SV - 05 - Sergeant Verity and the Swell Mob. Read online

  There was no chute inside the cellar, but Joe hung deftly by one hand, easing the iron cover back into place with his other. Then he dropped, light as a squirrel, on to the loose coal beneath. It was no more than a minute or two later when he heard the rumble of the cartwheels, iron rims on stone, and knew that Old Mole and Jack Strap were on their way back to Mr Kite.

  Of course, he thought, the worst part of the whole thing was that he must wait in the gloom of the coal cellar for several hours, until Cosima Bremer and the pretty nark had left for the regimental ball. The fires of the house would be kept banked up whatever the season and there was a risk that the servant would open the door to fill the coal scuttle. But Stunning Joe doubted that she would do more than put her head into the cellar and he was confident of concealing himself in that case.

  He tried the latch gently and found, as he expected, that the cellar was unlocked. After all, the occupants of the tall houses were hardly in danger from thieves walking down the basement steps in full view to steal a few lumps of coal. No servant girl would want the bother of locking and unlocking the cellar every time that she came out of the house to fetch a scuttleful.

  Joe's consolation was that he knew his patience must be rewarded. Like the officers of the surveillance detail, he was fully informed about Cosima Bremer. What chance was there for a German governess to make off with the riches of the Shah Jehan clasp? Now that the man who had kept her was dead, she had no friends and no refuge except her own country. But Joe knew, as well as any police officer, that she would be stripped and close-searched at the first attempt to make a bolt abroad.

  He took out a little pocket-watch and saw that it was nearly eight. Presently he heard the lighter wheels of a hansom cab above him, the sound of voices, one belonging to Cosima Bremer, the other to her maid, Jolly. That Jolly had been planted by the law was obvious enough, even to Cosima herself, Joe supposed. He listened and heard the cab door slam. Then the light wheels rolled forward and there was a profound silence. He reached for the latch of the cellar door.

  Joe edged out into the twilight of the basement area, the steps to the pavement at one end and the kitchen door at the other. As a precaution, he raised himself slightly and peered quickly an inch or so above the pavement level. The fat figure of a private-clothes jack stood in tall hat and frock-coat on the far side of the square. But the basement itself, including the kitchen door, was concealed from watching eyes, at least for the time being. Joe took a thin strip of steel from his pocket. As he suspected, the lock on the kitchen door was of the simplest kind, three levers each of which could be operated in turn to open the bolt. When the great houses had been built, the servants' basement was constantly occupied and so there was no fear of a break-in. The owners of the houses were far more concerned about robbery by dishonest servants themselves.

  With the lock open, the door was held on the inside by two ordinary bolts. Joe produced a "teaser', scissor-shaped blades of metal thin enough to pass through the crack between the door and jamb. The strong slim blades began to close on the bolt and edge it back, little by little. Five minutes later, Joe opened the door of the kitchen gently and stepped inside. Then, as a final precaution, he bolted himself in.

  There was no question of lighting the gas, but fortunately the summer evening was still bright enough to show him the interior of the rooms. In case he should have to explore darker areas with no external windows, he helped himself to an oil-lamp from the kitchen and then began to climb the basement stairs.

  At the top his progress was ended by another door, securely locked. Of course Cosima Bremer would not let her servant girl run all over the house. Except when called, Jolly was evidently banished from the upper floors. Joe smiled as he worked on the lock. At least he was sure that the Shah Jehan clasp was not concealed anywhere to which Jolly might have access.

  There were two rooms on the ground floor. Joe entered the First, overlooking the square and its gardens. The walls were covered with a dark-red paper, thick with a pattern of honeysuckle flowers which shaded from salmon into cream. Two little display-cabinets, their shelves covered by blue velvet, stood either side of the window, set out with ornamental china. Joe swept the china to the floor and found nothing. The deep crimson window-curtains were edged with gold cord and crowned with pelmets of similar design. Taking care not to show any movement outside he examined them gently. An ornate moderator-lamp, deeply fringed with red silk, hung from the centre of the ceiling. He inspected it by standing on a padded stool. But it was still warm from use and only a fool would have hidden the clasp among its intense flames.

