you have made your way through all the gabble, I think you will agree with me that the conceited booby has looked for the thief in every direction but the right one. You can lay your hand on the guilty person in five minutes, now. Settle the case at once; forward your report to me at this place; and tell Mr. Sharpin that he is suspended till further notice. Yours,
F RANCIS T HEAKSTONE .
FROM SERGEANT BULMER TO CHIEF INSPECTOR THEAKSTONE
L ONDON , 10th July.
I NSPECTOR T HEAKSTONE ,—
Your letter and enclosure came safe to hand. Wise men, they say, may always learn something, even from a fool. By the time I had got through Sharpin’s maundering report of his own folly, I saw my way clear enough to the end of the Rutherford Street case, just as you thought I should. In half an hour’s time I was at the house. The first person I saw there was Mr. Sharpin himself.
“Have you come to help me?” says he.
“Not exactly,” says I. “I’ve come to tell you that you are suspended till further notice.”
“Very good,” says he, not taken down, by so much as a single peg, in his own estimation, “I thought you would be jealous of me. It’s very natural; and I don’t blame you. Walk in, pray, and make yourself at home. I’m off to do a little detective business on my own account, in the neighbourhood of the Regent’s Park. Ta-ta, sergeant, ta-ta!”
With those words he took himself out of the way—which was exactly what I wanted him to do.
As soon as the maid-servant had shut the door, I told her to inform her master that I wanted to say a word to him in private. She showed me into the parlour behind the shop; and there was Mr. Yatman, all alone, reading the newspaper.
“About this matter of the robbery, sir,” says I.
He cut me short, peevishly enough—being naturally a poor, weak, womanish sort of man. “Yes, yes, I know,” says he. “You have come to tell me that your wonderfully clever man, who has bored holes in my second-floor partition, has made a mistake, and is off the scent of the scoundrel who has stolen my money.”
“Yes, sir,” says I. “That is one of the things I came to tell you. But I have got something else to say, besides that.”
“Can you tell me who the thief is?” says he, more pettish than ever.
“Yes, sir,” says I, “I think I can.”
He put down the newspaper, and began to look rather anxious and frightened.
“Not my shopman?” says he. “I hope, for the man’s own sake, it’s not my shopman.”
“Guess again, sir,” says I.
“That idle slut, the maid?” says he.
“She is idle, sir,” says I, “and she is also a slut; my first inquiries about her proved as much as that. But she’s not the thief.”
“Then in the name of heaven, who is?” says he.
“Will you please to prepare yourself for a very disagreeable surprise, sir?” says I. “And in case you lose your temper, will you excuse my remarking that I am the stronger man of the two, and that, if you allow yourself to lay hands on me, I may unintentionally hurt you, in pure self-defence?”
He turned as pale as ashes, and pushed his chair two or three feet away from me.
“You have asked me to tell you, sir, who has taken your money,” I went on. “If you insist on my giving you an answer—”
“I do insist,” he said, faintly. “Who has taken it?”
“Your wife has taken it,” I said very quietly, and very positively at the same time.
He jumped out of the chair as if I had put a knife into him, and struck his fist on the table, so heavily that the wood cracked again.
“Steady, sir,” says I. “Flying into a passion won’t help you to the truth.”
“It’s a lie!” says he, with another smack of his fist on the ta-ble—”a base, vile, infamous lie! How dare you—”
He stopped, and fell back into the chair again, looked about him in a bewildered way, and ended by bursting out crying.
“When your better sense comes back to you, sir,” says I, “I am sure you will
F RANCIS T HEAKSTONE .
FROM SERGEANT BULMER TO CHIEF INSPECTOR THEAKSTONE
L ONDON , 10th July.
I NSPECTOR T HEAKSTONE ,—
Your letter and enclosure came safe to hand. Wise men, they say, may always learn something, even from a fool. By the time I had got through Sharpin’s maundering report of his own folly, I saw my way clear enough to the end of the Rutherford Street case, just as you thought I should. In half an hour’s time I was at the house. The first person I saw there was Mr. Sharpin himself.
“Have you come to help me?” says he.
“Not exactly,” says I. “I’ve come to tell you that you are suspended till further notice.”
“Very good,” says he, not taken down, by so much as a single peg, in his own estimation, “I thought you would be jealous of me. It’s very natural; and I don’t blame you. Walk in, pray, and make yourself at home. I’m off to do a little detective business on my own account, in the neighbourhood of the Regent’s Park. Ta-ta, sergeant, ta-ta!”
With those words he took himself out of the way—which was exactly what I wanted him to do.
As soon as the maid-servant had shut the door, I told her to inform her master that I wanted to say a word to him in private. She showed me into the parlour behind the shop; and there was Mr. Yatman, all alone, reading the newspaper.
“About this matter of the robbery, sir,” says I.
He cut me short, peevishly enough—being naturally a poor, weak, womanish sort of man. “Yes, yes, I know,” says he. “You have come to tell me that your wonderfully clever man, who has bored holes in my second-floor partition, has made a mistake, and is off the scent of the scoundrel who has stolen my money.”
“Yes, sir,” says I. “That is one of the things I came to tell you. But I have got something else to say, besides that.”
“Can you tell me who the thief is?” says he, more pettish than ever.
“Yes, sir,” says I, “I think I can.”
He put down the newspaper, and began to look rather anxious and frightened.
“Not my shopman?” says he. “I hope, for the man’s own sake, it’s not my shopman.”
“Guess again, sir,” says I.
“That idle slut, the maid?” says he.
“She is idle, sir,” says I, “and she is also a slut; my first inquiries about her proved as much as that. But she’s not the thief.”
“Then in the name of heaven, who is?” says he.
“Will you please to prepare yourself for a very disagreeable surprise, sir?” says I. “And in case you lose your temper, will you excuse my remarking that I am the stronger man of the two, and that, if you allow yourself to lay hands on me, I may unintentionally hurt you, in pure self-defence?”
He turned as pale as ashes, and pushed his chair two or three feet away from me.
“You have asked me to tell you, sir, who has taken your money,” I went on. “If you insist on my giving you an answer—”
“I do insist,” he said, faintly. “Who has taken it?”
“Your wife has taken it,” I said very quietly, and very positively at the same time.
He jumped out of the chair as if I had put a knife into him, and struck his fist on the table, so heavily that the wood cracked again.
“Steady, sir,” says I. “Flying into a passion won’t help you to the truth.”
“It’s a lie!” says he, with another smack of his fist on the ta-ble—”a base, vile, infamous lie! How dare you—”
He stopped, and fell back into the chair again, looked about him in a bewildered way, and ended by bursting out crying.
“When your better sense comes back to you, sir,” says I, “I am sure you will
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