Читать книгу The Shadow Crook - Aidan de Brune - Страница 7

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The theory that Samuel Keene and the Shadow Crook were one and the same person rather fascinated Inspector Mason, even though the idea of connecting the raid on Police Headquarters with the trial of the jewel doctor, seemed absurd. There was an interval of five years to bridge, since the theft and the trail.

The one clue he had to work on was that the Shadow Crook had dared to penetrate Police Headquarters to hold in his hands for a few brief moments the filing envelope containing the records of Stacey Carr. He had taken nothing from the file; Sergeant Anderson was prepared to swear to that.

If Stacey Carr had not stolen the jewels then it was more than probable they still lay where the old jeweller had placed them. That theory would explain the Kynaston sapphires and the White Trinity dropping completely out of sight.

The Shadow Crook, or Samuel Keene, had watched the old jeweller, hoping to discover the old man's hidden safe. He had failed to discover it, up to the date of the jeweller's arrest. He had watched, secretly, the old man through his prison career. His death had upset the Shadow Crook's plans. In a desperate endeavor to locate some clue to the missing jewels, the master criminal had conducted the daring raid on Police Headquarters. But, what possible clue to the hiding place of the jewels could be hidden in the official record of the convict?

So far the theory was plausible, but to prove it, Mason had to show that the official records of Stacey Carr held some clue to the hiding place of the jewels. That appeared impossible.

Another flaw in his reasoning presented itself. He was presuming a connection between the Shadow Crook and the Victorian, Samuel Keene. He had nothing to support that connection. If Samuel Keene was the Shadow-Crook, then what had been his movements between his disappearance, as Samuel Keene, and his re-appearance as the Shadow Crook?

Mason came out of his reverie to find himself at the corner of Hunter and George-streets. He remembered that down George-street, towards Circular Quay, lay Carew Lane. Quickening his pace he strode on. A hundred yards past Hunter-street corner ho halted abruptly at the entrance to a narrow street, almost an alley-way.

From where he stood on the edge of the pavement he could glimpse the single window of the jeweller's shop that had once belonged to Stacey Carr—the "jewel doctor." For a moment he hesitated, then turned down the lane, walking slowly. Just before he came opposite the shop he looked up. Over the façade, in dirty, gold letters, was the name: "Stacey Carr, Jeweller."

Five years ago the old jeweller had been carried out of that shop to the ambulance to travel first to the hospital and later to prison. Yet the name still existed. More, the shop was still in the occupation of a jeweller. From the look of the place, the dingy fly-marked windows, the dilapidated, tarnished stock, the place might have stood, during the years, as Stacey Carr left it. Why? What influence had operated to slop the hands of time over that one place in Sydney?

The detective crossed the road and peered in at the dusty windows. The shop was small, with a counter running length-ways from the centre. Behind the counter had been built shelves, now full of jewellers' litter. There was a number of watches in various stages of decrepitude on the shelves and hanging on hooks in the shop and window. A few bangles of the commoner sort hung on a long bar from a corner of the window. The main portion of the space was occupied by a litter of tarnished silver and clock parts.

At the rear of the shop, Mason could see the open door of the work-room. At the far side of the work-room was a long bench and at it stood an old man working at some article held in a small vice. The detective looked down at his watch with quizzical affection. It was a good watch, but he had to sacrifice it to the inordinate curiosity this place was engendering in him. He pushed open the creaking door and entered.

"Something's gone wrong with my match—it won't keep time," he explained when the old man came leisurely from the bench to behind the counter.

The jeweller fumbled a glass into his eye and opened the back of the watch. For a few seconds he poked at the works with a finely-pointed tool.

"Dirty. Wants cleaning." The watch was placed gently on a pad of soiled velvet and the glass dropped carelessly from the old man's eye to his hand. "Cost you ten bob."

The price was spoken in a different tone, as if the man was prepared to bargain. Mason nodded, with a sigh in his heart for his faithful watch.

"All right. Mr. Stacey Carr, isn't it?"

"My name's Warton." The old man looked up, suspiciously. "Syd. Warton. I'm in charge of the shop. Stacey Carr's—"

"Yes?" The detective suggested as the man paused.

"Stacey Carr's dead." Warton chuckled, almost gleefully, as he spoke. "Yes, Stacey Carr died yesterday."