  The rest of the furniture yielded nothing, but Joe had felt from the first that this was not the room in which the clasp would be hidden. He made a final tour of inspection, throwing over the little occasional tables, upending the padded chairs and sofa, smashing to the floor the two jardinieres and seeing the fern-pots break apart. There was nothing.

  The room at the back was even less promising. It was a housekeeper's parlour, barely furnished, a curtain on a brass rod behind the door to match those at the windows. Joe shook his head. It was all too neat and clean. Instinct and experience told him that even Cosima Bremer would not choose to hide the clasp in a room swept and tidied by a copper's nark.

  He went up the stairs to the first-floor drawing-room. This was the grandest of all the rooms in the house, the scene of summer dances and evening parties. The partition doors were folded back and the room extended the full depth of the house. Joe looked about him. The drawing-room was furnished in Louis Philippe style with ormolu tables and buhl cabinets upon which statuettes and other ornaments stood under glass cases. Filigreed gas-brackets and groups of water-colours cluttered the yellow walls. Gilded tables, cabinets, glass-shades, and heavy picture-frames gave a gloomy richness to the interior. Joe looked fretfully at it all. He took down the pictures one by one and examined their backs. He made a careful inspection of each cabinet and table. Where there were drawers in the tables, he drew them out and turned their contents on to the floor. Paper and trinkets were scattered from the front drawing-room to the back, but there was no sign of anything which might lead to the clasp.

  Finally, Joe looked at the walnut canterbury which held the albums of piano music, and at the piano itself. The instrument was a fine Erard upright in a flame-pattern case of polished rosewood. He knew at once that he had found Cosima's secret. Not in the mechanism, among the strings and dampers, but in the place where such pianos offered the facilities of a good-sized family safe. The very place that a governess would choose!

  He looked into the dark and narrow space which separated the back of the piano from the wall. At a glance it appeared solid enough. Only on closer inspection was it evident that the back of the instrument had been covered by a fine wire mesh held lightly in place by corner screws. Joe lugged out one end of the piano from the wall and detached two of the screws. A considerable recess now appeared in one end of the rosewood case. This was where the shorter treble strings were housed and where, in consequence, the inner case which covered them tapered away towards the top corner.

  Joe slid his hand under the mesh and felt something move beneath his touch. It was the hard polished leather of jewel cases. He grinned at his own expertise. He brought them out, one by one, until he was quite sure the space was empty. Seven of them lay on the floor beside him. Sitting there he broke them open in quick succession.

  Two were empty. The other five contained baubles which even to Joe's casual glance were nothing more than glass and paste. Of the Shah Jehan clasp there was no sign.

  In his frustration he threw the last case across the room, with such power that it shattered the glass door of a cabinet. Despite his fury, his mind continued to weigh chances and probabilities. If she had not chosen the best hiding-place on this floor, then the clasp must be elsewhere. He headed for the stairs again and, to his relief, found another locked door at the top where the upper floor of bedrooms began. If Cosirna Bremer had left him a t
rail of messages she could not have been more informative as to which floor contained the greatest treasure.

  He had the door open in a minute and was ransacking the three rooms. Only one appeared to have been used. The servant girl was evidently made to sleep by the kitchen fire. Better than a nark deserved, Joe thought.

  The room which claimed his attention was Cosima's own. Its centrepiece was the bed, upon which she had given such pleasure to her elderly master that he had died of it. The polished brass rose from the corners of the bedrails to join in a crown, high in the air above the bed's centre. On this framework a 'tent' of delicate blue silk was hung, creating an effect which Joe had never seen before except in one of the most expensive bawdy houses off Panton Street. Like vines on a trellis, brass fruit ornamented the bedframe and the air was musty with stale feminine perfumes.

  Joe was startled suddenly by a chirrup from the space before the window. Turning he saw a pet canary in its cage. The tall brass stand from which the cage hung, and indeed the cage itself, had been made to match the bed. In its elegant bell-shape, the bird-cage seemed a work of industrial art. The canary cocked its head, regarding him with its small black pupil.

