The Complete Simon Iff (30 page)

Simon Iff had merely extended this theory to cover natural events; rain, according to him, was caused by the united praying-power of the umbrella manufacturerers combined with such farmers as needed it for their crops. The San Francisco Earthquake had been engineered as an advertisement by those builders whose edifices had been found to stand the strain.

"Bring me a cigarette and the newspaper!" he called. The servant appeared immediately, with an enamelled box, and a Chinese manuscript, in vermillion and gold upon palm leaves, dating from the sixteenth century, of the Tao Teh Ching. Simple Simon would perhapse have explained to a questioner that he had read it every morning for forty years without once failing to find something new in it, while the exact contrary had proved true of the Times or the Telegraph.

He was still engaged in this occupation when the telephone rang. "Mr. Philipps speaking," said the voice. "I hope you remember meeting me at dinner at Fleming's last month. I hope I haven't awaken you too early. The fact is I've had a most mysterious and threatening communication this morning, and I want to trespass on your kindness by consulting you."

"Come right round!" said Simon genially. "You won't mind a dressing-gown, will you?" Philipps replied that he would be at the house in ten minutes, and Simon, laying down the 'newspaper', rushed through his bath, and was found sitting, clothed, and in his right mind, by his visitor. 

Philip P. Philipps junior had just succeeded to an important wholesale jewellery business on the death of his father, which had taken place a fortnight before his visit to Simple Simon. He was a prosperous citizen of 45 years of age, with a wife and family; a typical burgess, but attractive to Simon Iff on account of his extraordinary knowledge of the history of famous gems. On this he had expatiated eloquently at the dinner referred to in his telephone conversation, and Iff, delighted, had expressed the hope that one day he might be of some service.

This opportunity had now come. Philipps drew a letter from his pocket, and handed it silently to the old man.

Iff contemplated it at length.

The message was short and simple.

"Don't monky with the buz-saw."

"No idea of origin or purport?" asked Simon.

"None."

"Then let me think."

The mystic examined the letter with fresh care. He even smelt it carefully, and tested it in one or two spots with the tip of his tongue. Then he wrapped himself anew in the voluminous folds of his grey silk robe with its dull gold embroidery. Even his head disappeared. It was five minutes before he emerged.

"This," said he slowly, "appears to be from Jonathan Spratt."

Philipps sat staggered for a few moments. Then the one possible conclusion forced itself into his mind, and thence through his speech. "You're in with this gang!" he exclaimed.

"Oh no!" said Simon, laughing. "I'm only telling you what the letter tells me."

"I beg your pardon. But it's perfectly impossible that you should get the name of the writer."

"Not a bit. Please follow the thought. A common paper - common man. Letters formed clumsily - learnt to write late in life.

"Shaky lettering - elderly man, or a sick one.

"Hasty lettering - not a sick man, therefore elderly.

"Post mark Hoboken - suggests a sailor.

"Paper smells of fo'o'sle - unmistakeable - letter written on ship, or soon after landing.

"Characters printed - man wants to conceal identity.

"Letters perfectly aligned - what uneducated man would do that - but a carpenter?

"It is sealed with shellac - just what a carpenter would have handy, and it's written with what looks to me like a carpenter's pencil. Letter bears special delivery stamp - evidence of urgent haste. Why not telegram, telephone, or special messenger? Easier to trace sender. Why haste? Result of previous delay. Afraid he'll be too late. Otherwise, he has only just got the information on which his letter is based. Or both.

"These conditions will all be fulfilled if we suppose an elderly ship's carpenter to have landed at Hoboken this morning from some distant port. Does the letter tell us anything about the ship?

"There is a smear of oil - a kind of oil that is only used for big engines. And I think there is only one big ship that docked in Hoboken this morning; the Hyrcania; and she was three days late.

"Now just before I left for America I travelled on the Hyrcania from Naples to Marseilles; and I got to know the carpenter, whose name was Jonathan Spratt. Is that clear?"

"It all corresponds, of course," said Philipps rather doubtfully.

"Obviously, my friend the carpenter may have been superseded. But, as it happens, I have reasons for thinking that it is the same man - I'll tell you in a minute.

