In a moment the first floor window was raised—the little house was of the same pattern as her own—and Grodman’s full fleshy face loomed through the fog in sleepy irritation from under a nightcap. Despite its scowl the ex-detective’s face dawned upon her like the sun upon an occupant of the haunted chamber.
‘What in the devil’s the matter?’ he growled. Grodman was not an early bird, now that he had no worms to catch. He could afford to despise proverbs now, for the house in which he lived was his, and he lived in it because several other houses in the street were also his, and it is well for the landlord to be about his own estate in Bow, where poachers often shoot the moon. Perhaps the desire to enjoy his greatness among his early cronies counted for something, too, for he had been born and bred at Bow, receiving when a youth his first engagement from the local police quarters, whence he drew a few shillings a week as an amateur detective in his leisure hours.
Grodman was still a bachelor. In the celestial matrimonial bureau a partner might have been selected for him, but he had never been able to discover her. It was his one failure as a detective. He was a self-sufficing person, who preferred a gas stove to a domestic; but in deference to Glover Street opinion he admitted a female factotum between ten a.m. and ten p.m., and, equally in deference to Glover Street opinion, excluded her between ten p.m. and ten a.m.
‘I want you to come across at once,’ Mrs Drabdump gasped. ‘Something has happened to Mr Constant.’
‘What! Not bludgeoned by the police at the meeting this morning, I hope?’
‘No, no! He didn’t go. He is dead.’
‘Dead?’ Grodman’s face grew very serious now.
‘Yes. Murdered!’
‘What?’ almost shouted the ex-detective. ‘How? When? Where? Who?’
‘I don’t know. I can’t get to him. I have beaten at his door. He does not answer.’
Grodman’s face lit up with relief.
‘You silly woman! Is that all? I shall have a cold in my head. Bitter weather. He’s dog-tired after yesterday—processions, three speeches, kindergarten, lecture on “the moon”, article on co-operation. That’s his style.’ It was also Grodman’s style. He never wasted words.
‘No,’ Mrs Drabdump breathed up at him solemnly, ‘he’s dead.’
‘All right; go back. Don’t alarm the neighbourhood unnecessarily. Wait for me. Down in five minutes.’ Grodman did not take this Cassandra of the kitchen too seriously. Probably he knew his woman. His small, bead-like eyes glittered with an almost amused smile as he withdrew them from Mrs Drabdump’s ken, and shut down the sash with a bang. The poor woman ran back across the road and through her door, which she would not close behind her. It seemed to shut her in with the dead. She waited in the passage. After an age—seven minutes by any honest clock—Grodman made his appearance, looking as dressed as usual, but with unkempt hair and with disconsolate side-whisker. He was not quite used to that side-whisker yet, for it had only recently come within the margin of cultivation. In active service Grodman had been clean-shaven, like all members of the profession—for surely your detective is the most versatile of actors. Mrs Drabdump closed the street door quietly, and pointed to the stairs, fear operating like a polite desire to give him precedence. Grodman ascended, amusement still glimmering in his eyes. Arrived on the landing he knocked peremptorily at the door, crying, ‘Nine o’clock, Mr Constant; nine o’clock!’ When he ceased there was no other sound or movement. His face grew more serious. He waited, then knocked, and cried louder. He turned the handle, but the door was fast. He tried to peer through the keyhole, but it was blocked. He shook the upper panels, but the door seemed bolted as well as locked. He stood still, his face set and rigid, for he liked and esteemed the man.
‘Ay, knock your loudest,’ whispered the pale-faced woman. ‘You’ll not wake him now.’
The grey mist had followed them through the street door, and hovered about the staircase, charging the air with a moist, sepulchral odour.
‘Locked and bolted,’ muttered Grodman, shaking the door afresh.
‘Burst it open,’ breathed the woman, trembling violently all over, and holding her hands before her as if to ward off the dreadful vision. Without another word, Grodman applied his shoulder to the door, and made a violent muscular effort. He had been an athlete in his time, and the sap was yet in him. The door creaked, little by little it began to give, the woodwork enclosing the bolt of the lock splintered, the panels bent upward, the large upper bolt tore off its iron staple; the door flew back with a crash. Grodman rushed in.
‘My God!’ he cried. The woman shrieked. The sight was too terrible.
Within a few hours the jubilant news-boys were shrieking ‘Horrible Suicide in Bow,’ and The Moon poster added, for the satisfaction of those too poor to purchase: ‘A Philanthropist Cuts His Throat.’
BUT the newspapers were premature. Scotland Yard refused to prejudice the case despite the penny-a-liners. Several arrests were made, so that the later editions were compelled to soften ‘Suicide’ into ‘Mystery’. The people arrested were a nondescript collection of tramps. Most of them had committed other offences for which the police had not arrested them. One bewildered-looking gentleman gave himself up (as if he were a riddle), but the police would have none of him, and restored him forthwith to his friends and keepers. The number of candidates for each new opening in Newgate is astonishing.
The full significance of this tragedy of a noble young life cut short had hardly time to filter into the public mind, when a fresh sensation absorbed it. Tom Mortlake had been arrested the same day at Liverpool on suspicion of being concerned in the death of his fellow-lodger. The news fell like a bombshell upon a land in which Tom Mortlake’s name was a household word. That the gifted artisan orator, who had never shrunk upon occasion from launching red rhetoric at Society, should actually have shed blood seemed too startling, especially as the blood shed was not blue, but the property of a lovable young middle-class idealist, who had now literally given his life to the Cause. But this supplementary sensation did not grow to a head, and everybody (save a few labour leaders) was relieved to hear that Tom had been released almost immediately, being merely subpoenaed to appear at the inquest. In an interview which he accorded to the representative of a Liverpool paper the same afternoon, he stated that he put his arrest down entirely to the enmity and rancour entertained towards him by the police throughout the country. He had come to Liverpool to trace the movements of a friend about whom he was very uneasy, and he was making anxious inquiries at the docks to discover at what times steamers left for America, when the detectives stationed there in accordance with instructions from headquarters had arrested him as a suspicious-looking character. ‘Though,’ said Tom, ‘they must very well have known my phiz, as I have been sketched and caricatured all over the shop. When I told them who I was they had the decency to let me go. They thought they’d scored off me enough, I reckon. Yes, it certainly is a strange coincidence that I might actually have had something to do with the poor fellow’s death, which has cut me up as much as anybody; though if they had known I had just come from the “scene of the crime”, and actually lived in the house, they would probably have—let me alone.’ He laughed sarcastically. ‘They are a queer lot of muddle-heads are the police. Their motto is, “First catch your man, then cook the evidence”. If you’re on the spot you’re guilty because you’re there, and if you’re elsewhere you’re guilty because you have gone away. Oh, I know them! If they could have seen
