Читать книгу The Folded Paper Mystery - Footner Hulbert - Страница 9

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While Fin resumed his breakfast, Mr. Mappin paced back and forth smoking a cigar. “Did Peters give you no clue to his nationality?” he asked.

Fin shook his head.

“I suspect that the whole head and front of our problem lies in that,” murmured the older man thoughtfully. “It is clear from his reference to ‘the American’ that this is a foreign intrigue which has been imported to our shores. Tony Casino referred to Peters as ‘the Slovak.’ There may be a hint there.”

“What is a Slovak?” asked Fin.

“Strictly speaking it’s a Hungarian Slav. But as the word is used in the streets it might refer to a member of any of the Balkan peoples. Peters is no doubt the Americanisation for business purposes of some unpronounceable foreign patronomic. His real name may have been Petrovich, Petrovsky or Pitescu.”

He asked Fin a score of questions tending to clarify the story and divest it of non-essentials. “Then the matter stands thus,” he said at last; “the emerald heart contains the heritage of the girl who goes to school in Pompton. According to Peters it is a very great heritage, but the girl does not know anything about it, and now Peters is dead. If we can’t solve the riddle ourselves, we will have to look for the answer either from the man known as ‘the American’ or the man you term ‘Robespierre.’ ”

“What shall we do first?” asked Fin.

“Do!” cried Mr. Mappin in exasperation, “we will have to notify the police! ... Was ever a good citizen put in such a position before? Nick Peters foresaw that it would be fatal to divulge the facts of this case prematurely.... But there’s no help for it. One cannot compound with murder. We must go to the police. It’s heartbreaking!”

“Couldn’t we send them an anonymous notification?” suggested Fin.

“Too dangerous! They might bring the crime home to you then.... Besides, I must visit the scene. All the evidence is there. I must look it over before the police mess it up.”

“It’s not safe for you to go there,” said Fin. “The murderer is still hanging about.”

“Why me any more than you?”

“Oh, I’m of no importance to the world,” said Fin.

“I confess I don’t like it,” said Mr. Mappin a little waspishly. “I’m not of the stuff that heroes are made of. But there’s no help for it.”

“You must arm yourself,” said Fin.

“Bless you, I don’t own a gun,” said Mr. Mappin, with a rueful smile, “and if I did I wouldn’t know what to do with it.”

“Well, I have one on me,” said Fin.

Mr. Mappin continued to pace the room, thoughtfully rolling the cigar between his lips. “I have it!” he cried at last. “We will notify the police, but we’ll say nothing about the brass ball or the emerald. You went to call on your friend yesterday. You found his place had been broken into and he had been beaten. He forbade you to notify the police. To-day when you went back to see how he was, you found him foully murdered. He never took you into his confidence, and you have no idea what lies behind it all. This is almost the truth, and it is what you must tell the police.”

Fin nodded.

“You see,” Mr. Mappin went on briskly, “it all hangs together; it exactly coincides with the story you told Henny Friend yesterday afternoon. Your interest in the case is merely that of the free-lance writer looking for copy. If we say nothing about the emerald we may be sure the murderers will not. Neither will Henny Friend, nor Tony Casino, nor Kid River give us away for good reasons of their own. It is possible that the boys in Hoboken or the junk dealer may break into the newspapers with their story, but there will be no support for it; we’ll simply laugh it down.”

“I get you,” said Fin.

“I hope under the circumstances we may be said to be justified in keeping a part of the truth from the lawful guardians of the peace,” said Mr. Mappin, with a twinkle in his eye; “however, justified or not, I mean to take the responsibility.”

“The police will never solve the murder by their own efforts,” suggested Fin.

“So much the better,” said Mr. Mappin dryly. “If it turns out that we have to seek the solution of the mystery through the American or Robespierre, we want them to have full liberty of action. We couldn’t get anything out of them if they were locked up.... But as a matter of fact,” he went on, “we have to lay bare the motives for the crime before we can hang it on anybody.”

“It is hard to have to let them go,” said Fin sombrely.

“We are only giving the murderer rope enough to hang himself with,” said Mr. Mappin. “Understand, since I am deliberately hampering the police in their investigation, it is up to me to see that justice is done in the end. I pledge myself to that.”

“I’m not worrying,” said Fin. “I know justice will stand a darn sight better chance with you than with the police.”

“Swallow another cup of coffee,” said Mr. Mappin, briskly making for the door, “I’ll get into my clothes.”

In a remarkably short space of time he returned wearing a double-breasted grey suit of French flannel, a tie like nobody else’s tie and a distinguished Panama hat. Fin, whose style as yet was somewhat sprawling and immature, always sighed over the effect that Mr. Mappin was able to create; it was neither too youthful nor too aged; it was right.

