Once Aboard the Lugger Part 60

For the privilege of adding to the dignity of his single apartment by having his name inscribed upon the cistern cupboard and upon the emergency exit to the roof, Mr. Brunger paid thirty shillings extra per annum.

III.

By half-past ten Mr. Brunger was occupied in composing an unsolicited testimonial to be sent to the wife of a green-grocer in the Borough who, on the previous day, had summoned her husband for a.s.sault at Lambeth Police-Court.

"I had suspicions but no proof of my 'usband's infidelity," dictated Mr. Brunger, pacing the floor, "until I enlisted your services. I must say--"

At that moment the telephone bell rang. Mr. Brunger ceased dictation; took up the receiver.

"Are you David Brunger, the private detective?" a voice asked.

"We are," replied Mr. Brunger in the thin treble he used on first answering a call. "Who are you, please?"

"I am Mr. Christopher Marrapit of Herons' Holt, Paltley Hill, Surrey.

I--"

"One moment," piped Mr. Brunger. "Is it confidential business?"

"It is most urgent business. I--"

"One moment, please. In that case the private secretary must take your message."

Mr. Brunger laid down the receiver; took a turn across the room; approached the telephone; in a very deep ba.s.s asked, "Are you there?"

The frantic narrative that was poured into his ears he punctuated with heavy, guttural "Certainly's," "Yes's," "We comprehend's," "We follow you's." Then: "Mr. David Brunger himself? I'm afraid that is impossible, sir. Mr. Brunger has his hands very full just now. He is closeted with Scotland Yard. At this moment, sir, the Yard is consulting him ...'m...'m. Well, I'll see, sir, I'll see. I doubt it.

I very much doubt it. But hold the line a minute, sir."

In his capacity of Mr. David Brunger's private secretary, Mr. David Brunger drank from the carafe of water on the mantelpiece to clear his tortured throat.

In his capacity of the great detective and confidential inquiry agent himself, he then stepped to the telephone and, after exhibiting a power of invention relative to startling crimes in hand that won even the admiration of Mr. Issy Jago, announced that he would be with Mr.

Marrapit at three o'clock.

"It may be a big job, Issy," he remarked, relighting the stump of cigarette, "or it may be a little job. But what I say and what I do is, _impress your client. Impress your client,_ Issy. Let that be your maxim through life. And if I catch you again takin' a draw at my cigarette when my back's turned, as I see you just now, I'll d.a.m.n well turn you inside out and chuck you through that door. So you watch it.

You've made this smoke taste 'orrid-'orrid. No sauce, now; no sauce."

IV.

By two o'clock the results of Mr. Marrapit's colossal scheme began to pour in.

The bowls of milk, gleaming along the wall of Herons' Holt, drew every stray cat within a radius of two miles. Beneath, each armed with a clothes-prop, toiled Mr. Fletcher and Frederick under the immediate generalship of Mr. Marrapit.

Throughout the morning cats bounded, flickered and disappeared upon the wall. Fat cats, thin cats; tom cats, tabby cats; white cats, black cats, yellow cats, and grey cats; young cats and old cats. As each appeared, Mr. Marrapit, first expectant then moaning, would wave his a.s.sistants to the a.s.sault. Up would go the clothes-prop of Mr.

Fletcher or Frederick; down would go the stranger cat. It was exhausting work.

At two-thirty the village boys who had been searching were mustered at the gate. Each bore a cat. Some carried two. Leaving his clothes-prop lancers, Mr. Marrapit hurried down the drive to hold review.

"Pa.s.s," he commanded, "in single file before me."

They pa.s.sed. "Dolt! Dolt!" groaned Mr. Marrapit, writhing in the bitterness of crushed hope as each cat was held towards him. "Dolt and pumpkin-head! How could that wretched creature be my Rose?"

How, indeed, when at that moment the Rose of Sharon in the ruined hut was lapping milk taken her by George in a lemonade bottle, her infamous captor smoking on the threshold?

