The Old Man in the Corner - Baroness Orczy
[Illustration: "The old man in the corner."]
THE OLD MAN IN THE CORNER
BY
BARONESS ORCZY
TO MY DEAR UNCLE AND AUNT
COUNT AND COUNTESS WASS OF CZEGE
IN REMEMBRANCE
OF MANY HAPPY DAYS SPENT
IN TRANSYLVANIA
_October, 1908_
CONTENTS
Chapter
I. THE FENCHURCH STREET MYSTERY
II. A MILLIONAIRE IN THE DOCK
III. HIS DEDUCTION
IV. THE ROBBERY IN PHILLIMORE TERRACE
V. A NIGHT'S ADVENTURE
VI. ALL HE KNEW
VII. THE YORK MYSTERY
VIII. THE CAPITAL CHARGE
IX. A BROKEN-HEARTED WOMAN
X. THE MYSTERIOUS DEATH ON THE UNDERGROUND RAILWAY
XI. MR. ERRINGTON
XII. THE LIVERPOOL MYSTERY
XIII. A CUNNING RASCAL
XIV. THE EDINBURGH MYSTERY
XV. A TERRIBLE PLIGHT
XVI. NON PROVEN
XVII. UNDENIABLE FACTS
XVIII. THE THEFT AT THE ENGLISH PROVIDENT BANK
XIX. CONFLICTING EVIDENCE
XX. AN ALIBI
XXI. THE DUBLIN MYSTERY
XXII. FORGERY
XXIII. A MEMORABLE DAY
XXIV. AN UNPARALLELED OUTRAGE
XXV. THE PRISONER
XXVI. A SENSATION
XXVII. TWO BLACKGUARDS
XXVIII. THE REGENT'S PARK MURDER
XXIX. THE MOTIVE
XXX. FRIENDS
XXXI. THE DE GENNEVILLE PEERAGE
XXXII. A HIGH-BRED GENTLEMAN
XXXIII. THE LIVING AND THE DEAD
XXXIV. THE MYSTERIOUS DEATH IN PERCY STREET
XXXV. SUICIDE OR MURDER?
XXXVI. THE END
THE OLD MAN IN THE CORNER
CHAPTER I
THE FENCHURCH STREET MYSTERY
The man in the corner pushed aside his glass, and leant across the
table.
"Mysteries!" he commented. "There is no such thing as a mystery in
connection with any crime, provided intelligence is brought to bear upon
its investigation."
Very much astonished Polly Burton looked over the top of her newspaper,
and fixed a pair of very severe, coldly inquiring brown eyes upon him.
She had disapproved of the man from the instant when he shuffled across
the shop and sat down opposite to her, at the same marble-topped table
which already held her large coffee (3d.), her roll and butter (2d.),
and plate of tongue (6d.).
Now this particular corner, this very same table, that special view of
the magnificent marble hall--known as the Norfolk Street branch of the
Aerated Bread Company's depots--were Polly's own corner, table, and
view. Here she had partaken of eleven pennyworth of luncheon and one
pennyworth of daily information ever since that glorious
never-to-be-forgotten day when she was enrolled on the staff of the
_Evening Observer_ (we'll call it that, if you please), and became a
member of that illustrious and world-famed organization known as the
British Press.
She was a personality, was Miss Burton of the _Evening Observer_. Her
cards were printed thus:
[Illustration: Miss MARY J. BURTON. _Evening Observer_.]
She had interviewed Miss Ellen Terry and the Bishop of Madagascar, Mr.
Seymour Hicks and the Chief Commissioner of Police. She had been present
at the last Marlborough House garden party--in the cloak-room, that is
to say, where she caught sight of Lady Thingummy's hat, Miss
What-you-may-call's sunshade, and of various other things modistical or
fashionable, all of which were duly described under the heading "Royalty
and Dress" in the early afternoon edition of the _Evening Observer_.
(The article itself is signed M.J.B., and is to be found in the files of
that leading halfpennyworth.)
For these reasons--and for various others, too--Polly felt irate with
the man in the corner, and told him so with her eyes, as plainly as any
pair of brown eyes can speak.
She had been reading an article in the _Daily Telegraph_. The article
was palpitatingly interesting. Had Polly been commenting audibly upon
it? Certain it is that the man over there had spoken in direct answer to
her thoughts.
