The Old Man in the Corner - Baroness Orczy
"It was as if a bombshell had exploded in the court. Even his Honour was
aghast, and I am sure the lady next to me only recovered from the shock
of the surprise in order to wonder whether she need put off her dinner
party after all.
"As for me," added the man in the corner, with that strange mixture of
nervousness and self-complacency which had set Miss Polly Burton
wondering, "well, you see, _I_ had made up my mind long ago where the
hitch lay in this particular case, and I was not so surprised as some of
the others.
"Perhaps you remember the wonderful development of the case, which so
completely mystified the police--and in fact everybody except myself.
Torriani and a waiter at his hotel in the Commercial Road both deposed
that at about 3.30 p.m. on December the 10th a shabbily dressed
individual lolled into the coffee-room and ordered some tea. He was
pleasant enough and talkative, told the waiter that his name was William
Kershaw, that very soon all London would be talking about him, as he was
about, through an unexpected stroke of good fortune, to become a very
rich man, and so on, and so on, nonsense without end.
"When he had finished his tea he lolled out again, but no sooner had he
disappeared down a turning of the road than the waiter discovered an old
umbrella, left behind accidentally by the shabby, talkative individual.
As is the custom in his highly respectable restaurant, Signor Torriani
put the umbrella carefully away in his office, on the chance of his
customer calling to claim it when he had discovered his loss. And sure
enough nearly a week later, on Tuesday, the 16th, at about 1 p.m., the
same shabbily dressed individual called and asked for his umbrella. He
had some lunch, and chatted once again to the waiter. Signor Torriani
and the waiter gave a description of William Kershaw, which coincided
exactly with that given by Mrs. Kershaw of her husband.
"Oddly enough he seemed to be a very absent-minded sort of person, for
on this second occasion, no sooner had he left than the waiter found a
pocket-book in the coffee-room, underneath the table. It contained
sundry letters and bills, all addressed to William Kershaw. This
pocket-book was produced, and Karl Mueller, who had returned to the
court, easily identified it as having belonged to his dear and lamented
friend 'Villiam.'
"This was the first blow to the case against the accused. It was a
pretty stiff one, you will admit. Already it had begun to collapse like
a house of cards. Still, there was the assignation, and the undisputed
meeting between Smethurst and Kershaw, and those two and a half hours of
a foggy evening to satisfactorily account for."
The man in the corner made a long pause, keeping the girl on
tenterhooks. He had fidgeted with his bit of string till there was not
an inch of it free from the most complicated and elaborate knots.
"I assure you," he resumed at last, "that at that very moment the whole
mystery was, to me, as clear as daylight. I only marvelled how his
Honour could waste his time and mine by putting what he thought were
searching questions to the accused relating to his past. Francis
Smethurst, who had quite shaken off his somnolence, spoke with a curious
nasal twang, and with an almost imperceptible soupcon of foreign accent,
He calmly denied Kershaw's version of his past; declared that he had
never been called Barker, and had certainly never been mixed up in any
murder case thirty years ago.
"'But you knew this man Kershaw,' persisted his Honour, 'since you wrote
to him?'
"'Pardon me, your Honour,' said the accused quietly, 'I have never, to
my knowledge, seen this man Kershaw, and I can swear that I never wrote
to him.'
"'Never wrote to him?' retorted his Honour warningly. 'That is a strange
assertion to make when I have two of your letters to him in my hands at
the present moment.'
"'I never wrote those letters, your Honour,' persisted the accused
quietly, 'they are not in my handwriting.'
"'Which we can easily prove,' came in Sir Arthur Inglewood's drawly
tones, as he handed up a packet to his Honour; 'here are a number of
letters written by my client since he has landed in this country, and
some of which were written under my very eyes.'
"As Sir Arthur Inglewood had said, this could be easily proved, and the
prisoner, at his Honour's request, scribbled a few lines, together with
his signature, several times upon a sheet of note-paper. It was easy to
read upon the magistrate's astounded countenance, that there was not the
slightest similarity in the two handwritings.
"A fresh mystery had cropped up. Who, then, had made the assignation
with William Kershaw at Fenchurch Street railway station? The prisoner
gave a fairly satisfactory account of the employment of his time since
his landing in England.
"'I came over on the _Tsarskoe Selo_,' he said, 'a yacht belonging to a
friend of mine. When we arrived at the mouth of the Thames there was
such a dense fog that it was twenty-four hours before it was thought
safe for me to land. My friend, who is a Russian, would not land at all;
he was regularly frightened at this land of fogs. He was going on to
Madeira immediately.