  'Pretty bird!' said Joe encouragingly, and then he began to look about him. The room was in a good deal of disorder. Gowns and petticoats hung from the posts of the bed. Undergarments lay scattered on a black horsehair divan. The matching chairs were a litter of stockings and slips. It was a room where the servant was never admitted, Joe guessed. Somewhere within it lay the great Shah Jehan heirloom.

  Jacking open his razor again he slit the mattress and bolster of the bed, filling the air with a blizzard of tiny feathers. The custard-yellow canary hopped excitedly between its perches and sang with renewed enthusiasm. But neither the folds of the bedclothes, nor the gutted mattress and bolster yielded any sign of the clasp. Joe hacked open the horsehair divan and chairs. He scattered the drawers of the dressing-table and overturned the furniture. Neither the pockets of the clothes nor the velvet window-curtains contained a single jewel. Finally he pushed back the bed and began heaving up the carpet. But the polished wood of the floor with its black lacquered surround showed no trace of interference, not even the scratch of a knife-blade where a board had been levered up to make a hiding-place. The boards were tongue-and-groove, impossible for a girl like Cosima to open without leaving obvious marks.

  Joe scratched the dark scrub of his head. The canary warbled and trilled its wordless oratorio.

  'Daresay you might tell where it's put, if you only could,' he said. The canary stopped singing, cocked its head on one side again and looked at him as though it understood. Joe stared at the cage, the Fine brasswork of its bars and ornaments, the solid base from which Cosima drew the seed-tray, since she alone must tend the bird.

  'Course you could!' said Joe suddenly. He sprang across the room and looked into the cage. The canary shifted about nervously. But now Joe could see the whole dodge. The round circular bottom of the ornamental cage was like a drawer, two inches deep if one chose to make it so by raising the floor upon which the sand and seed were scattered. Joe pulled and the bottom of the cage came out. In it there lay a fine leather box, highly polished, red with a gilt design. It opened easily, and even Joe gasped at the sight within. In the twilit room the Shah Jehan clasp glowed and shimmered in all its purple and emerald glory. Swallowing excitedly, he thrust the box and its contents in the breast of his coat, then slid the bottom of the tray into place. The canary cheeped reproachfully.

  'You ain't a bad little fellow, you ain't,' said Joe consolingly.

  He ran down the stairs in his excitement and stepped out into the darkened basement area. He left the kitchen door unbolted. No harm in throwing suspicion on to the pretty young nark. Then he waited in the dark for the return of the cab. When it came, the jack who had been shadowing it left. Only the fat one watching the house remained. Really, Joe thought, it was like taking pennies from a blind beggar's cup. Cosima Bremer entered the front door, followed by the servant girl. Joe counted twenty and then the screams began as the lights went up on the scene of theft and destruction. The fat policeman at the corner of Brunswick Place came pounding over, the boots of his plain-clothes quite as heavy as those of his uniform. Joe heard him thump up the steps to the front door, heard it opened by the hysterical little nark, and gave him ten seconds to get inside. Then Joe walked unobtrusive as a shadow up the basement steps, vaulted the railings to the pavement, and strolled casually away in the direction of the moonlit waves. Brunswick Square would see him no more.

  Against the grey wash of the office wall, Inspector Henry Croaker's yellowed face seemed more sickly than ever. As he swallowed, the leather stock appeared to cut cruelly just below his adam's apple. His mouth hung open a full inch, as though the immensity of the disaster was still registering in his brain. Behind him stood Mr Bunker of the London Indemnity, his features immobile with a visible embarrassment on behalf of his constabulary colleagues.

  Sergeant Verity stood smartly at attention, perspiring lightly, his tall hat clamped under one arm as he faced the inspector's desk.

  'No sir,' he said, in response to a previous question. 'No one. No one come and no one went. Had me eye on the house-front every second, sir. Had a full view from the corner of Brunswick Place every minute from the time they left till the time they got back.'

  Croaker looked keenly at the fat sergeant. The inspector's customary pleasure in the downfall of his subordinate was tempered this time by the sense of his own predicament. Whatever blame might be put on Verity, it was Croaker as the officer in charge of the operation who would incur the displeasure of the commissioners and the Home Office.

