My Strangest Case by Guy Newell Boothby (i am reading a book txt) 📕

"And if I'm not mistaken it will be a bad day for him when you do find him," put in Gregory, who had been an observant spectator of the scene. "Why should you hate him so?"

"How do you know that we do hate him?" Kitwater asked, turning his sightless face in the direction whence the other's voice proceeded. "Hate him, why should we hate him? We have no grudge against him, Coddy, my boy, have we?"

Mr. Codd shook his head gravely. No! they certainly had no grudge. Nothing more was to be gleaned from them. Whatever their connection with George Bertram or Gideon Hayle may have been, they were not going to commit themselves. When they had inquired as to his movements after leaving Bhamo, they dropped the subject altogether, and thanking the officers for the courtesy shown them, withdrew.

Their manifest destitution, and the misery they had suffered, had touched the kindly white residents of that far off place, and a subscription was raised for them, resulting in the collection of an amount sufficient to enable them to reach Rangoon in comparative comfort. When they arrived at that well-known seaport, they visited the residence of a person with whom it was plain they were well acquainted. The interview was presumably satisfactory on both sides, for when they left the house Kitwater squeezed Codd's hand, saying as he did so—

"We'll have him yet, Coddy, my boy, mark my words, we'll have him yet. He left in the Jemadar, and he thinks we are lying dead in the jungle at this moment. It's scarcely his fault that we are not, is it? But when we get hold of him, we'll—well, we'll let him see what we can do, won't we, old boy? He stole the treasure and sneaked away, abandoning us to our fate. In consequence I shall never see the light again; and you'll never speak to mortal man. We've Mr. Gideon Hayle to thank for that, and if we have to tramp round the world to do it, if we have to hunt for him in every country on the face of the earth, we'll repay the debt we owe him."

Mr. Codd's bright little eyes twinkled in reply. Then they shook hands solemnly together. It would certainly prove a bad day for Gideon Hayle should he ever have the ill luck to fall into their hands.

Two days later they shipped aboard the mail-boat as steerage passengers for England. They had been missionaries in China, so it was rumoured on board, and their zeal had been repaid by the cruellest torture. On a Sunday in the Indian Ocean, Kitwater held a service on deck, which was attended by every class. He preached an eloquent sermon on the labours of the missionaries in the Far East, and from that moment became so popular on board that, when the steamer reached English waters, a subscription was taken up on behalf of the sufferers, which resulted in the collection of an amount sufficient to help them well on their way to London as soon as they reached Liverpool.

"Now," said Kitwater, as they stood together at the wharf with the pitiless English rain pouring down upon them, wetting them to the skin, "what we have to do is to find Gideon Hayle as soon as possible."

It has often struck me as being a remarkable circumstance that, in nine cases out of ten, a man's success in life is not found in the career he originally chose for himself, but in another and totally different one. That mysterious power, "force of circumstances," is doubtless responsible for this, and no better illustration for my argument could be found than my own case. I believe my father intended that I should follow the medical profession, while my mother hoped I would enter the Church. My worthy uncle, Clutterfield, the eminent solicitor of Lincoln's Inn Fields, offered me my Articles, and would possibly have eventually taken me into partnership. But I would have none of these things. My one craving was for the sea. If I could not spend my life upon salt water, existence would have no pleasure for me. My father threatened, my mother wept, Uncle Clutterfield prophesied all sorts of disasters, but I remained firm.

"Very well," said my father, when he realized that further argument was hopeless, "since you must go to sea, go to sea you certainly shall. But you mustn't blame me if you find that the life is not exactly what you anticipate, and that you would prefer to find yourself on dry land once more."

