CHAPTER I
THE MAN WHO SAW
Cartwright Gardens lies in the far east corner
of Bloomsbury, somewhat south of the dreary
Euston Road, and somewhat north of the still
drearier quarter that fringes on the western confines
of Clerkenwell. Whoever knows nothing of
it and goes thither on a voyage of discovery must
not expect what the name, taken literally, would
seem to suggestâhere are neither bushes nor
brakes, flowers nor fruits. What is here is a drab
and dismal crescent of houses, fronted by an
enclosure wherein soot and grime descend on the
London plane tree and the London turf; an oasis,
perhaps, in the surrounding wilderness of shabby
streets, but only, as things go, for the brave sparrow
and his restless stalker, the lodging-house cat.
Maybe the place has seen better days; in these
it presents a frontage of mean houses, in each of
which it is all Lombard Street to a China orange
that you would find, if not more families than
one, at any rate a lodger or lodgers in addition to
the nominal tenant. The houses look as if they
accommodated lodgers; the men who come out
of them early of a morning look as if they were
lodgers; the women, who, at one hour of the day
or another, stand at the doors, to traffic with
wandering greengrocers or itinerant fishmongers,
look as if they lived by letting lodgings. And the
young man who saw a certain extraordinary thing
in Cartwright Gardens, at precisely fifteen minutes
before midnight, on Monday, October 25th, 1920,
was a lodger, and he saw it because, being a bit of
a rhymster, he had been sitting up late to write
verses, and, to cool his brow, had, at the moment
mentioned, opened the window of his room, on the
top floor of No. 85, and thrust head and shoulders
into the silence of the autumn night.
The name of this young man was Albert Jennison,
and by calling he was a clerk. He was at this
time one and twenty years of age, and he had been
a clerk for four years, and, as far as he could
see, he was going to be a clerk for ever. There
were clerkships and clerkships; Jennisonâs job was
lowish down in that scale. Its scene was a warehouseâdry
goodsâin the Gresham Street district
of the city: he was in that warehouse, adding and
subtracting, from nine oâclock in the morning until
five oâclock in the afternoon. He had begun, at
seventeen, at a pound a week: now he got three
pounds ten, and his relations, who lived in the
country and thought rustically, told him that he
ought to consider himself well off, and that when
he attained to just double his present stipend he
would be a gentleman for the remainder of his days.
Jennison had different notions: you might, perhaps,
pass as a gentleman on a pound a day, but a
pound a day was not everything, and to be practical,
ten shillings was precisely half, and there was
neither excitement nor fun in being half a gentleman.
But it was not gentility that Jennison
craved for, and it was not money. Three pound
ten a week enabled him to live quite comfortably,
but it was that easy, uneventful, smooth-running
comfort that something in him objected to. He
wanted adventure; any sort of adventure. Nothing
ever happened to him, either at the warehouse or
at the lodgings; he was one of several at the first,
and a veritable hermit at the second. With him
one day was as another day, and Sundays and
Bank Holidays were worse than the rest. Sometimes,
of course, he got a little excited over his
wooings of the Muse; now and then his heart
jumped when he got an oblong envelope from some
magazine editor or other, and, for a few seconds,
allowed himself to wonder whether it contained a
proof or an oft-rejected manuscript. And sometimes
he dared to let himself think of giving the
firm a monthâs notice, drawing his small store of
saved money out of the Post Office Savings Bank,
and going boldly, rashly, adventurously, into a
world of which he dreamed much and knew next to
nothing. But though Jennison had been four
years in London, his brains were still essentially
rustic, and they cooled at the motive when he
fairly faced it; after all, seventy silver shillings,
paid regularly every Friday afternoon, is something
that you mustnât sneeze atâbesides, there was the
annual rise. No! He was tied to the warehouse,
and the grip of the knot didnât hurt . . . still, he
longed for adventure, wished that things would
happen . . . something . . . anything . . .
If Jennison had only known it, something was
just about to happen in Cartwright Gardens when
he put his head out of his window and looked round.
