by Lewis Hockley [Percy Longhurst].
Originally published in The Magnet Library (The Amalgamated Press, Ltd.) vol.1 #10 (18 Apr 1908).
Dennis Enjoys a Gossip.
"Perhaps, madam, you might be aware if your friend—you said the lady was a friend of yours, didn't you?—is at home or not?" said Dennis.
"Which she ain't," Mrs. Biddlecombe said miserably. "She's out; she always is out just about now."
"Oh, that's inconvenient!" Deanis looked disturbed. "But perhaps she'll be home soon. Do you think so?"
"There ain't no telling!" Mrs. Biddlecombe opened the door a few inches wider, so that her visitor could see the whole of her shaking head. There's no one knows whenever she'll get back once she's out!"
"How's that?" inquired Dennis, who betrayed no sign of going away.
"Ah!"
A world of meaning was thrown into Mrs. Biddlecombe's exclamation. Like Lord Burleigh's celebrated nod, that "Ah!" spoke of far more than might be told in mere words.
"You mean—"
Mrs. Biddlecombe nodded her head.
There was silence for a few seconds, and then Dennis made a movement.
"That's very awkward, you know," he said testily. "I must see Mrs. Brewer, and the sooner the better, for my business is concerning some money that has been left to her, and, as you know—"
A flash of interest came into Mrs. Biddlecombe's tired eyes.
"What—more money?" she exclaimed. "Well, if some people— But there, it's said as money's the root o' all evil, and I'm quite sure that money don't always do folks no good; just the reverse sometimes."
Quite right, madam; very true," Dennis agreed. "But—Mrs. Brewer—"
"Would you like to come inside 'ere and wait!" Mrs. Biddlecombe interrupted suddenly. "As I was saying, Mrs. Brewer ain't always to be depended on, an' there's no telling when she'll be home. An' it seems a shame as you should have to go back again after coming all this way to see 'er; an' goodness only knows how long you'd have to wait. Come inside, sir, an' welcome, if you don't mind! I'm a particular friend o' Mrs. Brewer, an' I'm sure she'd think as I'd acted very unneighbourly an' unfriendly if I didn't ask you in to stop for a bit until she comes back."
She opened the door quite widely, and Dennis, protesting that he really didn't like to so take advantage of the lady's kindness, and only did so with tho greatest reluctance, did step inside, and was shown into the front room of the dwelling.
He fully appreciated the fact that the sudden kindness of Mrs. Brewer's friend and neighbour was due to the curiosity aroused by his artful hint of the money left; he well know that she was desirous of learning more about it, being evidently one of these persons who take a deal of interest in the business of other people, and by asking him into her hours she hoped to have her curiosity gratified.
"So Mrs. Brewer have come into more money." she observed, siting down, and folding her arms. "Well, I'm sure I'm glad to hear of it, not but what it don't seem hardly fair, as some people should have all of it an' others hardly nothink. But then that's what the Scripture says, so it don't do for us to go against it. Is it a great deal, sir!"
"Not so very much, madam."
"Ah! Still it's somethink. Well, all I can say is that I hopes as how it'll do her more good nor what the other lot did her. Money means worries an' troubles along of it, and, poor soul, she's found out the truth of that!"
"Your friend has already had a legacy?" queried Dennis, more than half ashamed of himself for tho deception he was practising.
"Yes, but like most other things, it ain't turned out quite all that she expected," Mrs. Biddlecombe replied, with a return to her lugubriousness. "Ah! Well, one can't never tell whether anythink's going 1to turn out a blessing or the reverse, though it's nearly always the reverse. She've got the money, but she've got troubles along of it."
"How is that?"
"Why, there's the bitter mixed along o' the sweet, the rough with the smooth; not but what it ain't anythink but good for folks that it should be so, but it ain't all honey for the poor soul, as I've told her again and again; and if it was me I'm sure I'd rather be without the money if it was to bring me all that it's brought her."
"And what may that be, Mrs. Biddlecombe? Nothing serious, I hope, or I shall begin to feel sorry for the errand I've come upon."
