Читать книгу The Mystery Of A Wheel-Barrow - W. Humer Ferguson - Страница 6

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To the genuine detective mind there is nothing so entirely satisfactory as the possession of a trustworthy inanimate confidant. The writer of this thrilling romance knew one of those useful public servants, who took unto himself a wife deafer than a post, and to whom, by word of mouth only, and sitting with his back towards her, he would confide the great unravelled mysteries of his profession. Mr. Clawby was still more discreet—he was unmarried, and his most precious secrets were shared only by his toothbrush. It was a great relief to his mind to fly betimes into his bedroom, and pour out his soul to the inanimate object of his affections. If that humble little article—which Mr. Clawby had purchased twenty years ago, and, alas! it was now all but a bristleless ruin—if that small object could have spoken, how the world would have discovered, to its infinite horror, what a particularly naughty place is Melbourne, Victoria!

Mr. Clawby was unusually polite to his toothbrush this morning, as he was wont to be when any matter of more than ordinary interest occupied his busy brain, and the troubled look he cast upon his confidant must have caused the puny object acute pain.

“I’ve been a ‘tective well-nigh twenty year, and of all the rummy murders I never did find out, this is the rummiest. Dash it all!” (Here the “few sad last grey hairs” of the favourite stood on end.) “Dash it all! If I don’t make no beginning I sharn’t come to no end, that’s a moral.” (The toothbrush assented to this candid confession by observing a respectful silence.) “Listen,” continued Mr. Clawby. “Here’s a gentleman get’s drunk—he meets another gentleman who’s drunk—(they must be gentlemen, or they wouldn’t get drunk). They meet a man who’s drunk. Them’s the plain facts. Toothbrush, isn’t it evident that I ought to get drunk too, to familiarise myself with the feelings of those three gentlemen who’s drunk? You think not? Very well, then. What’s the upshot? Gentleman No. 1 puts gentleman No. 2 in gentleman No. 3’s barrow. Gentleman No. 3, accompanied by gentleman No. 2, carts gentleman No. 2 to the Grammar School. There gentleman No. 2 (I’ll now call him the corpse) is polished off by gentleman No. 1, and left in charge of gentleman No. 3. Why did he polish him off? Ask me another. Well, it wasn’t Love. No, there’s no precedent in Gaboroo. Was it Theft? No; the corpse retained all his personal effects. Was it Revenge? Aha! toothbrush, there’s the rub! As an experienced ‘tective I didn’t think of that before. If it is Revenge, I’ll start examining the corpse’s togs. If he hasn’t got a clue somewhere about him, then, as an experienced ‘tective, I say he ought to have. Good-day, for the present,”

Mr. Clawby’s fat, “jolly” face was soon “gravely” imbedded in the clothing of the deceased. One by one he examined the garments, commenting upon them in a manner usual with ‘tectives of twenty years’ standing.

“Trowsers?” he grunted, “hum—baggy at the knees, three buttons off—no clue there! Coat?—very well cut coat indeed—left tail slightly torn—never mind,—any clue here?” continued Clawly, lifting the other tail. “None whatever—not a tell-tale, evidently. Shirt? Well, there may be a clue somewhere about this here garment, but I guess I’ll leave it alone. Boots? there’s a good clou here, sticking up where the big toe is usually located, but that ain’t the one I want. Stockings? seen them already. Oha! the weskit! Come hither, sweet weskit, and be not afraid. As an experienced ‘tective I guessed I should find a clue in this here weskit. A clumsy, himprovised, home-made pocket on the inside! Torn, too! This is what I call a clue! What are the most unlikely things he could have carried in that pocket? Change of linen? Dressing case? Hink-pot? No! certainly not, nothing but a document—an important document. Not notes, or cheques, or bills—or anything so probable as that—oh no! a valuable document. As an experienced ‘tective, I am bound to think it is a document, and that document is now in the possession of the assassin!” And Mr. Clawby, overjoyed with his discovery, executed a masterly cavalier seul.

“Stop!” cried he, suddenly, and, obedient to the command, his legs resumed their customary rigidity. “I’ve got a clue—what am I going to do with it? Let us consult the toothbrush.” So, donning his hat and overcoat, Mr. Clawby returned to his abode.

“Toothbrush,” said he to his bristly confidant, “I have a clue—what shall we do with it? Suppose we advertise it? No? Suppose we submit it to a syndicate of experienced ‘tectives, and float a limited liability company? No? Well, we’ll look at the papers, and see whether anybody wants a clue; as an experienced detective I can adopt no other course.”

This advertisement suddenly met Mr. Clawby’s experienced eye as he ran through the columns of the Daily Muddler:—

“If Oliver Black will return to Kangaroo Villa, Grey Street, St. Kilda, and pay his rent, washing and mending, and five shillings borrowed from advertiser, he will hear of something to his advantage; otherwise his property will be sold to defray portion of the expenses of this advertisement.

Lubina Gabbleton”

“Dear me!” muttered the detective, “how very extraordinary! ‘O. B.’—Oliver Black, the mark on the stickings!” Who but Clawby would have found out that portentous announcement!

“The best thing I can do,” he mused, “is to drop in at Kangaroo Villa, and tell Mrs. Lubina Gabbleton who I am.”