"'I actually landed on Tuesday, the 10th, and took a train at once for
town. I did see to my luggage and a cab, as the porter and driver told
your Honour; then I tried to find my way to a refreshment-room, where I
could get a glass of wine. I drifted into the waiting-room, and there I
was accosted by a shabbily dressed individual, who began telling me a
piteous tale. Who he was I do not know. He _said_ he was an old soldier
who had served his country faithfully, and then been left to starve. He
begged of me to accompany him to his lodgings, where I could see his
wife and starving children, and verify the truth and piteousness of his
tale.
"'Well, your Honour,' added the prisoner with noble frankness, 'it was
my first day in the old country. I had come back after thirty years with
my pockets full of gold, and this was the first sad tale I had heard;
but I am a business man, and did not want to be exactly "done" in the
eye. I followed my man through the fog, out into the streets. He walked
silently by my side for a time. I had not a notion where I was.
"'Suddenly I turned to him with some question, and realized in a moment
that my gentleman had given me the slip. Finding, probably, that I would
not part with my money till I _had_ seen the starving wife and children,
he left me to my fate, and went in search of more willing bait.
"'The place where I found myself was dismal and deserted. I could see no
trace of cab or omnibus. I retraced my steps and tried to find my way
back to the station, only to find myself in worse and more deserted
neighbourhoods. I became hopelessly lost and fogged. I don't wonder that
two and a half hours elapsed while I thus wandered on in the dark and
deserted streets; my sole astonishment is that I ever found the station
at all that night, or rather close to it a policeman, who showed me the
way.'
"'But how do you account for Kershaw knowing all your movements?' still
persisted his Honour, 'and his knowing the exact date of your arrival
in England? How do you account for these two letters, in fact?'
"'I cannot account for it or them, your Honour,' replied the prisoner
quietly. 'I have proved to you, have I not, that I never wrote those
letters, and that the man--er--Kershaw is his name?--was not murdered by
me?'
"'Can you tell me of anyone here or abroad who might have heard of your
movements, and of the date of your arrival?'
"'My late employes at Vladivostok, of course, knew of my departure, but
none of them could have written these letters, since none of them know a
word of English.'
"'Then you can throw no light upon these mysterious letters? You cannot
help the police in any way towards the clearing up of this strange
affair?'
"'The affair is as mysterious to me as to your Honour, and to the police
of this country.'
"Francis Smethurst was discharged, of course; there was no semblance of
evidence against him sufficient to commit him for trial. The two
overwhelming points of his defence which had completely routed the
prosecution were, firstly, the proof that he had never written the
letters making the assignation, and secondly, the fact that the man
supposed to have been murdered on the 10th was seen to be alive and
well on the 16th. But then, who in the world was the mysterious
individual who had apprised Kershaw of the movements of Smethurst, the
millionaire?"
CHAPTER III
HIS DEDUCTION
The man in the corner cocked his funny thin head on one side and looked
at Polly; then he took up his beloved bit of string and deliberately
untied every knot he had made in it. When it was quite smooth he laid it
out upon the table.
"I will take you, if you like, point by point along the line of
reasoning which I followed myself, and which will inevitably lead you,
as it led me, to the only possible solution of the mystery.
"First take this point," he said with nervous restlessness, once more
taking up his bit of string, and forming with each point raised a series
of knots which would have shamed a navigating instructor, "obviously it
was _impossible_ for Kershaw not to have been acquainted with Smethurst,
since he was fully apprised of the latter's arrival in England by two
letters. Now it was clear to me from the first that _no one_ could have
written those two letters except Smethurst. You will argue that those
letters were proved not to have been written by the man in the dock.
Exactly. Remember, Kershaw was a careless man--he had lost both
envelopes. To him they were insignificant. Now it was never _disproved_
that those letters were written by Smethurst."
"But--" suggested Polly.
"Wait a minute," he interrupted, while knot number two appeared upon the
scene, "it was proved that six days after the murder, William Kershaw
was alive, and visited the Torriani Hotel, where already he was known,
and where he conveniently left a pocket-book behind, so that there
should be no mistake as to his identity; but it was never questioned
where Mr. Francis Smethurst, the millionaire, happened to spend that
very same afternoon."
"Surely, you don't mean?" gasped the girl.
