The Middle Temple Murder - J. S. Fletcher (reading women .TXT) 📗

Spargo put a finger on the places indicated.

“Yes, that’s so,” he agreed. “Feels like two cards⁠—a large and a small one. And the small one’s harder than the other. Better cut that lining out, Rathbury.”

“That,” remarked Rathbury, producing a penknife, “is just what I’m going to do. We’ll cut along this seam.”

He ripped the lining carefully open along the upper part of the lining of the lid, and looking into the pocket thus made, drew out two objects which he dropped on his blotting pad.

“A child’s photograph,” he said, glancing at one of them. “But what on earth is that?”

The object to which he pointed was a small, oblong piece of thin, much-worn silver, about the size of a railway ticket. On one side of it was what seemed to be a heraldic device or coat-of-arms, almost obliterated by rubbing; on the other, similarly worn down by friction, was the figure of a horse.

“That’s a curious object,” remarked Spargo, picking it up. “I never saw anything like that before. What can it be?”

“Don’t know⁠—I never saw anything of the sort either,” said Rathbury. “Some old token, I should say. Now this photo. Ah⁠—you see, the photographer’s name and address have been torn away or broken off⁠—there’s nothing left but just two letters of what’s apparently been the name of the town⁠—see. Er⁠—that’s all there is. Portrait of a baby, eh?”

Spargo gave, what might have been called in anybody else but him, a casual glance at the baby’s portrait. He picked up the silver ticket again and turned it over and over.

“Look here, Rathbury,” he said. “Let me take this silver thing. I know where I can find out what it is. At least, I think I do.”

“All right,” agreed the detective, “but take the greatest care of it, and don’t tell a soul that we found it in this box, you know. No connection with the Marbury case, Spargo, remember.”

“Oh, all right,” said Spargo. “Trust me.”

He put the silver ticket in his pocket, and went back to the office, wondering about this singular find. And when he had written his article that evening, and seen a proof of it, Spargo went into Fleet Street intent on seeking peculiar information.

The haunt of well-informed men which Spargo had in view when he turned out of the Watchman office lay well hidden from ordinary sight and knowledge in one of those Fleet Street courts the like of which is not elsewhere in the world. Only certain folk knew of it. It was, of course, a club; otherwise it would not have been what it was. It is the simplest thing in life, in England, at any rate, to form a club of congenial spirits. You get so many of your choice friends and acquaintances to gather round you; you register yourselves under a name of your own choosing; you take a house and furnish it according to your means and your taste: you comply with the very easy letter of the law, and there you are. Keep within that easy letter, and you can do what you please on your own premises. It is much more agreeable to have a small paradise of your own of this description than to lounge about Fleet Street bars.

The particular club to which Spargo bent his steps was called the Octoneumenoi. Who evolved this extraordinary combination of Latin and Greek was a dark mystery: there it was, however, on a tiny brass plate you once reached the portals. The portals were gained by devious ways. You turned out of Fleet Street by an alley so narrow that it seemed as if you might suddenly find yourself squeezed between the ancient walls. Then you suddenly dived down another alley and found yourself in a small court, with high walls around you and a smell of printer’s ink in your nose and a whirring of printing presses in your ears. You made another dive into a dark entry, much encumbered by bales of paper, crates of printing material, jars of printing ink; after falling over a few of these you struck an ancient flight of stairs and went up past various landings, always travelling in a state of gloom and fear. After a lot of twisting and turning you came to the very top of the house and found it heavily curtained off. You lifted a curtain and found yourself in a small entresol, somewhat artistically painted⁠—the whole and sole work of an artistic member who came one day with a formidable array of lumber and paint-pots and worked his will on the ancient wood. Then you saw the brass plate and its fearful name, and beneath it the formal legal notice that this club was duly registered and so on, and if you were a member you went in, and if you weren’t a member you tinkled an electric bell and asked to see a member⁠—if you knew one.

Spargo was not a member, but he knew many members, and he tinkled the bell, and asked the boy who answered it for Mr. Starkey. Mr. Starkey, a young gentleman with the biceps of a prizefighter and a head of curly hair that would have done credit to Antinous, came forth in due course and shook Spargo by the hand until his teeth rattled.

“Had we known you were coming,” said Mr. Starkey, “we’d have had a brass band on the stairs.”

“I want to come in,” remarked Spargo.

“Sure!” said Mr. Starkey. “That’s what you’ve come for.”

“Well, stand out of the way, then, and let’s get in,” said Spargo. “Look here,” he continued when they had penetrated into a small vestibule, “doesn’t old Crowfoot turn in here about this time every night?”

“Every night as true as the clock, my son Spargo, Crowfoot puts his nose in at precisely eleven, having by that time finished that daily column wherein he informs a section of the populace as to the prospects of their spotting a winner tomorrow,” answered Mr. Starkey.