"Then I suppose the shop will be given up and you'll lose your job." Mason spoke easily. "Hard lines!"

"Why should I?" Warton lifted the watch again and screwed the glass into his eye. "I came here when he was took away affore."

"When he was taken ill. Long ago."

"Nigh five years." The old man made a long pause. "I can get this done for you to-morrow, about this time."

"Suit me. Hard lines to have to go after all that time; Mr. Warton."

"Who says I'm going?" The jeweller looked up quickly. "They ain't got rid of me in five years, so why should they now?"

"They? Who?"

"What's that to do with you?" The bleary eyes looked at the detective with sudden suspicion. "Who're you, and what are you askin' questions for? You came here to get your watch mended, didn't you?"

"Only sympathising with you, Mr. Warton. They, whoever 'they' are, will certainly not keep the shop on when there's no chance of Stacey Carr coming back to it."

"Perhaps they will an' perhaps they won't. Perhaps I'll buy out the place for m'self, though there ain't anythin' in it if they don't pay the wages. But, what's that got to do with you? You want your watch mended, an' I'm' busy."

The old man turned abruptly and walked into the workroom. Mason stood a moment longer in the shop, looking about him, then went to the door.

The shop was still in the possession of Stacey Carr, or his relatives. So far as Mason could judge the place was in the same condition as when Stacey Carr had left it. On the pavement in George-street the detective stretched himself with a jerk. What stupendous luck!

Who had sufficient interest in Stacey Carr to retain his shop and work-room after the old man had been carried to prison? The Inspector's thoughts went to the mysterious Samuel Keene of five years before. Had this man, after failing to discover where Stacey Carr had hidden the jewels, planned to keep the place in the condition in which the old man had left it in the hope that when he was released he would come to it in search of the jewels?

That theory had to be discarded. Samuel Keene would have come against insurmountable difficulties in such a task. The most reasonable surmise was that Stacey Carr had left relatives and that they were interested in the discovery of the missing jewels. The supposition would show they believed in the innocence of the old jeweller.

Warton, in his almost senile temper, had spoken of wages. That was evidence tending to prove that Stacey Carr's relatives still held the tenancy of the shop. Mason tried to remember if, in the mass of information he had acquired that day, he had come across any mention of such relatives. So far as he had progressed he had not discovered any relatives of the old jeweller.

It was now late in the afternoon and Mason walked briskly up to Police Headquarters! There wag no call for him there and he wandered down into Pitt-street, in search of dinner. He was not dissatisfied with his day's work. Luck had favoured him. He was not tired, and determined to devote his evening to probing further into the problem.

It was too late to go further on the trail of Stacey Carr, but he had another string to follow. He had sworn to get the Shadow Crook. The evening hours and night were the prowling times of the master criminal. If he could get on the trail of that elusive person he might find some clue leading back to Stacey Carr.

For some time after the meal he lingered in the vicinity of Police Headquarters, carefully watching for a man in a worn, brown overcoat and dark grey hat. He did not expect the man to repeat his raid on police headquarters, but curiosity might lead him to the neighbourhood to discover what additional safeguards the authorities had established. At length the Inspector turned up to wards Macquarie-street and through the Outer Domain, to Woolloomooloo.

In that maze of small grim streets, lying in the deep saucer-like depression between Darlinghurst, Oxford-street and the slopes of the Domain, lived the lower strata of Sydney's underworld. Here brazened the razor and gun gangs after nightfall, going about their fell business, almost openly. In the narrow streets and alleys furtively slunk those the police were anxious to interview, diving from door to door, their ears keenly alert to the shrill signals that betokened the presence of the police. In the broader streets the inhabitants moved more freely. Many of the doors were open and on the balconies and even on the pavements, sat the "lost" sisters of Sydney, crying their wares.

Passing along the front of Woolloomooloo wharves, Mason felt for his automatic, finally shifting it into one of the side-pockets of his jacket. Under his coat, and loosely fastened to his belt, hung a small black-jack, once the valued possession of a noted Newcastle crook. Armed and alert, the Inspector still felt he was taking a risk in venturing alone into this unsavoury quarter of the city, after night-fall.