Precisely at three o'clock Mr. David Brunger arrived. Conducted to the room whence the Rose had disappeared, the astute inquiry agent was there closeted with Mr. Marrapit for half an hour. At the end of that time Mr. Marrapit appeared on the lawn. His face was white, his voice, when he spoke, hollow and trembling. He called to the clothes-prop lancers:

"Cease. Cease. Withdraw the milk. The Rose of Sharon is not strayed.

She is stolen!"

"Thenk Gord!" said Frederick. "Thenk Gord! I've pretty well busted myself over this game."

Mr. Fletcher said nothing; drew his snail from his pocket; plunged head downwards in a bush. Woe sat heavy upon him; beneath the indignity and labour of thrusting at stranger cats with a clothes-prop this man had grievously suffered.

V.

The Rose was stolen. That was Mr. Brunger's discovery after examination of the window-latch where George's knife had marked it, the sill where George's boots had scratched it. Outside the great detective searched for footmarks--they had been obliterated by heavy rainfall between the doing of the hideous deed and its discovery. Upon the principle of impressing his client, however, Mr. Brunger grovelled on the path with tape measure and note-book; measured every pair of boots in the house; measured the window; measured the room; in neat little packets tied up specimens of the gravel, specimens of the turf, specimens of hair from the Rose of Sharon's coat, picked from her bed.

It was six o'clock when he had concluded. By then George had returned; the three held council in the study. Addressing Mr. Marrapit, Mr.

Brunger tapped his note-book and his little packages. "We shall track the culprit, never fear, Mr. Marrapit," he said. "My impression is that this is the work of a gang--a _gang_."

"Precisely my impression," George agreed.

Mr. Brunger took the interruption with the gracious bow of one who condescends to accept a pat on the back from an inferior. Mr. Marrapit twisted his fingers in his thin hair; groaned aloud.

"A _gang,_" repeated Mr. Brunger, immensely relishing the word. "We detectives do not like to speak with certainty until we have clapped our hands upon our men; we leave that for the amateurs, the bunglers-- the _quacks_ of our profession." The famous confidential inquiry agent tapped the table with his forefinger and proceeded impressively. "But I will say this much. Not only a gang, but a desperate gang, a dangerous, stick-at-nothing gang."

Mr. Marrapit writhed. The detective continued: "What are our grounds for this belief?" he asked. "What are our _data_?"

He looked at George. George shook his head. Easy enough, and useful, to acquiesce in the idea of a gang, but uncommonly hard to support the belief. He shook his head.

Mr. Brunger was disappointed; a little at sea, he would have clutched eagerly at any aid. However, "impress your client." He continued: "These are our data. We have a valuable cat--a cat, sir, upon which the eyes of cat-breeders are enviously fixed. Take America--you have had surprising offers from America for this cat, sir, so you told me?"

"Eight hundred pounds," Mr. Marrapit groaned.

"Precisely. Observe how our data acc.u.mulate. We have dissatisfaction among breeders at home because you will not employ this cat as, in their opinion, for the good of the breed, she should be employed."

Mr. Marrapit moaned: "Polygamy is abhorrent to me."

"Precisely. Our data positively pile about us. We have a thousand enthusiasts yearning for this cat. We have your refusal to sell or to-- to--" Mr. Brunger allowed a hiatus delicately to express his meaning.

"Then depend upon it, sir, we have a determination to secure this cat by foul means since fair will not avail. We have a conspiracy among unscrupulous breeders to obtain this valuable cat, and hence, sir, we have a gang--a _gang_."

Mr. Marrapit put his anguish of mind into two very deep groans.

"Keep calm, my dear sir," Mr. Brunger soothed. "We shall return your cat. We have our data." He continued: "Now, sir, there are two ways of dealing with a _gang_. We can capture the _gang_ or we can seduce the _gang_--by offering a reward."

George jumped in his chair. "Anything wrong?" Mr. Brunger inquired.