CHAPTER XXIV

Strong in his conviction that the story of Hazel Rath was largely the

product of an hysterical imagination, Merrington dismissed it from his

mind and devoted all his energies to the search for Nepcote. The task

looked a difficult one, but Merrington did not despair of accomplishing

it before the day came round for the adjourned hearing of the charge

against the girl. He knew that it was a difficult matter for a wanted

man to remain uncaptured in a civilized community for any length of time

if the pursuit was determined enough, and in this instance the military

police were assisting the criminal authorities.

Merrington's own plans for Nepcote's capture were based on the belief

that he had not the means to get away from London unless the Heredith

necklace was still in his possession. As that seemed likely enough,

Nepcote's description was circulated among the pawn-brokers and

jewellers, with a request that anyone offering the necklace should be

detained until a policeman could be called in. He also had Nepcote's

former haunts watched in case the young man endeavoured to approach any

of his friends or acquaintances for a loan. Having taken these steps in

the hope of starving Nepcote into surrender if he was not caught in the

meantime, Merrington next directed the resources at his command to

putting London through a fine-tooth comb, as he expressed it, in the

effort to get hold of his man.

But it was to chance that he owed his first indication of Nepcote's

movements since his disappearance. He was dictating official

correspondence in his private room at Scotland Yard three days after his

visit to Lewes, when a subordinate officer entered to say that a man had

called who wished to see somebody in authority. It was Merrington's

custom to interview callers who visited Scotland Yard on mysterious

errands which they refused to disclose in the outer office. The

information he received from such sources more than compensated for the

occasional intrusion of criminals with grudges or bores with public

grievances.

The man who followed the janitor into the room was neither the one nor

the other, but a weazened white-faced Londoner, with a shrewd eye and

the false, cringing smile of a small shopkeeper. He explained in the

strident vernacular of the Cockney that his name was Henry Hobbs--"Enery

Obbs" was his own version of it--and he kept a pawnbroker's shop in the

Caledonian Road. It was his intention to have called at Scotland Yard

earlier, he explained, but his arrangements had been upset by a domestic

event in his own household.

"They've kep' me runnin' about ever since it happened," he added,

bestowing a wink of subtle meaning upon the pretty typist who had been

taking Merrington's correspondence. "The ladies--bless their

'earts--always make a fuss over a little one."

"When it is legitimate," Merrington gruffly corrected. "Miss Benson," he

said, turning to the typist, who sat in a state of suspended animation

over the typewriter at the word where he had left off dictating, "you

can leave me for a little while and come back later. Now my man," he

went on, as the door closed behind her, "I've no time to waste

discussing babies. Tell me the object of your visit."

The little man stood his ground with the imperturbable assurance of the

Cockney.

"We thought of calling it Victory 'Aig. Victory, because our London lads

seem likely to finish off the war in double-quick time, and 'Aig after

our commander, good old Duggie 'Aig, whose name is every bit good enough

for _my_ baby. What do _you_ think? Don't get your 'air off, guv'nor,"

Mr. Hobbs hastily protested, in some alarm at the expression of

Merrington's face, "I'm coming to it fast enough, but my head is so full

of this here kiddy that I hardly know whether I'm standing on my 'ead or

my 'eels. It's like this 'ere: a few days ago there was a young man come

into my shop to pawn his weskit. I lent him arf-a-crown on it and he

goes away. But, yesterday afternoon he comes back to pawn, a little

pencil-case, on which I lends him a shilling. Now, I shouldn't be

surprised if this young man wasn't the young man we was warned to look

out for as likely to offer a pearl necklace."

"What makes you think so?"

"By the description. I didn't notice him much at first, but I did the

second time, perhaps because I'd just been reading over the 'andbill

before he come in. He looks a bit the worse for wear since it was drawn

up--hadn't been shaved and seemed down on his luck--but I should say it

was the same man, even to the bits of grey on the temples. Bin a bit of

a dandy and a gentleman before he run to seed, I should say."

"What makes you think that?" asked Merrington, who had scant belief in

the theory that gentility has a hallmark of its own.

"Not his white hands--they're nothing to go by. It was his clothes. I

was a tailor in Windmill Street before I went in for pawnbroking, and I

_know_. This chap's suit hadn't been 'acked out in the City or in one of

those places in Cheapside where they put notices in the window to say

that the foreman cutter is the only man in the street who gets twelve

quid a week. They hadn't come from Crouch End, neither. They was

first-class West End garments. It's the same with clothes as it is with

thoroughbred hosses and women--you can always tell them, no matter how

they've come down in the world. And it's like that with boots too. This

chap's boots hadn't been cleaned for days, but they were _boots_, and

not holes to put your feet into, like most people wear."

