by Lewis Hockley [Percy Longhurst].
Originally published in The Magnet Library (The Amalgamated Press, Ltd.) vol.1 #15 (23 May 1908).
Bob Lomax has a Reverse.
"But I do, though," Dennis answered briskly. He hadn't tasted food since the afternoon before, and the pleasing odour of cooking fish that filled the office, bed, and sitting-room combined, was enough to make a dead man hungry.
"Hurry up, then, you lazy beggar; though you don't deserve it! I've got three dozen as fine whiting as ever a man'd wish to see; bought them for threepence down on Leigh beach before you turned into bed this morning."
"I'm with you, my boy!" Dennis shouted, "I'll be with you in ten minutes!"
Jumping out of bed, Dennis stripped and had a good scrub down with a wet loofah, the while Lomax opened the window, and, with one eye on toast and the other on grilling whiting, vigorously apostrophised the kettle, which showed some disinclination to boil.
Dennis made several remarks to his chum while dressing, but Lomax's mind was given entirely to the matter of breakfast, and he steadfastly ignored every question as to the details of the cause of his hurried return to town.
Within less than the promised time, Dennis was properly clothed and ready to lend a hand; but there was nothing to do, save place on the table the appetising meal for which Lomax was responsible, and eat it.
"People who don't work shouldn't eat!" the Yorkshireman grumbled, with his mouth full.
"Quite right, Bob; I agree with you," Dennis rejoined, attacking a liberal supply of buttered toast and well-browned whiting with avidity. "It's work that gives one an appetite, and that's why I'm so thoroughly enjoying the breakfast you've been so good as to provide. I'll do the same for you one of these days!"
"Humph! That's when you'll get up early enough! Pass the toast, please!"
"Yes; unless you happen to get up later."
"Couldn't; mustn't; have to work for my living!"
"So do I. Now, what's all the trouble about, Bob? What is it you've been discovering? What have you been doing?"
"What have you been doing? That's the more likely question!" Lomax rejoined, staring across the table at his partner's face.
"I? Nothing—that is to say, working."
"Fighting more like!" growled Lomax. "Why, what else do you look like? There's a bruise the size of a penny on your chin! Fine, respectable appearance it gives you!"
"Oh!" Dennis recollected the tap McDonald had given him outside Wonderland. He had forgotten the blow for the moment, though a slight pain as he worked his jaws should have kept the fact from slipping his memory. "Oh, that's nothing!"
"Isn't it? I should say it is; something mighty disgraceful! I say, Frank"--and Lomax dropped his assumed humour of disagreeableness and ill-temper, and spoke quite anxiously--"I hope that brute McDonald hasn't been doing anything troublesome? Was it he? He looked as if he could have killed the pair of us yesterday!"
"Well, I'm afraid he has," Dennis said. "But never mind him, Bob; let us hear the news you have brought. What is it you've got to tell me?"
"Something good."
"Well, out with it! What an irritating chap you are, Bob!" Dennis cried impatiently. "You've discovered the solution of the mystery we're working on, and then you'll say nothing about it?"
"Yes, I will, at the proper time," answered the Yorkshireman composedly. "This is feeding-time now. If you'd been up, Frank, since five o'clock this morning, instead of half-past ten, you'd--"
"Drop it, or I'll shy the teapot at you!"
"Don't do that, I want some more tea! I say, these fish are good! Just a couple more, and then I'll tell you what I've been doing!"
"You have got a long-winded appetite, Bob!" his chum said resignedly. And then, just to show that Lomax was not the only one so gifted, he lent assistance in clearing the dishes of everything eatable; the loaf-sugar--still in its paper-bag--alone escaping annihilation.
"Hang the washing up; I'm going to have a pipe first!" declared Lomax, when, with a sigh of contentment, he left off eating because there was nothing more to eat. "Don't care if anyone does come in; don't care if it snows!"
"More do I! Go ahead, Bob, and let's hear what you've got to say."
"I've solved the mystery," began Lomax complacently, as he leisurely stuffed the tobacco into his pipe.
"Yes? How?"
"I've found out who wrote those postcards that our client has been receiving."
Dennis sat up quickly.
"What?" he exclaimed.
"Fact."
"Which cards?"
"Which cards?" Lomax allowed a thin wisp of smoke to escape from his lips and curl upward. "Why, the cards, of course--Mrs. Brewer's! Your head's going wrong. Aren't you well?"
"Yes, yes; but which of those cards?" demanded Dennis impatiently. "The forged cards, or the other ones?"
"Keep your hair on, old man; the other ones, of course." explained Lomax, in a tone of voice which plainly gave it as his opinion that the forged cards weren't worth worrying about.
"Oh!" Dennis fell back in his chair again. "Those! Well?"
"It's a joke."
Lomax put his hands deeper into his pockets, lay back still further in his chair, puffed smoke, and gazed benignly at his chum.
"What is?"
"The writing of those cards. Just as we thought."
"I didn't think so," corrected Dennis. And to himself he murmured, "Nor is it, either."
"Well, I did."
"Who has been writing them?"
"The joker."
"And who is he?"
There wasn't quite so much enthusiasm in Dennis's voice as his partner thought the occasion demanded, and he looked at Dennis just a little discontentedly.
"No one whom you know," he answered. "It's a joke," he went on. "There's no more seriousness about the matter than there would be in Harvey J. Baxter's good intentions on our behalf. It's a pure bit of fun; a trifle foolish, perhaps, but one can't expect much from a kid. But there was nothing for Mrs. Brewer to worry herself to death about. I reckon she'll laugh when she finds out from us how absurd the trouble is. Think so too?"
"You haven't told me yet how you found out, or who it is," put in Dennis mildly. "How can I tell if it's a joke, unless I'm in the know."
