The Master Detective Part 34

"And there is no market for such work?" I enquired.

"I believe not. I have never troubled to find out. I have no need of money, and if I had I could not bring myself to part with my work."

"You interest me. I should like to see some of your work."

"Why not? It is a short walk to Gray's Inn. To me you are rather wonderful. I have not felt inclined to talk to a stranger for years, and now I am anxious to show you what I have done. We will go when you like."

I had not bargained for this. Had I foreseen that I should have a conversation forced upon me to-night I should have avoided Warburton's; even now I was inclined to excuse myself, but curiosity got the upper hand. I finished my wine and we went to Gray's Inn.

On the way, I told him my name, but, apparently, he had never heard it, nor did he immediately tell me his. I purposely called him Mr. ---- and paused for the information.

"Parrish," he said. "Bather a curious name," and then he went on talking about illuminating, evidently convinced that I was intensely interested.

It was the man who interested me, not his work, and the interest was heightened when I entered his rooms. He occupied two rooms at the top of a dreary building devoted to men of law. The rooms were well enough in themselves, but the furniture was in the last stage of dilapidation, there were holes in the carpet, and everything looked forlorn and poverty-stricken. I glanced at my companion. Certainly, his clothes were a little shabby, but quite good, and he was oblivious to the decayed atmosphere of his surroundings. He drew me at once to a large table, where lay the work he was engaged upon. Of its kind, it was marvelous both in design and execution, reproducing the color effects of the old illuminators so exactly that it was almost impossible to tell it from that of the old monks. This is not my opinion, but that of the expert from the British Museum when he p.r.o.nounced upon the work later.

"Wonderful," I said. "And there is no sale for it?"

He shrugged his shoulders. Environment seemed to have an effect upon him, for his conversation was mostly by signs after we entered his room.

Without a word he took finished work from various drawers and put it on the table for my inspection. I praised it, asked questions to draw him out, but failed to get more than a lift of the eyebrows, or an occasional monosyllable. It was not exhilarating, and as soon as I could I took my leave.

"Come and see me again soon," he said, parting with me at the top of the stairs.

"Thanks," I answered, as I went down, but I made no promise as I looked up at him silhouetted against the light from his open door. Little did I guess how soon I was to climb those stairs again.

Next morning I was conscious that the night off, although not spent exactly as I had intended, had done me good. Some knotty points in a case I was engaged upon had begun to unravel themselves in my mind, and I reached the office early to find that the chief was already there and wanted to see me.

"Here is a case you must look after at once, Wigan," he said, pa.s.sing me the report of the murder of a man named Parrish, in Gray's Inn.

Now, one of the essentials in my profession is the ability to put the finger on the small mistakes a criminal makes when he endeavors to cover up his tracks. I suppose nine cases out of ten are solved in this way, and more often than not the thing left undone, unthought of, is the very one, you would imagine, which the criminal would have thought of first. I fancy the reason lies in the fact that the criminal does not believe he will be suspected. I said nothing to my chief about my visit to Gray's Inn last night. Experience has shown me the wisdom of a still tongue, and knowledge I have picked up casually has often led to a solution which has startled the Yard. The Yard was destined to be startled now, but not quite in the way I hoped.

When I arrived at Gray's Inn, a small crowd had collected before the entrance door of the house, as if momentarily expecting some information from the constable who stood on duty there--a man I did not happen to know.

"That's him! That's him!"

A boy pointed me out excitedly to the constable, who looked at me quickly. I smiled to find myself recognized, but I was laboring under a mistake.

"Yes, that's the man," said a woman standing on the edge of the crowd.

The explanation came when the constable understood who I was.

"Both of them declare they saw the dead man in company with another man last night, described him, and now--"

"I saw you with him," said the boy. "I never saw him with any one before, that's why I took particular notice."

The woman nodded her agreement.

"Better take the names and addresses, constable."

"I've already done that, sir."

I entered the house inclined to smile, but the inclination vanished as I went upstairs. No doubt these two had seen me last night, and it was fortunate, perhaps, that I was a detective, and not an ordinary individual. And yet a detective might commit murder. It was an unpleasant thought, unpleasant enough to make me wish I had mentioned last night's adventure to the chief.

