Читать книгу Charles Peace, or The Adventures of a Notorious Burglar - Anonymous - Страница 86

Charles Peace, who still remained an inmate of Sanderson’s Hotel, and enjoyed, if we may so term it, the society of Kempshead, upon returning one evening was a little surprised at beholding, through the glass window of the door which led into the landlady’s private room behind the bar, a face which was familiar to him. Mr. Wrench, the astute detective, was in close converse with Mrs. Sanderson. He, however, did not observe our hero, who passed on into one of the public rooms.

Peace thought it a little singular, but said nothing about it to anybody.

However, a similar circumstance took place on the following night. As he and Kempshead were passing through the bar Peace saw the back of Mr. Wrench, who, as on the preceding night, was talking to the landlady.

He and Kempshead exchanged significant glances as they went up stairs.

“Did you see that chap in the bar parlour?” inquired the latter of Peace.

“I can’t make out his little game—​is he sticking up to the widow?”

“It is not possible to say, but I should think not,” returned Peace.

John Sanderson, the proprietor of the hotel bearing his name, had been dead for some three years, and the business was carried on by his widow, who, to say the truth, had been the presiding genius of the place during her husband’s lifetime.

Of late Mr. Wrench had paid such frequent visits to the establishment that many others besides Peace and his friend were under the impression that the detective was paying court to the amiable and comely widow.

In this, however, they were mistaken, as will very shortly be demonstrated.

Mr. Wrench only attended professionally, if we may make use of such a term.

For a period of many months’ duration—​for more than a year—​a systematic course of robbery had been carried on at the hotel.

Money was missed from the till, and the cash-box, silver plate, spirits, wines, table linen—​in short, almost every description of portable articles disappeared in a most mysterious and unaccountable manner.

The servants were suspected; one after the other had been discharged; a fresh set of assistants were engaged, still every now and then articles, money, and other property was missing, and, taken in the aggregate, the losses by robbery represented a very enormous sum.

Mrs. Sanderson was advised to place the matter in the hands of the police.

Mr. Wrench was deputed to clear up the mystery, and, if possible, to trace out the offending party or parties.

He waited upon Mrs. Sanderson, who made him acquainted with all the facts connected with the case.

Mr. Wrench considered the matter over, examined the premises, listened to the voluble landlady’s account of the matter, after which he arrived at one conclusion—​it was this, that the robbery was not committed by anyone engaged in the establishment, but by a thief, who, by some means only known to himself and his confederates, effected an entrance into the premises after the household had retired to bed.

Mrs. Sanderson said she could not believe that possible, as all the locks were exactly in the same state in the morning as they were when the household retired for the night.

Mr. Wrench smiled and said—

“Is the outer door bolted when you close?”

“No, it is never bolted,” returned the widow; “and for this reason. My regular customers, those who are likely to be late, are supplied with keys with which they can let themselves in. It is only those who have used the house for a number of years, and who are well known to me, that I entrust with keys, and then it is only on special occasions.”

“And these are gentlemen you have full confidence in?”

“Oh, dear me, yes. They are of the highest respectability.”

“Ahem—​yes—​I dare say,” observed the detective. “Knavery is not confined to a class, Mrs. Sanderson.”

“My dear sir, you would not for a moment suspect——”

“I do not suspect or accuse anybody,” interrupted the detective. “Some person enters the house at night—​of that I feel convinced.”

“You think so?”

“I do. The question is, how are we to find out the guilty party?”

“That I must leave to you.”

This conversation took place in the little room at the back of the bar.

Mr. Wrench rose from his seat and cast his eyes around, then he walked into the bar itself and glanced at an article of furniture which in shape and size very much resembled a large wardrobe.

“What is that, Mrs. Sanderson?” he inquired, pointing to the article in question.

“Oh, that is a large press, or cabinet, which my husband had made for the purpose of stowing away plate, linen, and other articles.”