"Rather unworthy to spring the name on you as I did, of course: but I never resist temptation when miracles are on the carpet...."

"A most strikingly fortunate coincidence, at least." replied the Jeweller seriously.

"Not very. We have the man and his job, and could find his name, did we lack it, in an hour. After all, the name matters little...."

Simon Iff pulled himself up short with a snarl, the blood flooded his cheeks. He ground his teeth. His eyes were suddenly misty with a film of tears, as, casting out the shame of his precipitate judgement, there came the vision of a pale sad frightened girl... "Claudine," he muttered. "Too extraordinary - if a name could be of virtue here as well..."

He sank into deep thought. "Jonathan," he murmured. "David...? A little honey on a rod...? Bah! I'm an old fool. The name is common enough, and the man no such unusual type. I mustn't lose my grip, and look for light and leading in every Will o' the Wisp."

Philipps had picked up the letter and examined it carefully. "Yes, I dare say you're right. But..." He did not know how to conclude his sentence. Iff's identification had merely replaced a superficial puzzle by a genuine problem.

The magician looked up, gleefully at the thought he read in the other man's mind.

"But, as you are about to say, it doesn't in the least explain why a perfect stranger should send you a threatening message in such a deuce of a hurry. You weren't intending to monkey with a buzz-saw, were you?"

"My relations with the whole world are absolutely peaceful."

"No big business pending?"

"The season's over; nothing doing for three months to come."

"I remember Jonathan Spratt as a singularly shrewd, sane, cautious man. The precautions in this letter agree there too. Whence the excitement, and the perfectly pointless threat or warning?"

"It's inexplicable."

"I think not. The man has been abroad for some time. He may not know of your bereavement."

"It might be intended for my father?" cried Philipps.

Iff nodded. But the jeweller's face fell again.

"The poor old gentleman had taken no active part in the business for five years. He had practically no communication with the outside world. He would sit in the house all day and play with his collection of gems. He hardly ever went out. Sometimes he would play chess with a crony. He was the one man in the world unlikely to monkey with a buzz-saw!"

"Yes, I'll tell you one other thing. Jonathan Spratt, though a self-educated man, was a very thoroughly educated man, within his limits. The nature of the letter confirms that. A man must have read widely, and thought deeply, to invent so cryptic a plan. He would certainly not have spelt monkey without an 'e' or buzz with only one 'z', unless he had a particular reason for it. In short, I think it's some kind of a cipher. Spratt knew a little about the subject, by the way. The occasion of my employing him was the making of some fretwork stencils which I designed to offer to the Government for a particular object which we had in view. So we got to chatting over the subject; he knew several capital methods. Your father would probably have understood the purport of this paper."

"I can't imagine what my father would be doing with this Spratt!"

"Used him to catch whales, perhaps! The old man was a very keen collector, wasn't he? Suppose he employed Spratt to smuggle precious stones? A clever tool; trustworthy, prudent, ingenious, silent; all one could desire! Then suppose the letter was meant to convey exactly what it did not say: the letters omitted instead of those expressed: in plain American, E. Z. 'Easy' would have told your father that he had had no trouble with the Custom House people, and perhaps advised him to take certain prearranged steps for the transference of the smuggled stuff. The haste is now fully accounted for; he must have feared that your father would be anxious, as the ship was so late. Or, possibly, he had promised to make good on a definite day."

"It's all in the air, of course."

"I've caught many a ten-pound trout on single gut. We can test it by having Jonathan arrested. He wouldn't risk the Bhopur Emerald anywhere but on his person."

"The Bhopur Emerald?"

"That is the only recently stolen stone which I can think of as likely to interest your father. The thieves were traced to Alexandria, you know. So likely enough Jonathan got his little job through at Naples while the Hyrcania was in harbour."

"But why have him arrested?"

"He's broken the law, hasn't he? Or do you want the stone?"

"I suppose my father paid for it. I don't mind paying the duty."

"A stolen stone?"

"Oh, the Rajah of Bhopur's a nigger."

