LITMIR.BIZ

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kings and editors, Detectives are difficult of approach—unless you are a criminal, when you cannot see anything of them at all. Denzil knew of Edward Wimp, principally because of Grodman’s contempt for his successor. Wimp was a man of taste and culture. Grodman’s interests were entirely concentrated on the problems of logic and evidence. Books about these formed his sole reading; for belles lettres he cared not a straw. Wimp, with his flexible intellect, had a great contempt for Grodman and his slow, laborious, ponderous, almost Teutonic methods. Worse, he almost threatened to eclipse the radiant tradition of Grodman by some wonderfully ingenious bits of workmanship. Wimp was at his greatest in collecting circumstantial evidence; in putting two and two together to make five. He would collect together a number of dark and disconnected data and flash across them the electric light of some unifying hypothesis in a way which would have done credit to a Darwin or a Faraday. An intellect which might have served to unveil the secret workings of nature was subverted to the protection of a capitalistic civilization.

      By the assistance of a friendly policeman, whom the poet magnetized into the belief that his business was a matter of life and death, Denzil obtained the great detective’s private address. It was near King’s Cross. By a miracle Wimp was at home in the afternoon. He was writing when Denzil was ushered up three pairs of stairs into his presence, but he got up and flashed the bull’s-eye of his glance upon the visitor.

      “Mr. Denzil Cantercot, I believe!” said Wimp.

      Denzil started. He had not sent up his name, merely describing himself as a gentleman.

      “That is my name,” he murmured.

      “You were one of the witnesses at the inquest on the body of the late Arthur Constant. I have your evidence there.” He pointed to a file. “Why have you come to give fresh evidence?”

      Again Denzil started, flushing in addition this time. “I want money,” he said, almost involuntarily.

      “Sit down.” Denzil sat. Wimp stood.

      Wimp was young and fresh-colored. He had a Roman nose, and was smartly dressed. He had beaten Grodman by discovering the wife Heaven meant for him. He had a bouncing boy, who stole jam out of the pantry without anyone being the wiser. Wimp did what work he could do at home in a secluded study at the top of the house. Outside his chamber of horrors he was the ordinary husband of commerce. He adored his wife, who thought poorly of his intellect, but highly of his heart. In domestic difficulties Wimp was helpless. He could not even tell whether the servant’s “character” was forged or genuine. Probably he could not level himself to such petty problems. He was like the senior wrangler who has forgotten how to do quadratics, and has to solve equations of the second degree by the calculus.

      “How much money do you want?” he asked.

      “I do not make bargains,” Denzil replied, his calm come back by this time. “I came to tender you a suggestion. It struck me that you might offer me a fiver for my trouble. Should you do so, I shall not refuse it.”

      “You shall not refuse it—if you deserve it.”

      “Good. I will come to the point at once. My suggestion concerns—Tom Mortlake.”

      Denzil threw out the name as if it were a torpedo. Wimp did not move.

      “Tom Mortlake,” went on Denzil, looking disappointed, “had a sweetheart.” He paused impressively.

      Wimp said “Yes?”

      “Where is that sweetheart now?”

      “Where, indeed?”

      “You know about her disappearance?”

      “You have just informed me of it.”

      “Yes, she is gone—without a trace. She went about a fortnight before Mr. Constant’s murder.”

      “Murder? How do you know it was a murder?”

      “Mr. Grodman says so,” said Denzil, startled again.

      “H’m! Isn’t that rather a proof that it was suicide? Well, go on.”

      “About a fortnight before the suicide, Jessie Dymond disappeared. So they tell me in Stepney Green, where she lodged and worked.”

      “What was she?”

      “She was a dressmaker. She had a wonderful talent. Quite fashionable ladies got to know of it. One of her dresses was presented at Court. I think the lady forgot to pay for it; so Jessie’s landlady said.”

      “Did she live alone?”

      “She had no parents, but the house was respectable.”

      “Good-looking, I suppose?”

      “As a poet’s dream.”

      “As yours, for instance?”

      “I am a poet; I dream.”

      “You dream you are a poet. Well, well! She was engaged to Mortlake?”

      “Oh, yes! They made no secret of it. The engagement was an old one. When he was earning 36s. a week as a compositor they were saving up to buy a home. He worked at Railton and Hockes’, who print the New Pork Herald. I used to take my ‘copy’ into the comps’ room, and one day the Father of the Chapel told me all about ‘Mortlake and his young woman.’ Ye gods! How times are changed! Two years ago Mortlake had to struggle with my caligraphy—now he is in with all the nobs, and goes to the ‘at homes’ of the aristocracy.”

      “Radical M. P.’s,” murmured Wimp, smiling.

      “While I am still barred from the dazzling drawing-rooms, where beauty and intellect foregather. A mere artisan! A manual laborer!” Denzil’s eyes flashed angrily. He rose with excitement. “They say he always was a jabberer in the composing-room, and he has jabbered himself right out of it and into a pretty good thing. He didn’t have much to say about the crimes of capital when he was set up to second the toast of ‘Railton and Hockes’ at the beanfeast.”

      “Toast and butter, toast and butter,” said Wimp genially. “I shouldn’t blame a man for serving the two together, Mr. Cantercot.”

      Denzil forced a laugh. “Yes; but consistency’s my motto. I like to see the royal soul immaculate, unchanging, immovable by fortune. Anyhow, when better times came for Mortlake the engagement still dragged on. He did not visit her so much. This last autumn he saw very little of her.”

      “How do you know?”

      “I—I was often in Stepney Green. My business took me past the house of an evening. Sometimes there was no light in her room. That meant she was downstairs gossiping with the landlady.”

      “She might have been out with Tom?”

      “No, sir; I knew Tom was on the platform somewhere or other. He was working up to all hours organizing the eight hours working movement.”

      “A very good reason for relaxing his sweethearting.”

      “It was. He never went to Stepney Green on a week night.”

      “But you always did.”

      “No—not every night.”

      “You didn’t go in?”

      “Never. She wouldn’t permit my visits. She was a girl of strong character. She always reminded me of Flora Macdonald.”

      “Another lady of your acquaintance?”

      “A lady I know better than the shadows who surround me; who is more real to me than the women who pester me for the price for apartments. Jessie Dymond, too, was of the race of heroines. Her eyes were clear blue, two wells with Truth at the bottom of each. When I looked into those eyes my own were dazzled. They were the only eyes I could never make dreamy.” He waved his hand as if making a pass with it. “It was she who had the influence over me.”

      “You knew her then?”

      “Oh, yes. I

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