"Well, that all depends upon what you'd call serious," answered Mrs. Biddlecombe, who was beginning to enoy herself. "But it's wearing hew away to a very shadder, as I tell her lots of times, an' no wonder, for folks can't be happy and peaceful if they don't know one minute from another but what they're going to be murdered in their beds as you may say?"
"And is that what Mrs. Brewer fears?"
"It's what anyone'd fear, young man, if they was to get postcards every other day almost threatening to cut themin bits. I ain't strong-nerved myself, the which is why I says as I do scores and scores of times that I'm glad it's Mrs. Brewer, poor soul, as has got the money, an' not me!"
"Dear, dear!" Dennis murmured sympathetically. "And who is it that sends these postcards, madam?"
"That's what no one don't know, though it's my belief as it's them Socialists and Anarchists that you hear so much about nowadays, killing kings and queens and suchlike. They've 'eard as she's got money an' they're wanting to get it or kill her, perhaps both. I'm sure I don't know, nor does she, poor soul; though we've talked it over hundreds of times!"
"But if sha goes about in fear of her life why doesn't she go to the police?"
"Ah!" Mrs. Biddlecombe said oracularly: "Why not? That's what I've said; bub she won't do it. I would, I know very well. But no, there she'll sit an think, an' cry an' brood, an' all the time there's these cards a-coming, until she don't know whether she's standing on her feet or her 'ead!"
"Perhaps she has enemies," Dennis suggested.
"P'r'aps so; we all have," his hostess said, in a voice of dismal resignation; "even the best of us ain't free from 'em. But she oughtn't to have. As good a soul as you'd find in your life--not but what she ain't got a temper, same as all of us, when she's put out. But so far as I know, and I've known her nigh on thirty year, off an' on, no one ain't any call to be her enemy. But it's all along o' the money, as I tell you, young man; it's ruined her life, an' now there's more come along to add to it."
Mrs. Biddlecombe was now fairly wound up, and, helped by judicious questions from Dennis, whose vanished anxiety concerning Mrs. Brewer's return, the good lady did not seem to notice, she told all that she knew concerning her unhappy friend, and probably a bit more; for nothing, next to one's own misfortunes, is so interesting as the recital of another's woes, and under such circumstances it is odd indeed if fancy does not get a little play.
Dennis's brilliant idea had indeed been an inspiration; for information concerning Mrs. Brewer he could not have come to a better or more well-furnished source. He learned that "Maxenais's" client was the widow of a coffee-house keeper, who had been so unfortunate as to die six months after the marriage. Before that she had been cook at a private school, where, Mrs. Biddlecombe did not know. Her husband had been prosperous in his business, and had left her a tidy sum of money, until the inheritance of which she had been a comfortable, contented woman, but which had become the source of misfortune.
A good woman was Mrs. Brewer, a perfect lady, and one--this was a prominent virtue in the eyes of Mrs. Biddlecombe--who had no sympathy with the teetotal movement. And this was just as well, for since the coming of the postcards her nerves had suffered to an alarming extent, and, as was well known, there wan nothing to steady the nerves like "the leastest drop o' good brandy."
A couple of hours slipped by with extraordinary rapidity, and Mrs. Biddlecombe, having finished dealing with the troubles of her neighbours. began on her own, which Dennis accepted as a hint that he might depart. Thanking his hostess for her kindness, he left the house, stating his intention of calling to see Mrs. Brewer another time.
In addition to the facts concerning Mrs. Brewer personally, Frank had discovered that his client was owner as well as occupier of the adjoining house; and, it being larger than she had any need to use, she had taken a lodger, a young man of four or five-and-twenty years of age, who, having adopted pugilism as a means of livelihood, had done so well in his profession that he was looked upon as the ten-stone champion of the Surrey side of London. This notable person went by the name of Sleeping Sandy, his baptismal appellation being Alexander McDonald, the addition in no way denoting his slumberous nature, but being a delicate reference to his oft-demonstrated ability to put his opponents—in the ring or out of it—to sleep. This information Mrs. Biddlecombe had been able to give because of the friendship existing between her husband and the boxer himself. McDonald she added, was a quiet, steady young fellow, who seldom got up until middle-day, and was much liked by Mrs. Brewer and the elderly woman who lived with her because of the protection which his presence in the house afforded.