"Found out, my boy, by sheer work; reasoning; hard, matter-of-fact inquiry; and putting two and two together! None of your story-book intuitions, brilliant ideas, or marvellous deductions!"
Perhaps it was his success; perhaps it was the result of his good breakfast; but Lomax was undeniably feeling on very good terms with himself. He felt proud, and his chum inwardly chuckled at the thought that he would presently take the conceit out of him.
He smiled at Bob's contemptuous reference to his own ideals of detective work. Was it by sheer hard work that he had happened upon McDonald's acquaintance with the matter? What had sent him to Wonderland, the outcome of which visit was to reveal the existence of a connection between the professional boxer and Mr. Solomon Abrams, picture postcard printer of Houndsditch?
"Well, tell me all about it, old chap," he said.
"Well, you know what I was doing--trying to locate the folks in Leigh who bought most picture postcards? I told you of the fisherman and the barmaid. They were no good; and that left one more; a schoolboy. When you told me Mrs. Brewer had been cook at a school before she married--it was you who told me, wasn't it?--I had an idea. I thought of that boy in Leigh who bought cards so freely. I worked out my idea going down, after leaving you, yesterday.
"In the afternoon I went up to the school where this kid is a boarder, and I saw the master. Previously to this, I must tell you, I'd paid a visit to Somerset House, dug out the record of Mrs. Brewer's marriage, and got hold of her maiden name. It was Maria Harvey, I may tell you. Well, I asked the headmaster point-blank if he'd ever had a cook at the school of that name. He didn't know--he was a nice old chap, and quite willing to assist--but he sent for the housekeeper, or matron, or something. She remembered the name, and the woman, too, as well as if it were yesterday. And when I asked her if there had ever been any ill-feeling between the cook and any of the scholars, she laughed, said it was a queer question, but that, as a matter-of-fact, there had. See?"
"Think I do, Bob. Go on, this is interesting. Though it strikes me this idea of yours was what I should call an inspiration."
"Inspiration be jiggered!" Lomax answered indignantly. "It was an intelligent presumption from given facts! Well, then I asked if I could see this kid I told you of--Dick Martin, or whatever his name is; it doesn't matter, though he's an interesting youth, by the way. The master said 'No' at first, and then I mentioned the fact that I suspected the boy of having sent threatening letters--postcards, rather--to our client. Well, he 'hum'd' and 'ha'd' a good deal; ultimately, however, the boy was sent for. He was a bit scared at first; afterwards, he got sulky, as well as frightened; but we talked to him, and I put questions to him, and, after the expenditure of a good deal of time, he caved in and made a clean breast of the whole matter.
"It was he who had written the cards. For some reason or other he and the late cook had been at loggerheads; he'd got a down on her; boys are queer customers, one can never tell what odd ideas they get into their heads--after she'd left to get married, it occurred to him that he'd give her a bit of a scare by sending her these postcards. Oh, I tell you, he is an interesting youth! Probably go the idea from some silly book or other that he'd been reading. He didn't understand that he was doing anything wrong; but he quickly altered his note when he learned I was a detective. He'd been sending these blessed cards for some time past! Of course, the master gave him a good talking-to, and then I came away. It was too late for me to get back last night, and so I got the first train up this morning.
"And so there you are, Frank," Lomax concluded; "the whole thing resolves itself into no more than a boyish, idiotic joke."
"Well, Bob," Dennis said after a long pause, when his chum, with great evidence of self-satisfaction, had concluded. "Well, Bob, you've certainly done well! You've worked out your theory A1, and you've succeeded in what you undertook to do. What now?"
"Why, all we've got to do is to acquaint Mrs. Brewer, and collect the remaining half of our fee."
"Yes. And--and what about McDonald?" Dennis asked gently.
There was no answer. Lomax paused a second in the refilling of his pipe, continued the operation, and struck a match. But he said nothing, and, after a minute or two of silence, Dennis spoke again.
"What about those other postcards; those that weren't written by this schoolboy; that you yourself have examined and admitted to be forgeries, or imitations? Do you consider that our work is finished while they remain unexplained? Do you think we are entitled to collect the rest of our fee from our client until we've ascertained the meaning of them?"
Bob Lomax removed his pipe and banged his fist so violently on the table that the lighted tobacco was scattered abroad. He sat straight in his chair and turned on his chum, looking at him with sparkling eyes.
"Confound you, Frank," he exclaimed wrathfully; "confound you! Just when I was congratulating myself on having done something really smart and clever, up you get and kick the bottom out of all my satisfaction, and make me appear a fool!"
"No, I don't, old chap," Dennis said, with quick frankness. "You've done wonders, and you have solved some of the mystery; but not all of it. You've ustified yourself, and I haven't myself. I've only succeeded in mystifying myself."
"Well, lets hear what you've done."
Robert Lomax was too good a fellow to feel really hurt at what his chum had reminded him. He knew that Dennis had nothing further from his thoughts than any desire to depreciate what he had done, to minimise the value of his work, and his little outburst was, under the circumstances, perhaps pardonable.
He hadn't forgotten the forged postcards; he was perfectly aware that his discovery of Master Dick Martin's eccentric game hadn't gone any way towards making clear the other matter; he would have referred to it himself later on, but when Dennis mentioned it, the pride and exultation he quite naturally felt did receive a bit of a facer. However, he recovered quickly.
"Lets hear what you've got to say, Frank," he repeated good-temperedly. "Of course, you're right, I know it. Now, what have you been doing?"
"Engaged in dissipation, as you hinted," Dennis replied smilingly. "As a matter of fact, I didn't get to bed until nearly two o'clock this morning. I went to Wonderland to see our friend McDonald."
"Did he knock you out?" And Lomax chuckled.