I willingly gave this promise, and a month later left Liverpool as an apprentice on the clipper ship Maid of Normandy. Appropriately enough the captain's name was Fairweather, and he certainly was a character in his way. In fact the whole ship's company were originals. Had my father searched all England through he could not have discovered a set of men, from the captain to the cook's mate, who would have been better calculated to instil in a young man's heart a distaste for Father Neptune and his oceans. In the number of the various books of the sea I have encountered, was one entitled, A Floating Hell. When reading it I had not expected to have the misfortune to be bound aboard a vessel of this type. It was my lot, however, to undergo the experience. We carried three apprentices, including myself, each of whom had paid a large sum for the privilege. I was the youngest. The eldest was the son of a country parson, a mild, decent lad, who eventually deserted and became a house-painter in the South Island of New Zealand. The next was washed overboard when we were rounding the Horn on our homeward voyage. Poor lad, when all was said and done he could not have been much worse off, for his life on board was a disgrace to what is sometimes erroneously called, "Human Nature." In due course, as we cleared for San Francisco, and long before we crossed the Line, I was heartily tired of the sea. In those days, few years ago as it is, sailors were not so well protected even as they are now, and on a long voyage aboard a sailing ship it was possible for a good deal to happen that was not logged, and much of which was forgotten before the vessel reached its home-port again. When I returned from my first voyage, my family inquired how I liked my profession, and, with all truth, I informed them that I did not like it at all, and that I would be willing to have my indentures cancelled and to return to shore life once more, if I might be so permitted. My father smiled grimly, and seemed to derive considerable satisfaction from the fact that he had prophesied disaster from the outset.

"No," he said, "you have made your bed, my lad, and now you must lie upon it. There is still a considerable portion of your apprenticeship to be served, and it will be quite soon enough for us at the end of that time to decide what you are to do."

A month later I was at sea again, bound this time for Sydney. We reached that port on my nineteenth birthday, and by that time I had made up my mind. Articles or no Articles, I was determined to spend no more of my life on board that hateful ship. Accordingly, one day having obtained shore leave, I purchased a new rig-out, and leaving my sea-going togs with the Jewish shopman, I made tracks, as the saying goes, into the Bush with all speed. Happen what might, I was resolved that Captain Fairweather should not set eyes on George Fairfax again.

From that time onward my career was a strange one. I became a veritable Jack-of-all-Trades. A station-hand, a roust-about, shearer, assistant to a travelling hawker, a gold-miner, and at last a trooper in one of the finest bodies of men in the world, the Queensland Mounted Police. It was in this curious fashion that I arrived at my real vocation. After a considerable period spent at headquarters, I was drafted to a station in the Far West. There was a good deal of horse and sheep-stealing going on in that particular locality, and a large amount of tact and ingenuity were necessary to discover the criminals. I soon found that this was a business at which I was likely to be successful. More than once I had the good fortune to be able to bring to book men who had carried on their trade for years, and who had been entirely unsuspected. Eventually my reputation in this particular line of business became noised abroad, until it came to the ears of the Commissioner himself. Then news reached us that a dastardly murder had been committed in the suburbs of Brisbane, and that the police were unable to obtain any clue as to the identity of the person accountable for it. Two or three men were arrested on suspicion, but were immediately discharged on being in a position to give a satisfactory account of their actions on the night of the murder. It struck me that I should like to take up the case, and with the confidence of youth, I applied to the Commissioner for permission to be allowed to try my hand at unravelling the mystery. What they thought of my impudence I cannot say, but the fact remains that my request, after being backed up by my Inspector, was granted. The case was a particularly complicated one, and at one time I was beginning to think that I should prove no more successful than the others had been. Instead of deterring me, however, this only spurred me on to greater efforts. The mere fact that I had asked to be allowed to take part in the affair, had aroused the jealousy of the detectives of the department, and I was aware that they would receive the news of my failure with unqualified satisfaction. I therefore prosecuted my inquiries in every possible direction, sparing myself neither labour nor pains. It would appear that the victim, an old man, was without kith or kin. He was very poor, and lived by himself in a small villa on the outskirts of the city. No one had been seen near the house on the night in question, nor had any noise been heard by the neighbours. Yet in the morning he was discovered lying on the floor of the front-room, stabbed to the heart from behind. Now every detective knows—indeed it is part of his creed—that, in an affair such as I am describing, nothing is too minute or too trivial to have a bearing upon the case. The old gentleman had been at supper when the crime was committed, and from the fact that the table was only laid for one, I argued that he had not expected a visitor. The murderer could not have been hungry, for the food had not been touched. That the motive was not robbery was also plain from the fact that not a drawer had been opened or a lock forced, while the money in his pocket was still intact. The doctors had certified that the wound could not have been self-inflicted, while there was plenty of evidence to show that there had not been a struggle. From the fact that the front-door was locked, and that the key was in the murdered man's pocket, it was certain that the assassin must have left the house by the back. There was one question, however, so trivial in itself that one might have been excused for not taking note of it, that attracted my attention. As I have said, the old man had been stabbed from behind, and