“Yes,” said the clerk. “He came in one day last week.”
“Friday,” interposed Mr. Ennidge.
“Yes, he came in here last Friday morning, and said he’d been over No. 13 Scholefield Avenue, having seen the board ‘To Let’ in front of the house,” replied the clerk. “The owners, Mr. and Mrs. Mill, had only gone away that morning, and Mr. West was shown over by a servant who had been left behind to clear up and follow by a later train. He told me he required a furnished house for a year. He said he was very fond of solitude; that he had lived in India all his life and didn’t care to meet strangers, but wanted a house with a garden, where he could be private, so to speak. He said he thought Scholefield Avenue would suit him admirably, but that he wished to take it for a month first to see how he liked it, and to have the option of taking it on. I was uncertain whether Mr. Mill would be agreeable to such an arrangement, and suggested waiting till we could communicate with the owner, but he wouldn’t hear of that; said he wished to go in immediately, and would take some other house he’d seen unless he could clinch the matter then and there. He made an offer of fifteen guineas a week for the first month, and eight for the rest of the year if he should decide to take it on. This is such a very high price for this part of London that I felt sure Mr. Ennidge or Mr. Pring, if they had been here, would not have let it escape, but would have hit the iron while it was hot, if you take my meaning; and as I was aware that Mr. Mill had left an absolute discretion to the firm with regard to letting the house, and that he was very anxious to do so as quickly as possible, I didn’t hesitate any longer, but agreed to Mr. West’s conditions.
“He said that he wished to have possession of the house from midday of Monday last; told me to get a charwoman in on Monday morning, in case any cleaning up remained to be done, and that he wished me to meet him at the house on Monday for the purpose of going over the inventory. Then he took out a pocket book, which seemed to be stuffed full of bank notes, paid me thirty guineas, the rent for half the first month, and asked me to get the agreement for him to sign. I got him two agreement forms such as we use, as a rule, when letting furnished houses, and he signed them both and put one in his pocket.”
“Perhaps Mr. Gimblet would like to glance at our copy,” said Mr. Ennidge, diving into a drawer. “Here it is,” and he handed a paper to the detective, who turned it over thoughtfully. There was nothing on it beyond the ordinary printed clauses setting forth the terms of the contract. At the end the tenant had signed his name, “Henry West,” in large, sprawling characters, the strokes of which seemed a trifle uncertain, as if the hand that held the pen had not been absolutely steady. Below, in a neat business-like writing, was the clerk’s signature: “A. W. Tremmels, for Messrs. Ennidge and Pring.”
Gimblet put it in his pocket. “I may keep it for the present, I suppose?” he asked Mr. Ennidge, who looked rather as if he would have liked to object, but on the whole decided not to.
“Can you describe what Mr. West looked like?” Gimblet asked the clerk. “But perhaps you had better tell me that on the way to the house. Mr. Ennidge has promised to send you down with me. One thing, however, before we start: I should like to see the inventory, if I may.”
“By all means,” Mr. Ennidge replied. “Just get it, Tremmels, and the key too. You know where they are kept,” and as the clerk went into the outer office he turned again to Gimblet.
“If you would like me to come myself?” he suggested.