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Authors: David Hambling
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wrapped. I took both the tin and the tissue.
“This is only three of the men,” I said. “What about the other?”
“He doesn’t signify right now. What bothers me is these three dead ’uns here. Now, I’m going to make them disappear somewhere they won’t easily be found. The last thing I want is police and murder investigations stirring things up—especially when it leads back to Harry Stubbs, known to be an acquaintance of mine.”
“The police might think you’d arranged it. A sort of revenge for the attack outside the Hero.”
“They might well suspect that,” he said patiently. “And they might stumble over a few other things in their size nines while they were about it. So what I’m saying is, are you going to give me any more grief?”
“I hadn’t the foggiest that this could happen. There’s money at stake—perhaps thousands of pounds—but Mr Rowe never hinted there might be criminal gangs in it.”
“I trust you.” Arthur looked over the dismal scene. “But I think you should have a word with your Mr Rowe. I don’t think he’s playing straight with you. If the other one shows up, and I’m sure he will, you’ll be the first to know.”
“You’re a pal, Arthur.”
“Keep looking over your shoulder, Stubbsy. This ain’t over yet.”
Round Seven: The Mastermind
Once more I squared up to write a report on my investigation and struggled with what to leave out and what to include. The failure of my attempts to retrieve Shackleton’s treasure-box was one thing; the dead Irishmen were another matter entirely. In the end, I eschewed any attempt at picking and choosing and laid the whole thing before Mr Rowe to use his superior understanding and judgement, neglecting only mention of Arthur. The greatest danger, I surmised, was that I would omit a vital piece of evidence. If Mr Rowe wanted to go to the police, so be it.
All I had to show for my expedition was a piece of tissue paper and empty biscuit tin. The tin, from Huntley and Palmer, yielded no information, but the paper was more informative. The contents had perforce imprinted the wrapping. It was ordinary tissue paper, a type commonly used to wrap delicate clothing and other items, of double thickness, white in colour, of ordinary manufacture and not especially old. Judging from the creases, it had been folded up inside the box. I looked for crumbs or fibres and found nothing. I sniffed the paper, a faint residue of wood and dry earth.
I tried folding and refolding the paper, and concluded it had wrapped a flat object perhaps five inches across with five equal projections. A medallion or ornament in the shape of a star. Perhaps a piece of jewellery—or a fossil.
By the end of the morning, I had completed my report. I submitted it to Mr Rowe, with the tissue paper as an enclosure duly noted, via Mrs Crawford. Fortunately, another matter relating to the repossession of a motorcar called me away, and my mind was distracted.
The murder—and it must have been murder—of the three Irishmen was a puzzle too deep for me. Obviously, one of them had coshed me and taken the box, and a third party had then taken it off them. But I could not even speculate whom they were working for, never mind who else may be involved.
The next day the office seemed livelier than usual, and I soon apprehended that Mrs Crawford was not at her desk. In her absence, the outer office took on the air of a schoolroom without a teacher. I found two messages waiting for me, one an office memorandum about the excessive use of vellum paper for unimportant documents. The other was from Mr Rowe and was most mysterious. It instructed me to make my way to the Upper Norwood recreation ground to a certain bench, where I would receive further instruction. I was on no account to let anyone else know where I was going.
It was a clear, bright morning, and the sun made a pretty show on the frost, but the wind was too sharp unless you were walking briskly. I
“This is only three of the men,” I said. “What about the other?”
“He doesn’t signify right now. What bothers me is these three dead ’uns here. Now, I’m going to make them disappear somewhere they won’t easily be found. The last thing I want is police and murder investigations stirring things up—especially when it leads back to Harry Stubbs, known to be an acquaintance of mine.”
“The police might think you’d arranged it. A sort of revenge for the attack outside the Hero.”
“They might well suspect that,” he said patiently. “And they might stumble over a few other things in their size nines while they were about it. So what I’m saying is, are you going to give me any more grief?”
“I hadn’t the foggiest that this could happen. There’s money at stake—perhaps thousands of pounds—but Mr Rowe never hinted there might be criminal gangs in it.”
“I trust you.” Arthur looked over the dismal scene. “But I think you should have a word with your Mr Rowe. I don’t think he’s playing straight with you. If the other one shows up, and I’m sure he will, you’ll be the first to know.”
“You’re a pal, Arthur.”
“Keep looking over your shoulder, Stubbsy. This ain’t over yet.”
Round Seven: The Mastermind
Once more I squared up to write a report on my investigation and struggled with what to leave out and what to include. The failure of my attempts to retrieve Shackleton’s treasure-box was one thing; the dead Irishmen were another matter entirely. In the end, I eschewed any attempt at picking and choosing and laid the whole thing before Mr Rowe to use his superior understanding and judgement, neglecting only mention of Arthur. The greatest danger, I surmised, was that I would omit a vital piece of evidence. If Mr Rowe wanted to go to the police, so be it.
All I had to show for my expedition was a piece of tissue paper and empty biscuit tin. The tin, from Huntley and Palmer, yielded no information, but the paper was more informative. The contents had perforce imprinted the wrapping. It was ordinary tissue paper, a type commonly used to wrap delicate clothing and other items, of double thickness, white in colour, of ordinary manufacture and not especially old. Judging from the creases, it had been folded up inside the box. I looked for crumbs or fibres and found nothing. I sniffed the paper, a faint residue of wood and dry earth.
I tried folding and refolding the paper, and concluded it had wrapped a flat object perhaps five inches across with five equal projections. A medallion or ornament in the shape of a star. Perhaps a piece of jewellery—or a fossil.
By the end of the morning, I had completed my report. I submitted it to Mr Rowe, with the tissue paper as an enclosure duly noted, via Mrs Crawford. Fortunately, another matter relating to the repossession of a motorcar called me away, and my mind was distracted.
The murder—and it must have been murder—of the three Irishmen was a puzzle too deep for me. Obviously, one of them had coshed me and taken the box, and a third party had then taken it off them. But I could not even speculate whom they were working for, never mind who else may be involved.
The next day the office seemed livelier than usual, and I soon apprehended that Mrs Crawford was not at her desk. In her absence, the outer office took on the air of a schoolroom without a teacher. I found two messages waiting for me, one an office memorandum about the excessive use of vellum paper for unimportant documents. The other was from Mr Rowe and was most mysterious. It instructed me to make my way to the Upper Norwood recreation ground to a certain bench, where I would receive further instruction. I was on no account to let anyone else know where I was going.
It was a clear, bright morning, and the sun made a pretty show on the frost, but the wind was too sharp unless you were walking briskly. I
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