"You made no effort to detain him?"

"How could I? He didn't offer the necklace, or say anything about

jewels, so I had no reason for stopping him. I could see 'e was as

nervous as a lady the whole time he was in the shop, so before I gave

him a shilling for his pencil I marked it with a cross as something to

'elp the police get on his tracks in case he is the man you're after.

When he left I went to my door to see if there was a policeman in sight,

but of course there wasn't. I doubt if he'd have got him, though. He was

off like a shot as soon as he got the shilling--down a side street and

then up another, going towards King's Cross. Here's the pencil-case he

pawned. I didn't bring the weskit, but you can 'ave it if it's any good

to you."

Merrington glanced carelessly at the little silver pencil-case, and

after asking the pawnbroker a few questions he permitted him to depart.

Then he touched his bell and sent for Detective Caldew.

Half an hour later Caldew emerged from his chief's room in possession of

the pawnbroker's story, with the addition of as much authoritative

counsel as the mind of Merrington could suggest for its investigation.

Caldew did not relish the task of following up the slender clue. He had

not been impressed by the relation of Mr. Hobbs' supposed recognition of

Nepcote, although as a detective he was aware that unlikely statements

were sometimes followed by important results. But the element of luck

entered largely into the elucidation of chance testimony. There were

some men in Scotland Yard who could turn a seeming fairy tale into a

startling fact, but there were others who failed when the probabilities

were stronger. Caldew accounted himself one of these unlucky ones.

But luck was with him that day. At least, it seemed so to him that

evening, as he returned to Holborn after a long and trying afternoon

spent in the squalid streets and slums of St Pancras and Islington. The

goddess of Chance, bestowing her favours with true feminine caprice, had

taken it into her wanton head, at the last moment, to accomplish for him

the seemingly impossible feat of tracing the pawnbroker's marked

shilling, through various dirty hands, to the pocket of the man who had

pawned the pencil-case. Whether she would grant him the last favour of

all, by enabling him to prove whether this man and Nepcote were

identical, was a point Caldew intended to put to the proof that night.

Caldew was in high good humour with himself at such a successful day's

work, and he alighted from the tram with the intention of passing a

couple of hours pleasantly by treating himself to a little dinner in

town before returning to Islington to complete his investigations. He

wandered along from New Oxford Street to Charing Cross by way of Soho,

scanning the restaurant menus as he passed with the indecisive air of a

poor man unused to the privilege of paying high rates for bad food in

strange surroundings.

The foreign smells and greasy messes of Old Compton Street repelled his

English appetite, and he did not care to mingle with the herds of

suburban dwellers who were celebrating the fact that they were alive by

making uncouth merriment over three-and-sixpenny tables d'hotes and

crude Burgundy and Chianti in the cheap glitter of Wardour Street. As a

disciplined husband and father, Caldew's purse did not permit of his

going further West for his refection, so when he reached Charing Cross

he turned his face in the direction of Fleet Street. He had almost made

up his mind in favour of a small English eating-house half-way down the

Strand, when he encountered Colwyn.

The private detective was wearing a worn tweed-suit and soft hat, which

had the effect of making a considerable alteration in his appearance. He

was about to enter the eating-house, but stopped at the sight of Caldew

looking in the window, and advanced to shake hands with him.

"Thinking of dining here, Caldew?" he asked.

"Yes," replied Caldew. "It seems a quiet place."

"It certainly has that merit," responded Colwyn, glancing into the empty

interior of the little restaurant. "You had better dine with me if you

have nothing better to do. I should like to have a talk with you."

Caldew expressed a pleased acquiescence. He had not seen the private

detective since he had taken him a copy of Merrington's notes of his

interview with Hazel Rath, and he wished to know whether Colwyn had made

any fresh discoveries in the Heredith case.

At their entrance, a waiter reclining against the cash desk sprang into

supple life, and with a smile of prospective gratitude sped ahead up the

staircase, casting backward glances of invitation like a gustatory siren

enticing them to a place of bliss. He led them into a room overlooking

the Thames Embankment, hung up their hats, took the wine card from the

frame of the mirror over the mantelpiece, wrote down the order for the

dinner, and disappeared downstairs to get the dishes.

"It seems to me that you've been here before," said Caldew.

"I always come here when I have an expedition in hand," was the

response.

