Adventures of Martin Hewitt (4 page)

The lady looked at them. “Yes,” she said, “this pattern of shoe is made
especially for me. I do not think you can buy them at other places.”

“Then may I ask you to inquire from your assistants if any were sold on
Monday, and to whom?”

“Certainly.” Then there were consultations behind counters and desks, and
examinations of carbon-papered books. In the end the proprietress came to
Hewitt, followed by a young lady of rather pert and self-confident aspect.
“We find,” she said, “that two pairs of these shoes were sold on Monday. But
one pair was afterwards brought back and exchanged for others less expensive.
This young lady sold both.”

“Ah, then possibly she may remember something of the person who bought the
pair which was
not
exchanged.”

“Yes,” the assistant answered at once, addressing herself to the lady, “it
was Mrs. Butcher’s servant.”

The proprietress frowned slightly. “Oh, indeed,” she said, “Mrs. Butcher’s
servant, was it. There have been inquiries about Mrs. Butcher before, I
believe, though not
here
. Mrs. Butcher is a woman who takes babies to
mind, and is said to make a trade of adopting them, or finding people anxious
to adopt them. I know nothing of her, nor do I want to. She lives somewhere
not far off, and you can get her address, I believe, from the greengrocer’s
round the corner.”

“Does she keep more than one servant?”

“Oh, I think not; but no doubt the greengrocer can say.” The lady seemed
to feel it an affront that she should be supposed to know anything of Mrs.
Butcher, and Hewitt consequently started for the greengrocer’s. Now this was
just one of those cases in which dependence on information given by other
people put Hewitt on the wrong scent. He spent that day in a fatiguing
pursuit of Mrs. Butcher’s servant, with adventures rather amusing in
themselves, but quite irrelevant to the Seton case. In the end, when he had
captured her, and proceeded to open a cunning battery of inquiries, under
plea of a bet with a friend that the shoes could not be matched, he soon
found that
she
had been the purchaser who, after buying just such a
pair of shoes, had returned and exchanged them for something cheaper. And the
only outcome of his visit to the baby-linen shop was the waste of a day. It
was indeed just one of those checks which, while they may hamper the progress
of a narrative for popular reading, are nevertheless inseparable from the
matter-of-fact experience of Hewitt’s profession.

With a very natural rage in his heart, but with as polite an exterior as
possible, Hewitt returned to the baby-linen shop in the evening. The whole
case seemed barren of useful evidence, and at each turn as yet he had found
himself helpless. At the shop the self-confident young lady calmly admitted
that soon after he had left something had caused her to remember that it was
the other customer who had kept the white shoes and not Mrs. Butcher’s
servant.

“And do you know the other customer?” he asked.

“No, she was quite a stranger. She brought in a little boy from a cab and
bought a lot of things for him—a suit of outdoor clothes, as well as
the shoes.”

“Ah! now probably this is what I want. Can you remember anything of the
child?”

“Yes, he was a pretty little fellow, about two years old or so, with
curls. She called him Charley.”

“Did she put the things on him in the shop?”

“Not the frock; but she put on the outer coat, the hat and the shoes. I
can remember it all now quite well, now I have had time to think.”

“Then what shoes did the child wear when he came in?”

“Rather old tan-coloured ones.”

“Then I think this is the person I am after. You say you never saw her at
any other time before or since. Try to describe her.”

“Well, she was a lady well dressed, in black. She had a very high collar
to hide a scar on her neck, like the scars people have sometimes after
abscesses, I think. I could see it from the side when she stooped down.”

“And are you sure she had nothing sent home? Did she take everything with
her?”

“Yes; nothing was sent, else we should know her address, you know.”

“She didn’t happen to pay with a banknote, did she?”

“No, in cash.”

Hewitt left with little more ceremony and made the best of his way to his
friend the inspector at the police station. Here was the woman with the
scarred neck again—Charley’s deliverer once, now his kidnapper. If only
something else could be ascertained of her—some small clue that might
bring her identity into view—the thing would be done.

At the station, however, there was something new. A man had just come in,
very drunk, and had given himself into custody for kidnapping the child
Charles Seton, whose description was set forth on the bill which still
appeared on the notice-hoard outside the station. When Hewitt arrived the man
was lolling, wretched and maudlin, against the rail, and, oblivious of most
of the questions addressed to him, was ranting and snivelling by turns. His
dress was good, though splashed with mud, and his bloated face, bleared eyes
and loose, tremulous mouth proclaimed the habitual drunkard.

“I shay I’ll gimmeself up,” he proclaimed, with a desperate attempt at
dignity; “I’ll gimmeself up takin’ away lil boy; I’ll shacrifishe m’self.
Solemn duty shacrifishe m’self f’elpless woman, ain’t it? Ver’ well then;
gimmeself up takin’ ‘way lil boy, buyin’ ‘m pair shoes. No harm in that,
issher? Hope not. Ver’ well then.” And be subsided into tears.

“What’s your name?” asked the inspector.

