The Moonstone
the clerk to Hampstead with my note, I returned to the room which I had
left, and found Sergeant Cuff at the fireplace, in the act of ringing
the bell.
“I beg your pardon, Mr. Blake,” said the Sergeant. “I was just going to
send word by your servant that I wanted to speak to you. There isn’t a
doubt on my mind that this boy—this most meritorious boy,” added the
Sergeant, patting Gooseberry on the head, “has followed the right man.
Precious time has been lost, sir, through your unfortunately not being
at home at half past ten last night. The only thing to do, now, is to
send for a cab immediately.”
In five minutes more, Sergeant Cuff and I (with Gooseberry on the box
to guide the driver) were on our way eastward, towards the City.
“One of these days,” said the Sergeant, pointing through the front
window of the cab, “that boy will do great things in my late
profession. He is the brightest and cleverest little chap I have met
with, for many a long year past. You shall hear the substance, Mr.
Blake, of what he told me while you were out of the room. You were
present, I think, when he mentioned that he held on behind the cab, and
ran after it?”
“Yes.”
“Well, sir, the cab went from Lombard Street to the Tower Wharf. The
sailor with the black beard got out, and spoke to the steward of the
Rotterdam steamboat, which was to start next morning. He asked if he
could be allowed to go on board at once, and sleep in his berth
over-night. The steward said, No. The cabins, and berths, and bedding
were all to have a thorough cleaning that evening, and no passenger
could be allowed to come on board, before the morning. The sailor
turned round, and left the wharf. When he got into the street again,
the boy noticed for the first time, a man dressed like a respectable
mechanic, walking on the opposite side of the road, and apparently
keeping the sailor in view. The sailor stopped at an eating-house in
the neighbourhood, and went in. The boy—not being able to make up his
mind, at the moment—hung about among some other boys, staring at the
good things in the eating-house window. He noticed the mechanic
waiting, as he himself was waiting—but still on the opposite side of
the street. After a minute, a cab came by slowly, and stopped where the
mechanic was standing. The boy could only see plainly one person in the
cab, who leaned forward at the window to speak to the mechanic. He
described that person, Mr. Blake, without any prompting from me, as
having a dark face, like the face of an Indian.”
It was plain, by this time, that Mr. Bruff and I had made another
mistake. The sailor with the black beard was clearly not a spy in the
service of the Indian conspiracy. Was he, by any possibility, the man
who had got the Diamond?
“After a little,” pursued the Sergeant, “the cab moved on slowly down
the street. The mechanic crossed the road, and went into the
eating-house. The boy waited outside till he was hungry and tired—and
then went into the eating-house, in his turn. He had a shilling in his
pocket; and he dined sumptuously, he tells me, on a black-pudding, an
eel-pie, and a bottle of ginger-beer. What can a boy _not_ digest? The
substance in question has never been found yet.”
“What did he see in the eating-house?” I asked.
“Well, Mr. Blake, he saw the sailor reading the newspaper at one table,
and the mechanic reading the newspaper at another. It was dusk before
the sailor got up, and left the place. He looked about him suspiciously
when he got out into the street. The boy—_being_ a boy—passed
unnoticed. The mechanic had not come out yet. The sailor walked on,
looking about him, and apparently not very certain of where he was
going next. The mechanic appeared once more, on the opposite side of
the road. The sailor went on, till he got to Shore Lane, leading into
Lower Thames Street. There he stopped before a public-house, under the
sign of ‘The Wheel of Fortune,’ and, after examining the place outside,
went in. Gooseberry went in too. There were a great many people, mostly
of the decent sort, at the bar. ‘The Wheel of Fortune’ is a very
respectable house, Mr. Blake; famous for its porter and pork-pies.”
The Sergeant’s digressions irritated me. He saw it; and confined
himself more strictly to Gooseberry’s evidence when he went on.
“The sailor,” he resumed, “asked if he could have a bed. The landlord
said ‘No; they were full.’ The barmaid corrected him, and said ‘Number
Ten was empty.’ A waiter was sent for to show the sailor to Number Ten.
Just before that, Gooseberry had noticed the mechanic among the people
at the bar. Before the waiter had answered the call, the mechanic had
vanished. The sailor was taken off to his room. Not knowing what to do
next, Gooseberry had the wisdom to wait and see if anything happened.
Something did happen. The landlord was called for. Angry voices were
heard upstairs. The mechanic suddenly made his appearance again,
collared by the landlord, and exhibiting, to Gooseberry’s great
surprise, all the signs and tokens of being drunk. The landlord thrust
him out at the door, and threatened him with the police if he came
back. From the altercation between them, while this was going on, it
appeared that the man had been discovered in Number Ten, and had
declared with drunken obstinacy that he had taken the room. Gooseberry
was so struck by this sudden intoxication of a previously sober person,
that he couldn’t resist running out after the mechanic into the street.
