Checkmate. Joseph Sheridan Le Fanu
all about a boot. The servants looked at one another without a word. But just as they were going down, the dressing-room door opened, and the following dialogue ensued:—
“See, Charles, it was you who saw and spoke with that man?” said Longcluse.
“Yes, Sir.”
“Should you know him again?”
“Yes, Sir, I think I should.”
“What kind of man was he?”
“A very common person, Sir.”
“Was he tall or short? What sort of figure?”
“Tall, Sir.”
“Go on; what more? Describe him.”
“Tall, Sir, with a long neck, and held himself straight; very flat feet, I noticed; a thin man, broad in the shoulders—pretty well that.”
“Describe his face,” said Longcluse.
“Nothing very particular, Sir; a shabby sort of face—a bad colour.”
“How?”
“A bad white, Sir, and pock-marked something; a broad face and flat, and a very little bit of a nose; his eyes almost shut, and a sort of smile about his mouth, and stingy bits of red whiskers, in a curl, down each cheek.”
“How old?”
“He might be nigh fifty, Sir.”
“Ha, ha! very good. How was he dressed?”
“Black frock coat, Sir, a good deal worn; an old flowered satin waistcoat, worn and dirty, Sir; and a pair of raither dirty tweed trousers. Nothing fitted him, and his hat was brown and greasy, begging your parding, Sir; and he had a stick in his hand, and cotton gloves—a-trying to look genteel.”
“And he asked for the right boot?” asked Mr. Longcluse.
“Yes, Sir.”
“You are quite sure of that? Did he take the boot without looking at it, or did he examine it before he took it away?”
“He looked at it sharp enough, Sir, and turned up the sole, and he said ‘It's all right,’ and he went away, taking it along with him.”
“He asked for the boot I wore yesterday, or last night—which did he say?” asked Mr. Longcluse.
“I think it was last night he said, Sir,” answered Charles.
“Try to recollect yourself. Can't you be certain? Which was it?”
“I think it was last night, Sir, he said.”
“It doesn't signify,” said Mr. Longcluse; “I wanted to see that your memory was pretty clear on the subject. You seem to remember all that passed pretty accurately.”
“I recollect it perfectly well, Sir.”
“H'm! That will do. Franklin, you'll remember that description—let every one of you remember it. It is the description of a thief; and when you see that fellow again, hold him fast till you put him in the hands of a policeman. And, Charles, you must be prepared, d'ye see, to swear to that description; for I am going to the detective office, and I shall give it to the police.”
“Yes, Sir,” answered Charles.
“I sha'n't want you, Franklin; let some one call a cab.”
So he returned to his dressing-room, and shut the door, and thought—“That's the fellow whom that miserable little fool, Lebas, pointed out to me at the saloon last night. He watched him, he said, wherever he went. I saw him. There may be other circumstances. That is the fellow—that is the very man. Here's matter to think over! By heaven! that fellow must be denounced, and discovered, and brought to justice. It is a strong case—a pretty hanging case against him. We shall see.”
Full of surmises about his lost boot, Atra Cura walking unheard behind him, with her cold hand on his shoulder, and with the image of the ex-detective always gliding before or beside him, and peering with an odious familiarity over his shoulder into his face, Mr. Longcluse marched eastward with a firm tread and a cheerful countenance. Friends who nodded to him, as he walked along Piccadilly, down Saint James's Street, and by Pall Mall, citywards, thought he had just been listening to an amusing story. Others, who, more deferentially, saluted the great man as he walked lightly by Temple Bar, towards Ludgate Hill, for a moment perplexed themselves with the thought, “What stock is up, and what down, on a sudden, to-day, that Longcluse looks so radiant?”
CHAPTER IX.
THE MAN WITHOUT A NAME.
Mr. Longcluse had made up his mind to a certain course—a sharp and bold one. At the police office he made inquiry. “He understood a man had been lately dismissed from the force, answering to a certain description, which he gave them; and he wished to know whether he was rightly informed, because a theft had been that morning committed at his house by a man whose appearance corresponded, and against whom he hoped to have sufficient evidence.”
“Yes, a man like that had been dismissed from the detective department within the last fortnight.”
“What was his name?” Mr. Longcluse asked.
“Paul Davies, Sir.”
“If it should turn out to be the same, I may have a more serious charge to bring against him,” said Mr. Longcluse.
“Do you wish to go before his worship, and give an information, Sir?” urged the officer, invitingly.
“Not quite ripe for that yet,” said Mr. Longcluse, “but it is likely very soon.”
“And what might be the nature of the more serious charge, Sir?” inquired the officer, insinuatingly.
“I mean to give my evidence at the coroner's inquest that will be held to-day, on the Frenchman who was murdered last night at the Saloon Tavern. It is not conclusive—it does not fix anything upon him; it is merely inferential.”
“Connecting him with the murder?” whispered the man, something like reverence mingling with his curiosity, as he discovered the interesting character of his interrogator.
“I can only say possibly connecting him in some way with it. Where does the man live?”
“He did live in Rosemary Court, but he left that, I think. I'll ask, if you please, Sir. Tompkins—hi! You know where Paul Davies puts up. Left Rosemary Court?”
“Yes, five weeks. He went to Gold Ring Alley, but he's left that a week ago, and I don't know where he is now, but will easy find him. Will it answer at eight this evening, Sir?”
“Quite. I want a servant of mine to have a sight of him,” said Longcluse.
“If you like, Sir, to leave your address and a stamp, we'll send you the information by post, and save you calling here.”
“Thanks, yes, I'll do that.”
So Mr. Longcluse took his leave, and proceeded to the place where the coroner was sitting. Mr. Longcluse was received in that place with distinction. The moneyed man was honoured—eyes were gravely fixed on him, and respectful whispers went about. A seat was procured for him; and his evidence, when he came to give it, was heard with marked attention, and a general hush of expectation.