Part 31

M^cSweeny, on the invitation of the father, somewhat gingerly searched the sooty clothes of the boy, but found nothing. He then performed the same office upon the father, with a like result. The wife also turned out her pockets for inspection, and then M^cSweeny settled himself to the not very agreeable task of searching the house. The furniture was poor and scanty, and the floor an earthen one, so there was no great difficulty in the task. But there was soot everywhere. It was on the floor, on the shelves, in the very beds, and so pervaded the whole atmosphere of the house that M^cSweeny had soon drawn such a quantity into his nostrils that he would willingly have paid half-a-crown down for the pleasure of sneezing his own head off. He went gaping, and blinking, and sputtering over the place till he had searched every part but the soot cellar. Before that he paused ruefully. I firmly believe he would have shirked searching that altogether, and that the resolve was showing itself in his face, when the cunning sweep affected to make a suspicious movement or two with his hands near the partition, as if in the act of dropping something into the soot.

“What’s that you’re after now?” cried M^cSweeny, starting round sharply and dragging forth the sweep’s hand.

“Nothing—oh, nothing, sir,” was the glib reply; “I was only feeling how high the soot is.”

M^cSweeny suspiciously lifted a candle, held it over the partition and peered down into the soot-bin at the spot, but could see nothing to indicate that any article had been dropped. This partition was about two feet and a half high and immediately behind it the soot was fully a foot deep, sloping up thence to the back wall to a height of about three feet. Against that wall several sacks of soot were piled, and resting on one of these sacks was the end of a spar of wood which reached across the soot to the wooden partition, upon which the other end rested. This plank was evidently used as a standing-place from which they could conveniently empty their soot-bag after a morning’s work. M^cSweeny thought it possible that there might be a hide of some kind behind these soot bags, and, candle in hand, clambered up on the partition and thence on to the spar bridging the soot. As he stepped across the frail bridge he had to turn his back for a moment to the innocent-looking sweep, and knew no more until he had dived down nose foremost into the sea of soot.

He always declared that the sweep had shoved the end of the plank from the partition; but when he scrambled to his feet among the soot, sputtering, gasping, and sneezing enough to rend himself, there was Sandy standing gravely by him with a look of earnest and sorrowing condolence on his grimy face. The wife went into fits of laughter over M^cSweeny’s appearance as he stood in the soot, with his face and beard thickly coated with the soft black, and only his well-rubbed eyelids beginning to show white through the sable covering, but she was solemnly rebuked and sworn at by her demure-faced husband.

“Eh, sir, to think that the plank should have slippit just when it wasna wanted to slip,” cried Sandy, handing M^cSweeny a sooty rag with which to clean his face and clothes; “but it’ll dae ye nae herm, sir, nae herm. Soot’s a healthy thing, sir—healthier than clean water.”

“You—you—ah—ah——choof!—you did that!” cried M^cSweeny, as soon as he could speak, ferociously fixing Sandy with his eye. “You’ll suffer for—ah—ah——choo—oof! Begorra, I’ve a good moind to stick your head in it, and make you swallow a bag of it before I let you out.”

“Me, sir!” cried Sandy, in pious horror. “May I never soop another lum if I ever thought o’ sic a thing. See, I’ll gie ye a brush doon, sir. It’s a kind o’ a pity ye had thae licht-coloured troosers on, but they’ll clean at the dyer’s, and never look a whit the waur.”

“Don’t thrubble yourself to brush me, for I’m not done wid the hole yet,” savagely responded M^cSweeny; “but for this I’d have let you off aisy, but now, sweet bad luck to you! I’m as black as I can be, and I’ll see to the bottom of this before I stir.”

M^cSweeny at the same moment seized a big shovel which he found in one corner of the soot-bin, and deliberately began to spade out the soot into the middle of the kitchen floor, carefully examining every shovelful before he pitched it over the partition. While he was thus engaged bending over a spadeful of the soot, Sandy managed to make a sign to his wife, who stooped to the floor, picked something up, and threw it over into the heap of soot rising in the middle of her kitchen.

