The Charing Cross Mystery by J. S. Fletcher (book series for 10 year olds TXT) 📕

mithter,” answered the Jew. “The fact ith, I do a bit o’ commith’on work for Vivian’th cuthtomerth, turf you know. Tho’⁠—I’m in and out of an evening. Thee?”

“I see,” said Hetherwick. “All right! And you know Baseverie?”

“Ath well ath I know my own nothe,” replied Mr. Goldmark.

“How long have you known him?”

“Thome time.”

“Do you know what he is?”

“Aint an idea, mithter⁠—and noboody elthe that I knowth of! Liv’th on hith wit’th, I should thay, if you athk me. Wrong ’un!”

“Nor where he lives?”

“No, mithter! All I knowth ith that he come’th to Vivian’th⁠—now and then.”

“And you saw him tonight?”

“I did, mithter⁠—tonight ath ever wath!”

“What time was that?”

“About eight o’clock, mithter⁠—near ath I can fix it.”

“Well, what happened?”

“Thith, mithter. He came in about eight, ath I thay. I wath there, doing a bit o’ bithneth with another cuthmur. Batheverie, he didn’t thtop. He wathn’t in the plathe three minuteth, and while he wath in he theemed⁠—to me⁠—to be a bit fidgety⁠—thuthpithious, like. Looked round and about⁠—cautiouth. Then he went⁠—and I followed him. According to inthructionth from Mapperley there.”

“Where did he go?”

“Well, mithter, I’ll give you the particularth⁠—in full: when I theth out on a job o’ that thort I do it proper. He turned out o’ Candlethtick Pathage into the Lane, and he had a drink at a bar there. Then he went to Trafalgar Square Tube. I wath clothe behind him when he booked⁠—”

“A moment. Does he know you?”

“May jutht know me by thite, mithter, but not enough to exthite any thuthpithion in hith mind if he thaw me there behind him. I never had no truck with him⁠—never thpoke to him.”

“Well, go on. Where did he book to?”

“Warwick Avenue, mithter. Tho did I⁠—of courth. When we got there, I followed him out⁠—at a thafe dithtance. He turned down to the Canal, crothed the bridge, and went down to Thant Mary’th Manthion’th. And there he went in.”

Hetherwick glanced at Mapperley. Mapperley permitted himself to wink at his employer⁠—respectfully, but knowingly.

“Went into St. Mary’s Mansions, eh?” said Hetherwick. “Walked straight in?”

“Straight in, mithter⁠—front entranth. I thee him, from acroth the road, talking to the man in livery⁠—porter or whatever he hith. I could thee through the glath doorth. Then I thee both of ’em go up in the lift. Tho I waited about a bit, jutht to thee if he’d come out. He did.”

“Soon?” asked Hetherwick.

“He wath inthide about ten minuteth. Then he came out. Alone. Thith time he went in t’other direction. I followed him acroth Paddington Green to Edgware Road Tube, and there⁠—well, to tell you the truth, mithter, there I lotht him! There wath a lot o’ people about, and I made thure he’d be going thouth. But he mutht ha’ gone wetht. Anyway, I lotht him altogether.”

“Well⁠—I think you saw enough to be of help,” said Hetherwick. “Now⁠—just keep this to yourself, Goldmark.” He motioned Mapperley into another room, gave him money for his assistant, and waited until the Jew had gone, shown out by the clerk. “Eleven o’clock!” he remarked, glancing at his watch as Mapperley came back. “Mapperley! we’re going out⁠—to St. Mary’s Mansions. And after we’ve been there, and made a call, you’d better come back here with me and take a shakedown for the night⁠—I shall want you in the morning, unless I’m mistaken.”

It was one of Mapperley’s chief virtues that he was always ready to go anywhere and do anything, and he at once accompanied Hetherwick to the top of Middle Temple Lane, found a taxicab within five minutes, and proposed himself to sit up and shakedown that night and the next, if necessary.

“Scent’s getting hot, I think, sir,” he remarked as they drove off, after bidding the driver carry them to Paddington Green. “Things seem to be coming to a head.”

“Yes⁠—but I don’t think you know everything,” answered Hetherwick. He proceeded to give the clerk an epitomised account of the day’s doings as they had related to himself, concluding with Matherfield’s theory as expressed after leaving the Green Archer. “You’re a smart chap, Mapperley,” he added. “What do you think?”

“I see Matherfield’s point,” answered Mapperley. “I can follow his line. He thinks like this: Hannaford, when he came to London, wanted to get rid, advantageously, of that formula of his about a new ink. He got into touch with Ambrose, whom, of course, he’d known before at Sellithwaite. Ambrose introduced him to some men who deal or dabble in chemicals, of whom one, no doubt, is Baseverie, and who seem to have a laboratory or something of that sort somewhere in the Westminster district. On the night of the murder Ambrose met Hannaford, by appointment, at Victoria, and took him there. Probably, Hannaford left the sealed packet⁠—opened by that time⁠—with these fellows. Probably, too, while there he told them⁠—jokingly, very likely⁠—what he’d discovered, from the picture in the papers, about the identity of Mrs. Whittingham and Madame Listorelle. And now comes in⁠—Granett!”

Hetherwick gave an exclamation that denoted two or three things⁠—surprise, for one.

“Ah!” he said. “Granett! To be sure! I’d forgotten Granett!”

“I hadn’t,” remarked Mapperley with a cynical laugh. “Granett⁠—and his murder⁠—is an essential factor. What I think is this: We know that Hannaford met Ambrose at Victoria Station that all-important evening. Ambrose, without doubt, took him to the place I hinted at just now⁠—the exact location of which is a mystery. I think Hannaford stopped there until late in the evening. But⁠—I also think he went back again! With⁠—Granett!”

“Ah!” exclaimed Hetherwick. “I see!”

“We know,” continued Mapperley, “that Granett went that evening to see the chemist who gave information about him; we know, too, that he and the chemist went and had a drink together, and parted at about closing time, Granett then, according to the chemist, going towards Victoria Street. Now I think that Granett then met Hannaford⁠—accidentally. They’d known each other in Sellithwaite. They talked⁠—Granett told Hannaford he was down on his luck. Hannaford, evidently, was a kindhearted man, and I think he did two things out of kindness for Granett. He gave