Dr. Thorndyke Omnibus Vol 7

by R. Austin Freeman

  "I don't think he will be back until the evening. But I can fit you a new glass."

  "Can you, though?" said he. "You seem to be a handy sort of bloke for your size. How old are you?"

  "Getting on for fourteen," I replied, holding out my hand for the watch which he had produced from his pocket.

  "Well, I'm blowed," said he; "fancy a blooming kid of fourteen running a business like this."

  I rather resented his description of me, but made no remark. Besides, it was probably meant as a compliment, though unfortunately expressed. I glanced at his watch, and, opening the drawer in which watch-glasses were kept, selected one of the suitable size, tried it in the bezel after removing the broken pieces, and snapped it in.

  "Well, I'm sure!" he exclaimed as I returned the watch to him. "Wonderful handy cove you are. How much?"

  I suggested sixpence, whereupon he fished a handful of mixed coins out of his pocket and began to sort them out. Finally he laid a sixpence on the counter and once more fixed his eyes on the vice.

  "What are you doing to that lock?" he asked.

  "I am making a key to fit it," I replied.

  "Are you, reely?" said he with an air of surprise. "Actooally making a key? Remarkable handy bloke you are. Perhaps you could do a little job for me. There is a box of mine what I can't get open. Some thing gone wrong with the lock. Key goes in all right but it won't turn. Do you think you could get it to open if I was to bring it along here?"

  "I don't know until I have seen it," I replied. "But why not take it to a locksmith?"

  "I don't want a big job made of it," said he. "It's only a matter of touching up the key, I expect. What time did you say the guvnor would be back?"

  "I don't expect him home until closing time. But he wouldn't have anything to do with a locksmith's job, in any case."

  "No matter," said he. "You'll do for me. I'll just cut round home and fetch that box"; and with this he bustled out of the shop and turned away towards Regent Street.

  His home must have been farther off than he had seemed to suggest, for it was nearly two hours later when he reappeared, carrying a brown-paper parcel. I happened to see him turn into the street, for I had just received a shop dial from our neighbour, the grocer, and had accompanied him to the door, where he paused for a final message.

  "Tell the governor that there isn't much the matter with it, only it stops now and again, which is a nuisance."

  He nodded and turned away, and at that moment the other customer arrived with the unnecessary announcement that "here he was". He set the parcel on the counter, and, having untied the string, opened the paper covering just enough to expose the keyhole; by which I was able to see that the box was covered with morocco leather and that the keyhole guard seemed to be of silver. Producing a key from his pocket, he inserted it and made a show of trying to turn it.

  "You see?" said he. "It goes in all right, but it won't turn. Funny, isn't it? Never served me that way before."

  I tried the key and then took it out and looked at it, and, as a preliminary measure, probed the barrel with a piece of wire. Then, as the barrel was evidently clean, I tried the lock with the same piece of wire. It was a ward lock, and the key was a warded key, but the wards of the lock and those of the key were not the same. So the mystery was solved; it was the wrong key.

  "Well, now," my friend exclaimed, "that's very singler. I could have swore it was the same key what I have always used, but I suppose you know. What's to be done? Do you think you can make that key fit?"

  Now, here was a very interesting problem. I had learned from the incomparable Mr. Denison that the wards of a lock are merely obstructions to prevent it from being opened with the wrong key, and that, since the fore edge of the bit is the only acting part of such a key, a wrong key can be turned into a right one by simply cutting away the warded part and leaving the fore edge intact. I had never tried the experiment; but here was an opportunity to put the matter to a test.

  "I'll try, if you like," I replied—"that is, if you don't mind my cutting the key about a little."

  "Oh, the key is no good to me if it won't open the lock. I don't care what you do to it."

  With this, I set to work gleefully, first making a further exploration of the lock with my wire and then carrying the key into the workshop, where there was a fixed vice. There I attacked it with a hack-saw and a file, and soon had the whole of the bit cut away excepting the top and fore edge. All agog to see how it worked, I went back to the shop with a small file in my hand in case any further touches should be necessary, and, inserting the key, gave a gentle turn. It was at once evident that there was now no resistance from the wards, but it did not turn freely. So I withdrew it and filed away a fraction from the fore edge to reduce the friction. The result was a complete success, for when I re-inserted it and made another trial, it turned quite freely and I heard the lock click.