  'Let me have this plain, sergeant,' he said softly, swallowing rapidly between his words. 'Let me have this plain as day from you. No person entered or left the front of the house during your surveillance, while the mistress and her maid were absent?'

  'Yessir!' snapped Verity smartly. ' 'a's it, sir!'

  'And you know that both Mr Bunker and I, as well as two uniformed men, had a constant watch on the rear of the premises?'

  ' 'ave been so informed, sir.'

  'And that you alone were at the front of the building, unsupervised and with no other person in sight of you for considerable periods?'

  'Sir?' said Verity, his eyes shifting uneasily.

  'Sir!' echoed Croaker derisively, the relish beginning to creep back into his voice. 'The matter stands very plainly, sergeant, does it not? How will the board of inquiry see it? There are two entrances to the dwelling. The word of four officers is proof that no attempt was made at the rear. For the rest we have your own uncorroborated statement.

  'My word, sir, same as yours!'

  'Silence!' said Croaker sharply. 'Moreover, the thief made his entry via the basement kitchen. The door conveniently left unbolted and unlocked. By whom, sergeant? By the very girl who was put in as servant upon your suggestion!'

  'No sir!' said Verity desperately. 'Any case it don't make odds if she left it open or not. No one got in!'

  Croaker appeared to be savouring something on his tongue. Then the little movements in his mouth grew still.

  'No one,' he said gently, 'except you, sergeant. That is it, is it not?'

  Verity shook his head, unable to find words. 'Stand still!' yapped Croaker.

  'I never, sir!' he gasped. 'And she never! She got too much to lose, sir! Back to the first day of her sentence! She'd be mad, sir.'

  Croaker dismissed the subject.

  'Three years ago, sergeant, was it not? Suspended from duty for suspected complicity in theft? That was the board's decision then. Hmmmm?'

  'I was exonerated, sir!'

  'To be sure.' The inspector sat back, a compulsive grin twitching at the corners of his mouth. Verity searched his mind frantically for some explanation which might stave off disaster.

  'Sir, I think I got it! I think I know who done it! That beggar! That whistling-man! It must've been 'im!' Be
fore Croaker could reply Mr Bunker stepped forward. 'What whistling-man?'

  'The one that been whistling outside houses. Disturbing the peace. I seen him off once.'

  'One moment,' said Bunker. He left the room, while Verity stared over Croaker's head and heard the inspector's breath quicken with the excitement of conflict. Bunker returned with a companion.

  'Is this your whistling-man, sergeant?'

  'Thank goodness you got 'im, sir!'

  'Got him, sergeant?' said Bunker quizzically. 'We have had Mr Foxfane for several years. One of our best men at surveillance.'

  Verity blinked. Dressed like an assistant clerk, the dapper little figure was still unmistakeably the whistling-man of the previous day.

  'And is this your man, Mr Foxfane?' asked Bunker quietly. Foxfane nodded.

  'All afternoon and evening. I left as the cab came back into the square last night. Never heard the screams. But all the time until then he'd never left his spot.'

  'All evening?' shrilled Croaker. Foxfane ignored him and directed his explanation to Bunker.

  'All the time that Constable Meiklejohn was away, following the two suspects to the ball and back, I kept my watch. Only one officer at the front, so the danger of complicity or assault must be greater there. Mr Verity, though never knowing it, was in my observation from the minute the cab moved off until it drew up again at the door.' Foxfane consulted a little notebook. 'He discharged his duty in normal fashion and never once left his post. As to the young person Jolly, she may have left the basement door unbolted and may have done so deliberately. Being now a suspect for this, she must be withdrawn from her duties in the house. However, no robbery was undertaken by the front of the house that I could see. With all respect to the officers watching the rear, I conclude the thief may have entered that way during a temporary lapse on their part. I left Brunswick Square at a quarter past midnight as the Misses Bremer and Jolly were walking up the steps from the cab. Mr Verity had never moved, let alone attempted the building, sir.'