M^cSweeny was just conscious of some swift movement having taken place, but saw neither the movement nor the direction of the pitch.

“What divil’s game are you two up to now?” he suspiciously growled, looking from one to the other. “I’ll have to take yez both. You throw’d something just now—what was it?”

The sweep and his wife raised their hands as if horrified at the accusation, and solemnly declared that M^cSweeny’s imagination had deceived him; that they had nothing to throw, and they would as soon attempt to fly in the air as to try to deceive such a world-renowned and keen-sighted detective as he. M^cSweeny, still suspicious, came out of the soot-bin and searched about for a little, but found nothing; and then, after a deal of snorting and swearing, went back to his work, and soon had all the loose soot out in the kitchen. There remained then only the sacks at the back to be removed, and M^cSweeny was diligently setting his brawny arms and shoulders to them when I descended the stair and stood before them. I stood transfixed with astonishment at the strange scene, till a familiar grin from the demon of darkness at work in the soot-bin made me look at him more closely, and then I faintly recognised my chum.

“Good heavens! what does all this mean?” I exclaimed, after a hearty laugh at M^cSweeny’s solemn face and the eloquent burst of abuse which he heaped upon the sweep and his wife.

“It means,” he responded, making a virtue of a necessity, “that I’m not afraid to do my duty properly, even though I do get a little black by it, and spoil a good suit of clothes into the bargain. Jamie, avick, I’ve found nothing, but we may take them both on suspicion, for a pair of bigger blackguards never walked the streets unhung.”

It seemed to me that had the sweep been an innocent and honest man, he would have resented this language hotly. He did not. He was all smoothness and politeness still, and officiously offered to help me in any way. What I liked worse was to observe that he was also all cheerfulness. There was even a twinkle of gloating and delight in the corners of his demurely drawn eyes over M^cSweeny’s grinning and discomfiture, or possibly over the consciousness that he was perfectly safe. Now, I had never believed that we should find the missing articles in that sooty den, and had hinted as much to M^cSweeny. Supposing the sweep to have nerve and effrontery enough to commit such a robbery, he would have been an arrant fool to have kept the stolen trinkets about his house. After a look round the place myself, and a short conversation in an undertone with M^cSweeny, I decided that we might go, and trust to tracing the missing articles elsewhere. But there was the sweep’s kitchen in a dreadful state of confusion, with a great pile of soot filling the centre of the floor; it would never do to leave the poor man’s house in that state, and I promptly said so.

“Oh, that’s naething, sir—I’ll put back the soot mysel’,” smoothly and graciously answered the sweep. “Dinna disturb yoursel’, sir; I’ll see ye up that stair, for it’s very dark and narrow. This way, sir; this way.”

He quickly made for the stair, but I paused before following, and exchanged a look of inquiry with M^cSweeny. The wife, squatted by the fire with a pipe in her mouth, watched us furtively out of the corner of her eye. That sly, cautious glance decided me. The sweep had shown a trifle too much alacrity in wishing to bid us good-bye and see us out. I stood still and conversed in a low tone with M^cSweeny. The sweep looked back from the doorway somewhat anxiously.

“We’re not quite ready yet,” I quietly said; “we must put things as we got them.” Then I added with apparent coolness to M^cSweeny, “Shovel it back _carefully_.”

The face of the sweep, sooty though it was, showed a visible and concerned change as I spoke, and I felt that I had scored a point.

“I’ll help you, sir; I’ve another shovel here,” he cried with alacrity after the first stagger, pouncing on a shovel and approaching the soot heap.

“Thank you—no,” I coldly and sternly returned, pointing to a seat by the fire; “sit there till I tell you to rise.”

