Rippling Ruby

Front matter

THE MYSTERY STORIES OF

J. S. FLETCHER

"Mr. Fletcher is a master of plot, and he never goes beyond the bounds of reason in its procedure and development. He, moreover, can write the English language as a vital means to the end both of narrative and description, and he never fails to show that he is its master. It is therefore a pleasure to read his stories, not merely for their entertaining qualities, but also for the agreeable appeal of their manner and their style."

Chapter I.

RIPPLING RUBY

CHAPTER I

THE GENERAL DEALER

How it came about that on that particular Springtide morning I was stranded on the Clarence Pier at Portsmouth with, literally, a few pence in my pocket, is immaterial to the present purpose; the more pertinent fact is that there I was, in that miserable predicament, with none to turn to for immediate help, and utterly blank of mind as to what was next to be done. I had paid out two of my last coppers to obtain entrance to that pier—there was a vague notion that I might pick up some porterage job there which would bring in a shilling.

With a shilling I could send a telegram to the only man I knew who would be likely to wire me money—he was the last resource; for I had already pawned my watch and my overcoat, and, hourly expecting a remittance which up to then had not arrived, had not had the sense to make the application by letter which I was now feverishly anxious to make by telegraph. There might be someone coming off a boat at that pier who would give a shilling to have a bag carried—I would undertake the job with fervour. But at the end of an hour I was still unemployed, and was thinking of trying the railway stations; then, very suddenly, the man came on the scene who plunged me headlong into action and adventure.

He was coming away from the window of the ticket office where you book for Ryde and Cowes and Southampton, this man, and he carried a ticket in his hand and was clearly unconscious that it was there. A big, heavily-built fellow in a dark-blue serge suit, topped by a rather sporting sort of overcoat, he looked to me like a well-to-do publican, or, perhaps, a bookmaker; there was that air about him. But just then, whatever he was, his great idea was certainly to do something or get somewhere in a tremendous hurry; his eyes, as he came out on the open pier, were all over the place at once, taking in the misty coast-line on the opposite side of the water, looking up the water itself as if in search of the Ryde boat, which even then was churning its way towards us, and then glancing first over one shoulder and next over the other as if he either expected or feared to encounter somebody.

In his haste, or his nervousness, he raised his fat, stub-ended fingers to his chin, and in so doing discovered that he was holding a ticket; I will swear that until that instant he had forgotten that he had just taken it. But now he hastened to thrust it into his waistcoat pocket, and in so doing he encountered something else that he had evidently forgotten. His fingers came out of the pocket grasping a scrap of paper twisted up into what they call a cocked hat. And here I made certain that the man was in a state of terrible preoccupation, for after staring blankly at this discovery he made a sign of vexation and looked round him in a fashion which said as plainly as possible that he had omitted to do something which ought to be done at once. But my wits had been sharpened by privation during the last two days, and without more ado I stepped up to him.

"Can I take that somewhere for you, sir?" I said, pointing to the bit of paper, which he was twisting round and round in his fingers. "I think you want it delivered to somebody."

He started—more nervously than one would have expected in such a big fleshy frame—and gave a sharp, suspicious, and yet, I fancied, highly relieved glance.

"Eh, what?" he exclaimed, running me over from top to toe. "You—wanting a job?" I knew what he meant. Outwardly, I was eminently respectable; good clothes, good footwear; I was even spotless in linen. But the boat was at hand, and I did not hesitate.

"I'd be glad of the chance of earning a few shillings," I answered hurriedly. "Stranded—un- expectedly—you understand. I'll carry your note for you—and you can trust me." He had evidently made up his mind to do that, for without another word he plunged a hand—there were two or three big, be-diamonded rings on its pudgy fingers—into his trousers pocket and pulled it out again full of gold. And picking out a sovereign with no more concern than if it had been a shilling, he thrust it into my hand with the bit of folded paper.

"Look you here, my lad," he said, confidentially. "There's a name on that paper—Holliment. That's the chap it's for—Holliment. You get into those streets between High Street and the Hard—you know? Ask for Holliment—general dealer—anybody'll tell you. And give him that. Go now—and there's a quid all to yourself. My boat!—you'll go straight off?"

"This instant!" said I. "He'll have it in a few minutes. Greatly obliged to you!"

"Bless you!" he answered, with a queer sort of grin. "Ditto!"

