The Charing Cross Mystery - J. S. Fletcher (ereader with android .txt) 📗

of fried fish, and a gay neckerchief alongside a damaged orange.

Threading his way behind Issy, and between the thronged stalls and the miserable shops that lined the pavement, Hetherwick presently came to the piece of blank wall of which the Jew had told him. The houses and shops round about were old and dilapidated, but the wall was either modern or had been rebuilt and strengthened. It stretched between two low houses, one used as a grocer’s, the other as a hardware shop. In length, it was some thirty feet; in height, quite ten; its coping, as Goldmark had said, was liberally embattled with broken glass. The door, set flush with the adjoining masonry, was a solid affair, faced with metal, newly painted, and the lock was evidently a patent one. A significant fact struck Hetherwick at once⁠—there was no sign of a bell and none of a knocker.

“You say the woman let herself in here?” he asked, as he and Issy paused.

“That’th it, mithter Hetherwick⁠—let herthelf in,” replied Issy. “I thee her take the key from her pocket.”

Hetherwick glanced at the top of the wall.

“I wonder what’s behind?” he muttered. “Building of some sort, of course.” He turned to a man whose stall stood just in front of the mysterious door, and who at that moment had no trade. “Do you know anything about this place?” he asked. “Do you know what’s behind this wall? What building it is?”

The stall-keeper eyed Hetherwick over, silently and carefully. Deciding that he was an innocent person and not a policeman in plain clothes, he found his tongue.

“I don’t, guv’nor!” he answered. “ ’Aint a bloomin’ notion! I been comin’ here, or hereabouts, this three year or more, but I ’aint never seen behind that wall, nor in at that there doorway. S’elp me!”

“But I suppose you’ve seen people go in and come out of the door?” suggested Hetherwick. “It must be used for something!”

“I reckon it is, guv’nor, but I don’t call nobody to mind, though, to be sure, I see a woman come out of it a while ago⁠—big, heavy-jawed woman, she was. But queer as it may seem, I don’t call to mind ever seeing anybody else. You see, guv’nor, I comes here at about ten o’clock of a morning, and I packs up and ‘ops it at five⁠—if there’s folks comes in and out o’ that spot, it must be early in a morning and late at night, and so I shouldn’t see ’em. But it’s my belief this here wall and door is back premises to something⁠—the front o’ the place’ll be on the other side.”

“That’s a good idea,” said Hetherwick, with a glance at Goldmark. “Let’s go round.”

But there was no going round. Although they tried various alleys and passages and streets that ought to have been parallel to Pencove Street, they failed to find any place that could be a frontage to the mysterious wall and its close-set door. But the Jew’s alert faculties asserted themselves.

“We can thee vhat’th behind that vail, mithter, eathy enough if we get one o’ them thop-keeperth oppothit to let uth go upthtairth to hith firtht floor,” he said. “Look right acroth the thtreet there, thtallth and all, into vhatever there ith. Try that one,” he went on, pointing to a greengrocer’s establishment which faced the close-set door. “Tell him we’re doin’ a bit o’ land thurveyin’⁠—which ith thtrue!”

Hetherwick made his request⁠—the greengrocer’s lady showed him and Goldmark upstairs into a bow-windowed parlour, one of those dismal apartments which are only used on Sundays, for the purpose of adding more gloom to a gloomy day. She observed that there was a nice view both ways of the street, but Hetherwick confined his inspection to the front. He saw across the wall easily enough, now. There was little to see. The wall bounded a yard, bounded on its left and right sides by the walls of the adjoining houses, and at its further extremity by a low, squat building of red brick, erected against the rear of a high, windowless wall beyond. From its mere aspect, it was impossible to tell what this squat, flat-roofed structure was used for. Its door⁠—closed⁠—was visible; visible, too, were the windows on either side. But it was easy to see that they were obscured, as to their lower halves, by coats of dark paint. There was no sign over the building; no outward indication of its purpose. In the yard, however, were crates, boxes, and carboys in wicker cases; a curiously-shaped chimney, projecting from the roof above, suggested the presence of a furnace or forge beneath. And Hetherwick, after another look, felt no doubt that he was gazing at the place to which Hannaford had been taken, and where he had been skilfully poisoned.

Goldmark suddenly nudged his arm, and nodded at the crowded street below.

“Mapperley!” he whispered. “And two men with him!”

Hetherwick, glancing in the direction indicated, saw Robmore and another man, both in plain clothes, making their way down the street, between the stalls and the shops. With them, and in close conversation, was a uniformed constable. He turned to leave the room, but Goldmark again touched his elbow.

“Before we go, mithter,” he said, “jutht take another glanth at that plathe oppothite, and it’ths thurroundin’th. I thee where we can get in! D’ye thee, mithter Hetherwick, the wall between that yard and the next houth⁠—the right-hand thide one⁠—’ith fairly low at the far end. Now, if the man in that houth would let uth go through to hith backyard⁠—vhat?”

“I see!” agreed Hetherwick. “We’ll try it. But Robmore first⁠—come along.”

He slipped some silver into the hand of the greengrocer’s lady, and went down to the street. A few brief explanations to the two detectives supplemented the information already given them by Mapperley, and then Robmore nodded at the constable who stood by, eagerly interested.

“We’ve been talking to him, Mr. Hetherwick,” he said. “He’s sometimes on day duty here, and sometimes he’s on night. He says he’s often wondered