V.
The Rose was stolen. That was Mr. Brunger's discovery after examination of the window-latch where George's knife had marked it, the sill where George's boots had scratched it. Outside the great detective searched for footmarks—they had been obliterated by heavy rainfall between the doing of the hideous deed and its discovery. Upon the principle of impressing his client, however, Mr. Brunger grovelled on the path with tape measure and note-book; measured every pair of boots in the house; measured the window; measured the room; in neat little packets tied up specimens of the gravel, specimens of the turf, specimens of hair from the Rose of Sharon's coat, picked from her bed.
It was six o'clock when he had concluded. By then George had returned; the three held council in the study. Addressing Mr. Marrapit, Mr. Brunger tapped his note-book and his little packages. “We shall track the culprit, never fear, Mr. Marrapit,” he said. “My impression is that this is the work of a gang—a gang.”
“Precisely my impression,” George agreed.
Mr. Brunger took the interruption with the gracious bow of one who condescends to accept a pat on the back from an inferior. Mr. Marrapit twisted his fingers in his thin hair; groaned aloud.
“A gang,” repeated Mr. Brunger, immensely relishing the word. “We detectives do not like to speak with certainty until we have clapped our hands upon our men; we leave that for the amateurs, the bunglers—the quacks of our profession.” The famous confidential inquiry agent tapped the table with his forefinger and proceeded impressively. “But I will say this much. Not only a gang, but a desperate gang, a dangerous, stick-at-nothing gang.”
Mr. Marrapit writhed. The detective continued: “What are our grounds for this belief?” he asked. “What are our data?”
He looked at George. George shook his head. Easy enough, and useful, to acquiesce in the idea of a gang, but uncommonly hard to support the belief. He shook his head.
Mr. Brunger was disappointed; a little at sea, he would have clutched eagerly at any aid. However, “impress your client.” He continued: “These are our data. We have a valuable cat—a cat, sir, upon which the eyes of cat-breeders are enviously fixed. Take America—you have had surprising offers from America for this cat, sir, so you told me?”
“Eight hundred pounds,” Mr. Marrapit groaned.
“Precisely. Observe how our data accumulate. We have dissatisfaction among breeders at home because you will not employ this cat as, in their opinion, for the good of the breed, she should be employed.”
Mr. Marrapit moaned: “Polygamy is abhorrent to me.”
“Precisely. Our data positively pile about us. We have a thousand enthusiasts yearning for this cat. We have your refusal to sell or to—to—” Mr. Brunger allowed a hiatus delicately to express his meaning. “Then depend upon it, sir, we have a determination to secure this cat by foul means since fair will not avail. We have a conspiracy among unscrupulous breeders to obtain this valuable cat, and hence, sir, we have a gang—a gang.”
Mr. Marrapit put his anguish of mind into two very deep groans.
“Keep calm, my dear sir,” Mr. Brunger soothed. “We shall return your cat. We have our data.” He continued: “Now, sir, there are two ways of dealing with a gang. We can capture the gang or we can seduce the gang—by offering a reward.”
George jumped in his chair. “Anything wrong?” Mr. Brunger inquired.
“Your—your extraordinary grasp of the case astonishes me,” George exclaimed.
“Experience, sir, experience,” said Mr. Brunger airily. Addressing Mr. Marrapit, “We must put both methods to work,” he continued. “I shall now go to town, look up the chief breeders and set members of my trained staff to track them. Also I must advertise this reward. With a cat of such value we cannot use half measures. Shall we say one hundred pounds to start with?”
“Barley water!” gasped Mr. Marrapit. “Barley water!”
George sprang to the sideboard where always stood a jug of Mr. Marrapit's favourite refreshment. Mr. Marrapit drank, agitation rattling the glass against his teeth.
“Think what it means to you, sir,” persuaded Mr. Brunger, a little alarmed at the effects of his proposal.
The detective's tone had a very earnest note, for he was thinking with considerable gratification what the hundred pounds would mean to himself. On previous occasions he had urged rewards from his clients, put Mr. Issy Jago in the way of securing them, and paid that gentleman a percentage.
“Think what it means to you,” he repeated. “What is a hundred pounds or thrice that sum against the restoration of your cat? Come, what is it, sir?”
“Ruin,” answered Mr. Marrapit, gulping barley water. “Ruin.”
Mr. Brunger urged gravely: “Oh, don't say that, sir. Think what our dumb pets are to us. I've got a blood-'ound at home myself that I'd give my life for if I lost—gladly. Surely they're more to us, our faithful friends, than mere—mere—”
“Pelf,” supplied George, on a thin squeak that was shot out by the excitement of seeing events so lustily playing his hand.
“Mere pelf,” adopted Mr. Brunger.
Mr. Marrapit gulped heavily at the barley water; set his gaze upon a life-size portrait in oils of his darling Rose; with fine calm announced: “If it must be, it must be.”
With masterly celerity Mr. Brunger drew forward pen and paper; scribbled; in three minutes had Mr. Marrapit's signed authority to offer one hundred pounds reward.
He put the document in his pocket; took up his hat. “To-morrow,” he said after farewells, “I or one of my staff will return to scour the immediate neighbourhood. It has been done, you tell me, but only by amateurs. The skilled detective, sir, will see a needle where the amateur cannot discern a haystack.”