He made for the boat, and without a backward glance I hurried off that pier, lighter of heart than I had been for forty-eight hours. A sovereign!—for ten minutes' walk. I went away towards High Street feeling as if the Bank of England had suddenly become my sole property. Turning a corner, and chancing to look seaward I saw the smoke of the steamer rolling away in the sharp breeze—my man was there, scudding gaily across the water. Whither?—and why in such a hurry!—in so much of a hurry, indeed, that he had forgotten to send the scrap of paper which was now in my pocket—a missive that was evidently of so much importance that he was glad to have it carried at any cost. Sharpened in perception as I was by hunger (for I had had no breakfast, and had gone very short the day before), I knew that the man was intensely relieved to get rid of that note and parted with his sovereign right willingly.

I began to get curious about this twisted, crumpled scrap of paper. Who was Holliment? What was this highly important message? What did the whole thing mean? Before I came to High Street, my inquisitiveness got the better of me; I pulled out the cocked hat and turned it over two or three times. I saw then that it was a piece of paper hurriedly torn out of a cheap account-book—a poor quality paper, the first stuff that had lain to hand. And I felt no great compunction, things being as they were, in unwrapping it and looking at whatever might be written inside—there was already a spice of mystery about this adventure, and wherever there is mystery there is danger; I wanted to know what I was in for, in some degree.

Standing for a second in the open street, I read all that was written. Two words, heavily underscored:—

CLEAN AWAY

There was nothing else. No name; no address; nothing. I was as wise as ever. So folding the torn leaf into its original lines, I slipped it into my pocket again, and crossing the High Street, plunged into the slums which lie between it and the Hard.

There are some queer places in Portsmouth, and it seemed to me that Holliment, whoever he was, lived in one of the queerest. It was quite evident, however, that he was known pretty well, and after various turnings to right and turnings to left, I saw his name in dirty white letters on a black sign which formed one of the chief landmarks in a peculiarly squalid street. The sign was displayed above the windows of a low-roofed, one-storied place, half shop, half shed; this was flanked by a much higher, tower-like erection which I took to be an old sail-loft; the name was on that, too, in smaller letters on a smaller signboard.

In the wall of the lower building was a double door, wide open to the street, and when I walked inside it I saw at once that Holliment's business of general dealer was a wide and various one, for I never set eyes on such a collection of ancient stuff as that which he had gathered about him; the place was a scrap-heap, a dumping ground of all sorts of rubbish, from once gaily-coloured figureheads to rusty nails.

The only thing that looked at all modern was a freshly-painted placard hung on the window of a sort of office; it announced that orders for coal were taken there, and gave a list of current prices. But just then there was no one in this office, nor in the gloom of the shed-like, much-cumbered place, and I had waited and rapped for some minutes before a man came out of the shadows and approached me―a short, fattish, furtive-eyed man, in his shirt-sleeves, who obviously wondered what I was after.

I pulled out the note.

"Mr. Holliment?" I asked.

"That's me, sir," replied the man.

"A gentleman whom I met on the Clarence Pier, who was in a hurry to catch the boat, asked me to give this to you," I continued. "I came straight to you with it; he seemed anxious that you should have it at once."

I placed the note in his very dirty hands and stood by watching him narrowly as he somewhat clumsily opened it. I should say that he was ordinarily a man who could keep a compressed countenance, concealing his feelings very well, but on this occasion he was obviously taken too sharply to hide anything. His puffy face turned the colour of a dead thing―it made me think for the instant of those calves'-heads that lie on the butchers' stalls—and when a shade of life came back to it, it was a grey dull shade. His hands shook suddenly, and he only half-checked an exclamation. And at that I affected to see nothing, turning away. But suddenly I felt that he was regarding me.

"Do you know him who gave you this?" he asked quickly.

"Not at all," said I. "Stranger to me—and I to him. The fact is, I was looking for a job, and I saw he wanted that taken somewhere, so I offered to take it."

"He give you anything?" he inquired, looking me over, pretty much as the other man had done.

"If you want to know," I answered, "he did! He gave me a sovereign."

No surprise came into his face. Instead, he suddenly made a movement towards his coat, which hung on a nail close by. He began shuffling into it.

"Look here!" he said. "I've got to go out—business! Over that!" He pointed to the scrap of paper, which he had crumpled up and flung away on the floor. "Some hours I've got to be out—can't help it. You say you were looking for a job? Stop here and give an eye to things till I come back—tonight it'll be. I'll give you another quid—and there's nothing to do."

"What is there to do?" I asked. "Can I do it?"

