The Mystery of a Hansom Cab (13 page)

‘I understand,' said Kilsip, with a gratified purr. ‘There were four men engaged in that burglary and they hid the swag at Mother Guttersnipe's crib, in a lane off Little Bourke Street—but hang it, a swell like Mr Fitzgerald, in evening dress, couldn't very well have gone down there unless—'

‘He had someone with him, well known in the locality,' finished Calton, rapidly. ‘Exactly. That woman who delivered the letter at the club guided him. Judging from the waiter's description of her appearance, I should think she was pretty well known about the slums.'

‘Well,' said Kilsip rising and looking at his watch, ‘it is now nine o'clock, so if you like we will go the old hag's place at once—dying woman,' he said, as if struck by a sudden thought, ‘there was a woman died there about four weeks ago.'

‘Who was she?' asked Calton, who was putting on his overcoat.

‘Some relation of Mother Guttersnipe's, I fancy,' answered Kilsip as they left the office. ‘I don't know exactly what she was—she was called the “Queen,” and a precious handsome woman she must have been—came from Sydney about three months ago, and from what I can make out, was not long from England, died of consumption on the Thursday night before the murder.'

‘Then she must have been the woman who wrote the letter.'

‘No doubt of it,' replied Kilsip, ‘but if Fitzgerald was there on that night, we can get plenty of witnesses to prove an
alibi
.
I
am sure of two at least, Mother Guttersnipe and her granddaughter, Sal.'

But Mr Calton was not listening—as he stepped along beside his companion, he was thinking—

‘What on earth could a woman just from England, living in a Melbourne back slum, have to tell Fitzgerald about Madge Frettlby?'

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

A WOMAN OF THE PEOPLE

Bourke Street is always more crowded than Collins Street, especially at night. The theatres are there, and of course there is invariably a large crowd collected under the electric lights. Fashion does not come out after dark to walk about the streets, but prefers to roll along in her carriage; therefore, the block in Bourke Street at night is slightly different from that of Collins Street in the day.

The restless crowd which jostles and pushes along the pavements is grimy in the main, but the grimyness is lightened in many places by the presence of the ladies of the
demi-monde
,
who flaunt about in gorgeous robes of the brightest colours. These gay-plumaged
birds of ill-omen collect at the corners of the streets, and converse loudly with their male acquaintances till desired by some white-helmeted policeman to move on, which they do, after a good deal of unnecessary chatter. Round the doors of the hotels a number of ragged and shabby-looking individuals collect, who lean against the walls criticising the crowd, and waiting till some of their friends ask them to have a glass, a request they obey with suspicious alacrity.

Further on, a crowd of horsey-looking men are standing under the Opera House verandah, and one hears nothing but sporting talk about the coming Cup, and odds being given and taken on the cracks of the day. Then here and there are ragged street Arabs, selling matches and newspapers; and against the verandah post, in the full blaze of the electric light, leans a weary, draggled-looking woman, one arm clasping a baby to her breast, and the other holding a pile of newspapers, while she drones out in a hoarse voice, ‘'
Erald
,
third 'dition, one penny!' until the ear wearies of the constant repetition.

Cabs rattle incessantly along the street; here a fast-looking hansom with a rakish horse bearing some gilded youth to his club—there a dingy-looking vehicle drawn by a lank quadruped, which staggers blindly down the street. Alternating with these, carriages dash along with their well-groomed horses, and within, the vision of bright eyes, white dresses, and the sparkle of diamonds. Then further up, just on the verge of the
pavement, a band, consisting of three violins and a harp is stationed, which is playing a German waltz to an admiring crowd of attentive spectators.

If there is one thing which the Melbourne folk love more than another, it is music, their fondness for which is only equalled by their admiration for horse racing. Any street band which plays at all decently may be sure of a good audience, and a substantial remuneration for their playing. Some writer has described Melbourne as Glasgow, with the sky of Alexandria; and certainly the beautiful climate of Australia, so Italian in its brightness, must have a great effect on the nature of such an adaptable race as the Anglo-Saxon.

In spite of the dismal prognostications of Marcus Clarke regarding the future Australian, which he describes as being ‘a tall, coarse, strong-jawed, greedy, pushing, talented man, excelling in swimming and horsemanship,' it is more likely that he will be a cultured, indolent individual, with an intense appreciation of the arts and sciences, and a dislike to hard work and utilitarian principles. Climatic influence should be taken into account with regard to the future Australian, and our posterity will be no more like us than the luxurious Venetians resembled their hardy forefathers, who first started to build on those lonely sandy islands of the Adriatic.

