The Triumphs of Eugene Valmont Part 38

'Old Barrie Kipson,' I began, 'was a stockbroker in the City. He lived in Pegram, and it was his custom to--'

'COME IN!' shouted Kombs, without changing his position, but with a suddenness that startled me. I had heard no knock.

'Excuse me,' said my friend, laughing, 'my invitation to enter was a trifle premature. I was really so interested in your recital that I spoke before I thought, which a detective should never do. The fact is, a man will be here in a moment who will tell me all about this crime, and so you will be spared further effort in that line.'

'Ah, you have an appointment. In that case I will not intrude,' I said, rising.

'Sit down; I have no appointment. I did not know until I spoke that he was coming.'

I gazed at him in amazement. Accustomed as I was to his extraordinary talents, the man was a perpetual surprise to me. He continued to smoke quietly, but evidently enjoyed my consternation.

'I see you are surprised. It is really too simple to talk about, but, from my position opposite the mirror, I can see the reflection of objects in the street. A man stopped, looked at one of my cards, and then glanced across the street. I recognised my card, because, as you know, they are all in scarlet. If, as you say, London is talking of this mystery, it naturally follows that _he_ will talk of it, and the chances are he wished to consult with me upon it. Anyone can see that, besides there is always--_Come in!_

There was a rap at the door this time.

A stranger entered. Sherlaw Kombs did not change his lounging att.i.tude.

'I wish to see Mr. Sherlaw Kombs, the detective,' said the stranger, coming within the range of the smoker's vision.

'This is Mr. Kombs,' I remarked at last, as my friend smoked quietly, and seemed half-asleep.

'Allow me to introduce myself,' continued the stranger, fumbling for a card.

'There is no need. You are a journalist,' said Kombs.

'Ah,' said the stranger, somewhat taken aback, 'you know me, then.'

'Never saw or heard of you in my life before.'

'Then how in the world--'

'Nothing simpler. You write for an evening paper. You have written an article slating the book of a friend. He will feel badly about it, and you will condole with him. He will never know who stabbed him unless I tell him.'

'The devil!' cried the journalist, sinking into a chair and mopping his brow, while his face became livid.

'Yes,' drawled Kombs, 'it is a devil of a shame that such things are done. But what would you? as we say in France.'

When the journalist had recovered his second wind he pulled himself together somewhat. 'Would you object to telling me how you know these particulars about a man you say you have never seen?'

'I rarely talk about these things,' said Kombs with great composure.

'But as the cultivation of the habit of observation may help you in your profession, and thus in a remote degree benefit me by making your paper less deadly dull, I will tell you. Your first and second fingers are smeared with ink, which shows that you write a great deal.

This smeared cla.s.s embraces two sub-cla.s.ses, clerks or accountants, and journalists. Clerks have to be neat in their work. The ink smear is slight in their case. Your fingers are badly and carelessly smeared; therefore, you are a journalist. You have an evening paper in your pocket. Anyone might have any evening paper, but yours is a Special Edition, which will not be on the streets for half-an-hour yet. You must have obtained it before you left the office, and to do this you must be on the staff. A book notice is marked with a blue pencil. A journalist always despises every article in his own paper not written by himself; therefore, you wrote the article you have marked, and doubtless are about to send it to the author of the book referred to. Your paper makes a speciality of abusing all books not written by some member of its own staff. That the author is a friend of yours, I merely surmised. It is all a trivial example of ordinary observation.'

'Really, Mr. Kombs, you are the most wonderful man on earth. You are the equal of Gregory, by Jove, you are.'

A frown marred the brow of my friend as he placed his pipe on the sideboard and drew his self-c.o.c.king six-shooter.

'Do you mean to insult me, sir?'

'I do not--I--I a.s.sure you. You are fit to take charge of Scotland Yard tomorrow ----. I am in earnest, indeed I am, sir.'

'Then heaven help you,' cried Kombs, slowly raising his right arm.

I sprang between them.

'Don't shoot!' I cried. 'You will spoil the carpet. Besides, Sherlaw, don't you see the man means well. He actually thinks it is a compliment!'

'Perhaps you are right,' remarked the detective, flinging his revolver carelessly beside his pipe, much to the relief of the third party.

Then, turning to the journalist, he said, with his customary bland courtesy--

'You wanted to see me, I think you said. What can I do for you, Mr Wilber Scribbings?'

The journalist started.

'How do you know my name?' he gasped.

Kombs waved his hand impatiently.

'Look inside your hat if you doubt your own name.'

I then noticed for the first time that the name was plainly to be seen inside the top-hat Scribbings held upside down in his hands.

'You have heard, of course, of the Pegram mystery--'

'Tush,' cried the detective; 'do not, I beg of you, call it a mystery.

There is no such thing. Life would become more tolerable if there ever _was_ a mystery. Nothing is original. Everything has been done before.

What about the Pegram affair?'

'The Pegram--ah--case has baffled everyone. The _Evening Blade_ wishes you to investigate, so that it may publish the result. It will pay you well. Will you accept the commission?'

'Possibly. Tell me about the case.'

'I thought everybody knew the particulars. Mr. Barrie Kipson lived at Pegram. He carried a first-cla.s.s season ticket between the terminus and that station. It was his custom to leave for Pegram on the 5.30 train each evening. Some weeks ago, Mr. Kipson was brought down by the influenza. On his first visit to the City after his recovery, he drew something like 300 in notes, and left the office at his usual hour to catch the 5.30. He was never seen again alive, as far as the public have been able to learn. He was found at Brewster in a first-cla.s.s compartment on the Scotch Express, which does not stop between London and Brewster. There was a bullet in his head, and his money was gone, pointing plainly to murder and robbery.'

'And where is the mystery, might I ask?'

'There are several unexplainable things about the case. First, how came he on the Scotch Express, which leaves at six, and does not stop at Pegram? Second, the ticket examiners at the terminus would have turned him out if he showed his season ticket; and all the tickets sold for the Scotch Express on the 21st are accounted for. Third, how could the murderer have escaped? Fourth, the pa.s.sengers in the two compartments on each side of the one where the body was found heard no scuffle and no shot fired.'

'Are you sure the Scotch Express on the 21st did not stop between London and Brewster?'

'Now that you mention the fact, it did. It was stopped by signal just outside of Pegram. There was a few moments' pause, when the line was reported clear, and it went on again. This frequently happens, as there is a branch line beyond Pegram.'

Mr. Sherlaw Kombs pondered for a few moments, smoking his pipe silently.

'I presume you wish the solution in time for tomorrow's paper?'

'Bless my soul, no. The editor thought if you evolved a theory in a month you would do well.'

'My dear sir, I do not deal with theories, but with facts. If you can make it convenient to call here tomorrow at 8 a.m. I will give you the full particulars early enough for the first edition. There is no sense in taking up much time over so simple an affair as the Pegram case.