"There's nothing to do—but stick here," he responded quickly. "Keeping an eye on things. If anybody comes for any of this old stuff, let 'em have what they want and take their names and what they've got. If anybody orders coal, write it down in that book. I'll be back about six or seven, and you shall have your money."

I hesitated a bare second—after all, the extra sovereign was worth a few hours of that sort of thing.

"All right," I said. "I'll stop till you come back. But, there's one thing."

"Well?" said he, edging away towards the door in his obvious impatience. "What?"

"Dinner!" said I. "I shall want it."

"That's all right," he replied. "A man brings mine at one, sharp—take that. You'll find it'll do you. Well, then, till this evening."

"I'll see to things," I assured him.

He made for the door without another word—but before he went through it and into the street, he looked cautiously round the door-posts, up and down; there was that in his action which assured me that he was keenly anxious. Then he shot off, and I, too, looked out, to see whither he went. It was not raining, but he slunk rapidly along the side of the wall, close to it, as if rain had been coming down cats-and-dogs, and with his head bent, his slouch hat pulled over his eyes, and his whole attitude that of a man who is running away.

Suddenly he shot into one of those narrow alleys of which there are so many thereabouts, and so I saw him no longer. But I had seen enough to convince me that if the sender of the mysterious message was in a state of high nervousness, its recipient was in another of something very like fright, and I wondered why.

What had happened that morning in the affairs of these two men to make both hasten off somewhere in desperately hurried fashion? Something, evidently—but all the speculation in the world would not tell me what. Meanwhile there I was, in charge of an ancient rubbish store, the afternoon to get over, and another sovereign to anticipate. That, anyway, odd as the adventure seemed, was preferable to hanging about Portsmouth wondering what I was to do when my first sovereign was spent.

It was now past noon, and between then and one o'clock nothing whatever happened. I sat down in the little office and read the newspaper. No customers came; nobody came. But at precisely one o'clock in walked an individual who was obviously the potman of some adjacent hostelry. He carried a tray, whereon, beneath a cloth, were sundry dishes, covered with tin plates, a half-loaf of crusty bread, and a jug of foaming ale. A good smell came from his tray, and I silently blessed it and him. He stared at me in surprise, and I hastened to relieve his anxieties.

"Mr. Holliment's away for this afternoon," I said. "He's left me in charge, and I'm to have his dinner."

"That's all right," he answered, and set his tray on a neighbouring table, "and a good un it is, and here's wishing you a proper appetite."

"Same to you," I responded politely.

He grinned understandingly and went off, and I had the cloth and the tin cover whipped away before the sound of his big feet had died out on the pavement. Clearly, I thought, Mr. Holliment had a very comfortable notion of a homely dinner! There was roast loin of pork, with apple sauce, potatoes, and greens; there was plum pie and custard; there was a mighty wedge of good cheese. And there was the ale—a whole jug of prime stuff, with a head on it.

I felt like a new man when I had made an end of Holliment's dinner. After all, the adventure was turning out well for me. I had not fared so sumptuously for many a day, and I had a sovereign in my pocket and another in prospect. I should be able to sleep in a decent lodging that night, and next day to journey onward to London by rail instead of tramping the highway. Everything, in fact, looked quite rosy just then, and, finding a box of very decent cigars on the office desk, I lighted one and prepared to face the business requirements of the afternoon with complacency and patience.

By the time I had finished that cigar I was beginning to think that for all practical purposes Holliment might just as well have locked up his place of business as have left me or anyone else in charge of it. It was then past two o'clock, and not a soul had crossed the threshold since Holliment stepped over it—always saving the welcome potman. I was beginning to get bored. And in order to amuse myself I took a cast round the place, examining it and its contents.

The low, shed-like erection and its piles of old iron, coils of ropes, heaps of rubbish I took in at a glance; there was nothing much there to interest me. But the taller building at the side had more of interest. It turned out to be a high, gloom-filled place, not unlike the interior of a church tower, and just about as badly lighted. Whatever purpose it had served I could not make out; its floor was littered with more rubbish, or what seemed so to me, and its walls were thick with dust and great festoons of cobwebs. Around them, beginning in one corner and going in flights and landings across and around the others, was a narrow, rickety stair, which wound far away into the thick gloom at the extreme top. Why any stair should be there at all I could not make out; there were no doorways in the three or four landings, and no signs that there had once been floorings between the pavement on which I stood and the unceilinged roof so high above me.

