“I am afraid,” said he, “that you will have found poor Mr. Gillum’s chambers locked up—if it was his chambers that you wanted.”
“Thank you, Mr. Weech,” Thorndyke replied, “but we have the keys. Mr. Benson has lent them to us.”
“Oh, indeed,” said Mr. Weech, in a tone of mild surprise and still milder disapproval.
“We just wanted to look over the chambers,” Thorndyke explained.
“Did you indeed, sir?” said Mr. Weech with rather more definite disapproval. “Not, I venture to hope, for professional reasons?”
“I am sorry, Mr. Weech,” Thorndyke replied suavely, “but it must be admitted that our interest in the chambers has a slight professional taint. The fact is that Mr. Benson has asked me to make certain enquiries concerning his late cousin.”
“Oh, dear!” exclaimed Weech, now undisguisedly disapproving. “Has it come to that? I had hoped that we had heard the last of that dreadful business. Don’t tell me that these quiet, respectable precincts are to be involved in another scandal.”
“I’ll tell you all about it,” said Thorndyke. “There is no need to be evasive with an old friend like you; and I know that I can trust to your discretion.”
“Undoubtedly you can,” replied Mr. Weech, evidently mollified by Thorndyke’s candour (he didn’t know my colleague as well as I did).
“Well,” said Thorndyke, “the position is this: the evidence at the inquest disclosed the existence of certain blackmailers who had been preying on Mr. Gillum. Now, Mr. Benson holds those blackmailers accountable for his cousin’s death, and he wants them identified and, if possible, brought to justice.”
“M’yes,” said Mr. Weech, clearly sceptical and unsympathetic. “I don’t see why. What’s the use, even if it were possible? Poor Mr. Gillum is beyond their reach now. Your protection of him has come—or would come, if it came at all—too late. It’s a case of post bellum auxilium.”
“I am inclined to agree with you, Mr. Weech,” Thorndyke replied, “but it is not my choice. Mr. Benson wants these rascals found and prosecuted, and he has engaged my professional services to that end; and it is my duty to render those services to the best of my ability.”
“Certainly, sir,” Mr. Weech agreed; “and I don’t say that I would not be glad to hear that those wretches had been brought to justice, if it were possible—which I don’t believe it is.”
“And I am sure,” said Thorndyke, “that you would give me any help that you could, as a matter of public policy.”
“I would for old acquaintance sake,” replied Weech, “though I can’t pretend that I am anxious for you to succeed, seeing what a rumpus there would be if you did. And I really don’t see how I can help you.”
“I think,” said Thorndyke, “that you could help me by supplying certain information that I should like to have. For instance, as a rather important point, you could tell me what visitors Mr. Gillum received.”
“But I don’t know,” Weech protested. “How should I? Both gates are open all day and strangers pass in and out unquestioned. My impression is that he had very few visitors, but that is only a guess. As far as actual knowledge goes, I can recall only two. One was a Mr. Mortimer, who, I think, came to him several times—”
“We know Mr. Mortimer,” interrupted Thorndyke. “Who was the other?”
“I have no idea,” replied Weech. “I know about him because he spoke to me when I was standing at the gate, by the lodge. That would be about the beginning of last September. He asked me if a Mr. John Gillum lived in the Inn. I replied ‘Yes,’ and gave him the number of the chambers; whereupon he bustled off. I didn’t go with him, as he couldn’t make any mistake, there being only the one set of chambers in that building.”
“Can you describe him?” Thorndyke asked.
“Yes,” was the reply. “Curiously enough, I remember him quite well, perhaps because he was little out of the ordinary. He was a short, stocky man with a sallow face, a small moustache, waxed at the ends, and bushy black eyebrows. He wore a rather queer kind of single eyeglass. It had no rim and no cord; it was just a plain glass, stuck in his eye with no kind of support. How he kept it there I can’t imagine. Then, as he walked off up the passage, I noticed that he had a slight limp and that he used a stick to help himself along; and a most uncommonly fine stick it was; a thick malacca with a silver band and a big ivory knob.”
Thorndyke jotted down in his notebook the points of this excellent description and then asked: “Do you know how long he stayed with Mr. Gilum?”