“Ah! I see; it has folding-doors. Can I open them?”

“Yes, if you like; here is the key.”

The detective opened the doors, and found that the cabinet had three large shelves, which ran from side to side.

“We must remove these,” he said, turning towards the landlady; “then there will be room enough.”

“For what?”

“For me to take up my position for the night. I shall want a small stool to sit upon, and a few holes bored at the top for the admission of air.”

“Take up your position there, Mr. Wrench!—​what for?”

“To watch and wait patiently till my gentleman arrives,” returned the detective, with the utmost composure.

The widow was astonished.

“But you’ll be stifled,” cried she.

“I hope not,” he observed, with a laugh; “as in that case my man will have it all his own way. Now, you must not, upon any consideration, say a word to anyone about my plan of action; secrecy, in matters of this sort, is the very first consideration. The shelves must be removed, and holes bored at the top. This will have to be done by a man in our employ.”

The widow nodded.

On the following morning a workman was sent by Mr. Wrench, who removed the shelves and made all the other necessary preparations.

In the evening, the detective crept into the press, and found it sufficiently commodious for his accommodation. He was a little cramped, it is true, or would be so, after a sojourn therein of some hours’ duration; but this inconvenience he felt bound to submit to in the exercise of his vocation.

A small stool was placed inside the cabinet, the doors of which were then closed and locked by Wrench.

So far matters were satisfactorily arranged.

The reader should be apprised that what we are about to describe is a narrative of an actual occurrence, which is, in every way, true, even to the minutest detail.

On the succeeding night the thief-catcher was prepared to take up his station in his narrow prison-house. He remained conversing with the landlady in her little bar parlour till all the household had retired to bed.

As a natural consequence the impression now became pretty general that he was an accepted suitor of the widow, and neither he nor the lady took the trouble to contradict it.

When the house was quiet, and no one any longer visible, Mr. Wrench unlocked the folding doors, and, like the Davenport brothers, entered his cabinet, taking care at the same time to lock himself therein.

The gas was turned off, and Mrs. Sanderson retired to bed.

Mr. Wrench kept watch and ward.

In one of the doors in front of him two narrow slits had been made. These were sufficiently large for him to observe the actions of any one behind the bar, while at the same time they were so constructed as not to admit of anyone seeing him.

In fact he was in Cimmerian darkness which no human eye could pierce.

The hours wore slowly on with our detective. His situation was by no means an enviable one. His position was cramped, and his small prison-house was cheerless and lonely; but detectives have to submit to every kind of inconvenience, and Mr. Wrench did not murmur.

The night wore on—​as it waned the hall clock of the establishment struck hour after hour, but no burglar or robber disturbed the unbroken stillness of the hostelry.

Before any of the household was astir Mr. Wrench crept out of his cabinet, opened the front door of the house with the key the landlady had given him, and made the best of his way to his own residence, where he snatched a few hours of welcome and refreshing sleep.

His first night’s purgatory had been attended with no good result.

He had been prepared for this. Possibly there would be no attempt at robbery for a week or more. It was impossible to tell.

On the following night he waited again on the widow, and told her of his non-success.

“I do not like you to submit to all this annoyance,” cried she. “Perhaps it would be as well to give it up and try some other means.”

Mr. Wrench shook his head.

“No my dear lady,” he said. “We don’t give a case up so easily. If I have to keep sentinel over your establishment for a month or more I shall not be disheartened. I shall make sure of my man sooner or later—​that is unless he has been warned by some one.”

“I have not mentioned the subject to a living soul,” cried Mrs. Sanderson. “It is not likely I should do so after the caution I received from you.”

“I am well assured of that, madam; these matters generally require time and patience. We shall succeed eventually, I’ve no doubt.”

Again, as on the previous night, Mr. Wrench betook himself to his sentry-box, where he again passed many cheerless hours, with no better result.

He left at daybreak, and made his appearance at the hotel a little before closing time.

