The Amateur Gentleman Part 97

WHICH TELLS HOW AND WHY MR. SHRIG'S CASE WAS SPOILED

"Why," exclaimed Barnabas, starting, "is that you, Mr. Shrig?"

"As ever vas, sir. I ain't partial to disguises as a rule, but circ.u.mstances obleeges me to it now and then," sighed Mr. Shrig as they turned into Hatton Garden. "Ye see, I've been keeping a eye--or as you might say, a fatherly ogle on vun o' my fambly, vich is the v'y and the v'erefore o' these 'ere v'iskers. Yesterday, I vas a market gerdener, vith a basket o' fine wegetables as n.o.body 'ad ordered,--the day afore, a sailor-man out o' furrin parts, as vos a-seeking and a-searchin' for a gray-'eaded feyther as didn't exist,--to-day I'm a riverside cove as 'ad found a letter--a letter as I'd stole--"

"Stolen!" repeated Barnabas.

"Vell, let's say borreyed, sir,--borreyed for purposes o' obserwation, --out o' young Barrymaine's pocket, and werry neatly I done it too!"

Here Mr. Shrig chuckled softly, checked himself suddenly, and shook his placid head. "But life ain't all lavender, sir,--not by no manner o' means, it ain't," said he dolefully. "Things is werry slack vith me,--nothing in the murder line this veek, and only vun sooicide, a couple o' 'ighvay robberies, and a 'sault and battery!

You can scrag me if I know v'ot things is coming to. And then, to make it vorse, I 've jest 'ad a loss as vell."

"I'm sorry for that, Mr. Shrig, but--"

"A loss, sir, as I shan't get over in a 'urry. You'll remember V'istlin' d.i.c.k, p'r'aps,--the leary, flash cove as you give such a leveller to, the first time as ever I clapped my day-lights on ye?"

"Yes, I remember him."

"Veil sir,' e's been and took, and gone, and got 'isself kicked to death by an 'orse!"

"Eh,--a horse?" exclaimed Barnabas, starting.

"An 'orse, sir, yes. Vich I means to say is coming it a bit low down on _me_, sir,--sich conduct ain't 'ardly fair, for V'istlin' d.i.c.k vos a werry promising cove as Capitals go. And now to see 'im cut off afore 'is time, and in such a outrageous, onnat'ral manner, touches me up, Mr. Barty, sir,--touches me up werry sharp it do! For arter all, a nice, strong gibbet vith a good long drop is qvicker, neater, and much more pleasant than an 'orse's 'oof,--now ain't it?

Still," said Mr. Shrig, sighing and shaking his head again, "things is allus blackest afore the dawn, sir, and--'twixt you and me,--I'm 'oping to bring off a nice little murder case afore long--"

"Hoping?"

"Veil--let's say--expecting, sir. Quite a bang up affair it'll be too,--n.o.bs, all on 'em, and there's three on 'em concerned. I'll call the murderer Number Vun, Number Two is the accessory afore the fact, and Number Three is the unfort'nate wictim. Now sir, from private obserwation, the deed is doo to be brought off any time in the next three veeks, and as soon as it's done, v'y then I lays my right 'and on Number Vun, and my left 'and on Number Two, and--"

"But--what about Number Three?" inquired Barnabas.

Mr. Shrig paused, glanced at Barnabas, and scratched his ear, thoughtfully.

"V'y sir," said he at last, "Number Three vill be a corp."

"A what?" said Barnabas.

"A corp, sir--a stiff--"

"Do you mean--dead?"

"Ah,--I mean werry much so!" nodded Mr. Shrig.

"Number Three vill be stone cold,--somev'eres in the country it'll 'appen, I fancy,--say in a vood! And the leaves'll keep a-fluttering over 'im, and the birds'll keep a-singing to 'im,--oh, Number Three'll be comfortable enough,--'e von't 'ave to vorry about nothink no more, it'll be Number Vun and Number Two as'll do the vorrying, and me--till I gets my 'ooks on 'em, and then--"

"But," said Barnabas earnestly, "why not try to prevent it?"

"Prewent it, sir?" said Mr. Shrig, in a tone of pained surprise.

"Prewent it? Lord, Mr. Barty, sir--then vere vould my murder case be?