As long as he was in sight of the public-house, the man reeled about in
the most disgraceful manner. The moment he turned the corner of the
street, he recovered his balance instantly, and became as sober a
member of society as you could wish to see. Gooseberry went back to
‘The Wheel of Fortune’ in a very bewildered state of mind. He waited
about again, on the chance of something happening. Nothing happened;
and nothing more was to be heard, or seen, of the sailor. Gooseberry
decided on going back to the office. Just as he came to this
conclusion, who should appear, on the opposite side of the street as
usual, but the mechanic again! He looked up at one particular window at
the top of the public-house, which was the only one that had a light in
it. The light seemed to relieve his mind. He left the place directly.
The boy made his way back to Gray’s Inn—got your card and
message—called—and failed to find you. There you have the state of the
case, Mr. Blake, as it stands at the present time.”
“What is your own opinion of the case, Sergeant?”
“I think it’s serious, sir. Judging by what the boy saw, the Indians
are in it, to begin with.”
“Yes. And the sailor is evidently the person to whom Mr. Luker passed
the Diamond. It seems odd that Mr. Bruff, and I, and the man in Mr.
Bruff’s employment, should all have been mistaken about who the person
was.”
“Not at all, Mr. Blake. Considering the risk that person ran, it’s
likely enough that Mr. Luker purposely misled you, by previous
arrangement between them.”
“Do you understand the proceedings at the public-house?” I asked. “The
man dressed like a mechanic was acting of course in the employment of
the Indians. But I am as much puzzled to account for his sudden
assumption of drunkenness as Gooseberry himself.”
“I think I can give a guess at what it means, sir,” said the Sergeant.
“If you will reflect, you will see that the man must have had some
pretty strict instructions from the Indians. They were far too
noticeable themselves to risk being seen at the bank, or in the
public-house—they were obliged to trust everything to their deputy.
Very good. Their deputy hears a certain number named in the
public-house, as the number of the room which the sailor is to have for
the night—that being also the room (unless our notion is all wrong)
which the Diamond is to have for the night, too. Under those
circumstances, the Indians, you may rely on it, would insist on having
a description of the room—of its position in the house, of its
capability of being approached from the outside, and so on. What was
the man to do, with such orders as these? Just what he did! He ran
upstairs to get a look at the room, before the sailor was taken into
it. He was found there, making his observations—and he shammed drunk,
as the easiest way of getting out of the difficulty. That’s how I read
the riddle. After he was turned out of the public-house, he probably
went with his report to the place where his employers were waiting for
him. And his employers, no doubt, sent him back to make sure that the
sailor was really settled at the public-house till the next morning. As
for what happened at ‘The Wheel of Fortune,’ after the boy left—we
ought to have discovered that last night. It’s eleven in the morning,
now. We must hope for the best, and find out what we can.”
In a quarter of an hour more, the cab stopped in Shore Lane, and
Gooseberry opened the door for us to get out.
“All right?” asked the Sergeant.
“All right,” answered the boy.
The moment we entered “The Wheel of Fortune” it was plain even to my
inexperienced eyes that there was something wrong in the house.
The only person behind the counter at which the liquors were served,
was a bewildered servant girl, perfectly ignorant of the business. One
or two customers, waiting for their morning drink, were tapping
impatiently on the counter with their money. The barmaid appeared from
the inner regions of the parlour, excited and preoccupied. She answered
Sergeant Cuff’s inquiry for the landlord, by telling him sharply that
her master was upstairs, and was not to be bothered by anybody.
“Come along with me, sir,” said Sergeant Cuff, coolly leading the way
upstairs, and beckoning to the boy to follow him.
The barmaid called to her master, and warned him that strangers were
intruding themselves into the house. On the first floor we were
encountered by the landlord, hurrying down, in a highly irritated
state, to see what was the matter.
“Who the devil are you? and what do you want here?” he asked.
“Keep your temper,” said the Sergeant, quietly. “I’ll tell you who I am
to begin with. I am Sergeant Cuff.”
The illustrious name instantly produced its effect. The angry landlord
threw open the door of a sitting-room, and asked the Sergeant’s pardon.
“I am annoyed and out of sorts, sir—that’s the truth,” he said.
“Something unpleasant has happened in the house this morning. A man in
my way of business has a deal to upset his temper, Sergeant Cuff.”
“Not a doubt of it,” said the Sergeant. “I’ll come at once, if you will
allow me, to what brings us here. This gentleman and I want to trouble
you with a few inquiries, on a matter of some interest to both of us.”
“Relating to what, sir?” asked the landlord.
“Relating to a dark man, dressed like a sailor, who slept here last
night.”
“Good God! that’s the man who is upsetting the whole house at this
moment!” exclaimed the landlord. “Do you, or does this gentleman know
anything about him?”
“We can’t be certain till we see him,” answered the Sergeant.
“See him?” echoed the landlord. “That’s the one thing that nobody has
been able to do since seven o’clock this morning. That was the time
when he left word, last night, that he was to be called. He _was_
called—and there was no getting an answer from him, and no opening his
door to see what was the matter. They tried again at eight, and they
tried again at nine. No use! There was the door still locked—and not a
sound to be heard in the room! I have been out this morning—and I only
got back a quarter of an hour ago. I have hammered at the door
myself—and all to no purpose. The potboy has gone to fetch a carpenter.
If you can wait a few minutes, gentlemen, we will have the door opened,
and see what it means.”