“Let’s go,” he said. “I’ve been thinking about the best manner of notifying the police. I suggest we let Jermyn telephone them after we have gone.”

Jermyn entered the room to announce that a taxi was waiting.

“Jermyn,” said his master, “Mr. Corveth has run into a very strange and tragic affair over in Hoboken. I cannot stop to tell you the particulars now, but we are going to need your help in the matter, and I’ll inform you later.... What time have you?”

“Nine thirty-three, sir,” said Jermyn, consulting his watch.

“One minute fast,” said Mr. Mappin, glancing at his own timepiece.

Jermyn made the correction.

“Say twenty-five minutes to reach Hoboken by tunnel,” Mr. Mappin went on, “and ten or twelve for me to look over Nick Peters’ premises—to delay longer would not only be dangerous, but awkward to explain, Jermyn, at ten-ten precisely I want you to call up police headquarters in Hoboken and inform them that a man known as Nick Peters has been murdered at ... write down the address for him, Finlay.”

Jermyn accepted this startling order with a matter-of-fact nod.

“Should we be delayed anywhere en route I’ll call you up,” Mr. Mappin went on. “The police will naturally ask who is speaking, and you are to say that it is Amos Lee Mappin speaking from a pay station, and that they will find you on the premises when they come. That will obviate the necessity of answering any further questions over the ’phone.”

Mr. Mappin made Jermyn repeat this after him. He and Fin then descended in the elevator. During the drive he continued to discuss the case from various angles.

“There must be no camouflage or deception about this visit,” he said. “We will drive directly to the door of Nick Peter’s store. I assume we will find it locked. You will leave me waiting there while you try to get in through the cellar as you did before. In my opinion there is no danger of finding any of the gang inside the place now. You see, when you ran away from there they could not foretell what you would do. The chances were strongly in favour of your bringing the police back with you, and they could not afford to be caught inside.”

“The attack on Nick Peters yesterday was not made at random,” he went on. “My guess is that his enemies hired rooms in the neighbourhood, probably immediately across the street, where they could watch their man at all hours. If, as I suppose, they were interrupted by your entrance this morning, and if they have not dared return to Nick Peters’ room, I hope we may find some valuable bits of evidence lying about.”

The arrival of a taxi-cab in that humble street created a stir of interest, and the elegant figure of Mr. Mappin was regarded as somewhat of a phenomenon by the younger inhabitants. They gathered around taking him in open-mouthed from the expensive Panama to the smart black brogues. As expected, the two friends found the door of Nick’s store locked and the blinds pulled down inside the door, and the window.

A lad volunteered: “Nick Peters he opened up early this morning, but he closed up later. I ain’t seen him go out, though.”

“Did you see anybody go in?” asked Mr. Mappin.

“Not that I took notice of.”

Fin descended into the cellar and climbed up to Nick’s window by the drain pipe in the air-shaft, just as he had done earlier. This time when he threw his legs over the sill he took his gun in his hand as a precaution. However, all was quiet inside. Everything looked exactly as it had when he left the room two hours before; the still body on the bed that gave Fin’s breast a fresh wrench of grief; the door into the hall locked, and the key in the lock. He closed the window and fastened it, to guard against an attack from the rear. There were no possible hiding places in the two bare rooms except under the bed, and Fin made sure of that.

Crossing the store, he admitted Mr. Mappin by the street door and locked it after him to keep out the populace whose curiosity was rapidly rising to fever heat.

“I’m just as glad to see a crowd gathering,” said Mr. Mappin dryly. “It helps to ensure our safety.”

“Well, the police will be here in ten minutes or so anyway,” said Fin.

“A lot can happen in ten minutes,” remarked Mr. Mappin.

At first glance the store looked just as it had when Fin brought the supper in on the night before. But one little indication after another began to appear. Mr. Mappin made Fin sit down in the customers’ chair against the wall so as not to disturb anything. His eye was as bright and quick-darting as a terrier’s. He was getting such an obvious satisfaction out of the exercise of his faculties that he felt impelled to apologise to Fin.

“I do not forget that it is your friend who lies dead in the next room,” he said soberly, “but this—this is what I have wished for all my life, a chance to demonstrate my theories.”

“That’s all right,” said Fin. “It’s lucky you’re here.”

The watchmaker’s glass was found lying on the floor outside the work-bench, which had also served Nick for a counter. Nearer the bench lay Nick’s fountain pen which had been stepped on and partly flattened. Mr. Mappin examined it regretfully.

“I suppose it would not be honest to carry off any of the evidence,” he said. “But I could use this! I could use this!”

Suddenly he perceived that Fin was carrying a pen of the same pattern. “I’ll replace it later,” he said, taking it. He put it on the floor and made Fin step on it. He compared the two damaged pens, and replacing Nick’s pen on the spot where he had found it, put Fin’s in his pocket.