It was a clear nightâfor Londonâand the moon
was at the full. Cartwright Gardens was quiet and
deserted: a light shone here and there in a window,
but there was not a soul to be seen on either pavement
or roadway. Suddenly a man came round
the corner, out of Mabledon Place. The moon
shone directly upon him; Jennison saw all of him
distinctly. He was a tallish, well-built man, agile
of movement; he walked well and smartly; Jennison
thought he was in a hurry. He carried a
walking-stick, and as he came along he was swinging
it jauntily. But all of a sudden, when he was some
ten or twelve yards away from the house out of
which Jennison watched him, he cast the stick away
from him, let out a strange, half-stifled cry, and,
lifting both hands, began tearing at his neckwear,
as if he was being throttled. For a second or two
his actions were frantic; then, still more suddenly,
his uplifted hands dropped at his sides, his figure
swayed this way and that, and with a scarcely-perceptible
moan he plunged straight forward on
the pavement and rolled over into the gutter.
And there he lay as still as the stonework beneath
himâand Jennison made a dive for his door and
rushed headlong to the street.
All the folk who lived in No. 85 had gone to bed
by that time, and the landlady, knowing that there
was no late-comer to arrive, had locked and bolted
her front door. It took Jennison a minute or two
to turn the key and draw the two bolts, and all the
time something was pulsing and throbbing in his
brain, and saying over and over and over again,
Youâll find the man dead! Youâll find the man
dead! And when at last he had got clear of the
house, and had rushed along the street to where
the man lay, quiet enough, in the gutter, and had
bent down and laid a hand on him, he knew
that the man was deadâdead, Jennison informed
himself, in non-original fashion, as a doornail.
Jennison was puzzled. He knew that a man
can be all alive one minute and all dead the next.
He had readâbeing inquisitive about such thingsâmany
newspaper reports of executions, and had
gloated morbidly over the fact that from the
moment of quitting the condemned cell to that in
which death took place on the adjacent scaffold
only thirty-five seconds had elapsed; he understood,
too, that in electrocutions, the actual passage
from life to death was even quickerâ-far quicker.
But those things werenât close at handâthis had
been. Three, or at most, five minutes previously
he had seen this man marching jauntily, bravely
along, swinging his stickânow he lay there at
Jennisonâs feet as dead asâagain he caught at a
hackneyed phraseâas dead as Queen Anne. And
Queen Anne, reflected Jennison, thinking queerly,
had been deadâoh, no end of time! Dead!âbut
she wasnât any deader than this chap!
There had been no noise, and so no windows went
up in Cartwright Gardens. And just then no one
came along, in either direction; Jennison was
alone with the man who lay there so quietly. He
bent down again and looked more closely at him.
As far as he could judge, in the light of the street
lamp and the glow of the moon, this was a man of
about thirty-five years of age, a good-looking, even
handsome man, a man, evidently, of some position
and means, for he was well-dressed in a smartly-cut
suit of dark blue serge, and had good linen, and
a gold watch chain across his vest. His hat had
fallen from him when he fell, and lay a yard or two
away. Jennison picked it up and looked abstractedly
into the lining. There, without feeling that
he saw, he read the name and address of a Liverpool
hatter, and turning the hat about in his hands
noticed that it was quite newâ-perhaps its wearer
had just come from Liverpool? But anyway,
there he lay, statuesquely still . . . dead.
âMust haâ been a fit!â mused Jennison, unable
to run to great heights of speculation or theory.
âA fit!âsudden. People do fall down and die in
fitsâdie quick, too. So Iâve heard. It couldnât
be anything but a fit. And what am I to do
next?â
As if in immediate answer to this question, the
sound of a heavy, regular step came to Jennisonâs
ears. He knew that soundâa policeman was
coming; he was coming into Cartwright Gardens
from Marchmont Street. He came every midnight,
almost to the minute, as Jennison, who
often sat up late, tediously wooing the Muse, knew
well. Presently he appeared, and Jennison hurried
to meet him, and arrived at the point of contact
breathless. The policeman halted, staring, but
impassive.