He sat down, or rather flopped down, with an attempt at a gracious grin, and, taking the pipe from his wife, began puffing fiercely, watching us anxiously all the while. M^cSweeny slowly and deliberately shovelled up the soot in small quantities, according to my directions, narrowly inspecting it as it was returned to the bin, and before the half of the soot had been so lifted he paused to inspect a soot-covered object which had got into one of these small shovelfuls. I was at his side in a moment; and as the glitter of metal caught my eye I glanced towards the sweep and saw that he was painfully anxious to look indifferent. The object, when cleared of soot, proved to be a small handle of gilt brass, fastened to a flat piece of ivory, on which was some neat carving. The four eyes at the fireside were goggling, like distended telescopes, at us as we stood clearing the strange object of soot.

“What’s this?” I sharply demanded of the sweep.

“That, sir?” and he took a stride or two forward to look at the fragment. “I’m sure I dinna ken; it’s a thing ane o’ the bairns found oot on the street and brought in to play wi’.”

Sandy’s face said “lie” all over in spite of the soot as he made the hurried answer, and I said nothing. Every thief has “found” these things, or had them given him, or innocently brought into his house by some third person not conveniently at hand. After a close inspection of the fragment I was inclined to think that it had formed part of the lid of an ivory box or casket. No such article was in our list so far as I could remember; but the expression of the sweep’s face and his general manner induced me to say that I would take the fragment with me.

“Certainly, sir, certainly; it’s of nae value to me,” cried Sandy with forced alacrity. “Will I wrap it in a bit paper for ye?”

I declined the officious offer, put the fragment in my pocket, and shortly after took leave with M^cSweeny, who made a dive at once for the baths in Nicolson Square. A wash in water and a brush at the fragment seemed to confirm my suspicion. The ivory appeared to be fine, and was prettily carved, and it seemed to have been rudely smashed. I took the piece to a dealer in such articles, and he not only confirmed me in my suspicion, but showed me a complete casket of the same style of workmanship. It was a small thing, about six inches long by four broad, and might be used, the dealer said, for holding either jewels or money. They were very expensive, and but few were sold. This last bit of information I found to be correct, for after going over all the dealers in such articles in Edinburgh I could not find one who had sold a casket answering the description of the fragment I had found. I wished to find the owner for a particular reason. In examining the ivory one day it struck me that it had a smoked appearance—a kind of dingy hue which could never have been imparted by simply lying among soot. How could it have got that tinge? Not by being thrown into the fire, for there was not a burn on the whole fragment. Could Sandy have hung it up his own chimney like a red herring or a ham to give it that colour, or had it been so tinged when it came into his possession? The chimney in Sandy’s house had been the place which we searched most rigorously, so I was tolerably certain that he had no other interesting herrings there in pickle. I thought the owner of the bit of ivory and brass might help me to an answer, and at length decided to advertise for him. “An Ivory Casket, Carved,” was notified in the newspapers as having been found, and the owner was requested to call without delay upon me. The day that this advertisement appeared, Sandy called at Mrs Nolten’s house in George Square, and asked permission to go up on the roof to get a rope which he believed he had left there on his last visit. The request was put before the lady of the house, and promptly refused. Sandy then went to the next house and made the same request, and received as prompt a refusal. After the second appearance of the advertisement, a gentleman named Dundas called, and requested to see the “Ivory Casket.” There was a strange reserve about him, which I only understood when in confidence he imparted to me the suspicion that his own son had been the robber, at the same time emphatically stating that he was firmly resolved not to give in any charge against the runaway. On being shown the fragment, he identified it as part of the lid of an ivory casket stolen from his house, and containing at that time nearly £10 in gold and silver. The casket had not been missed till after the flight of his son, who had left a good situation and gone to London with the craze strong upon him to be an actor. I found, however, that Mr Dundas had a distinct recollection of employing Sandy to sweep his chimneys about that time, and as six months had since elapsed, Sandy had been there on the same errand but a month or two ago. On calling the gentleman’s attention to the smoky appearance of the ivory, he declared that it had not been so tinged when in his possession, and spontaneously remarked—

“It must have been hanging in some chimney.”