“Whash name? Thash my bishnesh. Warrer wan’ know name for?
Grapert—hence ask gellum’sh name. I’m gellum, thash whit’ I am. Besht
of shisters too, besht shis’ers”—snivelling again—“an’ I’m
ungra’ful beasht. But I shacrifishe ‘self; she shun’ get ‘n trouble. D’year?
Gimmeself up shtealin’ lil boy. Who says I ain’ gellum?”

Nothing more intelligible than this could be got out of him, and presently
he was taken off to the cells. Then Hewitt asked the inspector, “What will
happen to him now?”

The inspector laughed.

“Oh he’ll get very sober and sick and sorry by the morning,” he said; “and
then he’ll have to send home for some money, that’s all.”

“And as to the child?”

“Oh, he’ll forget all about that; that’s only a drunken freak. The child
has been recovered. You know that, I suppose?”

“Yes, but I am still after the person who took it away. It was a woman.
Indeed I’ve more than a suspicion that it was the woman who brought the child
here when he was lost before—the one with the scar on the neck, you
know.”

“Is that so?” said the inspector. “Well, that’s a rum go, ain’t it? What
did she bring him back here for if she wanted him again?”

“That I want to find out,” Hewitt answered. “And now I want you to do me a
favour. You say you expect that man below will want to send home in the
morning for money. Well, I want to be the messenger.”

The inspector opened his eyes.

“Want to be the messenger? Well, that’s easily done; if you’re here at the
time I’ll leave word. But why?”

“Well, I’ve a sort of notion I know something about his family, and I want
to make sure. Shall I be here at eight in the morning, or shall we say
nine?”

“Which you like; I expect he’ll be shouting for bail before eight.”

“Very well, we will say eight. Goodnight.”

And so Hewitt had to let yet another night go without an explanation of
the mystery; but he felt that his hand was on the key at last, though it had
only fallen there by chance. Prompt to his time at eight in the morning he
was at the police-station, where another inspector was now on duty, who,
however, had been told of Hewitt’s wish.

“Ah,” he said, “you’re well to time, Mr. Hewitt. That prisoner’s as limp
as rags now; he’s begging of us to send to his sister.”

“Does he say anything about that child?”

“Says he don’t know anything about it; all a drunken freak. His name’s
Oliver Neale, and he lives at 10 Morton Terrace, Hampstead, with his sister.
Her name’s Mrs. Isitt, and you’re to take this note and bring her back with
you, or at any rate some money; and you’re to say he’s truly repentant,” the
inspector concluded with a grin.

The distance was short, and Hewitt walked it. Morton Terrace was a short
row of pleasant old-fashioned villas, ivy-grown and neat, and No. 10 was as
neat as any. To the servant who answered his ring Hewitt announced himself as
a gentleman with a message from Mrs. Isitt’s brother. This did not seem to
prepossess the girl in Hewitt’s favour, and she backed to the end of the hall
and communicated with somebody on the stairs before finally showing Hewitt
into a room, where he was quickly followed by Mrs. Isitt.

She was a rather tall woman of perhaps thirty-eight, and had probably been
attractive, though now her face bore lines of sad grief. Hewitt noticed that
she wore a very high black collar.

“Good-morning, Mrs. Isitt,” he said. “I’m afraid my errand is not
altogether pleasant. The fact is your brother, Mr. Neale, was not altogether
sober last night, and he is now at the police station, where he wrote this
note.”

Mrs. Isitt did not appear surprised, and took the note with no more than a
sigh.

“Yes,” she said, “it can’t be concealed. This is not the first time by
many, as you probably know, if you are a friend of his.”

She read the note, and as she looked up Hewitt said—

“No, I have not known him long. I happened to be at the station last
night, and he rather attracted my attention by insisting, in his intoxicated
state, on giving himself up for kidnapping a child, Charles Seton.”

Mrs. Isitt started as though shot. Pale of cheek, she glanced fearfully in
Hewitt’s face and there met a keen gaze that seemed to read her brain. She
saw that her secret was known, but for a moment she struggled, and her lips
worked convulsively—

“Charles Seton—Charles Seton?” she said.

“Yes, Mrs. Isitt, that is the name. The child, as a matter of fact, was
stolen by the person who bought these shoes for it. Do you recognise
them?”

He produced the shoes and held them before her. The woman sank on the sofa
behind her, terrified, but unable to take her eyes from Hewitt’s.

“Come, Mrs. Isitt,” he said, “you have been recognised. Here is my card. I
am commissioned by the parents of the child to find who removed him, and I
think I have succeeded.”

She took the card and glanced at it dazedly; then she sank with a groaning
sob with her face on the head of the sofa, and as she did so Hewitt could see
a scar on the side of her neck peeping above her high collar.

“Oh, my God!” the woman moaned. “Then it has come to this. He will die! he
will die!”

The woman’s anguish was piteous to see. Hewitt had gained his point, and
was willing to spare her. He placed his hand on her heaving shoulder and
begged her not to distress herself.