On the bench or counter lay a little pad that Nick had used in issuing receipts. On it he had started to write: “Received from bearer one gold watch, Bauer make, number 623——” The writing ended with a splutter of ink. Beside the pad lay the watch referred to. The back of the case had been removed, and there was the maker’s name and the number: Bauer, 62322.

Mr. Mappin made a note of it. “A Swiss watch of mediocre quality,” he remarked. “It had been carried for at least twenty years. It would be difficult to trace the sale now.”

In the doorway leading to the bedroom he found one of the list slippers that Nick Peters had been accustomed to wearing. Its fellow lay a few feet further along, and the black skull cap had rolled off the bed. The bed showed indications that a struggle had taken place there, but how much of the disturbance was due to Fin’s efforts to resuscitate his friend it was impossible now to tell.

“I wish I could have seen him before you straightened him out,” Mr. Mappin said regretfully; “but of course you did the right thing.”

On the bed he found the cord with which Nick Peters had been strangled. “I suppose I must leave this to the police, too,” he said with a sigh.

In addition to the mark left by the cord, Mr. Mappin found other signs on the body; a contusion on the back of the head, a slight abrasion on the forehead, marks of ink about the nose. He then hastily examined the floors of both rooms with a magnifying glass.

“Nick Peters, like most male housekeepers, was not very particular about sweeping,” he said. “But the most I can tell is that there were two men concerned in the crime. The actual murderer, who was no doubt known to Nick, sent in an accomplice ahead, who was a stranger to the watchmaker. This man offered Nick the watch to repair, and as he was making out the receipt, struck him over the head with a blackjack, and Nick fell with his face on the bench unconscious.

“I take it the first man left the store, because I cannot find his tracks in the rear room. The actual murderer then entered. It was he who picked up Nick under the arms, dragged him into the bedroom, flung him on the bed and strangled him. The method of strangling is reminiscent of the Thuggee cult among the Hindoos. It is also common in Spain. On the bed a measure of consciousness returned to Nick, and he put up a vain struggle. The murderer must have been interrupted in the very act by your approach because as you see, everything was left where it fell.”

“That’s good work,” said Fin gloomily, “but it brings us no nearer to the actual murderer.” (If only I had been a minute sooner, he was thinking.)

“Well, one must make a beginning,” said Mr. Mappin mildly.

He subjected the dead man’s clothes to a further and most painstaking search. In the end an exclamation of triumph escaped him as he held up a tiny triangular fragment of glass he had recovered from inside Nick’s vest.

“If we have luck,” he cried, “we will hang our man with this! ... I must keep this,” he added with a deprecating smile. “It’s such a little piece!”

Among the dead man’s meager effects there was not a scrap of writing, not a keepsake, no personal belongings of any sort that might give a clue to his past life. Nick had evidently made a practice of destroying everything.

While Mr. Mappin was searching, there was a peremptory knock at the door of the store, and an official-sounding voice was heard demanding admission. Peeping around the blind Fin saw a uniformed policeman with two men in plain clothes, and made haste to admit them. He again locked the door to keep out the crowd.

The two plain-clothes men flashed their badges with the familiar gesture, and the principal one introduced himself as Detective-Sergeant Ellis, his companions as Detective Dahl and Patrolman Engel. All three were businesslike and very neatly dressed. But all had the hard and covert expression customarily affected by policemen, and the candid Fin disliked them at sight. However, one has to take policemen as one finds them, he reflected. It never occurred to him they might be other than they seemed.

Ellis was a well-built man of forty-five or so with a slight cast in one of his black eyes. Dahl was about the same age, but a characterless, self-coloured type evidently accustomed to playing the part of number two. Engel the patrolman was a stalwart, stupid-looking lad who kept his blue eyes fixed on Ellis as if he received all his impulses from that quarter.

Mr. Mappin introduced himself and Fin. The detective-sergeant’s bearing was respectful. He appeared to be familiar with Mr. Mappin’s reputation as a writer. Leading the way into the back room, the latter began his story.

“This poor fellow’s name is Nick Peters. He is, as you see, a repairer of watches and jewellery in a small way. He was an acquaintance of Mr. Corveth’s—that is to say, Mr. Corveth used to drop in on him occasionally for the sake of his talk which was intelligent and interesting. He appeared to be entirely alone in the world. Yesterday afternoon Mr. Corveth found him lying on the floor in a stupor. He had been beaten and the place partly wrecked, but apparently nothing had been stolen. Peters forbade Mr. Corveth to notify the police, but gave no explanation of what was behind the attack....”