Caldew wondered whether his companion's expedition was connected with

the Heredith mystery, but before he could frame the question the waiter

returned with a bottle of wine, and shortly afterwards the dinner

appeared. It was not until the meal was concluded that Colwyn broached

the subject which was uppermost in his guest's thoughts by asking him if

he had met with any success in his search for Nepcote.

"We are still looking for him," was Caldew's guarded reply, as he

accepted a cigar from his companion's case.

"In Islington, for instance?" The light Colwyn held to his own cigar

revealed the smile on his lips.

Caldew was so surprised at this shrewd guess that his match slipped from

his fingers.

"What makes you think we are looking for Nepcote in Islington?" he

demanded.

"I am not unacquainted with the ingenious methods of Scotland Yard," was

the reply. "I can see Merrington working it out with a scale map of

London to help him. He is convinced that Nepcote is still in London

without a penny in his pockets. Merrington asks himself what Nepcote is

likely to do in such circumstances? Borrow from his friends or attempt

to cash a cheque? We will guard against that by watching his clubs and

his bank. Raise funds on the necklace--if he has it? Merrington knows

how to stop that by warning the pawn-brokers and jewellers. When he has

done so he has the satisfaction of feeling that his man is cut off from

supplies, wandering penniless in stony-hearted London, as helpless as a

babe in the wood. Where will he hide? He is a West End man, knowing

little of London outside of Piccadilly, so the chances are that he will

not get very far, and that his wanderings will end in surrender or

starvation. But Scotland Yard cannot wait for him to surrender, and

Merrington, with an imagination stimulated by the necessity of finding

him, decides in favour of Islington--the so-called Merry Islington of

obsequious London chroniclers, though, so far as my personal observation

goes, its inhabitants are merry only when in liquor. Islington is

congested, Islington contains criminals, and Islington is an ideal

hiding-place. Therefore, says Merrington, let us seek our man there."

"Oh, come, Mr. Colwyn, you don't put me off like that. Somebody must

have told you that I was out there to-day."

"I saw you myself. As a matter of fact, I have been looking for Nepcote

in that part of London--in an area between Farringdon Street and

Euston."

"Why there in particular? London is a wide field."

"I have endeavoured to narrow it by considering the possibilities. The

suburbs are unsafe, and so is the West End; the City affords no shelter

for a fugitive. There remain the poorer congested areas, the docks, and

the East End. But that does not help us very much, because there is

still a vast field left. What narrowed it considerably for me is my

strong belief, taking all the circumstances into consideration, that

Nepcote has not got very far from where we last saw him. What finally

determined me to select Islington as a starting point for my search was

that strange law of human gravitation which impels a fugitive to seek a

criminal quarter for shelter. A hunted man seems to develop a keen scent

for those who, like himself, are outside the law. Islington, as you are

aware, has a large percentage of criminals in its population. At any

rate, I am looking for Nepcote in Islington."

"Although I could pick flaws in your theory, I am bound to say that you

are right," said Caldew. "Nepcote is hiding in Islington. At least, we

think so," he cautiously added.

"Good! How did you find out?"

Caldew gave his companion particulars of the pawnbroker's visit to

Scotland Yard that morning.

"I have been looking for Mr. Hobbs' marked shilling in the small shops

between King's Cross and Upper Street all the afternoon," he said. "I

traced it quite by accident after I had decided to give up the attempt.

One of the uniformed men at the _Angel_ happened to tell me, as a joke,

about a coffeestall keeper who had gone to him in a fury that morning

about a chance customer, who, in his own words, had diddled him for a

bob overnight. He showed the policeman a shilling he had taken from the

man, and was under the impression that it was a bad one because it was

marked with a cross. The policeman put the coin in his pocket and gave

the man another one to get rid of him. I obtained the shilling from him,

and went to see the coffeestall keeper. His description of the man who

passed it resembled Nepcote, and he added the information that the

customer, after changing the shilling for a cup of coffee, had asked him

where he could get a bed. The coffeestall keeper directed him to a cheap

lodging-house near the _Angel_. I went to his lodging-house, and

ascertained that a man answering to the description had slept there last

night, and on leaving this morning said that he would return there for a

bed to-night. I have a policeman watching the place, and I am going out

there shortly to see this chap--if he comes back. Do you care to go with

me?"

"I'll go with pleasure," said Colwyn, who had listened to this story

with close attention.

"Then we'd better be getting along. But, I say, don't mention this to

Merrington if anything goes wrong and I don't pull it off. The old man

has his knife into me over this case, and my life wouldn't be worth

living if Nepcote slipped through our fingers again. I want to try and

surprise him, and let him see that there are other men at Scotland Yard

besides himself."

