by Lewis Hockley [Percy Longhurst].
Originally published in The Magnet Library (The Amalgamated Press, Ltd.) vol.1 #7 (28 Mar 1908).
The Plunge.
Having expressed her willingness to part with the sum of ten pounds ten shillings in consideration of the detectives' obtaining for her release from the sending of the picture-postcards, and the circumvention of thoso who sought her money and her life, Mrs. Brewer departed, leaving Maxennis the richer by one-half of the promised fee—the payment in advance was the Yorkshireman's idea, and the money had yet to he earned—a bundle of postcards, and not the faintest idea of how the work was to be done.
When the door had closed behind the voluble lady, Dennis looked at his chum with an expression of ruefulness inexpressibly comic.
"What the Jerusalem are we going to do?" be asked.
"When?"
"Now—any time."
"Well, a1 12.30— it's nearly that now—we're going out to lunch with that Yankee chap, and afterwards we're going to set to work to earn that tenner," Lomax answered, quite seriously.
"But how?" Dennis persisted. "I don't see—"
"I do see that if we don't perform our contract, we're liable to be charged with obtaining money by false pretences, and I'm a detective. not a swindler."
"Very likely; but, still—"
"When you come to look at it, it isn't such a difficult case, after all." Lomax went on quickly. "Nothing that the two of us can't tackle. Either these cards are sent as a joke, or that old wonan's story is correct; it's our business to find out."
"How?"
"Well, I can't elaborate the scheme yet—there isn't time; but, briefly, our first job is to find out where and when these cards are posted—they all come from the same place—and ascertain who is the sender, Once we know that, it'll be all plain sailing. Once let us know this, we'll know what to do—whether the sender is joking, or in real earnest, though I'm inclined to believe the former is correct. Come now, Frank, don't shirk the job. I tell you we're not acting the goat, but getting down to straightforward work."
"Well, I'm with you, of course, you know that," Dennis answered.
"That's right, and now we'll go to find Mr. Harvey J. Baxter."
They did find the American, spent a pleasant couple of hours with him, and went back to their office to examine the batch of postcards.
These they found, on inspection, to have been all despatched from the same place—a small village named Leigh, in Essex, not very far from the town of Southend, and distinguished from the several other places of the same name in England by the affix on-Sea. When Lomax borrowed a gazetteer, and found that the population of Leigh numbered only a couple of thousand, he showed great satisfaction.
"This simplifies matters considerably, Frank," he observed. "It's always easier to find out things in a little place than it is in a big one. Plobably there's only two or three places in the village where picture-postcards can be obtained, and anyone who buys 'em at all largely or regularly, is sure to be remembered.
"Just so," his chum replied; "but it doesn't follow that they were all bought in the village just because they were posted there."
"It doesn't. Glad to hear you talk like that, Frank; shows you're beginning to take some interest in the job, to put your brains in it."
"Thank you." Dennis said, with mock anger, "If you begin patronising me, I'll have to show you that a Cornwall and Devon wrestler'd knock spots off any North-country man that ever breathed—like I've done before," he added.
"Rot!" This was an insinuation that never failed to arouse Lomax. "Why, the best man you ever had would have been buried by one of ours—thrown into the middle of neat week."
"Would he? I'll show you when I'm through with this little lot."
"Most of 'em, Bob, seem to go out by the evening collection," observed Dennis, after a spell of work.
"So I've found."
"What d'you take that to mean?"
"Either that the senders are anxious Mrs. Brewer should receive them first thing in the morning, or else that he doesn't have much time to himself until the evenings."
A careful examination of the cards proved that the elaborately-worded threats which they bore were all in more or less of the same stylo of handwriting; there were some slight caligraphic differences, but the general appearance was pretty much the same. This led to another discussion.
"Strikes me that the writer of these cards is someone who hasn't had what you'd call a tip-top education," Lomax remarked, "This'd about tally with what our client"—our client, if you please—"has to say about them being sent by the members of her family; and if they're like her, I guess they haven't been to any university."
"That's where you're wrong." his friend objected, "I reckon they're all written by some kid; it's a regular kid's handwriting, like every youngster at school writes—letters unformed, joinings bad, and upstrokes awfully shaky. Why, somewhere at home you'd find copy-books I wrote when I was a kid at school between which and these you couldn't tell any difference in tho handwriting."
"Very likely," Lomax said coolly, "Wish you'd improved as you grew older. I've always said you're a duffer with the pen."
Dennis grunted indignantly, and resumed his examination.
"I'll tell you why I think you're wrong," Lomax remarked, after a bit. "No kid'd ever think of putting his meaning into such words as those used here; the style's a bit beyond a kid. Didn't Mrs. Brewer say something about the parties interested getting a little boy to write them? If so, your theory would be right as to the writer."
"Don't remember."
"Well, whoever it is, the fact remains that these cards are having a serious effect on Mrs. Brewer's nerves."
"Yes—either them or something else—what she keeps in her flask, for instance."
"Hallo, who's suspicious now?" And Lomax sat up. "Who is it who's thinking badly of persons?"