“He is a most devoted and punctual lover,” said one of the chambermaids to the cook. “I call him a model man.”

“An’ aint he good-looking? He’s a little too good for missus. What’s his business?”

“Something in the City, I believe.” This answer was given at random—​something in the City is such an indefinite term.

Mr. Wrench again took up his position.

For eight consecutive nights he went through the same formula.

He was getting a little tired of the painful monotony of his task, which, up to the present time, had been a thankless and fruitless one.

On the ninth night, about half-past two o’clock in the morning, which, to say the truth, sounds a good deal like a bull, for how can it be night if it is morning? But, of course, the reader will understand we are speaking figuratively.

About half-past two, or it might be a little later, Mr. Wrench pricked up his ears. He heard the sound of a key turning the lock of what he supposed to be the outer door. He was assured of this upon hearing the door gently closed.

Then soft footsteps were audible in the passage, and the little flap of the counter was thrown back. A man passed through and came behind the bar, then all was silent for the space of a few seconds.

Mr. Wrench was on the tiptoe of expectation.

The bird was coming into the net.

The striking of a lucifer was the next thing he heard. One gas-burner was ignited; it burnt very feebly as the strange visitor had only partially turned it on, nevertheless there was sufficient light for Mr. Wrench to observe the actions of his man through the slits of his sentry box, for he felt perfectly assured that it was his man.

The detective was too practised a hand to emerge from his place of temporary concealment. He must make sure before he pounced upon his prey.

The man drew from his pocket a bunch of keys. With one of these he opened the till, and, gathering up its contents, he slid the loose coins, gold and silver mingled together, into a canvas bag; this he placed in a small carpet bag which he had already deposited on the counter.

After this he went to the plate basket and abstracted therefrom several spoons and forks. He seemed to have a perfect knowledge of the place, and evidently understood where everything was kept.

He laid hold of a bottle of the best French brandy, and regaled himself with a couple of glasses from the same; this done, he put the bottle with two others in his carpet bag, having previously wrapped the bottles in some napkins he found in a drawer.

He now proceeded to open the cash box. In this were several Bank of England notes; these, like the other articles, were thrust into the carpet bag.

Mr. Wrench, with his hand on the key in the lock of his folding doors, was watching the robber with intense interest.

He was preparing to make a sudden spring, but as the robber was engaged in unlocking drawer after drawer for the purpose of obtaining further booty, the detective thought it would be just as well to let him have his full swing.

No. 20.

PEACE CREPT TO THE TABLE AND STEALTHILY LIFTED THE WATCH.

On one of the shelves was a box of cigars; the thief took a couple of handfuls of these, and which he pocketed.

After this had been done he turned round and took hold of one of the decanters containing wine. He poured out a glass of this, and while he was conveying it to his lips the doors of the cabinet were suddenly thrown open.

Mr. Wrench rushed forth, and, with one panther-like bound, grasped him by the throat with both hands.

The swiftness and suddenness of the attack was perfectly electrical.

The robber trembled like an aspen bow shaken by the blast. His knees gave way, and he would most certainly have fallen had he not been held up by Mr. Wrench.

His countenance was of an ashen hue.

“So, my man,” cried the detective, “you’re caught at last. I’ve been watching for you for a long time.”

“Let me go!” cried the burglar, endeavouring to release himself.

“Look here,” said Wrench, “it’s no use your endeavouring to get away, or make any row. You are my prisoner.”

“I aint got the strength of a blessed hinfant!” cried the robber. “I’m done as dead as a hammer, but don’t put the darbeys on a cove.”

“I certainly shall,” returned the detective, slipping on the handcuffs with admirable adroitness.

“S’help my tater I am done brown this time, and no mistake.”

The detective turned up the gas and rang the bell violently. Mrs. Sanderson was aroused from her slumbers. She hurried on her things, and hastened to the scene of action.