âOh, I say!â began Jennison lamely. âIâthe
fact is, thereâs a dead man lying up there,
nearly opposite our house. IâI think I saw him
die. From my window, you know.â
The policeman quickened. He might have been
a war-horse, sniffing the battle, or a fox-hound,
catching a whiff of scent. His eyes opened wider,
and he looked along the pavement, following
Jennisonâs ink-stained forefinger.
âOh!â he exclaimed. âJust so! Andâââ-â
At that moment he caught sight of the dark heap
lying in the gutter, and he relapsed into official
silence and strode off, Jennison ambling at his
side.
âYes!â said Jennison jerkily. âIâI saw him!
I was looking out of the windowâmy windowâNo.
85 I liveâthird floor. He came along, walking
quickly, swinging his stickâIâve an idea he was
whistling or humming a tune. Thenâsuddenly
stopped! Tore at his throatâextraordinary
motions! And then he fell! and rolled into the
gutter. And when I got down to him he was
dead; oh, quite dead. What do you think it could
have been?â
But all the policeman vouchsafed to say was in
the form of a question,âput staccato fashion.
âWhen was this?â
âJust now, two or three minutes since,â replied
Jennison. He heaved a deep sighâa sigh of
speculative surprise. âLord!â he muttered. âIt
doesnât seemâit isnâtâmore than five or six
minutes when I first saw him!â
âDoesnât take long to die?â observed the
policeman sententiously. âThing isâhere or elsewhere,
I reckon!âcause of death.â Then having
a bright notion, he added, âPâraps youâre mistaken,
may be unconscious?â
But they were close to the fallen man now, and
the policeman, after a hasty examination, looked
up at Jennison and nodded.
âYouâre right,â he said. âDead enough! Andânobody
with him, eh? No attack on him?â
âAttack?â exclaimed Jennison wonderingly.
âOf course not! There wasnât a soul about.â
The policeman began to fumble for his whistle.
âThen it must haâ been a fit,â he said. âAnd
thereâs fits and fits! However. . . .â He raised
his whistle to his lips and blew. The silence seemed
greater than ever when the sound had died away.
Jennison stood, still staring at the inanimate thing
in the gutter: the policeman fidgeted, shifting his
weight from one foot to another. Suddenly he
spoke, nodding at the dead man.
âYou donât know him?â
Jennison started and looked up sharply.
âI?â he exclaimed. âGood Lord, no! Donât
know him fromâanybody!â
âWhat I meant was,â said the policeman slowly,
âwhat I meant wasâyou saying as how you livedâwhere?
No. 85?âand it being latish, and him
here, I thought maybe youâd know him, say, by
sightâdweller hereabouts, eh?â
âNever seen him in my life before!â declared
Jennison. Then he caught sight of the dead manâs
hat, which he had carefully placed aside. âThat
hat,â he continued, pointing to it. âI picked it
up. Liverpool, it says in itâmakerâs or sellerâs
name, you know. Pâraps heâs a Liverpool man.
Youâd think so, wouldnât you?âLiverpool being
in the hat?â
âOh, well, his clothingâll be examined,â remarked
the policeman easily. âThereâll be something
on him, likely or not. Papersâcardsâsuch like.
Heâll be taken to the mortuaryâas soon as we can
get the ambulance. Doctorâll have to see him, too.
Thenâââ
He broke off as men came round the near corners.
Jennison wondered that so many came so quickly.
Oneâtwoâthreeâfourâfive policemen; a sergeant
amongst them. He had to tell his tale
to the sergeant; he told it in detail while others
went for an ambulance. And when that came the
sergeant asked Jennison to go with them: the
police station and the mortuary, he said, were close
together, and Jennison, as the only eye-witness,
had better tell his story to the inspector. Jennison
was nothing loath; here, at last, was an adventure,
a mystery.