Dennis came away feeling that although be had heard a great deal he had learned very little. Forgetting that his mission was to gain knowledge of Mrs. Brewer, he was disappointed that he had been able to discover nothing bearing upon the matter of the postcards. He wondered if anything useful would result from interviewing Mr. McDonald, and regretted not having inquired where that redoubtable personage was likely to be found.
Acting on the spur of the moment, he stepped into a small sweetstuff and newspaper shop and purchased a copy of the "Sporting Life." Perhaps Sleeping Sandy was professionally engaged that night; the newspaper might contain an advertisement of the fact if so. But though he looked down the announcements of forthcoming events, he could not see McDonald's name.
Paper in hand, Dennis stood on the pavement lost in thought; he was wondering what to do. Suddenly he was aroused from his brown study by the sudden barking of a dog, and he awakened to the fact that he had entirely forgotten Grip, who, while his master had been conversing with Mrs. Biddlecombe, had been sitting contentedly on the doorstep. When Dennis had come out he had never given a thought to the fox-terrier.
At a quick pace he retraced his steps along the street. As he neared Mrs. Brewer's residence he caught sight of Grip standing about six feet away from a short, stockily-built man, who was contemplating the animal with some amusement on his heavy, clean-shaven features.
"By Jove! Why that is McDonald!" Dennis exclaimed, as his eyes took in the man who was stamped with the hallmark of the professional boxing-man.
It was a jump at a conclusion, but it was a correct one. The man was Sleeping Sandy, and, as Grip made a short rush at his legs he raised his foot and Kicked at the dog. Grip accepted the challenge, and the next instant his teeth were in McDonald's trousers.
There was a shout, an oath, McDonald's hands came out of his pockets, dragging an oblong piece of paper with them, and Grip, scenting trouble, loosed his hold, and, snatching up the paper, bolted towards his master, of whom he had caught sight.
Dennis, not wanting trouble with so formidable an antagonist as McDonald, turned on his heel and walked back. At a short distance he stopped, called the terrier to him, and commanded him to drop the slip of paper in his teeth. Grip obeyed, Dennis picked it up, and, seeing that it was a picture postcard, uttered an exclamation of astonishment. Then be hurried out of the street, and went as fast as his legs could take him to the nearest telegraph office.
Dennis had not examined Mrs. Brewer's batch of cards for nothing. His sharp eyes had noticed that each bore a mark distinguishable amid the blaze of colouring. That mark, an A inside a ring, was also on the card Grip had picked up!
Alexander McDonald.
Bob Lomax took the first available train to London after the receipt of the telegram, and went straight to the offices of the firm in the court off Fleet Street. There he was met by Dennis, who jumped to his feet directly he heard the door open and went towards him.
"Well, what is it, Frank?" were the Yorkshireman's first words.
"This." And Dennis pointed to a postcard lying on his desk beside a large magnifying glass.
Lomax picked up the coloured slip and examined it.
"Same as the others—same series," he said quietly, "But this is queer."
"It is."
"Hasn't been posted."
"No."
"Writing's the same as on all the others," Lomax went on, after a further scrutiny, "How did you get hold of it?" he asked, as Dennis made no reply to his assertion.
"Grip found it."
"Grip? Where?"
"In the street where Mrs. Brewer lives; just outside her door, in fact."
"H'm! Someone drop it?"
For answer Dennis related what he had been doing; his conversation with Mrs. Biddlecombe, and the rencontre with McDonald the pugilist.
"How on earth did he get hold of it? What, in the name of Fate, has he got to do with it?" mused Lomax, regarding the card with puzzled eyes. "It's addressed to our client, message much the same as on all the others, but it hasn't been though the post, and it isn't stamped. This is an eye-opener."
"It is," his partner assented briefly.
"Well, I reckon it was worth fetching me up for," went on Lomax; "though what to make of it I don't know."