In a chimney certainly, but what chimney? whose chimney? I revolved the matter in my mind, and at length concluded that Sandy would never have been foolhardy enough to conceal anything in his own chimney. And yet there was pretty palpable evidence that the stolen article had been in _a_ chimney.

After half a day’s cogitation, an idea struck me which gave such a feasible explanation of the thing that my only wonder is that it did not occur to me earlier. Sandy, if he wanted a chimney as a hide, was not limited in his choice to one or twenty. He visited some at regular intervals, and was in these cases the only man employed. What was to hinder him from using them boldly as establishments of his own? depots for goods which he could not conveniently store at home? I began to wonder how I could get hold of a list of these houses that I might inspect the chimneys. In sweeping a chimney it was often necessary for Sandy to lift out the grate, when it was what is known as a “Register,” and it seemed to me that in doing so he could easily make use of the space behind as a hide when the grate was put back; but in making this guess it will be found that I gave Sandy credit for less ingenuity than he possessed. While Mr Dundas was diligently hunting for the address of his runaway son, that he might fairly ask him if he had been the thief of the casket and its contents, I was ferreting out the most prominent of Sandy’s customers. In making the round of these it is singular, but true, that I never thought of calling at Mrs Nolten’s, and when I did find myself there, it was more by accident than from choice. Being on the spot one day, I thought I would go in and have the register grate lifted out; but when this had been done in presence of the lady and myself, and nothing found, Mrs Nolten recalled the recent visit of Sandy, and detailed to me the circumstances. I immediately conceived a strong desire to go up on the roof and have a look for that “rope which he thought he had left.” I did not look about the slates or rhone pipes, but went straight to the chimneys, though I confess I was at a loss to understand how anything could be safely concealed in them. After going over all the chimney-cans, I came to one inside which, just at the bottom where the can was embedded in mortar to secure it to the stones, I saw sticking a common three-inch nail.

It was all but hidden with soot, but enough was left bare to show that it had attached to it a bit of twine, which hung down inside the chimney proper. I grasped at the nail, easily pulled it out, and drew up with it the bit of twine. Something dangled at the end of the twine, which proved to be a paper parcel not very neatly tied up. I felt the contents of the parcel through the paper, and smiled out broadly.

“What a dunce I was not to think of this sooner!” was my comment upon myself.

I distinctly felt the shape of a bracelet through the paper, and did not trouble to open the parcel till I should get down into the house. I went down, and Mrs Nolten, seeing me smile and the parcel in my hand attached to the sooty string, instantly grasped at the truth.

“You’ve found them in my own chimney?”

A woman’s instincts seldom mislead her. The lady was right. I opened the paper parcel, and there, snugly reposing within, and not a whit the worse of the smoking, were the bracelet, the necklet, and the odd gold ear-ring. I left the house at once, taking the interesting parcel with me, and in a minute or two stood before Sandy in his own home.

“It’s a fine day, sir,” he graciously began.

“It is—a very fine day,” I returned, with emphasis. “Do you remember that bit of ivory, Sandy, with the brass handle attached, which we found here?”

Sandy found his memory conveniently defective.

“I had quite forgot aboot it, sir,” he said awkwardly, when I had refreshed his powers a little.

“Well, I’ve discovered the gentleman who owns it, and strangely enough he declares that _you_ were in his house sweeping some chimneys the day before it went amissing.”

Sandy’s sooty face was a curious study, but he wisely made no audible reply.

“Don’t say anything unless you like, but did you ever see this parcel before?” I gently pursued, as I brought out the parcel and showed him its contents. “Nothing to say?—very good. Just put on your coat and cap and we’ll go, then. I’m only sorry,” I added, as I put a handcuff on his wrist, and retained the other end in my hand, “that I haven’t a pair of these with a longer chain between the bracelets, for I never come close to you, Sandy, without sneezing for half a day after.”