But it had drab, dismal settings, he thought,
presently. The mortuary was a cold, repellent
place, and it looked all the colder and more repellent,
somehow, when they had laid the dead man
there. A police surgeon came and examined what
they had fetched him to see: he was one of those
men, thought Jennison, out of whom youâre not
going to extract speech if they donât want to speak;
he did his job in a silence which none of those
standing by cared or dared to break. But when he
had done it he turned, looking round.
âWhereâs the man who saw him fall?â he asked
sharply.
Jennison, who had remained hidden by the
big forms around him, was shoved forward; the
police surgeon sized him up in a quick glance.
âWell?â he said.
Jennison had to tell the tale again; this was the
third time. The medical man listened in as grim
a silence as he had kept before. But again his lips
opened.
âLifted his hands to his throat, you say?â he
asked. âSuddenly?â
âAll of a sudden!â answered Jennison. âOne
second he was walking along, ordinarily, the next,
up went his hands, clutching, snatching, tearing at
his throat! Like thisâonly worse!â
âScream? Cry out?â asked the doctor.
âNoâoâ said Jennison. âNot what youâd call
by either name. Made a bit of a moanâin his
throatâas he went down.â
âFace first?â
âFace first it wasâfell right on his face, I think.
Then,â concluded Jennison, âthenâwell, he just
rolled over into the gutter! Andâlay still.â
He looked round as he said the last word, and
became aware that two other men had come into
the room and were listening intently. One was a
tall, soldierly-looking man in an inspectorâs uniform;
the other was a quiet-looking, but sharp-eyed young
man in civilian clothes. The surgeon turned to
them, too, and after some muttered conversation
about an inquest, went away. Jennison gathered
that there would be a lot more to be heard about
this affairâa lot more! And then, as nobody told
him to go, or, indeed, took any particular notice of
him, he stood by while the quiet-looking young
man, whom presently he discovered to be a detective,
and who answered to the name of Womersley,
examined the dead manâs clothing, going through
pocket after pocket, and laying out the various
contents. There was nothing very remarkable.
Money was there, in some quantity; a good watch
and chain; a pocket-book, in which were clippings
from American papers, all relating to trade matters,
a cigar case; a silver matchbox; a pocket-knife.
But there were no letters, nothing to give any clue
to the manâs identity, until Womersley drew from
a waistcoat pocket a crumpled visiting card with
which, after a glance at it, he turned to the
inspector.
âThatâs the only thing there is thatâs any use
to usânow,â he said. âSee? Thomas Bradmore,
157a Hunter Street. Is itâhis? Or has it been
given to him?â
âClose by, anyway,â remarked the inspector.
âBetter go round there at once.â
The detective moved off towards the door, without
further words. And Jennison quietly slipped after
him. It was his adventureâand he was going on
with it.
CHAPTER II
THE MAN WHO CAME BACK
Nobody offered any objection to Jennisonâs departure. He had already given his name and address to the sergeant, and since his last statement to the police surgeon, nobody had taken any notice of him. He felt, somehow, that he was unimportant, a very minor pawn in the game: he slunk, rather than marched, out of the door and the building. All the same, once outside, he made up to the detective.
âMay I go with you?â he asked, half afraid of his temerity. âIâIâd like to, if you donât mind.â
Womersley, who seemed somewhat abstracted, half paused and stared at his interrogatorâwonderingly. In the light of the neighbouring lamp, he sized up Jennison and smiled.
âOh!â he said. âYouâre the chap that saw, arenât you? Just so!â
âI saw!â assented Jennison. âEverything!â
âWhy do you want to go with me?â demanded Womersley. âEh?â
âBecause I did see,â answered Jennison. âNow I want to hear.â
Womersley laughed. The laugh was half satirical, but the other half was wholly indulgent, and he nodded his head and turned along the pavement.
âWell, I donât know why you shouldnât,â he said. âAnd, as it happens, Iâm not quite sure where this Hunter Street is. Iâm ne...