But when, after some time, my sight had grown accustomed to the gloom, I made out that right away at the head of the stair, just beneath the head of the rough wall and the beginning of the tiles, there was a door, or at any rate an opening—a black, cavernous-looking place.

And I was wondering what lay behind it, and whence it might lead, when I heard somebody come into the shop, and, after beating on the floor, call loudly for its proprietor.

Chapter II.

CHAPTER II

THE CHINAMAN

This was the first customer I had seen—a man who wanted some old iron, and had a small cart outside whereon to carry it away. He helped himself to what he wanted when I had explained matters to him, and remarking that his name was Toller, and that Mr. Holliment knew him well enough, carried out his stuff, and went away with it. This broke the ice—other folk began to drop in. They all seemed to know their way about, and were all ready to mention their names; what puzzled me about them was whatever they meant to do with the things they picked out and took away.

Nobody seemed at all surprised to find Holliment out; nobody paid any particular attention to me as his representative. I came to the conclusion that this was a queer sort of business. But during the afternoon I did some trade in coal; one man came in and ordered a truckload; another wanted four tons; before the dusk came on I had written down memoranda concerning coal delivery which represented a considerable amount of money. So the time passed, and at half-past four in walked the friendly potman, armed with yet another tray. A capacious pot of tea this time, piping hot, flanked by another tin dish, wherein was a mountain of buttered toast. Once more I was convinced that Holliment knew how to make himself comfortable.

The potman carried away the dinner things; he informed me, while he put them together, that he came from the Admiral Hawke, round the corner, and asked if I was going to be where I was when to-morrow came, because, if so, there was going to be roast beef on tab, and he would see that I had a good helping. I told him that, as far as I was aware, Mr. Holliment would shortly be back and my temporary engagement over, but, I added, if I was still in Portsmouth at noon next day I would take care to visit the Admiral Hawke and dine there, if that was possible. He answered that it was quite possible: there was a half-crown ordinary there at one o'clock, whereat they did people far better than at any of the hotels where the nobs went.

He went off then with his jingling tray and tins, and I drank tea and ate hot buttered toast in great contentment. And just after that it began to grow first dusk and then dark, and through the open double-door of the shop I saw lights begin to shine out across the street, and through a vista between the opposite houses, where there was a glimpse of the harbour and of the Gosport shore in the distance, I caught the gleam of other lights, red and green and yellow, that came out on the spars of passing ships. Why, I do not exactly know, but the sight of those lights somehow made me begin to wish that Holliment would return, give me the reward of my vigil, and let me go about my business.

There was a lamp on the rough desk in the bit of an office, and as soon as I had finished the tea and toast I lighted it—the darkness was getting a bit too marked. The draught from the door on the street caused the lamp to smoke. I went over to shut it. Just then a lad came along shouting the five o'clock edition of the newspaper; I bought a copy and went back to the office, and as I had no tobacco of my own I helped myself to another of Holliment's cigars, and sat down in a rickety elbow chair to read and smoke.

Perhaps ten or fifteen minutes went by in this fashion—and then, chancing to look over the top of the newspaper, and in the direction of the dirty window-panes which gave on the street, I saw, close-pressed against the glass, the flat nose and slant eyes of a yellow-checked Chinaman.

This unholy and discomforting vision faded out of sight as suddenly as it had come into it—so suddenly, indeed, that for the instant I wondered if the whole thing was not hallucination. But on the next I was out of that office and at the door of the shop, staring at the place where the Chinaman ought to have been. He was not there; there was no one there—the street at that point was empty. I did not see even the whisk of a garment disappearing round the corner of the narrow alley into which Holliment had slunk a few hours before. All I saw was the lights, feeble and obscure, along the squalid street, and the passing of other lights, green and red, across a bit of dark water.

I went back to the office and the friendliness of its lamp, conscious that my heart was beating at a faster rate than it should have done. I was frightened. It would have been odd if I had not been frightened—startled, at any rate. What was that parchment-faced Chink after? Why did he peep in there, through a corner of the window, instead of entering the shop? The mere sensation of being overlooked was unpleasant enough, but there had been that in the dark, slanting eyes which made me certain that their owner was spying. Why? Whom did he want? Holliment, of course. I wished heartily that Holliment would come. To be left there, in that gloomy hole of a place, with evil-faced Easterns looking in upon me, was what I had not bargained for. And, careless about possible customers, I presently went back to the street door and, after examining its fastenings, drew a big bolt into place. Holliment could knock when he came; until then, I was determined that no foot should cross the dirty threshold.