“I don’t. I never saw him again; but he might have gone out by the Fetter Lane gate. It couldn’t have been a long interview because, about a quarter of an hour later, I saw Mr. Gillum come out of his chambers alone, and I thought he looked a little annoyed and upset.”
“By the way,” said Thorndyke, “you mentioned just now that there is only one set of chambers in that building. But there is a second floor.”
“Yes,” Mr. Weech explained, “but it is not suitable for chambers. We use it as a general lumber room for the Inn, and it is always kept locked.”
As the conversation had developed, we had moved away from the window of the typewriting office on the ground floor and began slowly to pace up and down the courtyard, but I noticed that every time that we re-passed the window there happened to be some person looking out of it. Apparently we were being kept under observation.
“I am wondering,” Thorndyke said after a pause, “by what chance Mr. Gillum, an Australian, strange to England, should have happened to discover such a retired backwater as Clifford’s Inn. Did he ever tell you?”
“He did not, because, in fact, he did not discover it. Being a stranger, he very wisely employed an agent to find him rooms.”
“Do you mean a regular house-agent?”
“I don’t know what he was, but I had an idea that he was a personal friend of Mr. Gillum’s. At any rate, he not only carried out all the negotiations but he furnished the chambers and got them ready for the tenant by the time he wanted them.”
“I wonder,” said Thorndyke, “whether you would mind giving us a more circumstantial account of this transaction.”
“Well,” Mr. Weech replied, “let me see. It happened, so far as I can remember, somewhat like this. One morning, towards the end of August, 1928, a man came to the lodge to enquire about some chambers that we had to let at that time. He seemed to think that Number 64, which was empty, might suit him; so I gave him the keys and he went off to have a look at them. Presently he came back and said that they would suit him perfectly and that he would like to take a lease of them. But then he explained that they were not for himself but that he was acting as agent for a gentleman of means, and that he was fully authorised to execute an agreement and to furnish references and to pay whatever deposit I might think necessary. I would rather have dealt direct with the prospective tenant, hut he produced a written authority from his principal, Mr. Gillum, who, he assured me, was a gentleman of good position and ample means, and he referred me to Mr. Gillum’s solicitor and his bank; but he did suggest that it would be better not to take up the references until the tenant came and entered into residence.”
“Did he give any reason for that suggestion?”
“Yes, and quite a sound one. He said that Mr. Gillum had lived abroad for some years and was still abroad and that his relations with both his solicitor and his bank had been conducted by correspondence and that neither of them knew him personally. Well, he was willing to pay half a year’s rent in advance and to sign a provisional agreement per procurationem, I closed with him. He paid the money—twenty-five pounds—signed the agreement, and I handed him the keys. He wanted them because Mr. Gillum had asked him to get the rooms furnished so far as to be ready for immediate occupation. And that, in fact, is what he did. He took possession and had the chambers furbished up and some odd jobs done, and he ordered in enough furniture to enable Mr. Gillum to go into residence at once.”
“I am rat
her surprised that you agreed to the deal,” said I.
“I don’t see why,” he retorted. “It was a slightly unusual transaction, but it was quite straightforward. The man couldn’t run away with the chambers. What possible danger of injury was there? Ad quod damnum, as the lawyers would say.” (He pronounced the last word “damn ’em.”) “At any rate, the transaction turned out all right, so my action was justified by the results.”
“Yes,” I replied, “that has to be admitted. Finis coronat opus.”
“Exactly,” he rejoined eagerly (and, I suspect, make a mental note of the tag with a view to future use). “The proof of the pudding is in the eating, as the vulgar saying has it.”
“When Mr. Gillum arrived,” said Thorndyke, “was he introduced to you by the agent?”
“No,” replied Weech. “As I understood from the night porter, the two gentlemen came to the Inn together at night between nine and ten. He mentioned the matter to me the next morning, because the agent had asked him to. When they knocked at the wicket, he opened it, and, as he knew the agent by sight, having seen him once before, he let them pass through, and they went up the passage. Presently the agent came back alone and said: ‘By the way, that gentleman is Mr. Gillum, the new tenant of Number 64. You might mention to Mr. Weech that he has come to take possession.’ Which, as I have told you, he did.”