“We’ve caught him, madam; I knew we should,” said Wrench, when the landlady made her appearance. “You had better go to Marlborough-street with me, and charge him.”

“Oh! you scoundrel!” exclaimed Mrs. Sanderson, addressing herself to the prisoner. “It’s you, eh?”

“Do you know him?” inquired the officer.

“Yes; he was boots here for a short time—​about two years ago. Oh! the base, infamous man!”

“Lay it all on me,” cried the prisoner. “In course, when a cove’s down kick him. Oh! lay it all on me, but I aint so much to blame. Let me off, missus, and I’ll tell ye all about it.”

“Don’t have anything to say to him, madam,” said the detective, “but follow us to Marlborough-street as soon as possible.”

Peace, who had heard the commotion, emerged from his bedroom half-dressed, and looked over the banister.

He was met by Mrs. Sanderson, who was returning to her room to put on her bonnet and shawl.

“What’s the matter?” inquired Peace of the landlady.

“We’ve caught a burglar, and I have to go and prefer the charge against him,” answered his hostess, as she passed into her sleeping apartment.

Our hero’s curiosity was aroused. He had another look over the banisters, and beheld Mr. Wrench, whom he knew well enough, in charge of a handcuffed man, who was his prisoner.

Peace drew back. “Cooney!” he ejaculated. “Well, this is most astonishing!”

It was true enough. The robber was indeed “Cooney,” whom doubtless the reader will remember as being concerned with Peace and the Bristol Badger in the burglary at Oakfield farmhouse, described in the opening chapters of this work.

Peace deemed it advisable to retire to his own apartment. He did not care to claim acquaintance with the robber. As it was, he had escaped recognition by the merest accident.

“I shall have to fight shy in this case. Cooney is nabbed, and will have to take his chance,” he mused, when he had gained his own room.

The burglar was marched off to Marlborough-street. Soon after his arrival there Mrs. Sanderson presented herself.

It was impossible for any case to be clearer. The particulars were entered into the charge-sheet, and the prosecutrix was told by the inspector to be at Marlborough-street in the forenoon.

Mr. Wrench had safely bagged his bird.

When the case came before the magistrate it transpired that Cooney had a confederate.

A man who had held a situation as head waiter at the hotel had planned and contrived the series of artful robberies which had been so successfully carried out, during the period of a little more than a year.

He had provided himself with duplicate keys of all the locks in the house, the interior of which he was very well acquainted with.

Cooney, who had throughout his life always taken a subordinate part in the various depredations in which he had been engaged, had consented to become the tool of the head waiter.

He entered the hotel with the keys provided by his principal, and laid his hands on the most portable and valuable articles within reach, while the waiter waited outside the hotel, and generally contrived to take the lion’s share of the plunder.

He guessed what was up when he beheld Cooney handcuffed, pass out of the hostelry in company with Mr. Wrench. He did not stop to inquire, but made off without a moment’s hesitation, leaving the unfortunate Cooney to his fate.

The case against the prisoner was as clear as it well could be.

Mr. Wrench’s evidence was more than enough to ensure a conviction.

So convinced was the robber of this that he pleaded guilty, and threw himself upon the mercy of the court.

He was told by the detectives that if he chose to give up the names of his accomplices, he would be dealt with more leniently and receive a lighter sentence.

He said that he had but one accomplice, this being the head waiter whom he named.

In the course of a few days the latter was hunted down and taken into custody. He was convicted, and sentenced to five years’ penal servitude, for a considerable portion of the property previously stolen from the hotel was found in his possession.

Cooney was let off cheap; he had one year’s imprisonment, with hard labour. And so ended the robbery at Sanderson’s Hotel.

Many hundreds of similar robberies are committed in the metropolis, every year, and in many cases the culprits manage to escape justice for very long periods.

It is perfectly astounding the amount of thievery going on daily in the metropolis. And it is not confined to a class, but permeates through every section of society.