"I don't think you have much to fear from Merrington," said Colwyn,

laughing outright. "He is in a chastened mood at present. But you can

rely on my discretion, and I hope you will get your man."

"I believe I shall," returned Caldew in a confident tone. "Shall we make

a start?"

Colwyn paid the bill, and they set out through the darkened streets,

upon which a light autumn fog was descending. The Kingsway underground

tramway carried them to the _Angel_, where they got off. Caldew threaded

his way through the unwashed population of that centre, and turned into

a side street where a swarm of draggle-tailed women were chaffering for

decaying greens heaped on costers' stalls in the middle of the road. He

turned again into a narrower street running off this street market, and

stopped when he got to the end of it. He nudged his companion, and

pointed to a sign of "Good Beds," visible beneath a flare in a doorway

opposite.

"That's the place," he said.

A policeman came up to them, looming out of the fog as suddenly as a

spectre, and nodded to Caldew.

"Nothing doing," he briefly announced. "I've watched the place ever

since, but he hasn't been in."

"All right," said Caldew. "You can leave it to me now. I shan't need you

any longer. Good night!"

"Good night, and good night to you, Mr. Colwyn," the policeman

responded, turning with a smile to the private detective. "I didn't

recognize you at first because of the fog. I didn't know you were in

this job."

"And I hope that you won't mention it, now that you do know," interposed

Caldew hastily.

"Not me. I'm not one of the talking sort." The policeman nodded again in

a friendly fashion, and disappeared down the side street.

The two detectives stood there, watching, screened from passing

observation in the deep doorway of an empty shop. The flare which swung

in the doorway opposite permitted them to take stock of everybody who

entered the lodging-house in quest of a bed. By its light they could

even decipher beneath the large sign of "Good Beds, Eightpence," a

smaller sign which added, "Or Two Persons, a Shilling," which, by its

careful wording, seemed to hint that those entranced in Love's young

dream might seek the seclusion of the bowers within unhindered by

awkward questions of conventional morality, and, by its triumphant

vindication of the time-worn sentiment that love conquers all, tended to

reassure democracy that the difference between West End hotels and

Islington lodging-houses was one of price only.

But the visitors to the lodging-house that night suggested thraldom to

less romantic tyrants than Cupid. Drink, disease and want were the

masters of the ill-favoured men who shambled within at intervals,

thrusting the price of a bed through a pigeon-hole at the entrance,

receiving a dirty ticket in exchange. These transactions, and the faces

of the frowzy lodgers were clearly visible to the watchers across the

road, but none of the men resembled Nepcote. Shortly after ten o'clock

raindrops began to fall sluggishly through the fog, and, as if that were

the signal for closing, the figure of a man appeared in the

lodging-house doorway and proceeded to extinguish the flare.

"We had better go over," Caldew said.

They walked across the oozing road, and he accosted the man in the

doorway.

"You're closing early to-night," he observed.

The man desisted from his occupation to stare at them. He was an

ill-favoured specimen of an immortal soul, with a bloated face, a

pendulous stomach, and a week's growth of beard on his dirty chin. A

short black pipe was thrust upside down in his mouth, and his attire

consisted of a shirt open at the neck, a pair of trousers upheld by no

visible support, and a pair of old slippers. Apparently satisfied from

his prolonged inspection of the two visitors that they were not in

search of lodgings, he replied in a surly tone:

"What the hell's that to do with you? If you let us know when you're

coming we'll keep open all night--I don't think."

Caldew pushed past him without deigning to parley, and opened a door

adjoining the entrance pigeon-hole. A man was seated at the table

within, reckoning the night's takings by the light of a candle. It was

strange to see one so near the grave counting coppers with such avid

greed. His withered old face was long and yellow, and the prominent

cheekbones and fallen cheeks gave it a coffinlike shape. His sunken

little eyes were almost lost to view beneath bushy overhanging eyebrows,

and from his shrunken mouth a single black tusk protruded upward, as

though bent on reaching the tip of a long sharp nose. He started up from

his accounts in fright as the door was flung open, and thrust a hand in

a drawer near him, perhaps in quest of a weapon. Then he recognized

Caldew, and smiled the propitiatory smile of one who had reason to fear

the forces of authority.

"That chap you're after didn't turn up to-night," he mumbled.

"You're closing very early. He may come yet."

"Tain't no use if 'e do. 'E won't get in. All my reg'lars is in, and I

ain't going to waste light waiting for a chance eightpence. P'r'aps

you'd like to see the room where he slep' last night?"