This was the conclusion Mr Calton arrived at as he followed his guide through the crowded streets,
and saw with what deep interest the crowd listened to the rhythmic strains of Strauss and the sparkling melodies of Offenbach. The brilliantly lit street, with the never ceasing stream of people pouring along; the shrill cries of the street Arabs, the rattle of vehicles, and the fitful strains of music, all made up a scene which fascinated him, and he could have gone on wandering all night, watching the myriad phases of human character constantly passing beneath his eyes. But his guide, with whom familiarity with the proletarians had, in a great measure, bred indifference, hurried him away to Little Bourke Street, where the narrowness of the street, with the high buildings on each side, the dim light of the sparsely scattered gas lamps, and the few ragged looking figures slouching along, formed a strong contrast to the brilliant and crowded scene they had just left. Turning off Little Bourke Street, the detective led the way down a dark lane, which felt like a furnace owing to the heat of the night; but on looking up, Calton caught a glimpse of the blue sky far above, glittering with stars, which gave him quite a sensation of coolness.

‘Keep close to me,' whispered Kilsip, touching the barrister on the arm; ‘we may meet some nasty customers about here.'

Mr Calton, however, did not need such a warning, for the neighbourhood through which they were passing was so like that of the Seven Dials in London, that he kept as closely to the side of his guide as did
Dante to that of Virgil in the Infernal Regions. It was not quite dark, for the atmosphere had that luminous kind of haze so observable in Australian twilights, and this weird light was just sufficient to make the darkness visible. Kilsip and the barrister kept for safety in the middle of the alley, so that no one could spring upon them unaware, and they could see sometimes on the one side a man cowering back into the black shadow, or on the other a woman with disordered hair and bare bosom, leaning out of a window trying to get a breath of fresh air. There were also some children playing in the dried-up gutter, and their shrill young voices came echoing strangely through the gloom—mingling with a bacchanalian sort of song a man was singing, as he slouched along unsteadily over the rough stones. Now and then a mild looking string of Chinamen stole along, clad in their dull hued blue blouses; either chattering shrilly, like a lot of parrots, or moving silently down the alley with a stolid Oriental apathy on their yellow faces. Here and there came a stream of warm light through an open door, and within the Mongolians were gathered round the gambling tables, playing fan-tan, or else leaving the seductions of their favourite pastime, and, gliding soft-footed to the many cookshops, where enticing-looking fowls and turkeys, already cooked, were awaiting purchasers. Kilsip, turning to the left, led the barrister down another and still narrower lane, the darkness and gloom of which made the lawyer shudder, as he wondered how human beings could live in them.

‘It is like walking in the valley of the shadow of death,' he muttered to himself, as they brushed past a woman who was crouching down in a dark corner, and who looked up at them with an evil scowl on her white face. And, indeed, it was not unlike the description in Bunyan's famous allegory, what with the semi-darkness, the wild lights and shadows, and the vague, undefinable forms of men and women flitting to and fro in the dusky twilight.

At last to Calton's relief, for he felt somewhat bewildered by the darkness and narrowness of the lanes through which he had been taken, the detective stopped before a door, which he opened, and, stepping inside, beckoned to the barrister to follow. Calton did so, and found himself in a low, dark, ill-smelling passage, at the end of which they saw a faint light. Kilsip caught his companion by the arm and guided him carefully along the passage. There was much need of this caution, for Calton could feel that the rotten boards were full of holes, into which one or the other of his feet kept slipping from time to time, while he could hear the rats squeaking and scampering away on all sides. Just as they got to the end of this tunnel, for it could be called nothing else, the light suddenly went out, and they were left in complete darkness.

‘Light that,' cried the detective in a peremptory tone of voice. ‘What do you mean by dowsing the glim?'

Thieves' argot was, evidently, well understood here, for there was a shuffle in the dark, a muttered
voice, and then someone lit the candle with a match. This time Calton saw the light was held by an elfish-looking child, with a scowling white face, and tangled masses of black hair, which hung over her eyes. She was crouching down on the floor, against the damp wall, and looked up at the detective defiantly, yet with a certain fear in her eyes, as though she were a wild animal, cowed against her will.

‘Where's Mother Guttersnipe?' asked the detective sharply, touching her with his foot, an indignity she resented with a malignant glance, and arose quickly to her feet. ‘Upstairs,' she replied, jerking her head in the direction of the right wall, in which Calton, his eyes being more accustomed to the flickering light of the candle, could see a gaping black chasm, which he presumed was the stair alluded to. ‘You won't get much out of 'er tonight—she's a-goin' to start 'er booze, she is.'

‘Never mind what she's doing,' said Kilsip sharply, ‘take me to her at once.'