“Did he mention to you how long the agent stayed that night?”
“No. But, you see, that was no business of mine.”
“And when did you first meet Mr. Gillum?”
“The very next morning. I made it my business to. I looked in at the chambers about eleven in the forenoon, and the door was opened by Mr. Gillum himself. I told him who I was and asked him if he acknowledged the agreement signed by his agent. He said ‘yes,’ but that he would rather have a new agreement signed by himself to put things on a regular basis. I thought he was quite right; and, as I had the agreement with me and some forms in my pocket, we filled in a new form, and, when he had signed it, we tore up the old one. Then he gave me his references and that finished the business.”
“By the way,” said Thorndyke, “you didn’t mention the agent’s name.”
“I’m not sure that I remember it,” replied Weech. But does it matter?”
“It might matter,” Thorndyke replied, “if it should seem desirable to get into touch with him, as I think it may be.”
“Well,” said Weech, “I seem to remember that it was something like Baker or Barber, or it may have been Barker—something of, that sort.”
“Of that sort!” I protested. “But there is all the difference in the world between a man who bakes your bread and one who shaves you or barks at you.”
Mr. W smiled deprecatingly. “I was referring to the sound,” said he. “They are a good deal alike. And really, his name did not arise, excepting when he signed the agreement; and his signature was not very distinct.”
“But,” objected Thorndyke, “there was the cheque and the receipt that you gave him.”
“There was no cheque,” replied Weech. “He paid in five five-pound notes. And the receipt was made out, at his request, to Mr. John Gillum. So, you see, his name was never mentioned; and I only saw it once in writing.”
“Perhaps,” Thorndyke suggested persuasively,” you might give us some idea as to what this gentleman was like. I am rather interested in him because he must know more about Mr. Gillum than most of my informants seem to.”
“Well,” Weech replied musingly, “I don’t remember much about him. He was a tallish man—about my height—and he was a fair man, with a light-brown, tawny beard and moustache and blue eyes. He was quite a gentlemanly man with a pleasant, persuasive manner, not to say plausible. And that is really all that I can remember about him. You see, I only saw him once to speak to, and only once or twice at a distance when he was furnishing the chambers; and I have never seen him since. He may have been here to see Mr. Gillum on some occasions, but, if so, I never happened to see him.”
Thorndyke reflected on this statement for a few moments. Then he asked, apparently apropos of nothing in particular: “I noticed that some carpenter’s work had been done in the rooms at Number 64; some alterations to the coal-bin and the larder door. Do you happen to know whether they were done by Mr. Gillum or by the agent?”
“They were done by the agent—Mr. Barker, we’ll call him. I only heard of it afterwards from Mr. Wing, the carpenter, of Fetter Lane, who does most of the odd jobs about the Inn. He ought really to have got permission to have the alterations made, though there isn’t much in it. The false bottom to the coal-bin was a distinct improvement, but I did think the holes in the larder door a trifle ultra vires.” (Mr. Weech made “vires” rhyme with fires; but we knew what he meant.)
Then there was a brief pause, and, as we passed the window of the typewriting office, I observed a lady in a hat, putting on her gloves. Then Thorndyke resumed the conversation with the question: “Did you find Mr. Gillum a satisfactory tenant?”
“Very,” Mr. Weech replied. “A model tenant. Paid his rent promptly on quarter day, kept his chambers clean and tidy, and gave no trouble in any way. I greatly regret his loss, and so, I am sure, does Miss Darby, the lady who has the ground floor.”
“Why?” I asked, scenting a romance.
“Well, you see,” he replied, “the gentleman who had Mr. Gillum’s chambers before him was terribly untidy, particularly in the matter of food, which is what matters in chambers. He used to leave food uncovered on his table and even in the larder, and the crumbs from his meals all over the floor. The natural consequence was that the place was overrun with mice; and, of course, they overflowed into the ground floor and kept the lady’s nerves fairly on edge. But when Mr. Gillum took over, the nuisance stopped at once. The mice disappeared like magic. Of course, it was quite simple. Mr. Gillum used to sweep up his crumbs after each meal and keep all food in the larder under covers or in tins or jars with lids. There was nothing for the mice to feed on. And what is more, he stopped up all the mouse-holes. Here is Miss Darby, and I am sure she will bear out what I have said.”