"I don't caro," Dennis answered stoutly. "The fact is, Bob, I'm a bit suspicious of this Mrs. Brewer. What she's told us may be true; but I'm sure it isn't all. My own idea is that we'd understand a deal more about these cards if we knew something more of Mrs. Brewer herself."
"There's something in it," Lomax said, with slow thoughtfulness. "There is something in that, Frank. If there's any mystery connected with a person, the more one knows of him or her, the more easy it is to arrive at a solution of the mystery. That's logical."
"That's the theory on which Sherlock Holmes worked pretty considerably!" exclaimed Dennis.
"Oh, Sherlock Holmes!"
"Yes. Don't you recollect that story in which he found out who it was that had murdered an old sea captain by sticking a harpoon clean through him!"
"Never read it."
"Well, it was," Dennis went on, overlooking the scorn of the great detective hero which his chum was at no pains to hide. "He raked up the dead man's history, found out what enemies he'd made when he was skipper of a whaling-boat, and was able, by that means, to prove that the suspected man was quite innocent, and that an altogether different chap was the murderer."
"H'm! Glad to hear it! Glad to know he was so sensible. But the idea's a good one, Frank; we'll work upon it. Look here, suppose we begin the investigation of this case from two quite opposite directions—one of us deal with the postcards, the other one look up Mrs. Brewer?"
"Right you are, old chap," Dennis said delightedly. "If you like, I'll take on the second part."
"Suit me."
"That means we've got to lock up our office. What'll we do if any more clients turn up?"
"Why, there's a lotter-box inside the door, isn't there? We'll leave word with the caretaker that if anybody calls to see us, he's either to write out his business and drop the letter through the door, or to call again late in the evening. You'll have to arrange, old man, to call here every day, either morning or evening, in case anything happens. I can't do it. I can't be running up and down from Leigh every day—come too expensive, and we haven't any brass to chuck away. Once I'm there, I'll have to stop there unless something important crops up. But you're all right, on the spot, can get hero any time you like."
"Yes, that'll do; and you'll let me know where a letter or wire'll find you if I want you,"
"Yes, that'll be best. And now I'm going to begin at once. I'll dig up a Bradshaw, find out when there's a train to Leigh, and be off. I'll wire you my address to-night. And look here, Frank, we'll just send each other daily reports of what's happened, and what's been done, and keep one another posted. If Mrs. Brower gets anxious or has anything more to say, you'll have to arrange to see her. If she wants to know how things are going on, tell her we're working day and night. I mean to, anyway."
"All right, old chap; don't say it like that. So shall I. I'm taking this seriously, I can assure you, though I don't mind telling you I believe the postcard business to be nothing more than mere bunkum, Someone's having a lark with the old girl."
"We'll see," Lomax rejoined, "You'll live here, of course."
"Yes, when I'm at home."
"And see here, Frank," the Yorkshireman said impressively, "if I were you, I wouldn't say too much about what we're doing to that American chap, if you should happen to see him again. He may be all right—I'm not saying he isn't; but—well, we don't want to tell everybody our business."
"All right."
Robert Lomax found his train, and with the bag containing all his worldly possessions, he started for Fenchurch Street Station. Dennis accompanied him thither, and on the way, Lomax had a good deal to say respecting their venture, and this first trial of their skill as detectives on which they were embarking. Lomax was taking himself very seriously. His last words to his chum when they parted on the platform, were: "Put your back into it, old man, and keep your mouth shut, especially before Mr. Harvey J. Baxter."
There was a curious feeling in possession of Frank Dennis when he left the railway terminus and slowly made his way into Gracechurch Street. Ho was elated, excited with the novelty of the situation in which he found himself, and yet he could not shake off a sensation of nervousness and concern, What was he going to do? Ascertain all possible circumstances connected with their client, Mrs. Brewer, obtain all possible particulars of her. And how he was going to do this, he knew no more than he was aware of the name of the man in the moon.
Detective work is interesting, a detective a most fascinating personage; no occupation than his is more exciting or entertaining—in a novel or magazine story. He does the most wonderful things, and the method of his doing is simplicity itself—in print. It is all so easy that one is fully convinced that, given similar opportunities, placed in like circumstances, one would do just the same, and do it just as well. Tho detective hero of fiction is clever, of course; but the person who reads of his doings doesn't consider himself a fool, either; he reckons he'd be very nearly, if not quite, as successful himself if the things which come into the fictional hero's way, came into his also.
But romance and reality are two very distinct and different propositions. What looks so easy, simple, and pleasant when set down in print, wears an entirely different aspect when translated into the cold hard facts of common, everyday existence. Give the enthusiastic student of detective literature—one who has soaked himself in the ways and doings of crime investigators, and is inclined to reckon himself as clover as they—give him a genuine, living problem to solve, and he is up a tree, nonplussed, more than a little helpless. He can't see the head from the tail of the matter; and he hasn't the least idea in the universe where to begin, how to set about the unravelling. All the fine theories he has formed, the sublime confidence he has in his own abilities to rival Vidocq or Sherlock Holmes are of no more use to him than a headache. He realises that he has got hold of a vastly different job from what he had thought it to be. Make him work, and ten to one he makes a mess of it.