She looked at him and frowned; the next moment she smiled. Miss Burton
(of the _Evening Observer)_ had a keen sense of humour, which two years'
association with the British Press had not succeeded in destroying, and
the appearance of the man was sufficient to tickle the most ultra-morose
fancy. Polly thought to herself that she had never seen any one so pale,
so thin, with such funny light-coloured hair, brushed very smoothly
across the top of a very obviously bald crown. He looked so timid and
nervous as he fidgeted incessantly with a piece of string; his long,
lean, and trembling fingers tying and untying it into knots of wonderful
and complicated proportions.
Having carefully studied every detail of the quaint personality Polly
felt more amiable.
"And yet," she remarked kindly but authoritatively, "this article, in an
otherwise well-informed journal, will tell you that, even within the
last year, no fewer than six crimes have completely baffled the police,
and the perpetrators of them are still at large."
"Pardon me," he said gently, "I never for a moment ventured to suggest
that there were no mysteries to the _police_; I merely remarked that
there were none where intelligence was brought to bear upon the
investigation of crime."
"Not even in the Fenchurch Street _mystery_. I suppose," she asked
sarcastically.
"Least of all in the so-called Fenchurch Street _mystery_," he replied
quietly.
Now the Fenchurch Street mystery, as that extraordinary crime had
popularly been called, had puzzled--as Polly well knew--the brains of
every thinking man and woman for the last twelve months. It had puzzled
her not inconsiderably; she had been interested, fascinated; she had
studied the case, formed her own theories, thought about it all often
and often, had even written one or two letters to the Press on the
subject--suggesting, arguing, hinting at possibilities and
probabilities, adducing proofs which other amateur detectives were
equally ready to refute. The attitude of that timid man in the corner,
therefore, was peculiarly exasperating, and she retorted with sarcasm
destined to completely annihilate her self-complacent interlocutor.
"What a pity it is, in that case, that you do not offer your priceless
services to our misguided though well-meaning police."
"Isn't it?" he replied with perfect good-humour. "Well, you know, for
one thing I doubt if they would accept them; and in the second place my
inclinations and my duty would--were I to become an active member of the
detective force--nearly always be in direct conflict. As often as not my
sympathies go to the criminal who is clever and astute enough to lead
our entire police force by the nose.
"I don't know how much of the case you remember," he went on quietly.
"It certainly, at first, began even to puzzle me. On the 12th of last
December a woman, poorly dressed, but with an unmistakable air of having
seen better days, gave information at Scotland Yard of the disappearance
of her husband, William Kershaw, of no occupation, and apparently of no
fixed abode. She was accompanied by a friend--a fat, oily-looking
German--and between them they told a tale which set the police
immediately on the move.
"It appears that on the 10th of December, at about three o'clock in the
afternoon, Karl Mueller, the German, called on his friend, William
Kershaw, for the purpose of collecting a small debt--some ten pounds or
so--which the latter owed him. On arriving at the squalid lodging in
Charlotte Street, Fitzroy Square, he found William Kershaw in a wild
state of excitement, and his wife in tears. Mueller attempted to state
the object of his visit, but Kershaw, with wild gestures, waved him
aside, and--in his own words--flabbergasted him by asking him
point-blank for another loan of two pounds, which sum, he declared,
would be the means of a speedy fortune for himself and the friend who
would help him in his need.
"After a quarter of an hour spent in obscure hints, Kershaw, finding the
cautious German obdurate, decided to let him into the secret plan,
which, he averred, would place thousands into their hands."
Instinctively Polly had put down her paper; the mild stranger, with his
nervous air and timid, watery eyes, had a peculiar way of telling his
tale, which somehow fascinated her.
"I don't know," he resumed, "if you remember the story which the German
told to the police, and which was corroborated in every detail by the
wife or widow. Briefly it was this: Some thirty years previously,
Kershaw, then twenty years of age, and a medical student at one of the
London hospitals, had a chum named Barker, with whom he roomed,
together with another.
"The latter, so it appears, brought home one evening a very considerable
sum of money, which he had won on the turf, and the following morning he
was found murdered in his bed. Kershaw, fortunately for himself, was
able to prove a conclusive _alibi_; he had spent the night on duty at
the hospital; as for Barker, he had disappeared, that is to say, as far
as the police were concerned, but not as far as the watchful eyes of his
friend Kershaw were able to spy--at least, so the latter said. Barker
very cleverly contrived to get away out of the country, and, after
sundry vicissitudes, finally settled down at Vladivostok, in Eastern
Siberia, where, under the assumed name of Smethurst, he built up an
enormous fortune by trading in furs.
"Now, mind you, every one knows Smethurst, the Siberian millionaire.
Kershaw's story that he had once been called Barker, and had committed a
murder thirty years ago, was never proved, was it? I am merely telling
you what Kershaw said to his friend the German and to his wife on that
memorable afternoon of December the 10th.