Caldew nodded, and the lodging-house keeper, calling in the man they had

seen closing the door, directed him to show the gentlemen the single

room. The man lit a candle, and took the detectives upstairs to the top

of the house. He opened the door of a very small and filthy room, with

sloping ceiling and a broken window. A piece of dirty rag which had been

hung across the window flapped noisily as the rain beat through the

hole. The man held up the candle to enable the visitors to see the

apartment to the greatest advantage.

"We charge tuppence more for this bedroom because it's a single doss,"

he said, not without a touch of pride in his tone.

"And well worth the money," remarked Caldew.

"Look here, Mr. ---- Funnysides, I didn't bring you up here to listen to

no sarcastical remarks," retorted the man, with the sudden fury of a

heavy drinker. "If you've seen enough, you'd better clear out. I want to

get to bed."

"You had better behave yourself if you don't want to get into trouble,"

counselled Caldew.

"So you're a rozzer, are you? D--d if I didn't think so soon as I

clapped eyes on you. But you've got nothing against me, so I don't care

a snap of my fingers for you. You'd better hurry up."

Caldew took no further notice of him, but joined Colwyn in examining the

room. They found nothing giving any indication of its last tenant. The

only articles in the room were a bed, a broken chair, and a beam of wood

shoved diagonally against one of the walls, which threatened to fall in

on the first windy night and bury the wretched bed and its occupant.

After a brief search they turned away and went downstairs. The door was

immediately slammed behind them, and the turning of the lock and the

rattling of a chain told them that the place was closed for the night.

Pulling up his coat collar in an effort to shield himself from the

persistence of the rain, Caldew expressed his disappointment at the

failure of the night's expedition in a bitter jibe at his bad luck. At

first he thought he would wait a little longer on the watch, then he

changed his mind as he glanced at the unpromising night, and decided

that it wasn't worth while. He lived in Edgeware Road, so he shook hands

with Colwyn and set out for the Underground at King's Cross.

Colwyn returned to the _Angel_ to look for a taxi-cab. The fog was

lifting, and crowds were emerging from the cinemas and a music-hall with

the fatigued look of people who have paid in vain to be entertained.

Outside the music-hall some taxi-cabs were waiting for the more opulent

patrons of refined vaudeville who had been drawn within by the rare

promise of an intellectual baboon, reputed to have the brains of a

statesman, which shared the honours of "the top of the bill" with two

charming sisters from a West End show. The drivers of the taxi-cabs said

they were engaged, and uncivilly refused to drive the detective to

Ludgate Circus.

A Bermondsey omnibus came plunging through the fog, scattering the filth

of the road on the hurrying pleasure-goers, and stopped at the corner to

add to its grievous load of damp humanity. Those already in the darkened

interior sat stiffly motionless, like corpses in a mortuary wagon, as

the new-comers scrambled in, scattering mud and water over them, feeling

for the overhead straps. Colwyn did not attempt to enter. Even a

Smithfield tram-car would be better than the interior of a 'bus on a wet

night.

An ancient four-wheeler went past, crawling dejectedly homeward. The

driver checked his gaunt horse at the sight of Colwyn standing on the

kerb-stone, and raised an interrogative whip. He added a vocal appeal

for hire based on the incredible assumption that a man must live, which

he proclaimed with a whip elevated to the sodden heavens, calling on a

God, invisible in the fog, to bear witness that he hadn't turned a wheel

that night. The phrasing of the appeal helped Colwyn to recall that it

was the same cabman who had accosted Philip Heredith and himself on the

night they had motored to the moat-house.

He engaged the cab and entered the dark interior. The whip which had

been uplifted in pious aspiration fell in benedictory thanks on the bare

ribs of the horse. The equipage jolted over the _Angel_ crossing into

the squalid precincts of St. John's Street. In a short time the

overpowering smell of slaughtered beasts announced the proximity of

Smithfield. The cab turned down Charterhouse Street towards Farringdon

Market, and a little later pulled up under the archway at Ludgate

Circus.

"I leaves it to you, sir," said the cabman, in a husky whisper. His

expectant palm closed rigidly on the silver coins, and his whip fell on

the lean sides of his horse with a crack like a pistol shot as he

wheeled round, leaving the detective standing in the road.

The fog had almost cleared away, but the unlighted streets were plunged

in deep gloom, through which groups of late wayfarers passed dimly and

melted vaguely, like ghosts in the darkness of eternity. As Colwyn was

about to enter the corridor leading to his chambers, a man brushed past

him in the doorway. There was something about the figure which struck

the detective as familiar, and he walked quickly after him. By the light

of the departing cab he saw his face. It was Nepcote.