  My customer was delighted (and so was I). He turned the key backwards and forwards several times and once opened the lid of the box; but only half an inch—just enough to make sure that it cleared the lock. Then he took out the key, put it in his pocket, and proceeded to replace the paper cover and tie the string.

  "Well," said he, "you are a regler master craftsman, you are. How much have I got to pay?"

  I suggested that the job was worth a shilling, to which he agreed.

  "But who gets that shilling?" he enquired.

  "Mr. Abraham, of course," I replied. "It's his shop."

  "So it is," said he, "but you have done the job, so here's a bob for yourself, and you've earned it."

  He laid a couple of shillings on the counter, picked up his parcel and went out, whistling gleefully.

  Now, all this time, although my attention had been concentrated on the matter in hand, I had been aware of something rather odd that was happening outside the shop. My customer had certainly had no companion when he arrived, for I had seen him enter the street alone. But yet he seemed to have some kind of follower; for hardly had he entered the shop when a man appeared, looking in at the window and seeming to keep a watch on what was going on within. At first he did not attract my attention—for a shop window is intended to be looked in at. But presently he moved off, and then returned for another look; and while I was working at the key in the workshop, I could see him on the opposite side of the street, pretending to look in the shop windows there, but evidently keeping our shop under observation.

  I did not give him much attention while I was working at my job; but when my customer departed, I went out to the shop door and watched him as he retired clown the street. He was still alone. But now, the follower, who had been fidgeting up and down the pavement opposite, and looking in at shop windows, turned and walked away down the street, slowly and idly at first, but gradually increasing his pace as he went, until he turned the corner quite quickly.

  It was very queer; and, my curiosity being now fairly aroused, I darted out of the shop and ran down the street, where, when I came to the corner, I could see my customer striding quickly along King Street, while the follower was "legging it" after him as hard as he could go. What the end of it was I never saw, for the man with the parcel disappeared round the corner of Argyll Place before the follower could come up with him.

  It was certainly a very odd affair. What could be the relations of these two men? The follower could not have been a secret watcher, for there he was, plainly in view of the other. I turned it over in my mind as I walked back to the shop, and as I entered the transaction in the day-book ("key repaired, 1/-") and dropped the two shillings into the till, having some doubt as to my title to the "bob for myself". (But its presence was detected by Mr. Abraham when we compared the till with the day-book, and it was, after a brief discussion, restored to me.) Even when I was making a tentative exploration of the shop dial and restoring the vanished oil to its dry bearings and pallets, I still puzzled over this mystery until, at last, I had to dismiss it as insoluble.

  But it was not insolu
ble, though the solution was not to appear for many weeks. Nor, when my customer disappeared round the corner, was he lost to me for ever. In fact, he re-visited our premises less than a fortnight after our first meeting, shambling into the shop just before dinner-time and greeting me as before with the enquiry:

  "Guvnor in?"

  "No," I replied, "he has just been called out on business, but he will be back in a few minutes." (He had, in fact, walked round, according to his custom about this time, to inspect the window of the cook's shop in Carnaby Street.) "Is there anything that I can do?"

  "Don't think so," said he. "Something has gone wrong with my watch. Won't go. I expect it is a job for the guvnor."

  He brought out from his pocket a large gold watch, which he passed across the counter to me. I noted that it was not the watch to which I had fitted the glass and that it had a small bruise on the edge. Then I stuck my eyeglass in my eye, and having opened, first the case and then the dome, took a glance at the part of the movement that was visible. That glance showed me that the balance-staff pivot was broken, which accounted sufficiently for the watch's failure to go. But it showed me something else—something that thrilled me to the marrow. This was no ordinary watch. It was fitted with that curious contrivance that English watchmakers call a "tourbillion"—a circular revolving carriage on which the escapement is mounted, the purpose being the avoidance of position errors. Now, I had never seen a tourbillion before, though I had read of them as curiosities of advanced watch construction, and I was delighted with this experience, and the more so when I read on the movement the signature of the inventor of this mechanism, Breguet á Paris. So absorbed was I with this mechanical wonder that I forgot the existence of the customer until he, somewhat brusquely, drew my attention to it. I apologized and briefly stated what was the matter with the watch.

