Devlin the Barber

by B. L. Farjeon

"Let me look at the block of the cheque for the two thousand pounds you drew on Saturday morning, payable to bearer, and gave to Mr. Dowsett."

"It is the last cheque I drew," said Carton, handing me the book.

I glanced at it, saw that the bank was the National Provincial Bank of England, and the number of the cheque 134,178. Then I obtained a telegraph form, and at my instruction Carton wrote the following telegram:

"To the Manager, National Provincial Bank of England, 112 Bishopsgate Street, London. Has my cheque for two thousand pounds (No. 134,178), drawn by me on Saturday, and made payable to bearer, been cashed, and how was it paid, in notes or gold? Reply paid. Urgent. Waiting here for answer. From Richard Carton, Nayland Rock Hotel, Margate."

"I will take this myself to the telegraph-office," I said, "and you will wait here for the answer. I will be back as quickly as possible, but it is likely I may be absent for an hour or more."

With that I left him, Devlin accompanying me at my request.

I could have sent the telegram from the railway station, but I chose to send it from the local post-office, for the reason that I expected to receive there a telegram from my wife, whom I had instructed to wire to me, before eight o'clock, whether there was anything fresh in the London newspapers concerning the murder of Lizzie Melladew. I mentioned this to Devlin, and he said,

"You omit nothing; it is a pleasure to work with you. Command me in any way you please. My turn, perhaps, will come by and by."

It was early morning, and our way lay along the Marine Parade, every house in which was either a public or a boarding house. From every basement in the row, as we walked on, ascended one uniform odour of the cooking of bacon and eggs, which caused Devlin to humorously remark that when bacon and eggs ceased to be the breakfast of the average Englishman, the decay of England's greatness would commence. All along the line this familiar odour accompanied us.

At the post-office I found my wife's telegram awaiting me. It was to the effect that there was nothing new in the papers concerning the murder. The criminal was still at large, and the police appeared to have failed in obtaining a clue. I despatched Carton's telegram to the London bank, and then we proceeded to Athelstan Road, and soon found the house we were in search of. I had decided upon my plan of operations: Devlin was not to appear; he was to stand at some distance from the house, and only to come forward if I called him. I was to knock and inquire for Mr. Dowsett, and explain to him that, not feeling well, I had run down to Margate for the day. Carton had given me his guardian's address, and had asked me to inquire whether Mr. Dowsett would be absent from London for any length of time, intending, if such was the case, to join Mr. Dowsett and his family in the country. Then I was to trust to chance and to anything I observed how next to proceed. The whole invention was as lame as well could be, but I could not think of a better. It was only when decided action was necessary that I felt how powerless I was. All that I had to depend upon was a slender and mysterious thread of conjecture.