The clever creator of Sherlock Holmes was once approached in regard to a crime committed close to where ho was living, and he set to work, And, behold, while he was making elaborate inquiries, working out this, that, and other deductions, some thick-headed village constablo—a practical man—went out and arrested the veritable culprit.
No, Lomax was not so very far out in his obstinate, common-sense disbelief in the imaginative, and his reliance upon the practical; it is work, sheer hard work, plus some intelligence, plus some luck, that helps a man to solve mysteries. And the thing, when one sets about doing that particular sort of job, is to know—as with everything else—just how to set about it. To follow the working of someone else, to trace the steps by which he did this, that, or the other, is easy; the troubles arise when one has to take the initiative.
And this was precisely the side of the argument that was showing itself to Frank Dennis—how was he going to begin what he had to do? What to do for a beginning?
Frank got himself tied up mentally, and his wits in a fearful tangle trying to arrive at a suitable solution of the question. His head began to buzz, and presently he entered a tea-shop and ordered a cup of coffee, "extra-strong," he told the waitress. When he got it—it was just the same, by the way, as any other customer would have had—he leaned back in his seat and tried to straighten out his ideas.
How would Sherlock Holmes set to work? Pooh! For that eighth wonder of the world, sufficient of Mrs. Brewer's personality, character, and general history would have been revealed during the interview of the morning to enable him to know all about her without seeking particulars. Frank was compelled to admit, reluctantly, that it hadn't been so with himself; obviously he was no Sherlock Holmes. He'd have got to the heart of the mystery in ten minutes; he'd have had the whole thing worked out, at at his fingers' ends by now. He'd know who sent the cards, and why they were sent, and— Frank suddenly pulled himself short. That was Lomax's work, not his; he was to accumulate facts concerning Mrs. Brewer. And the best way—that's what Lomax would do—was to go to where Mrs. Brewer lived, and, in an unobtrusive fashion, pump the persons who knew her—her friends, and acquaintances, enemies, tradespeople, and, above all, that lady who lived next door—Mrs. Biddlecombe.
With this resolve Frank drank up his cold coffee, and left the tea shop. He knew what he was going to do. His career as a detective was actually beginning.
The Other End of the Business.
While his chum was puzzling his brain and sipping his coffee, the other half of Maxennis, seated in a corner of third smoker, was engaged in upholding his end of an interesting and lively conversation with a fellow-traveller.
Robert Lomax was never averse to talking to anybody, but his warning to his partner to keep his mouth shut was not because he was one who preached what he did not practise, for—this conversational gift of his notwithstanding—Lomax, no matter how much he might say, did keep his mouth abut concerning himself. Some men can do this, others can't. Lomax would have talked all day, and his companion would have learned as much about him as would be comfortably put on a threepenny-bit. He would never give himself away, and never said anything about himself, exempt he saw a profitable reason for so doing.
But for that wrestling match in the office of Driver & Worritt that had led to the severance of the chums connection therewith, Bob Lomax would probably have stayed and developed into a very successful lawyer. He had all the necessary qualities therefor.
The compartment was empty save for Lomax and his companion, a little, dark-faced, hooky-nosed, clean-shaven young fellow of about his own age, with the dark eyes, shiny dark hair, and that manner which stamps a Hebrew with the indelible sign of his race. He was quick, eager and insinuating in his manner; deferential, easy, and flowing of speoch. He was respectably dressed: wore diamond rings, scarf-pin, and a massive gold (?) chain that, at a distance, was impressive. It gave him an air of substance. A square, flat leather case was on the seat beside him. He looked a commercial traveller. He sized Lomax up before the train had reached Stepney—or thought he had, which was much the same—and before East Ham was reached the pair were talking as if they were old friends reunited after years'-long absence.
"Pretty place, Southend!" he remarked, having exhausted the weather, the train-service, and other subjects of
general interest.
"Don't know it; hope to see it soon," Lomax replied affably.
"Ah, it is! Often run down there Saturday to Monday. Air's fine; though the mud! Ah, it does hum! So you're going down near there, eh?"
"Yes; I think I won't be very far off."
"Where's that—Westcliff?" inquired the Jew, with whom diffidence was not a strong point.
"No, Leigh; that's near Southend, isn't it?"
"Yes; only about three miles along the cliffs. Quiet little place; know is well; often go there. Do a bit of
business there, but not much. Southend's the place for trade! But Leigh ain't so bad, and, whatever people like to say, there's business to be done in the little country places just as well as there is in tho towns."
"Just so, You are going down on business?"
"My friend"—and the Hebrew's eyes twinkled, and he smiled cunningly—"I was always on business; it is play to me. If a man don't do business nowadays he will starve; and the man who's always at business gets the money, eh?"
"You're right there," Lomax agreed. "There isn't much got except by hard work."
"No; it's work, an' work, an' work--an' then, some day, a man has others working for him. You was going down on business, too?"
"I am. I think the same as you do."
"And what was your business?" inquired the Jew, with an insinuating smile.
"One that needs minding," Lomax answered.
The Jew accepted the rebuff with a grin.