There was a blind above the window through which the Chinaman had looked, and when I went back to the office I took hold of its cord to draw it down. The whole thing came away in my hand, rotten with age and disuse. But I was going to have no more faces at the window, and finding some tacks and a hammer, I got up on Holliment's desk and nailed the blind to the casement, shutting out the darkness and the spits of light in the opposite houses. That done, I attempted to read the paper again.

I had not read many lines when I heard a sound—gentle, but palpable—outside the door which I had just barred. At that, I stole across the floor and listened. All was still at first, but at last I heard movements outside—soft, cat's-foot movements. And then the handle of the door was turned, quietly, slowly; I saw the brass knob within moving. But whoever it was that had his hand on the outer knob soon realised that the place was now secured against him, and presently I heard the stealthy footsteps move off. The Chinaman again, without a doubt.

I was by that time fully disposed to go away, leaving this sort of thing to go on without me; I had had enough of it. But I did not like to go before handing over the place to its owner; also, I saw no way of locking the street door from the outside—if there was a key, Holliment evidently had it in his pocket. It would scarcely do to leave the place unprotected; moreover, I particularly wanted my sovereign. And, after all, the man had said that he would be back that evening, and it was already well past six o'clock.

I sat down again, and again tried to read. That was poor work; the minutes dragged. But, at last, I heard seven striking from the neighbouring clocks, and almost immediately afterwards I heard something else—a sound of slow, stealthy movement in the tower-like building at the side of the shop. Even as I caught it, it ceased; a minute or two went by, I heard it again—again it ceased. That there were rats in that place I had no doubt, but something in that muffled sound made me certain that it came from a human being.

Rather than sit there, listening and wondering, I picked up the lamp and went into the place. The lamp was about as effective as a single match lighted in a cavern; it showed a small area at my feet, and kept the rest of the high space above me in darkness. Of course, I heard and saw nothing. But I was absolutely certain that there was something or somebody there. And when I went back to the office I had made up my mind, if Holliment had not come back when the town clocks next struck, I was going.

The events of the last two or three days—the anxiety consequent upon being stranded, the uncertainty of my prospects—these things had not improved the state of my nerves, and I felt that if I stopped much longer in that place, imagining a Chinaman prowling around, I should become a good deal more of a wreck than I wanted to be. It was not worth the sovereign which I should probably lose by going away—nevertheless, going I was unless Holliment turned up suddenly.

I heard no more of the movements in the big building, and the time went on slowly until the first stroke of eight broke the prevalent silence. I got out of my chair at that, flung away the newspaper, and seized a pencil and a scrap of paper; I was going to leave a note on the desk telling Holliment that I could not remain longer. I was utterly indifferent by that time as to whether he found the note that night or next morning; indifferent, too, to my sovereign. I wanted to get out and breathe free air. But before I had scribbled two lines I heard a low, sibilant signal, and jumping round as if I had been shot, saw the man I was writing to standing in the gloom of the shop, six yards away, outside the office door, beckoning. How he had got there without my being aware of his entrance I did not stop to think, but I was unfeignedly glad to see him, and stepped almost joyfully in his direction. He put up his hand, unmistakably in warning.

"Pull that blind down in there!" he whispered. "Right down so that no one can see in!"

"It is down," I answered. "Been down since six o'clock."

"Well, turn that lamp down, too," he went on. "And bar that door on the street—quick."

"That's been barred since six o'clock, too," I said, laying a finger on the regulator of the lamp. "It's safe enough."

He waited until the light had gone down to a pale gleam, just clear enough to let us see each other's faces, and then, keeping himself in the shadow, he came across the floor and into a corner of the office, giving me a narrow, searching glance.

"Anybody been?" he asked, significantly.

I pointed to the memoranda which I had prepared and laid on the desk.

"All down there," I answered. "That's the busines part of it."

There was a purposeful significance in my reply, and he was quick to see it.

"And—what else?" he said, anxiously. "Anything—not business?"

"I don't know whether it's business or not, Mr. Holliment," I replied, "but after it got dark, and before I'd fastened up that blind, I chanced to look at the window there, and I saw, his ugly face pressed close against it, a Chinaman."

I was watching him. For the second time that day I saw his face go pasty-white—only, as far as I could make out in that dim light, this time it was whiter than before—and he caught his breath in something like a sob.