The girl gave him a sullen look, and with reluctant feet led the way into the black chasm and up the stairs, which were so shaky that Calton was in terror lest they should be precipitated into unknown depths. He held on firmly to his companion's arm, as they toiled slowly up the broken steps, and at last stopped at a door through the cracks of which a faint glimmer of light could be seen. Here the girl gave a shrill whistle, and the door opened as if by magic. Still preceded by their elfish guide,
Calton and the detective stepped through the doorway, and a curious scene was presented to their view.

It was a small square room, with a low roof, from which the paper, mildewed and torn, hung in tatters; on the left hand, at the far end, was a kind of low stretcher, upon which a woman, almost naked, was lying, amid a heap of frowsy greasy clothes. She appeared to be ill, for she kept tossing her head from side to side restlessly, and every now and then sang snatches of old songs in a shrill, cracked voice. In the centre of the room was a rough deal table, upon which stood a guttering tallow candle, which but faintly illuminated the scene, and a half empty square bottle of schnapps, with a broken cup beside it. In front of these signs of festivity sat an old woman with a pack of cards spread out before her, and from which she had evidently been telling the fortune of a villainous-looking young man, who had opened the door, and who stood looking at the detective with no very friendly expression of countenance. He was dressed in a greasy brown velvet coat, much patched, and a black wide-awake hat, which was pulled down over his eyes. He looked like one of those Italians who retail ice-cream on the street, or carry round organs with monkeys on them, and his expression was so scowling and vindictive that the barrister thought it was not very hard to tell his ultimate destiny—Pentridge, or the gallows.

As they entered the fortune-teller raised her head,
and, shading her eyes with one skinny hand, looked curiously at the newcomers. Calton thought he had never seen such a repulsive looking old crone; and, indeed, she was worthy of the pencil of Doré to depict, such was the grotesque ugliness which she exhibited. Her face was seamed and lined with innumerable wrinkles, clearly defined by the dirt which was in them; bushy grey eyebrows, drawn frowningly over two piercing black eyes, whose light was undimmed by age; a hook nose, like the beak of a bird of prey, and a thin lipped mouth, with two long yellow tusks sticking out like those of a wild boar. Her hair was very luxurious and almost white, and was tied up in a great bunch by a greasy bit of black ribbon. As to her chin Calton, when he saw it wagging to and fro, involuntarily quoted Macbeth's lines about the witches—

Ye should be women

And yet your beards forbid me to interpret

That ye are so.

And, indeed, she was no bad representative of the weird sisters.

This lady looked viciously at them when they entered, and demanded sulkily, ‘What the 'ell they wanted?'

‘Want your booze,' cried the child with an elfish laugh, as she shook back her tangled hair.

‘Get out, you whelp,' croaked the old hag, shaking one skinny fist at her, ‘or I'll tear your heart out, cuss you.'

‘Yes, she can go,' said Kilsip, nodding to the girl, ‘and you can clear too,' he added, sharply turning to the young man, who still stood holding the door open. At first he seemed inclined to dispute the detective's order, but ultimately obeyed him, muttering as he went out something about ‘the bloomin' cheek of showin' swells cove's cribs.' The child followed him out, her exit being accelerated by Mother Guttersnipe, who, with a rapidity only attained by long practice, seized the shoe off one of her feet and flung it at the head of the rapidly retreating girl.

‘Wait till I ketches yer, Lizer,' she shrieked, with a volley of curses, ‘I'll break yer 'ead, blarst ye.'

Lizer responded with a shrill laugh of disdain, and vanished through the shaky door, which she closed after her.

When she had disappeared Mother Guttersnipe took a drink out of the broken cup, and, gathering all her greasy cards together in a business-like way, looked insinuatingly at Calton, with a suggestive leer.

‘It's the future ye want unveiled, dearie,' she croaked, rapidly shuffling the cards, ‘an' old mother 'ull tell—'

‘No, she won't,' interrupted the detective sharply, ‘I've come on business.'

The old woman started at this, and looked keenly at him from under her bushy eyebrows.

‘What 'ave the boys bin up to now?' she asked harshly. ‘There ain't no swag 'ere this time, blarst ye.'

Just then the sick woman, who had been restlessly tossing on the bed, commenced singing a snatch of the quaint old ballad of Barbara Allen—

Oh, mither, mither, mak' my bed,

An' mak' it saft an' narrow;

Since my true love died for me today,

I'll die for him tomorrow.

‘Shut up, cuss you,' yelled Mother Guttersnipe, viciously, ‘or I'll knock yer bloomin' 'ead orf,' and she seized the square bottle as if to carry out her threat; but, altering her mind, she poured some of its contents into the cup, and drank it off with avidity.