Besides, I ain't so onprofessional as to step in afore my time.

Prewent it? No, sir. My dooty is to apprehend a man _arter_ the crime, not afore it."

"But surely you don't mean to allow this unfortunate person to be done to death?"

"Sir," said Mr. Shrig, beginning to finger his ear again, "unfort'nate wictims is born to be--vell, let's say--unfort'nate. You can't 'elp 'em being born wictims. I can't 'elp it,--n.o.body can't, for natur'

vill 'ave 'er own vay, sir, and I ain't vun to go agin natur' nor yet to spile a good case,--good cases is few enough. Oh, life ain't all lavender, as I said afore,--burn my neck if it is!" And here Mr. Shrig shook his head again, sighed again, and walked on in a somewhat gloomy silence.

Now, all at once, as they turned into the rush and roar of Holborn, Barnabas espied a face amid the hurrying throng; a face whose proud, dark beauty there was no mistaking despite its added look of sorrow; and a figure whose ripe loveliness the threadbare cloak could not disguise. For a moment her eyes looked up into his, dark and suddenly wide,--then, quick and light of foot, she was gone, lost in the bustling crowd.

But, even so, Barnabas turned and followed, striding on and on until at length he saw again the flutter of the threadbare cloak. And, because of its shabbiness, he frowned and hastened his steps, and because of the look he had read in her eyes, he paused again, yet followed doggedly nevertheless. She led him down Holborn Hill past the Fleet Market, over Blackfriars Bridge, and so, turning sharp to the right, along a somewhat narrow and very grimy street between rows of dirty, tumble-down houses, with, upon the right hand, numerous narrow courts and alley-ways that gave upon the turgid river.

Down one of these alleys the fluttering cloak turned suddenly, yet when Barnabas reached the corner, behold the alley was quite deserted, save for a small and pallid urchin who sat upon a rotting stump, staring at the river, with a pallid infant in his arms.

"Which way did the lady go?" inquired Barnabas.

"Lady?" said the urchin, staring.

"Yes. She wore a cloak,--a gray cloak. Where did she go?" and Barnabas held up a shilling. Instantly the urchin rose and, swinging the pallid infant to his ragged hip, pattered over the cobbles with his bare feet, and with one small, dirty claw extended.

"A bob!" he cried in a shrill, cracked voice, "gimme it, sir! Yus, --yus,--I'll tell ye. She's wiv Nick--lives dere, she do. Now gimme th' bob,--she's in dere!" And he pointed to a narrow door at the further end of the alley. So Barnabas gave the shilling into the eager clutching fingers, and approaching the door, knocked upon the rotting timbers with the head of his cane.

"Come in!" roared a mighty voice. Hereupon Barnabas pushed open the crazy door, and descending three steps, found himself in a small, dark room, full of the smell of leather. And here, its solitary inmate, was a very small man crouched above a last, with a hammer in his hand and an open book before him. His head was bald save for a few white hairs that stood up, fiercely erect, and upon his short, pugnacious nose he wore a pair of huge, horn-rimmed spectacles.

"What's for you, sir?" he demanded in the same great, fierce voice, viewing Barnabas over his spectacles with sharp, bright eyes.

"If it's a pair o' Hessians you'll be wanting--"

"It isn't," said Barnabas, "I--"

"Or a fine pair o' dancing shoes--?"

"No, thank you, I want to--"

"Or a smart pair o' bang up riding-jacks--?"

"No," said Barnabas again, "I came here to see--"

"You can't 'ave 'em! And because why?" demanded the little man, his fierce eyes growing fiercer as he stared at Barnabas from modish hat to flowered waistcoat, "because I don't make for the Quality.

Quality--bah! If I 'ad my way, I'd gillertine 'em all,--ah, that I would! Like the Frenchies did when they revolutioned. I'd cut off their 'eads! By the dozen! With j'y!"

"You are Nick, the Cobbler, I think?"

"And what if I am? I'd chop off their 'eads, I tell ye,--with j'y and gusto!"

"And pray where is Clemency?"

"Eh?" exclaimed the little cobbler, pushing up his horn spectacles, "'oo did ye say?"

"Where is the lady who came in here a moment ago?"