Steadily and methodically he quartered the district, watching on all sides for some signs that might lead him to the Shadow Crook. Riley, Crown and Palmer-streets, with the multitudinous cross streets and alley-ways, drew blank. In some manner the news of his presence had spread and the numerous shelfs, dips and top-offs had slunk far into the shrouding darkness.

Arriving again on the broad street fronting the line of wharves, Mason strode quickly towards the rocks of Pott's Point. Dodging around, irregularly, he came to the ill-lit, ill-smelling alley, named Amersham-street. He had hardly turned the corner when he drew back into the shadows. Half-way down the street, leaning against a lamp-post, stood a man he knew.

It was not the Shadow Crook, and for the moment the Inspector could not name the man. His back was to him, and directly under the light, the shadows blended confusingly. Very cautiously he stole forward. A few yards from the man he altered his step, walking heavily.

"What are you doing here, Branston?" As he spoke he dropped a heavy hand on the newspaper-man's shoulder.

"Good Lor'!" The words came in a startled whisper. "You, Mason! Jove, you did give me a start! Sh-h-h! I'm on the track of the Shadow Crook."

"And giving newspaper work a rest, I suppose?"

"Off duty from the Mirror, to night." Mason grinned round at the burly officer.

"So you thought you would do a bit of detective work? What's this about being on the track of the Shadow Crook?"

"I've been hunting round here, since dark." The journalist seemed reluctant to explain. "Walking down Crown-street, towards the wharves, I saw him come out of a house. I followed until ho went in here."

The newspaper-man pointed to a low door on the opposite side of the street, almost at right angles to the lamp-post under which they were standing. Mason peered over. The interior of the house, a brick, two-storey affair, was in darkness. The windows were uncurtained and the place looked uninhabited.

"So you took up a position where he could have a good look at you when he came out, again?"

"What does that matter?" Branston indicated his clothing as he spoke. "He would take me for one of his own kidney, in this rig-out. Perhaps he might even offer me a job as assistant in a burglary."

The journalist chuckled at the suggestion that the Shadow Crook, well-known as a lone worker, would pick up a partner, casually, on the streets. Mason did not laugh; the newspaper-man was running his head into serious danger.

"Look here, Branston." he said. "This isn't all fun. Do you know you're in one of the worst quarters of Sydney, at the worst time of night? Why, any of these cattle, if they knew who you were, would tear you from limb to limb. I'm not joking."

"And what about Inspector Mason?" Branston looked at the detective with a broad grin. "I take it that we newspaper men run as many risks as you police officers. Why, this isn't the first time I've been down here, and later than this. Orders of the 'tin-gods' who sit round a table at head office and spoil good copy. There's such a thing in my work, Mason, as bringing home the goods."

"I've heard that." The Inspector was silent for some seconds. "But, what's your game? You can't remain here all night, under this lamp-post. For all you know that's the den of the Shadow Crook and he's retired for the night. Taking what you re porters call, time off."

"In that case I propose to watch until I'm certain he will not come out again. Then, me for home and bed. Now, clear off, Mason, there's a good fellow. If he comes out while we are together the game's finished."

"I'm not leaving you here." The detective spoke emphatically. He looked around him. A few paces up the street a narrow alley opened between two houses, barely more than a couple of feet wide. He nodded to wards it. "I'll he there. We'll wait a quarter of an hour and then move on. To-morrow—"

"Watch that door." Branston nodded agreement to the plan. "I believe he is alone in the house. There's not been a sign since he entered a quarter of an hour ago."

Mason nodded and stepped silently to his hiding place. The short street was deserted, although along the two streets bounding it, passed a steady stream of people. Two minutes passed slowly. Once a scraggy youth, hollow-chested and big-eyed, passed down the alley, to turn into the door of a house, close to where Mason was hidden.

A low whistle brought the detective alert. There was a shadow emerging from the shadows of the door across the street. It wavered as if undecided. Then, out of the darkness, into the comparative light of the street, stepped the figure of a lithe and graceful woman. For a brief moment she stood before the door, pulling on her gloves, then turned in the direction of Darlinghurst, walking rapidly. With a few quick steps Branston came to the Inspector's side.

"Did you see her? What does it mean? I'll swear the Shadow Crook went in there—and a girl comes out!"