"One moment, please," he added triumphantly. "How did it come about that
the landlord of the Torriani Hotel was brought into court at all? How
did Sir Arthur Inglewood, or rather his client, know that William
Kershaw had on those two memorable occasions visited the hotel, and that
its landlord could bring such convincing evidence forward that would for
ever exonerate the millionaire from the imputation of murder?"
"Surely," I argued, "the usual means, the police--"
"The police had kept the whole affair very dark until the arrest at the
Hotel Cecil. They did not put into the papers the usual: 'If anyone
happens to know of the whereabouts, etc. etc'. Had the landlord of that
hotel heard of the disappearance of Kershaw through the usual channels,
he would have put himself in communication with the police. Sir Arthur
Inglewood produced him. How did Sir Arthur Inglewood come on his track?"
"Surely, you don't mean?"
"Point number four," he resumed imperturbably, "Mrs. Kershaw was never
requested to produce a specimen of her husband's handwriting. Why?
Because the police, clever as you say they are, never started on the
right tack. They believed William Kershaw to have been murdered; they
looked for William Kershaw.
"On December the 31st, what was presumed to be the body of William
Kershaw was found by two lightermen: I have shown you a photograph of
the place where it was found. Dark and deserted it is in all conscience,
is it not? Just the place where a bully and a coward would decoy an
unsuspecting stranger, murder him first, then rob him of his valuables,
his papers, his very identity, and leave him there to rot. The body was
found in a disused barge which had been moored some time against the
wall, at the foot of these steps. It was in the last stages of
decomposition, and, of course, could not be identified; but the police
would have it that it was the body of William Kershaw.
"It never entered their heads that it was the body of _Francis
Smethurst, and that William Kershaw was his murderer_.
"Ah! it was cleverly, artistically conceived! Kershaw is a genius. Think
of it all! His disguise! Kershaw had a shaggy beard, hair, and
moustache. He shaved up to his very eyebrows! No wonder that even his
wife did not recognize him across the court; and remember she never saw
much of his face while he stood in the dock. Kershaw was shabby,
slouchy, he stooped. Smethurst, the millionaire, might have served in
the Prussian army.
"Then that lovely trait about going to revisit the Torriani Hotel. Just
a few days' grace, in order to purchase moustache and beard and wig,
exactly similar to what he had himself shaved off. Making up to look
like himself! Splendid! Then leaving the pocket-book behind! He! he! he!
Kershaw was not murdered! Of course not. He called at the Torriani Hotel
six days after the murder, whilst Mr. Smethurst, the millionaire,
hobnobbed in the park with duchesses! Hang such a man! Fie!"
He fumbled for his hat. With nervous, trembling fingers he held it
deferentially in his hand whilst he rose from the table. Polly watched
him as he strode up to the desk, and paid twopence for his glass of milk
and his bun. Soon he disappeared through the shop, whilst she still
found herself hopelessly bewildered, with a number of snap-shot
photographs before her, still staring at a long piece of string,
smothered from end to end in a series of knots, as bewildering, as
irritating, as puzzling as the man who had lately sat in the corner.
CHAPTER IV
THE ROBBERY IN PHILLIMORE TERRACE
Whether Miss Polly Burton really did expect to see the man in the corner
that Saturday afternoon, 'twere difficult to say; certain it is that
when she found her way to the table close by the window and realized
that he was not there, she felt conscious of an overwhelming sense of
disappointment. And yet during the whole of the week she had, with more
pride than wisdom, avoided this particular A.B.C. shop.
"I thought you would not keep away very long," said a quiet voice close
to her ear.
She nearly lost her balance--where in the world had he come from? She
certainly had not heard the slightest sound, and yet there he sat, in
the corner, like a veritable Jack-in-the-box, his mild blue eyes staring
apologetically at her, his nervous fingers toying with the inevitable
bit of string.
The waitress brought him his glass of milk and a cheese-cake. He ate it
in silence, while his piece of string lay idly beside him on the table.
When he had finished he fumbled in his capacious pockets, and drew out
the inevitable pocket-book.
Placing a small photograph before the girl, he said quietly:
"That is the back of the houses in Phillimore Terrace, which overlook
Adam and Eve Mews."
She looked at the photograph, then at him, with a kindly look of
indulgent expectancy.