  "That don't mean nothing to me," he complained. "I want to know if there's much wrong with it, and what it will cost to put it right."

  I was trying to frame a discreet answer when the arrival of Mr. Abraham relieved me of the necessity. I handed him the watch and my eyeglass and stood by to hear his verdict.

  "Fine watch," he commented. "French make. Seems to have been dropped. One pivot broken; probably some others. Can't tell until I have taken it down. I suppose you want it repaired."

  "Not if it is going to be an expensive job," said the owner. "I don't want it for use. I got a silver one what does for me. I bought this one cheap, and I wish I hadn't now. Gave a cove a flyer for it."

  "Then you got it very cheap," said Mr. Abraham.

  "S'pose I did, but I'd like to get my money back all the same. That's all I ask. Care to give me a flyer for it?"

  Mr. Abraham's eyes glistened. All the immemorial Semitic passion for a bargain shone in them. And well it might. Even I could tell that the price asked was but a fraction of the real value. It was a tremendous temptation for Mr. Abraham.

  But, rather to my surprise, he resisted it. Wistfully, he looked at the watch, and especially at the hall-mark, or its French equivalent, for nearly a minute; then, with a visible pang of regret, he closed the case and pushed the watch across the counter.

  "I don't deal in second-hand watches," said he.

  "Gor!" exclaimed our customer, "it ain't second hand for you. Do the little repairs what are necessary, and it's a new watch. Don't be a mug, Mister. It's the chance of a lifetime."

  But Mr. Abraham shook his head and gave the watch a further push.

  "Look here!" the other exclaimed, excitedly, "the thing's no good to me. I'll take four pund ten. That's giving it away, that is. Gor! You ain't going to refuse that! Well, say four pund. Four blooming jimmies! Why, the case alone is worth more than double that."

  Mr. Abraham broke out into a cold sweat. It was a frightful temptation, for what the man said was literally true. But even this Mr. Abraham resisted; and eventually the owner of this priceless timepiece, realizing that "the deal was off", sulkily put it in his pocket and slouched out without another word.

  "Why didn't you buy it, sir?" I asked. "It was a beautiful watch."

  "So it was," he agreed, "and a splendid case—twenty-two carat gold; but it was too cheap. I would have given him twice what he asked if I had known how he came by it."

  "You don't think he stole it, sir, do you?" I asked.

  "I suspect someone did," he replied, "but whether this gent was the thief or only the receiver is not my affair."

  It wasn't mine either; but as I recalled my former transaction with this "gent" I was inclined to form a more definite opinion; and thereupon I decided to keep my own counsel as to the details of that former transaction. But circumstances compelled me to revise that decision when the matter was reopened by someone who took a less impersonal view than that of Mr. Abraham. That someone was a tall, military-looking man who strode into our shop one evening about six weeks after the watch incident. He made no secret of his business, for, as he stepped up to the counter, he produced a card from his pocket and introduced himself with the statement:

  "You are Mr. David Abraham, I think. I am Detective Sergeant Pitts."

  Mr. Abraham bowed graciously, and, disregarding the card, replied that he was pleased to make the officer's acquaintance; whereupon the sergeant grinned and remarked: "You are more easily pleased than most of my clients."

  Mr. Abraham smiled and regarded the officer with a wary eye. "What can I have the pleasure of doing for you?" he asked.

  "That's what I want to find out," said the sergeant. "I have information that, on or about the thirteenth of May, you made a skeleton key for a man named Alfred Coomey, alias John Smith. Is that correct?"

  "No," Abraham replied, in a startled voice, "certainly not. I never made a, skeleton key in my life. Don't know how to, in fact."