"According to him Smethurst had made one gigantic mistake in his clever
career--he had on four occasions written to his late friend, William
Kershaw. Two of these letters had no bearing on the case, since they
were written more than twenty-five years ago, and Kershaw, moreover, had
lost them--so he said--long ago. According to him, however, the first of
these letters was written when Smethurst, alias Barker, had spent all
the money he had obtained from the crime, and found himself destitute in
New York.
"Kershaw, then in fairly prosperous circumstances, sent him a L10 note
for the sake of old times. The second, when the tables had turned, and
Kershaw had begun to go downhill, Smethurst, as he then already called
himself, sent his whilom friend L50. After that, as Mueller gathered,
Kershaw had made sundry demands on Smethurst's ever-increasing purse,
and had accompanied these demands by various threats, which, considering
the distant country in which the millionaire lived, were worse than
futile.
"But now the climax had come, and Kershaw, after a final moment of
hesitation, handed over to his German friend the two last letters
purporting to have been written by Smethurst, and which, if you
remember, played such an important part in the mysterious story of this
extraordinary crime. I have a copy of both these letters here," added
the man in the corner, as he took out a piece of paper from a very
worn-out pocket-book, and, unfolding it very deliberately, he began to
read:--
"'Sir,--Your preposterous demands for money are wholly unwarrantable. I
have already helped you quite as much as you deserve. However, for the
sake of old times, and because you once helped me when I was in a
terrible difficulty, I am willing to once more let you impose upon my
good nature. A friend of mine here, a Russian merchant, to whom I have
sold my business, starts in a few days for an extended tour to many
European and Asiatic ports in his yacht, and has invited me to accompany
him as far as England. Being tired of foreign parts, and desirous of
seeing the old country once again after thirty years' absence, I have
decided to accept his invitation. I don't know when we may actually be
in Europe, but I promise you that as soon as we touch a suitable port I
will write to you again, making an appointment for you to see me in
London. But remember that if your demands are too preposterous I will
not for a moment listen to them, and that I am the last man in the world
to submit to persistent and unwarrantable blackmail.
'I am, sir,
'Yours truly,
'Francis Smethurst.'
"The second letter was dated from Southampton," continued the old man in
the corner calmly, "and, curiously enough, was the only letter which
Kershaw professed to have received from Smethurst of which he had kept
the envelope, and which was dated. It was quite brief," he added,
referring once more to his piece of paper.
"'Dear Sir,--Referring to my letter of a few weeks ago, I wish to inform
you that the _Tsarskoe Selo_ will touch at Tilbury on Tuesday next, the
10th. I shall land there, and immediately go up to London by the first
train I can get. If you like, you may meet me at Fenchurch Street
Station, in the first-class waiting-room, in the late afternoon. Since I
surmise that after thirty years' absence my face may not be familiar to
you, I may as well tell you that you will recognize me by a heavy
Astrakhan fur coat, which I shall wear, together with a cap of the same.
You may then introduce yourself to me, and I will personally listen to
what you may have to say.
'Yours faithfully,
'Francis Smethurst.'
"It was this last letter which had caused William Kershaw's excitement
and his wife's tears. In the German's own words, he was walking up and
down the room like a wild beast, gesticulating wildly, and muttering
sundry exclamations. Mrs. Kershaw, however, was full of apprehension.
She mistrusted the man from foreign parts--who, according to her
husband's story, had already one crime upon his conscience--who might,
she feared, risk another, in order to be rid of a dangerous enemy.
Woman-like, she thought the scheme a dishonourable one, for the law, she
knew, is severe on the blackmailer.
"The assignation might be a cunning trap, in any case it was a curious
one; why, she argued, did not Smethurst elect to see Kershaw at his
hotel the following day? A thousand whys and wherefores made her
anxious, but the fat German had been won over by Kershaw's visions of
untold gold, held tantalisingly before his eyes. He had lent the
necessary L2, with which his friend intended to tidy himself up a bit
before he went to meet his friend the millionaire. Half an hour
afterwards Kershaw had left his lodgings, and that was the last the
unfortunate woman saw of her husband, or Mueller, the German, of his
friend.
"Anxiously his wife waited that night, but he did not return; the next
day she seems to have spent in making purposeless and futile inquiries
about the neighbourhood of Fenchurch Street; and on the 12th she went to
Scotland Yard, gave what particulars she knew, and placed in the hands
of the police the two letters written by Smethurst."
