Adventures of Martin Hewitt

Adventures of Martin Hewitt by Arthur Morrison Page B

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Authors: Arthur Morrison
Tags: Crime, Short Stories
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keys. Some of them fitted drawers
and bureaux at home, and others, I suppose, fitted locks in this office.”
    “What of the pocket-knife?”
    “That was a very uncommon one. It was a present, as a matter of fact, from
an engineering friend, who had had it made specially. It was large, with a
tortoise-shell handle and a silver plate with his initials. There was only
one ordinary knife-blade in it, all the other implements were small tools or
things of that kind. There was a small pair of silver calipers, for
instance.”
    “Like these?” Hewitt suggested, producing those he used for measuring
drawers and cabinets in search of secret receptacles.
    “Yes, like those. And there were folding steel compasses, a tiny flat
spanner, a little spirit level, and a number of other small instruments of
that sort. It was very well made indeed; he used to say that it could not
have been made for five pounds.”
    “Indeed?” Hewitt cast his eyes about the two rooms. “I see no signs of
books here, Mrs. Geldard—account books I mean, of course. Your husband
must have kept account books, I take it?”
    “Yes, naturally; he must have done. I never saw them, of course, but every
business man keeps books.” Then after a pause Mrs. Geldard continued: “And
they’re gone too. I never thought of that. But there, I might have
known as much. Who can trust a man safely if his own wife can’t? But I won’t
shield him. Whatever he’s been doing with his clients’ money he’ll have to
answer for himself. Thank heaven I’ve enough to live on of my own without
being dependent on a creature like him But think of the disgrace! My husband
nothing better than a common thief—swindling his clients and making
away with his books when he can’t go on any longer! But he shall be punished,
oh yes; I’ll see he’s punished, if once I find him!”
    Hewitt thought for a moment, and then asked: “Do you know any of your
husband’s clients, Mrs. Geldard?”
    “No,” she answered, rather snappishly, “I don’t. I’ve told you he never
let me know anything of his business—never anything at all; and very
good reason he had too, that’s certain.”
    “Then probably you do not happen to know the contents of these drawers?”
Hewitt pursued, tapping the writing-table as he spoke.
    “Oh, there’s nothing of importance in them—at any rate in the
unlocked ones. I looked at all of them this morning when I first came.”
    The table was of the ordinary pedestal pattern with four drawers at each
side and a ninth in the middle at the top, and of very ordinary quality. The
only locked drawer was the third from the top on the left-hand side. Hewitt
pulled out one drawer after another. In one was a tin half full of tobacco;
in another a few cigars at the bottom of a box; in a third a pile of
notepaper headed with the address of the office, and rather dusty; another
was empty; still another contained a handful of string. The top middle drawer
rather reminded me of a similar drawer of my own at my last newspaper office,
for it contained several pipes; but my own were mostly briars, whereas these
were all clays.
    “There’s nothing really so satisfactory,” Hewitt said, as he lifted and
examined each pipe by turn, “to a seasoned smoker as a well-used clay. Most
such men keep one or more such pipes for strictly private use.” There was
nothing noticeable about these pipes except that they were uncommonly dirty,
but Hewitt scrutinised each before returning it to the drawer. Then he turned
to Mrs. Geldard and said: “As to the bank now—the London Amalgamated,
Mrs. Geldard. Are you known there personally?”
    “Oh, yes; my husband gave them authority to pay cheques signed by me up to
a certain amount, and I often do it for household expenses, or when he
happens to be away.”
    “Then perhaps it will be best for you to go alone,” Hewitt responded. “Of
course they will never, as a general thing, give

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