"You will notice that the row of back gardens have each an exit into the
mews. These mews are built in the shape of a capital F. The photograph
is taken looking straight down the short horizontal line, which ends, as
you see, in a _cul-de-sac_. The bottom of the vertical line turns into
Phillimore Terrace, and the end of the upper long horizontal line into
High Street, Kensington. Now, on that particular night, or rather early
morning, of January 15th, Constable D 21, having turned into the mews
from Phillimore Terrace, stood for a moment at the angle formed by the
long vertical artery of the mews and the short horizontal one which, as
I observed before, looks on to the back gardens of the Terrace houses,
and ends in a _cul-de-sac_.
"How long D 21 stood at that particular corner he could not exactly say,
but he thinks it must have been three or four minutes before he noticed
a suspicious-looking individual shambling along under the shadow of the
garden walls. He was working his way cautiously in the direction of the
_cul-de-sac_, and D 21, also keeping well within the shadow, went
noiselessly after him.
"He had almost overtaken him--was, in fact, not more than thirty yards
from him--when from out of one of the two end houses--No. 22, Phillimore
Terrace, in fact--a man, in nothing but his night-shirt, rushed out
excitedly, and, before D 21 had time to intervene, literally threw
himself upon the suspected individual, rolling over and over with him on
the hard cobble-stones, and frantically shrieking, 'Thief! Thief!
Police!'
"It was some time before the constable succeeded in rescuing the tramp
from the excited grip of his assailant, and several minutes before he
could make himself heard.
"'There! there! that'll do!' he managed to say at last, as he gave the
man in the shirt a vigorous shove, which silenced him for the moment.
'Leave the man alone now, you mustn't make that noise this time o'
night, wakin' up all the folks.' The unfortunate tramp, who in the
meanwhile had managed to got on to his feet again, made no attempt to
get away; probably he thought he would stand but a poor chance. But the
man in the shirt had partly recovered his power of speech, and was now
blurting out jerky, half--intelligible sentences:
"'I have been robbed--robbed--I--that is--my master--Mr. Knopf. The desk
is open--the diamonds gone--all in my charge--and--now they are stolen!
That's the thief--I'll swear--I heard him--not three minutes ago--rushed
downstairs--the door into the garden was smashed--I ran across the
garden--he was sneaking about here still--Thief! Thief! Police!
Diamonds! Constable, don't let him go--I'll make you responsible if you
let him go--'
"'Now then--that'll do!' admonished D 21 as soon as he could get a word
in, 'stop that row, will you?'
"The man in the shirt was gradually recovering from his excitement.
"'Can I give this man in charge?' he asked.
"'What for?'
"'Burglary and housebreaking. I heard him, I tell you. He must have Mr.
Knopf's diamonds about him at this moment.'
"'Where is Mr. Knopf?'
"'Out of town,' groaned the man in the shirt. 'He went to Brighton last
night, and left me in charge, and now this thief has been and--'
"The tramp shrugged his shoulders and suddenly, without a word, he
quietly began taking off his coat and waistcoat. These he handed across
to the constable. Eagerly the man in the shirt fell on them, and turned
the ragged pockets inside out. From one of the windows a hilarious voice
made some facetious remark, as the tramp with equal solemnity began
divesting himself of his nether garments.
"'Now then, stop that nonsense,' pronounced D 21 severely, 'what were
you doing here this time o' night, anyway?'
"'The streets o' London is free to the public, ain't they?' queried the
tramp.
"'This don't lead nowhere, my man.'
"'Then I've lost my way, that's all,' growled the man surlily, 'and
p'raps you'll let me get along now.'
"By this time a couple of constables had appeared upon the scene. D 21
had no intention of losing sight of his friend the tramp, and the man in
the shirt had again made a dash for the latter's collar at the bare idea
that he should be allowed to 'get along.'
"I think D 21 was alive to the humour of the situation. He suggested
that Robertson (the man in the night-shirt) should go in and get some
clothes on, whilst he himself would wait for the inspector and the
detective, whom D 15 would send round from the station immediately.
"Poor Robertson's teeth were chattering with cold. He had a violent fit
of sneezing as D 21 hurried him into the house. The latter, with another
constable, remained to watch the burglared premises both back and
front, and D 15 took the wretched tramp to the station with a view to
sending an inspector and a detective round immediately.
"When the two latter gentlemen arrived at No. 22, Phillimore Terrace,
they found poor old Robertson in bed, shivering, and still quite blue.
He had got himself a hot drink, but his eyes were streaming and his
voice was terribly husky. D 21 had stationed himself in the dining-room,
where Robertson had pointed the desk out to him, with its broken lock
and scattered contents.