CHAPTER II
A MILLIONAIRE IN THE DOCK
The man in the corner had finished his glass of milk. His watery blue
eyes looked across at Miss Polly Burton's eager little face, from which
all traces of severity had now been chased away by an obvious and
intense excitement.
"It was only on the 31st," he resumed after a while, "that a body,
decomposed past all recognition, was found by two lightermen in the
bottom of a disused barge. She had been moored at one time at the foot
of one of those dark flights of steps which lead down between tall
warehouses to the river in the East End of London. I have a photograph
of the place here," he added, selecting one out of his pocket, and
placing it before Polly.
"The actual barge, you see, had already been removed when I took this
snapshot, but you will realize what a perfect place this alley is for
the purpose of one man cutting another's throat in comfort, and without
fear of detection. The body, as I said, was decomposed beyond all
recognition; it had probably been there eleven days, but sundry
articles, such as a silver ring and a tie pin, were recognizable, and
were identified by Mrs. Kershaw as belonging to her husband.
"She, of course, was loud in denouncing Smethurst, and the police had no
doubt a very strong case against him, for two days after the discovery
of the body in the barge, the Siberian millionaire, as he was already
popularly called by enterprising interviewers, was arrested in his
luxurious suite of rooms at the Hotel Cecil.
"To confess the truth, at this point I was not a little puzzled. Mrs.
Kershaw's story and Smethurst's letters had both found their way into
the papers, and following my usual method--mind you, I am only an
amateur, I try to reason out a case for the love of the thing--I sought
about for a motive for the crime, which the police declared Smethurst
had committed. To effectually get rid of a dangerous blackmailer was the
generally accepted theory. Well! did it ever strike you how paltry that
motive really was?"
Miss Polly had to confess, however, that it had never struck her in that
light.
"Surely a man who had succeeded in building up an immense fortune by his
own individual efforts, was not the sort of fool to believe that he had
anything to fear from a man like Kershaw. He must have _known_ that
Kershaw held no damning proofs against him--not enough to hang him,
anyway. Have you ever seen Smethurst?" he added, as he once more fumbled
in his pocket-book.
Polly replied that she had seen Smethurst's picture in the illustrated
papers at the time. Then he added, placing a small photograph before
her:
"What strikes you most about the face?"
"Well, I think its strange, astonished expression, due to the total
absence of eyebrows, and the funny foreign cut of the hair."
"So close that it almost looks as if it had been shaved. Exactly. That
is what struck me most when I elbowed my way into the court that morning
and first caught sight of the millionaire in the dock. He was a tall,
soldierly-looking man, upright in stature, his face very bronzed and
tanned. He wore neither moustache nor beard, his hair was cropped quite
close to his head, like a Frenchman's; but, of course, what was so very
remarkable about him was that total absence of eyebrows and even
eyelashes, which gave the face such a peculiar appearance--as you say, a
perpetually astonished look.
"He seemed, however, wonderfully calm; he had been accommodated with a
chair in the dock--being a millionaire--and chatted pleasantly with his
lawyer, Sir Arthur Inglewood, in the intervals between the calling of
the several witnesses for the prosecution; whilst during the examination
of these witnesses he sat quite placidly, with his head shaded by his
hand.
"Mueller and Mrs. Kershaw repeated the story which they had already told
to the police. I think you said that you were not able, owing to
pressure of work, to go to the court that day, and hear the case, so
perhaps you have no recollection of Mrs. Kershaw. No? Ah, well! Here is
a snapshot I managed to get of her once. That is her. Exactly as she
stood in the box--over-dressed--in elaborate crape, with a bonnet which
once had contained pink roses, and to which a remnant of pink petals
still clung obtrusively amidst the deep black.
"She would not look at the prisoner, and turned her head resolutely
towards the magistrate. I fancy she had been fond of that vagabond
husband of hers: an enormous wedding-ring encircled her finger, and
that, too, was swathed in black. She firmly believed that Kershaw's
murderer sat there in the dock, and she literally flaunted her grief
before him.
"I was indescribably sorry for her. As for Mueller, he was just fat,
oily, pompous, conscious of his own importance as a witness; his fat
fingers, covered with brass rings, gripped the two incriminating
letters, which he had identified. They were his passports, as it were,
to a delightful land of importance and notoriety. Sir Arthur Inglewood,
I think, disappointed him by stating that he had no questions to ask of
him. Mueller had been brimful of answers, ready with the most perfect
indictment, the most elaborate accusations against the bloated
millionaire who had decoyed his dear friend Kershaw, and murdered him in
Heaven knows what an out-of-the-way corner of the East End.
"After this, however, the excitement grew apace. Mueller had been
dismissed, and had retired from the court altogether, leading away Mrs.