"In India, my dear sir, the people enjoy the advantages of religion, morals, art, literature and good manners. When I notice these, my second glance will embrace telephones and tall buildings. Incidentally, his complexion is considerably fairer than either yours or mine."

Philipps whinced. "Right's right," he said rather angrily.

"True," said Iff. "But allow me to pass you a copy of the Jewish and Christian scriptures. You will there find many texts of a character to buttress your case. Thou shalt not steal and Thou shalt not kill are followed by many illustrations of the wrath of Jehovah against various people who didn't steal and kill - when the victims were 'heathen'. Does that help you?"

"It does," said Philipps. "We cannot go against the Word of God."

"Speak for yourself," said Simon Iff. "I am now going to call up the Custom House People, and the Police. Here is your letter. It's for you after all: don't monkey with a buzz-saw!"

Philipps went away in a black fury. He saw - not red, but green! A passion to acquire the famous Bhopur Emerald swept through his whole being. He had not a moment to lose! he must find Jonathan Spratt. What arrangements could his father possibly have made? The only hope was to go home and rummage among the dead man's papers.

Simon Iff, having done his duty by Law and Order on the telephone, returned to the perusal of the 'newspaper'.

II

Mr. Philip P. Philipps was disturbed in his search among his father's papers by the arrival of the midday mail.

One letter stood out from the rest like the sun among the stars - it was the printed pencil of Jonathan Spratt. Philipps tore it open with crazy anxiety. But the contents was nothing but a chess diagram.

It was a perfectly conventional chess problem, motto, author, and description complete; but Philipps had no difficulty in understanding that here was another ingenious cipher.

And the only man - probably - capable of solving it had just turned him out of the house for a thief!

But Philip P. Philipps had inherited some of his father's slyness and resourcefulness. He thought of a friend named Bloom who - so he was wont to boast - knew Simon Iff very well. He would copy the paper, and take it to him, asking him to show it to Iff and ask for a solution. In case the old magician played him false (for he could not imagine anybody being straight) and went personally to the assignation - he was certain the 'problem' was a cipher time and place - he would have him followed by two sure men whom he had often employed to guard packets of jewels. He himself would wait at home, on the chance of Jonathan Spratt turning up in person. Having made these arrangements, he went on with his search through the papers, but discovered nothing connected with the matter, unless the dozens of odd chess diagrams were also part of it.

Bloom rang up Simon Iff at his friend's request, and arranged, quite casually, for a meeting at the club that afternoon. The sleuths were on the mystic's trail before he left the house, determined to follow to the death.

Bloom talked of many casual things; it was only by apparent chance that, in pulling out his cigar-case, the chess problem came with it.

"By the way, you're a chess fiend, aren't you? This seems in your line."

Simon Iff picked up the paper and studied it carefully. "These seven-movers are a bit out of date," he said at last, "and I'm a bit out of practice at them in consequence; they were all the rage when I was a boy. You don't play, I think?"

"No," replied the innocent Bloom.

"How did you get this?"

"Found it the other day as I was turning over some old papers."

"And made a copy of it this morning, all for my benefit?"

Bloom began to stammer. "I - er - that is - you see - ah - just so. The original was very nearly worn out."

"Don't you know me well enough to tell me the true story?"

"Well - er - a friend bet me you could solve it, and I wouldn't believe it."

That was true, so far as it went.

"I suppose this was in strict confidence?"

"Yes," gasped Bloom, grasping at the sorry straw.

"Very peculiar," remarked Simon. "Only this morning a friend of yours showed me a cipher, of a nature that made me expect a second cipher to follow. And here we are; only, instead of a cipher, we have a chess problem. And between you and me, it's a pretty poor problem, if it's solvable at all, which I doubt. Suppose it were the cipher after all?"

"Suppose it were?" echoed Bloom helplessly.

"Well, if it's a cipher, it's as plain as print."

"And what does it mean, then?"

"I think your friend Mr. Philip P. Philipps is more of a fool than a knave. With your permission, I will show this little problem to Commissioner Teake, whom I perceive in yonder window. If he chooses to tell you, I have no objection."