"Robertson, between his sneezes, gave what account he could of the
events which happened immediately before the robbery.
"His master, Mr. Ferdinand Knopf, he said, was a diamond merchant, and a
bachelor. He himself had been in Mr. Knopf's employ over fifteen years,
and was his only indoor servant. A charwoman came every day to do the
housework.
"Last night Mr. Knopf dined at the house of Mr. Shipman, at No. 26,
lower down. Mr. Shipman is the great jeweller who has his place of
business in South Audley Street. By the last post there came a letter
with the Brighton postmark, and marked 'urgent,' for Mr. Knopf, and he
(Robertson) was just wondering if he should run over to No. 26 with it,
when his master returned. He gave one glance at the contents of the
letter, asked for his A.B.C. Railway Guide, and ordered him (Robertson)
to pack his bag at once and fetch him a cab.
"'I guessed what it was,' continued Robertson after another violent fit
of sneezing. 'Mr. Knopf has a brother, Mr. Emile Knopf, to whom he is
very much attached, and who is a great invalid. He generally goes about
from one seaside place to another. He is now at Brighton, and has
recently been very ill.
"'If you will take the trouble to go downstairs I think you will still
find the letter lying on the hall table.
"'I read it after Mr. Knopf left; it was not from his brother, but from
a gentleman who signed himself J. Collins, M.D. I don't remember the
exact words, but, of course, you'll be able to read the letter--Mr. J.
Collins said he had been called in very suddenly to see Mr. Emile Knopf,
who, he added, had not many hours to live, and had begged of the doctor
to communicate at once with his brother in London.
"'Before leaving, Mr. Knopf warned me that there were some valuables in
his desk--diamonds mostly, and told me to be particularly careful about
locking up the house. He often has left me like this in charge of his
premises, and usually there have been diamonds in his desk, for Mr.
Knopf has no regular City office as he is a commercial traveller.'
"This, briefly, was the gist of the matter which Robertson related to
the inspector with many repetitions and persistent volubility.
"The detective and inspector, before returning to the station with their
report, thought they would call at No. 26, on Mr. Shipman, the great
jeweller.
"You remember, of course," added the man in the corner, dreamily
contemplating his bit of string, "the exciting developments of this
extraordinary case. Mr. Arthur Shipman is the head of the firm of
Shipman and Co., the wealthy jewellers. He is a widower, and lives very
quietly by himself in his own old-fashioned way in the small Kensington
house, leaving it to his two married sons to keep up the style and
swagger befitting the representatives of so wealthy a firm.
"'I have only known Mr. Knopf a very little while,' he explained to the
detectives. 'He sold me two or three stones once or twice, I think; but
we are both single men, and we have often dined together. Last night he
dined with me. He had that afternoon received a very fine consignment of
Brazilian diamonds, as he told me, and knowing how beset I am with
callers at my business place, he had brought the stones with him,
hoping, perhaps, to do a bit of trade over the nuts and wine.
"'I bought L25,000 worth of him,' added the jeweller, as if he were
speaking of so many farthings, 'and gave him a cheque across the dinner
table for that amount. I think we were both pleased with our bargain,
and we had a final bottle of '48 port over it together. Mr. Knopf left
me at about 9.30, for he knows I go very early to bed, and I took my new
stock upstairs with me, and locked it up in the safe. I certainly heard
nothing of the noise in the mews last night. I sleep on the second
floor, in the front of the house, and this is the first I have heard of
poor Mr. Knopf's loss--'
"At this point of his narrative Mr. Shipman very suddenly paused, and
his face became very pale. With a hasty word of excuse he
unceremoniously left the room, and the detective heard him running
quickly upstairs.
"Less than two minutes later Mr. Shipman returned. There was no need for
him to speak; both the detective and the inspector guessed the truth in
a moment by the look upon his face.
"'The diamonds!' he gasped. 'I have been robbed.'"
CHAPTER V
A NIGHT'S ADVENTURE
"Now I must tell you," continued the man in the corner, "that after I
had read the account of the double robbery, which appeared in the early
afternoon papers, I set to work and had a good think--yes!" he added
with a smile, noting Polly's look at the bit of string, on which he was
still at work, "yes! aided by this small adjunct to continued thought--I
made notes as to how I should proceed to discover the clever thief, who
had carried off a small fortune in a single night. Of course, my methods
are not those of a London detective; he has his own way of going to
work. The one who was conducting this case questioned the unfortunate
jeweller very closely about his servants and his household generally.