At this point the lady whom I had seen at the window emerged from her entry and met us on our return march. Mr. Weech raised his hat with the kind of flourish which is possible only with a” topper” and accosted her. “We were just speaking of the way poor Mr. Gillum cleared the mice out of his chambers. You remember, I dare say.”
“Indeed I do,” she replied emphatically. “Before he came, my rooms simply swarmed with the nasty little creatures. The man on the first, floor must have lived like a pig—kept a regular restaurant for mice. It was awful. I had great difficulty in getting the young ladies to stay with me. But when Mr. Gillum came, the little beasts disappeared completely. We never saw a mouse. I can’t tell you how grateful we were.”
“Very naturally,” said Thorndyke. “Mice are pretty little animals, but they are most unpleasant in their habits. However, I hope that your mice have gone for good. I suppose you are still clear of them?”
“Well, you know,” Miss Darby replied with a slight frown, “the rather curious thing is that we are not. Just lately, one or two have made their appearance again. I can’t understand it. Of course, we have our teas in the office, and sometimes our lunches. But we used to do that before. And we are most careful to sweep up all crumbs and to leave no food about. It is really rather strange.”
“It is,” Thorndyke agreed. “But perhaps you would get rid of your uninvited guests if you were to adopt Mr. Gillum’s plan; stop up the holes with Portland cement mixed with powdered glass. I strongly recommend you to try that remedy.”
Miss Darby thanked him for the advice and then, with a smile and a little bow, bustled away and disappeared into the tunnel-like passage that ran past the hail door. And thither we shortly followed her, as it appeared that Thorndyke had squeezed his informant dry—with mighty little result, as it seemed to me. But then you could never tell what was in Thorndyke’s min
d or what might be the significance to him of trivial facts that seemed to have no significance at all.
Mr. Weech walked with us down the passage to Fleet Street and finally dismissed us with another impressive flourish of his hat, which we returned punctiliously and then crossed the road to the Inner Temple gate.
As we walked down the lane past the church I reflected on what we had heard and seen. Presently I remarked “Weech’s description of the unknown visitor at the Inn seemed to me to correspond pretty closely with that of Abel Webb.”
“So I thought,” replied Thorndyke; “and, for the present, I am assuming that he was Abel Webb, though we shall have to get confirmation if possible.”
“I don’t quite see how,” said I. “But assuming him to have been Webb, how does that square with what we have been inferring about the relations between him and Gillum? It seems to me to be rather a misfit. If the man was Webb, that must have been his first visit to Gillum as he had to inquire of Weech and was not sure of the address or that Gillum did actually live there. Now that visit was made only a few days before his death. But we inferred—at least, I did—that Webb had been blackmailing Gillum for the best part of a year. There seems to be a radical disagreement. You can hardly blackmail a man whose address you do not know.”
“It is not actually impossible,” said Thorndyke, “but I agree with you that it is extremely difficult to see how it could be done. However, we are not certain that this man was Webb, and, before we make any further inferences, we must get more evidence. The whole question of the relations of these two men needs to be elucidated; for if we were wrong in our original inferences we may have to recast our theory of the circumstances of Webb’s death. Obviously, the first thing to do is to ascertain, if possible, whether the man who came to the inn was really Abel Webb.”
CHAPTER X
A Fresh Puzzle
My colleague’s remark that it would be necessary to test our belief as to the identity of the visitor to Gillum’s chambers rather puzzled me. For, apparently, Mr. Weech was the only person who had seen that visitor, and he had told us all that he had to tell; and I could not think of any means by which we could check his description. But, on the very next day, Thorndyke reopened the subject and disposed of my difficulties. “I think,” said he, “that it is desirable that we should confirm or disprove our assumptions as to the identity of Gillum’s visitor at the Inn. At present our belief is founded entirely on Mortimer’s not very precise description of the stick and the eye glass. That is not enough. The question whether Abel Webb did or did not go to Gillum’s chambers is a very important one and we ought to settle it more definitely. Indeed, the whole of the Abel Webb incident requires clearing up.”
The Third R. Austin Freeman Megapack Page 203