During this recital Mr. Mappin and Ellis were standing side by side looking down on the bed; Fin was a little behind them, with Dahl and Engel on his right. Fin was struck by a peculiar flicker in Ellis’s eyes when they turned on Mr. Mappin. The detective-sergeant appeared not to be listening to the story at all, but to be pursuing a line of thought of his own. He seemed to be labouring under an inner excitement. His expression made Fin vaguely uneasy. Before he could act, Ellis interrupted Mr. Mappin with a coarse sneer.

“A likely story!”

Mr. Mappin’s eyebrows ran up into two little peaks of astonishment. He stared.

Ellis threw off the decorous mask. He laughed brutally. “It’s clear you croaked the guy yourself,” he said. “Or this other fellow did. Or the both of you!”

No insult offered to himself could have affected Fin like this. To hear his friend abused brought a red blur in front of his eyes. Still he did not perceive the truth. He had known policemen to act in this manner. “That’s a lie!” he cried loudly. “A damned silly lie! Everybody knows who Mr. Mappin is.”

The patrolman whipped out his club. “Shut your mouth!” he cried. “Or I’ll bean you.”

“Don’t you touch me!” shouted Fin. “Or I’ll——”

Mr. Mappin laid a restraining hand on his arm. The little man had recovered his self-possession. “Don’t aggravate the officers, Finlay,” he said, with a marked dryness of tone. “They are only doing their duty.”

Like a flash Fin perceived the truth. These were not officers at all. The shock of the discovery paralysed him for a moment. He could not command his features like Mr. Mappin. “Wh—what! Wh—what!” he stammered.

“Let us discuss this matter quickly,” said Mr. Mappin smoothly.

His coolness did not please the brutal Ellis at all, who wanted to provoke a noisy row in order to save his own face. “Take them along! Take them along!” he shouted.

When he laid rough hands on the unresisting Mappin, Fin saw red again. His hand flew to his hip pocket. Instantly the other two men leaped on him and bore him to the floor. After a hard struggle Fin’s gun was taken from him. It was a weird scene there with the dead man lying on the bed. Mr. Mappin stood perfectly quiet. Whenever he could make himself heard above the racket he kept adjuring Fin not to resist. His words finally reached the young man, and he stopped struggling. He was allowed to get to his feet. He was still trembling with anger, he looked to Mr. Mappin for further orders.

“Stick up your hands!” commanded Ellis. “Search him, you two,” he said to the others.

Fin obeyed, and they patted his body all over. Ellis did the same to Mr. Mappin.

“He hasn’t got it on him,” growled Dahl.

“Same here,” said Ellis. “Well, you couldn’t expect it.... We’ll make ’em tell where it is,” he added, with an ugly grin. “Take them out!”

“Just a moment,” said Mr. Mappin calmly. “Let us discuss this matter.”

Fin understood that he was simply playing for time.

“Aah! Shut up!” shouted Ellis, with the utmost ferocity. “Run them out into the car, boys! ... If you try to put up a fight, you, we’ll beat you to a pulp!”

They were hustled through the store and out on the sidewalk. There were a couple of hundred gaping people gathered there by this time, and Fin marvelled at the boldness of the plot. Did they think they could get away with this in the open street in broad day? However, it soon turned out that it was not as bold a scheme as it looked.

There was a closed car with engine running, waiting at the curb. Mr. Mappin suddenly addressed the crowd in a loud, clear voice:

“These men are not police! That is not a police car, as you can see. They are trying to carry us off. Will you stand for it?”

But the police uniform and the spurious badges overawed the crowd. When Ellis and Dahl drew guns and Engel brandished his club, the onlookers cringed. To a man they sided with the supposed police and began to jeer at their victims.

“Say, that’s a new one, all right! ... You’re all wet, Sir Harry.... Ain’t he the cute little fellow! ... A ride will do him good!”

It was Fin’s first experience of the inhumanity of a mob, and it bewildered him. He was accustomed to having people like him. Meanwhile, they were being hustled towards the curb. A feeling of despair seized on him.

“If they get us into the car we’re lost!” he cried.

“Then resist! Resist with all your might!” cried Mr. Mappin.

He suddenly lashed out with his fists like a little bantamweight. Ellis, cursing, aimed a furious blow at his head with the butt of his revolver. Fin, wrenching himself free of the man who held him, flung himself between the two, and caught the blow on his upraised arm. But at the same moment Engel brought his club down with smashing force on Fin’s skull from behind and all turned foggy before the young man. He did not quite lose consciousness for he heard a clanging bell up the street, and he heard Mr. Mappin’s voice clear and controlled to the end.

“Here come the police—the real police! Now you’ll see who’s right!”

Ellis et al. dropped their victims as if they had been red hot, and sprang for the car. The car leaped into motion, and knocking aside the onlookers who were in its path, turned the corner of Hudson Street on two wheels and disappeared.