  The officer's manner became perceptibly more dry. "My information," said he, "is that on the date mentioned, the said Coomey, or Smith, brought a jewel case to this shop and that you made a skeleton key that opened it. You say that is not true."

  "Wait a moment," said Abraham, turning to me with a look of relief; "perhaps the sergeant is referring to the man you told me about who brought a box here to have a key fitted when I was out. It would be about that date."

  The sergeant turned a suddenly interested eye on me and remarked:

  "So this young shaver is the operator, is he? You'd better tell me all about it; and first, what sort of box was it?"

  "I couldn't see much of it, sir, because it was wrapped in brown paper, and he only opened it enough for me to get at the keyhole. But it was about fifteen inches long by about nine broad, and it was covered with green leather and the keyhole plate seemed to be silver. That is all that I could see."

  "And what about the key?"

  "It was the wrong key, sir. It went in all right, but it wouldn't turn. So I cut away part of the bit so that it would go past the wards and then it turned and opened the lock."

  The sergeant regarded me with a grim smile.

  "You seem to be a rather downy young bird," said he. "So you made him a skeleton key, did you? Now, how did you come to know how to make a skeleton key?"

  I explained that I had read certain books on locks and had taken a good deal of interest in the subject, a statement that Mr. Abraham was able to confirm.

  "Well," said the sergeant, "it's a useful accomplishment, but a bit dangerous. Don't you be too handy with skeleton keys, or you may find yourself taking a different sort of interest in locks and keys."

  But here Mr. Abraham interposed with a protest.

  "There's nothing to make a fuss about, Sergeant. The man brought his box here to have a key fitted, and my lad fitted a key. There was nothing incorrect or unlawful in that."

  "No, no," the sergeant admitted, "I don't say that there was. It happens that the box was not his, but, of course, the boy didn't know that. I suppose you couldn't see what was in the box?"

  "No, sir. He only opened it about half an inch, just to see that it would op
en."

  The sergeant nodded. "And as to this man, Coomey; do you think you would recognize him if you saw him again?"

  "Yes, sir, I am sure I should. But I don't know that I could recognize the other man."

  "The other man!" exclaimed the sergeant. "What other man?"

  "The man who was waiting outside;" and here I described the curious proceedings of Mr. Coomey's satellite and so much of his appearance as I could remember.

  "Ha!" said the sergeant, "that would be the foot man who gave Coomey the jewel-case. Followed him here to make sure that he didn't nip off with it. Well, you'd know Coomey again, at any rate. What about you, Mr. Abraham?"

  "I couldn't recognize him, of course. I never saw him."

  "You saw him later, you know, sir, when he came in with the watch," I reminded him.

  "But you never told me—" Abraham began, with a bewildered stare at me; but the sergeant broke in, brusquely: "What's this about a watch, Mr. Abraham? You didn't mention that. Better not hold anything back, you know."

  "I am not holding anything back," Abraham protested. "I didn't know it was the same man;" and here he proceeded to describe the affair in detail and quite correctly, while the sergeant took down the particulars in a large, funereal note-book.

  "So you didn't feel inclined to invest," said he with a sly smile. "Must have wrung your heart to let a bargain like that slip."

  "It did," Abraham admitted, "but, you see, I didn't know where he had got it."

  "We can take it," said the sergeant, "that he got it out of that jewel-case. What sort of watch was it? Could you recognize it?"

  "I am not sure that I could. It was an old watch. French make, gold case, engine-turned with a plain centre. No crest or initials."

  "That's all you remember, is it? And what about you, young shaver? Would you know it again?"

  "I think I should, sir. It was a peculiar watch; made by Breguet of Paris, and it had a tourbillion."

  "Had a what!" exclaimed the sergeant. "Sounds like some sort of disease. What does he mean?" he added, gazing at Mr. Abraham.

  The latter gave a slightly confused description of the mechanism, explaining that he had not noticed it, as he had been chiefly interested in the case; whereupon the sergeant grinned and remarked that the melting-pot value was what had also interested Mr. Coomey.