Sandy grinned a feeble and ghastly assent, and then went with me without a word. We could easily have proved both robberies against him, but he decided to make the best of his position by pleading guilty, and so got off with three months imprisonment.

THE FAMILY BIBLE.

To men of business or wealth, accustomed to handle large sums of money, bank-notes for large sums—such as £50 or £100—suggest nothing but convenience of handling and counting. With those who never owned £50 in their lives it is very different. The sum represented seems fabulously great—a fortune in itself. And then the thing is so small—a little oblong square of paper—so compressible—so thin—that the second stage—that of temptation—easily follows. Fifty or a hundred pounds in gold would be a good weight to carry, and a sum difficult to conceal; but a slip of paper! how many cunning and impenetrable places of hiding could be devised in a few minutes for that?

I have to give here the adventures of three £50 bank-notes. These notes had been paid to Mr George Lockyer, a builder, who dabbled a little in money lending, by a friend in quittance of a bond on some property. The payer of the money was but a working man, else the transaction would probably have been settled with a cheque; and the fact that this man was in working clothes had an important bearing upon the whole case, apart from the absence of a cheque altogether. The money had been drawn from the bank, but neither the teller who paid over the notes nor the receiver of them thought of noting the numbers.

Mr Lockyer, however, though anything but a careful or methodical man in regard to money, chanced to notice the number of the top note, from the fact that it was formed of two twenties, thus—“2020.”

The notes were scarcely opened out—they were quickly counted—the necessary papers handed over to the payee, and the whole transaction, and some friendly conversation as well, was all over in about fifteen minutes.

When the payee was gone, Mr Lockyer lifted the lid of his desk, and carelessly placed the notes, folded in three, on the top of some papers, intending to take them out in a short time, and bank them on his way home to dinner. He did not take them out or bank them—he forgot all about them. About half an hour later he left the little office, locking the door after him, and taking the key with him.

This little office was part of a small erection attached to the building yard. That part which Mr Lockyer used as an office was not above ten feet square. It was fitted up with two desks, as at times the builder employed a clerk, but at that time was entered by no one but himself, or any callers he might have to receive while there.

The remainder of the erection was used as a kind of tool-house, and was fitted all round with shelves. This apartment entered from the building yard, and at one time the door between the two places had been open, but now it was not only closed and locked, but crossed on the tool-house side by the shelves aforesaid. This door had not been open for years, and the builder had not even a key for the lock. The other door, and that now in use, entered from the street, close to the gate of the yard.

Mr Lockyer remained away from his office during the whole afternoon, the reason being that he found some friends waiting him, and had no particular press of business to call him away. Late in the evening, however, he remembered suddenly of the three £50 notes left so carelessly in his desk at the office, and started up and whispered to his wife that he would have to go out on business for half an hour.

“I have left some money in the place which should have been in the bank or here,” was his explanation, “and I must go and get it, for the place is a mere shed;” and as the word “money” rouses the strongest instincts of some wives, he was suffered to depart in peace.

He reached his office in ten minutes, and found it to all appearance exactly as he left it. It was then quite dark, but he was so sure of the spot on which he had placed the three notes that he did not trouble to strike a light, but merely raised the lid of the desk and groped for the notes. His fingers did not touch the soft, greasy papers, but the harder and smoother pile of accounts which had been beneath them. He groped and groped; he struck a light—first only a match, then the gas—but in vain. The three bank-notes were gone.

“Did I leave them here? Did I not put them in my pocket?” was his first wild thought, followed by a hurried groping and searching for his pocket-book.

The notes were not there. Then he distinctly remembered placing them in the desk, and the fact that he had never removed them. He searched the whole desk, turned out every scrap of paper and article that it contained, carefully examined the room from floor to ceiling, turned over everything in the other desk, and finally sat down with his hands in his pockets, thoroughly baffled and puzzled. He had locked the notes in that small apartment; the key had never been out of his pocket, yet, on returning a few hours later, he found that they had vanished.