A constable I knew was on the top landing, and entered the rooms with me.

Parrish had not been moved. He was lying by the table; had probably fallen forward out of his chair.

A thin-bladed knife had been driven downwards, at the base of the neck, apparently by some one who had stood behind him. I judged, and a doctor presently confirmed my judgment, that he had been dead some hours; must have met his death soon after I had left him. As far as I could tell, the papers on the table were in exactly the same position as I had seen them, and the finished work which he had taken out of his drawers to show me had not been replaced. The fact seemed to add to the awkwardness of my position.

The first thing I did was to telegraph to Christopher Quarles. I do not remember ever being more keen for his help. I occupied the time of waiting in a careful examination of the rooms and the stairs, and in making enquiries in the offices in the building.

The first thing I told Quarles, on his arrival, was my adventure last night, and the awkward fact that two people had recognized me this morning.

"Then we mustn't fail this time, Wigan," he said gravely. "It is a pity you did not mention the adventure to your chief."

"Yes, but--"

"You'd suspect a man with less evidence against him," Quarles answered quickly. "We'll look at the rooms, and the dead man, then you had better go back to the Yard and tell your chief all about it."

Our search revealed very little. It was evident that Parrish had lived a lonely life, as he had told me. His evening dinner at Warburton's appeared to have been his only real meal of the day. There was a half-empty tin of biscuits in the cupboard, and some coffee and tea, but no other food whatever, nor evidence that it was ever kept there. I have said the clothes he was wearing were shabby, but there was a shabbier suit still lying at the bottom of a drawer, and his stock of shirts and underclothing reached the minimum. Practically, there were no papers, only a few receipted bills for material for his work, a few advertis.e.m.e.nts still in their wrappers, and two letters which had not been opened.

"We will examine these later, Wigan," said Quarles. "I want to get an impression before anything definite puts me on the wrong road. What about his work?" and the professor examined it with his lens. "Good, of its kind, I should imagine, and what is more to the point, requiring expensive materials. These bills show a good many pounds spent in less than four months. He was not poverty-stricken, in spite of shabby clothes, and holes in the carpet. Where did he get his money from? There is no check book here, no money except a few shillings in his pocket.

That is a point to remember."

"The murderers may have taken it," I said.

"This doesn't look like a place ordinary thieves would come to."

There was a shelf in one corner, with books on it, perhaps a score in all. Quarles took down every one of them, and opened them.

"John Parrish. Did you know his name was John?"

"No. He didn't mention his Christian name."

"Here it is, written in every book," said Quarles as he deliberately tore a fly-leaf out of one and began to put down on it the t.i.tles of some of the books. "Evidently he did not read much, the dust here is thick. Did he open his door with a key when you came in with him last night?"

"I couldn't swear to it."

"You see it does not lock of itself. He might have left it merely closed.

Did he go into the bedroom while you were here?"

"No."

"Then the murderer may have been there while you were with him. You have made enquiries about him in this building, of course?"

"Yes."

"About his personal appearance and habits, I mean. You see, Wigan, your own idea of him is not sufficient. He may have deceived you entirely regarding his character, a.s.suming eccentricity for some purpose. Think the affair out from that point of view, and when you have been to the Yard, come to Chelsea. If you do not mind I will take these two unopened letters. We will look at them together presently."

As a matter of fact, Quarles had opened them before I saw him; indeed, their contents took him out of town, and I did not see him for three days. They were very trying days for me, for the chief took me off the case when he had heard my story. He could not understand why I had not mentioned at once that I had been with the dead man on the previous night, and his manner suggested that my being the criminal was well within the bounds of possibility. I suppose every one likes to have a cut at a successful man occasionally, but I am bound to admit he had some reason for his action. He showed me a halfpenny paper in which an enterprising scribbler, under the headline "Murder in Gray's Inn," had heightened the sensation by another headline, "Strange recognition of a well-known detective by a woman and a boy."