they will let me use it.”

  “Yes,” Benson agreed, “that will be the best thing to do; and you had better ask the police how soon they can send someone up. We shall have to wait here and see them, as they will want some particulars and we may as well get the business over at once.”

  We went down to the ground floor and once more were the objects of interested scrutiny from the half-opened door. Then Mr. Weech made his request and was admitted forthwith while Benson and I went out into the quadrangle to wait for him. Presently he came out and joined us, with the information that an officer was being sent up and would be at the Inn in the course of a few minutes. Then he invited us to come to the lodge to await the officer’s arrival; an offer which Benson promptly declined, explaining that he wanted to talk things over with me before the officer should arrive. Accordingly, Mr. Weech excused himself and went off in the direction of the lodge, and Benson and I turned into the quiet alley between a row of ancient houses and the garden railings.

  “This is a very astounding affair, Mortimer,” said Benson, when Mr. Weech was out of earshot. “Doesn’t it seem so to you?”

  I hesitated for a moment, but as there was no reason for secrecy, and as I should certainly have to make a statement to the police, or at the inquest, I replied: “It is a very dreadful business, but I can’t say that I am so greatly surprised.”

  “Aren’t you?” he exclaimed. “Now, I should have said that Jack Gillum was the very last person I should have expected to take his life. Why do you say that you are not surprised?”

  “Well,” I replied, “I have known a good deal about his way of living and the muddle that he has got his affairs into; and, of course, I have certain special knowledge which it would not be permissible for me to refer to.”

  “If you mean knowledge that you have obtained in your capacity as an employee of his bank,” said Benson, “there is nothing in it. He was your customer and you had to keep his affairs secret. But now that he is dead, his executor is your customer.”

  “He made a will, then?” said I, somewhat surprised.

  “Yes, by special arrangement. Mr. Penfield is his executor and I am the sole beneficiary under the will. So I am, in effect, your customer and am entitled to know how his affairs stand.”

  I was not at all satisfied that this view was technically correct. But, as it was certain that poor Gillum’s affairs would have to be more or less completely disclosed at the inquest, I felt it to be unreasonable to withhold the information from one who was so clearly entitled to know all the facts. Accordingly I replied: “I am not sure that you are right, but I am prepared to waive the strict letter of the law if you will promise to regard as absolutely confidential anything that I may tell you about Gillum’s financial position.”

  “Certainly I will,” said he. “But surely his financial position was perfectly satisfactory?”

  “On the contrary,” said I, “it was profoundly unsatisfactory; in fact, I don’t think I am exaggerating if I say that he was absolutely penniless.”

  Benson stopped and gazed at me with a frown of astonishment. “Penniless!” he exclaimed. “But he should have been a rich man, comparatively speaking. When he came to England, he had his very substantial savings, which I know he sent to Mr. Penfield to be deposited in a bank—your bank, I suppose.”

  “Yes,” said I. “Mr. Penfield opened the account in Gillum’s name with a deposit of three thousand pounds.”

  “Very well. Then he had payments from me from time to time, including the eleven hundred pounds that I sent him a little over three months ago. And he must have got something from the business, to say nothing of the purchase price of his partnership, whatever that may have been. But, of course, you know all about that.”

  “Yes,” said I. “All those big cheques have been paid in, and the amounts have gone out nearly as fast as they have come in, and the position now is that there is not only no balance, but the account is a pound or two overdrawn.”

  Benson continued to stare at me with the utmost amazement. “But,” he exclaimed, “where the devil has the money gone? Do you suppose he has been playing the fool on the Stock Exchange?”

  “I don’t,” I replied. “I know where the bulk of the money has gone. It has been frittered away in gambling; some of it on the turf and a good deal on cards and roulette and various other fooleries. I have sometimes suspected that there might be a blackmailer in the background, but I have no knowledge to that effect. I only know that the bulk of the money was drawn out in cash and that he usually asked to have his ‘self’ cheques cashed in notes of small denomination—preferably in Treasury notes. It looked as if he wanted to secure himself against the possibility of the notes being traced.”

  Benson reflected on this statement in silence for a few moments, still looking at me with an expression of angry incredulity. At length he rejoined: “We shall have to go into this in more detail later on. Obviously, as you are in possession of the actual facts, what you tell me must be true. But yet I find it beyond belief. The whole affair, including this suicide—for that is
evidently what it is—is so utterly opposed to all that I know of Jack Gillum—and I have known him since he was a boy—that I can make nothing of it.”

  “Then,” I suggested, “he was not always a gambler?”

  “No,” Benson replied, though without much emphasis. “No, I wouldn’t call him a gambler. He liked a game of cards, and he liked to play rather higher than I cared about, and he had a way of betting in a small way and making wagers. But his play was never on a great scale, and his ordinary management of his financial affairs was perfectly reasonable. The amount that he had saved speaks for itself, and you can be sure that I should not have been willing to enter into the arrangements that existed between us if he had been a spendthrift and a wild gambler.”

  Benson’s account of his cousin did not very greatly surprise me. It had been obvious to me that his habits could not always have been such as those that were known to me, or he would never have had any money at all. The gambling habit must have grown on him by frequent indulgence. So it appeared to me, and I answered to that effect.

  “My acquaintance with your cousin,” said I, “extends only to a short time, only about a year, or rather less. And when I first met him these new habits were already formed, so I never knew him otherwise. But even so, it has been a matter of surprise to me that a man, in other respects so sensible and capable, should have behaved in this idiotic manner. But what you have just told me makes it even more surprising. We can only suppose that the new surroundings, when he came to live in London, must have exerted some peculiar influence over him. And it may be that he fell into the society of people who had a bad effect on him. I happen to know that he was acquainted with some pretty shady characters, though how he came to know them I have no idea.”