Kershaw, who had completely broken down.
"Constable D 21 was giving evidence as to the arrest in the meanwhile.
The prisoner, he said, had seemed completely taken by surprise, not
understanding the cause or history of the accusation against him;
however, when put in full possession of the facts, and realizing, no
doubt, the absolute futility of any resistance, he had quietly enough
followed the constable into the cab. No one at the fashionable and
crowded Hotel Cecil had even suspected that anything unusual had
occurred.
"Then a gigantic sigh of expectancy came from every one of the
spectators. The 'fun' was about to begin. James Buckland, a porter at
Fenchurch Street railway station, had just sworn to tell all the truth,
etc. After all, it did not amount to much. He said that at six o'clock
in the afternoon of December the 10th, in the midst of one of the
densest fogs he ever remembers, the 5.5 from Tilbury steamed into the
station, being just about an hour late. He was on the arrival platform,
and was hailed by a passenger in a first-class carriage. He could see
very little of him beyond an enormous black fur coat and a travelling
cap of fur also.
"The passenger had a quantity of luggage, all marked F.S., and he
directed James Buckland to place it all upon a four-wheel cab, with the
exception of a small hand-bag, which he carried himself. Having seen
that all his luggage was safely bestowed, the stranger in the fur coat
paid the porter, and, telling the cabman to wait until he returned, he
walked away in the direction of the waiting-rooms, still carrying his
small hand-bag.
"'I stayed for a bit,' added James Buckland, 'talking to the driver
about the fog and that; then I went about my business, seein' that the
local from Southend 'ad been signalled.'
"The prosecution insisted most strongly upon the hour when the stranger
in the fur coat, having seen to his luggage, walked away towards the
waiting-rooms. The porter was emphatic. 'It was not a minute later than
6.15,' he averred.
"Sir Arthur Inglewood still had no questions to ask, and the driver of
the cab was called.
"He corroborated the evidence of James Buckland as to the hour when the
gentleman in the fur coat had engaged him, and having filled his cab in
and out with luggage, had told him to wait. And cabby did wait. He
waited in the dense fog--until he was tired, until he seriously thought
of depositing all the luggage in the lost property office, and of
looking out for another fare--waited until at last, at a quarter before
nine, whom should he see walking hurriedly towards his cab but the
gentleman in the fur coat and cap, who got in quickly and told the
driver to take him at once to the Hotel Cecil. This, cabby declared, had
occurred at a quarter before nine. Still Sir Arthur Inglewood made no
comment, and Mr. Francis Smethurst, in the crowded, stuffy court, had
calmly dropped to sleep.
"The next witness, Constable Thomas Taylor, had noticed a shabbily
dressed individual, with shaggy hair and beard, loafing about the
station and waiting-rooms in the afternoon of December the 10th. He
seemed to be watching the arrival platform of the Tilbury and Southend
trains.
"Two separate and independent witnesses, cleverly unearthed by the
police, had seen this same shabbily dressed individual stroll into the
first-class waiting-room at about 6.15 on Wednesday, December the 10th,
and go straight up to a gentleman in a heavy fur coat and cap, who had
also just come into the room. The two talked together for a while; no
one heard what they said, but presently they walked off together. No one
seemed to know in which direction.
"Francis Smethurst was rousing himself from his apathy; he whispered to
his lawyer, who nodded with a bland smile of encouragement. The employes
of the Hotel Cecil gave evidence as to the arrival of Mr. Smethurst at
about 9.30 p.m. on Wednesday, December the 10th, in a cab, with a
quantity of luggage; and this closed the case for the prosecution.
"Everybody in that court already _saw_ Smethurst mounting the gallows.
It was uninterested curiosity which caused the elegant audience to wait
and hear what Sir Arthur Inglewood had to say. He, of course, is the
most fashionable man in the law at the present moment. His lolling
attitudes, his drawling speech, are quite the rage, and imitated by the
gilded youth of society.
"Even at this moment, when the Siberian millionaire's neck literally and
metaphorically hung in the balance, an expectant titter went round the
fair spectators as Sir Arthur stretched out his long loose limbs and
lounged across the table. He waited to make his effect--Sir Arthur is a
born actor--and there is no doubt that he made it, when in his slowest,
most drawly tones he said quietly;
"'With regard to this alleged murder of one William Kershaw, on
Wednesday, December the 10th, between 6.15 and 8.45 p.m., your Honour, I
now propose to call two witnesses, who saw this same William Kershaw
alive on Tuesday afternoon, December the 16th, that is to say, six days
after the supposed murder.'