ARTHUR MORRISON Ultimate Collection: 80+ Mysteries, Detective Stories & Dark Fantasy Tales (Illustrated). Arthur Morrison
In the tap-room sat a lean, wire-drawn-looking youth, with sloping shoulders and a thin face, and by his side was a rather short, thick-set man, who had an odd air, no matter what he did, of proprietorship and surveillance of the lean youth. Several other men sat about, and there was loud laughter, under which the lean youth looked sheepishly angry.
“‘Tarn’t no good, Sammy, lad,” some one was saying, “you a-makin’ after Nancy Webb—she’ll ha’ nowt to do with ‘ee.”
“Don’ like ‘em so thread-papery,” added another. “No, Sammy, you aren’t the lad for she. I see her—”
“What about Nancy Webb?” asked Kentish, pushing open the door. “Sammy’s all right, any way. You keep fit, my lad, an’ go on improving, and some day you’ll have as good a house as me. Never mind the lasses. Had his glass o’ beer, has he?” This to Raggy Steggles, who, answering in the affirmative, viewed his charge as though he were a post, and the beer a recent coat of paint.
“Has two glasses of mild a day,” the landlord said to Hewitt. “Never puts on flesh, so he can stand it. Come out now.” He nodded to Steggles, who rose and marched Sammy Crockett away for exercise.
On the following afternoon (it was Thursday), as Hewitt and Kentish chatted in the landlord’s own snuggery, Steggles burst into the room in a great state of agitation and spluttered out: “He—he’s bolted; gone away!”
“What?”
“Sammy—gone! Hooked it! I can’t find him.”
The landlord stared blankly at the trainer, who stood with a sweater dangling from his hand and stared blankly back. “What d’ye mean?” Kentish said, at last. “Don’t be a fool! He’s in the place somewhere. Find him!”
But this Steggles defied anybody to do. He had looked already. He had left Crockett at the cinder-path behind the trees in his running-gear, with the addition of the long overcoat and cap he used in going between the path and the house to guard against chill. “I was goin’ to give him a bust or two with the pistol,” the trainer explained, “but, when we got over t’other side, ‘Raggy,’ ses he, ‘it’s blawin’ a bit chilly. I think I’ll ha’ a sweater. There’s one on my box, ain’t there?’ So in I coomes for the sweater, and it weren’t on his box, and, when I found it and got back—he weren’t there. They’d seen nowt o’ him in t’ house, and he weren’t nowhere.”
Hewitt and the landlord, now thoroughly startled, searched everywhere, but to no purpose. “What should he go off the place for?” asked Kentish, in a sweat of apprehension. “‘Tain’t chilly a bit—it’s warm. He didn’t want no sweater; never wore one before. It was a piece of kid to be able to clear out. Nice thing, this is. I stand to win two years’ takings over him. Here—you’ll have to find him.”
“Ah, but how?” exclaimed the disconcerted trainer, dancing about distractedly. “I’ve got all I could scrape on him myself. Where can I look?”
Here was Hewitt’s opportunity. He took Kentish aside and whispered. What he said startled the landlord considerably. “Yes, I’ll tell you all about that,” he said, “if that’s all you want. It’s no good or harm to me whether I tell or no. But can you find him?”
“That I can’t promise, of course. But you know who I am now, and what I’m here for. If you like to give me the information I want, I’ll go into the case for you, and, of course, I shan’t charge any fee. I may have luck, you know, but I can’t promise, of course.”
The landlord looked in Hewitt’s face for a moment. Then he said: “Done! It’s a deal.”
“Very good,” Hewitt replied; “get together the one or two papers you have, and we’ll go into my business in the evening. As to Crockett, don’t say a word to anybody. I’m afraid it must get out, since they all know about it in the house, but there’s no use in making any unnecessary noise. Don’t make hedging bets or do anything that will attract notice. Now we’ll go over to the back and look at this cinder-path of yours.”
Here Steggles, who was still standing near, was struck with an idea. “How about old Taylor, at the Cop, guv’nor, eh?” he said, meaningly. “His lad’s good enough to win with Sammy out, and Taylor is backing him plenty. Think he knows any thing o’ this?”
“That’s likely,” Hewitt observed, before Kentish could reply. “Yes. Look here—suppose Steggles goes and keeps his eye on the Cop for an hour or two, in case there’s anything to be heard of? Don’t show yourself, of course.”
Kentish agreed, and the trainer went. When Hewitt and Kentish arrived at the path behind the trees, Hewitt at once began examining the ground. One or two rather large holes in the cinders were made, as the publican explained, by Crockett, in practicing getting off his mark. Behind these were several fresh tracks of spiked shoes. The tracks led up to within a couple of yards of the high fence bounding the ground, and there stopped abruptly and entirely. In the fence, a little to the right of where the tracks stopped, there was a stout door. This Hewitt tried, and found ajar.
“That’s always kept bolted,” Kentish said. “He’s gone out that way—he couldn’t have gone any other without comin’ through the house.”
“But he isn’t in the habit of making a step three yards long, is he?” Hewitt asked, pointing at the last footmark and then at the door, which was quite that distance away from it. “Besides,” he added, opening the door, “there’s no footprint here nor outside.”
The door opened on a lane, with another fence and a thick plantation of trees at the other side. Kentish looked at the footmarks, then at the door, then down the lane, and finally back toward the house. “That’s a licker!” he said.
“This is a quiet sort of lane,” was Hewitt’s next remark. “No houses in sight. Where does it lead?”
“That way it goes to the Old Kilns—disused. This way down to a turning off the Padfield and Catton road.”
Hewitt returned to the cinder-path again, and once more examined the footmarks. He traced them back over the grass toward the house. “Certainly,” he said, “he hasn’t gone back to the house. Here is the double line of tracks, side by side, from the house—Steggles’ ordinary boots with iron tips, and Crockett’s running pumps; thus they came out. Here is Steggles’ track in the opposite direction alone, made when he went back for the sweater. Crockett remained; you see various prints in those loose cinders at the end of the path where he moved this way and that, and then two or three paces toward the fence—not directly toward the door, you notice—and there they stop dead, and there are no more, either back or forward. Now, if he had wings, I should be tempted to the opinion that he flew straight away in the air from that spot—unless the earth swallowed him and closed again without leaving a wrinkle on its face.”
Kentish stared gloomily at the tracks and said nothing.
“However,” Hewitt resumed, “I think I’ll take a little walk now and think over it. You go into the house and show yourself at the bar. If anybody wants to know how Crockett is, he’s pretty well, thank you. By the by, can I get to the Cop—this place of Taylor’s—by this back lane?”
“Yes, down to the end leading to the Catton road, turn to the left and then first on the right. Any one’ll show you the Cop,” and Kentish shut the door behind the detective, who straightway walked—toward the Old Kilns.
In little more than an hour he was back. It was now becoming dusk, and the landlord looked out papers from a box near the side window of his snuggery, for the sake of the extra light. “I’ve got these papers together for you,” he said, as Hewitt entered. “Any news?”
“Nothing very great.