Samuel Boyd of Catchpole Square: A Mystery

by B. L. Farjeon

But though he spoke and acted thus boldly he fully recognised the seriousness of this new danger. Say that this man laid information against him at the first police station; say that it got to the knowledge of Detective Lambert who was searching everywhere for a clue to the mystery. What would be the consequence? A warrant would be immediately issued for his arrest, and a search warrant as well. The rope and grapnel, tied up in brown paper, was now under the bed of his room in Constable Pond's house, and the key of that room was in his pocket. How could he explain away his possession of the rope? He would be asked why he made no mention of it at the inquest; his silence regarding it would be a piece of damning evidence against him. And not the only piece. His prowling about in the neighbourhood of Catchpole Square at an early hour of the morning, as testified by Constable Applebee, was in the highest degree suspicious when taken in connection with his possession of the rope and grapnel. His knowledge of the habits of Samuel Boyd, gained during his employment as clerk in the house, would be against him. One thing was certain. He would be deprived of his liberty, and the contemplation of this contingency filled him with dismay. Everything depended upon his being free to carry out the plans he had formed, and therefore upon his turning the tables upon the old vagabond who sat leering into his face.

And in the event of his being arrested, what would be said of him in Aunt Rob's home? Was it not probable, aye, more than probable, that they would suspect him to be the murderer? He had woven a net for himself, and if he were not careful he would drag down Reginald with him. Press and public would say "collusion," and the chain of circumstantial evidence be too strong for him to break through.

Admitting all this, he felt that any sign of weakness in the presence of Mr. Higgins would be fatal. There was nothing for it but to play the bold game.

"I've a good mind," he said, slowly and sternly, "to go and give information against you."

"What do you mean?" demanded Mr. Higgins, his features twitching more hideously than ever. Dick hailed these signs of discomposure with delight, and encouraged by the impression his sarcastic references to Mr. Higgins as an honest tradesman had produced he was quick to take advantage of it. He resembled the gambler who stakes his whole fortune upon the last throw.

"Did you ever see the secret books of the police," he said, "with the names of certain men with black marks against them? Why, we can lay our hands upon every thief and fence in London when we want to--do you hear? when we want to." Mr. Higgins winced. "There are some things that lick us for a time, like this Catchpole Square Mystery, but we don't go to sleep over them, though some people may think we do. And when we're playing a high game we don't show our cards. What I mean is, that we'll have your place searched for stolen goods. How will that suit you, my honest tradesman? We can bring one or two things against you that you'll find it hard to explain when you're in the dock. If we let you alone it's because you're not worth the powder and shot, but get our dander up, Mr. Higgins, and we'll make short work of you. How does that suit your book? Take care of your precious self, my man, and let sleeping dogs lie."

It was vague, but effective, and it was Dick's good fortune that the hazardous shot told. Indeed, it had gone straight to the bull's eye. Many were the questionable transactions in which, from time to time, Mr. Higgins had been engaged. Petty thieves in the neighbourhood were in the habit of selling their small spoils across his counter; this modern Fagin was always ready to buy, and no questions asked. He had been in trouble more than once, and was in mortal dread of getting into trouble again. This, of course, was unknown to Dick, and it was only from his familiarity with the nature of much of the business transacted in some of these second-hand shops in mean streets that he had ventured upon the bold attack. He could have hugged himself when he saw the effect it produced upon Mr. Higgins.

"There is nothing like a good understanding in these matters, Mr. Higgins," he continued, "and I've no wish to be hard on you. I've got my own game to play, and it's keeping me pretty busy. Between ourselves--don't be frightened, there's nobody by--I did purchase a rope and grapnel of you, but is it for you to say whether I purchased it for myself or for another person, and what use I made of it? I might deny it if I chose, and then, my honest tradesman, who would take your word against mine? Is there any magistrate's court in London where your oath would be believed, much less your word? What a blind fool you are! Upon my word I gave you credit for more sense. Perhaps the reporter of 'The Little Busy Bee' used a rope and grapnel, perhaps he didn't. Perhaps it was the one I bought of you, perhaps it wasn't. I'm not going to let you into the know, Mr. Higgins. How would you like to have the papers down on you as well as the police? How do you know I'm not acting under instructions to track and catch the murderer or murderers of Samuel Boyd? How do you know"--here he leaned forward, and tapped Mr. Higgins confidentially on the breast--"that I'm not in the secret service myself? Would you like to hear what is in these bills that you are going to help me stick on the walls? I've just come from the printing office where I've had them printed. You can't read, you say; it is a pity you should be left in the dark, so I'll read it to you." Dick spread one out, and read it aloud, with unction. "It reads well, doesn't it? I'm rather proud of it. That's a figure of Justice on the top. My idea. Rather a good idea, I flatter myself. A pretty fellow you are to come and threaten me with your rope and grapnel! I'll tell you what your game is, Mr. Higgins. Blackmail. That is it--blackmail. A dangerous game, old man, and you've got hold of the wrong end of the stick--perhaps you see that now. If I had anything to fear is it likely that I'd be going about in open daylight sticking up these bills? More likely to be sailing on the open seas for some foreign port. Where are your wits, you clumsy idiot?"

To judge from Mr. Higgins's appearance, they had gone wool-gathering. He literally gasped beneath the volley which Dick had poured upon him, at the end of which he was sitting in his chair in a state of helpless collapse. Dick had turned the tables upon him with a vengeance.

"Now, what have you got to say?" he asked, triumphantly.