“Are those pick locks?” asked Miss Murchison, curiously.
“That’s what they are, miss. Ingines of Satan!” He shook his head as he lovingly fingered the bright steel. “Many’s the time sech keys as these ’ave let pore sinners in by the back gate into ’ell.”
“This time,” said Wimsey, “they’ll let a poor innocent out of prison into the sunshine—if any, in this beastly climate.”
“Praise Him for His manifold mercies! Well, miss, the fust thing is to understand the construction of a lock. Now jest you look ’ere.”
He picked up one of the locks and showed how, by holding up the spring, the catch could be thrust back.
“There ain’t no need of all them fancy wards, you see, miss. The barrel and the spring—that’s all there is to it. Jest you try.”
Miss Murchison accordingly tried, and forced several locks with an ease that astonished her.
“Well now, miss, the difficulty is, you see, that when the lock’s in place, you can’t use your eyes, but you ’as your ’earin’ and you ’as the feelin’ in your fingers, giv’ you by Providence (praise His Name!) for that purpose. Now what you ’as to do, miss, is to shet your eyes and see with your fingers, like, w’en you’ve got your spring ’ooked back sufficient ter let the catch go past.”
“I’m afraid I’m very clumsy,” said Miss Murchison, at the fifth or sixth attempt.
“Now don’t you fret, miss. Jest take it easy and you’ll find the right way of it come to you all of a sudden, like. Jest feel when it seems to go sweet and use your ’ands independent. Would you like to ’ave a little go at a Combination while you’re ’ere, sir? I’ve got a beauty ’ere. Giv’ to me it was by Sam, you know ’oo I mean. Many’s the time I’ve tried to show ’im the error of ’is ways. ‘No, Bill,’ ’e ses, ‘I ain’t got no use for religion,’ ’e ses, pore lost sheep, ‘but I ain’t got no quarrel with you, Bill,’ ses ’e, ‘and I’d like for ter give you this ’ere little sooveneer.’ ”
“Bill, Bill,” said Wimsey, shaking a reproachful finger, “I’m afraid this wasn’t honestly come by.”
“Well, sir, if I knowed the owner I’d ’and it over to ’im with the greatest of pleasure. It’s quite good, you see. Sam put the soup in at the ’inges and it blowed the ’ole front clean off, lock and all. It’s small, but it’s a real beauty—new pattern to me, that is. But I mastered it,” said Bill, with unregenerate pride, “in an hour or two.”
“It’d have to be a good bit of work to beat you, Bill”; Wimsey set the lock up before him, and began to manipulate the knob, his fingers moving with micrometer delicacy and his ear bent to catch the fall of the tumblers.
“Lord!” said Bill—this time with no religious intention—“wot a cracksman you’d a-made, if you’d a-given your mind to it—which the Lord in His mercy forbid you should!”
“Too much work in that life for me, Bill,” said Wimsey. “Dash it! I lost it that time.”
He turned the knob back and started over again.
By the time the trotters arrived, Miss Murchison had acquired considerable facility with the more usual types of lock and a greatly enhanced respect for burglary as a profession.
“And don’t you let yourself be ’urried, miss,” was Bill’s final injunction, “else you’ll leave scratches on the lock and do yourself no credit. Lovely bit of work, that, ain’t it, Lord Peter, sir?”
“Beyond me, I’m afraid,” said Wimsey, with a laugh.
“Practice,” said Bill, “that’s all it is. If you’d a-started early enough you’d a-been a beautiful workman.” He sighed. “There ain’t many of ’em nowadays—glory be!—that can do a real artistic job. It fair goes to my ’eart to see a elegant bit o’ stuff like that blowed all to bits with gelignite. Wot’s gelignite? Any fool can ’andle it as doesn’t mind makin’ a blinkin’ great row. Brutal, I calls it.”
“Now, don’t you get ’ankerin’ back after them things, Bill,” said Mrs. Rumm, reprovingly. “Come along, do, now and eat yer supper. Ef anybody’s goin’ ter do sech a wicked thing as breakin’ safes, wot do it matter whether it’s done artistic or inartistic?”
“Ain’t that ’jest like a woman?—beggin’ your pardon, miss.”
“Well, you know it’s true,” said Mrs. Rumm.
“I know those trotters look very artistic,” said Wimsey, “and that’s quite enough for me.”
The trotters having been eaten, and “Nazareth” duly sung, to the great admiration of the Rumm family, the evening closed pleasantly with the performance of a hymn, and Miss Murchison found herself walking up the Whitechapel Road, with a bunch of picklocks in her pocket and some surprising items of knowledge in her mind.
“You make some very amusing acquaintances, Lord Peter.”
“Yes—rather a jape, isn’t it? But Blindfold Bill is one of the best. I found him on my premises one night and struck up a sort of an alliance with him. Took lessons from him and all that. He was a bit shy at first, but he got converted by another friend of mine—it’s a long story—and the long and short of it was, he got hold of this locksmith business, and is doing very well at it. Do you feel quite competent about locks now?”
“I think so. What am I to look for when I get the box open?”
“Well,” said Wimsey, “the point is this. Mr. Urquhart showed me what purported to be the draft of a will made five years ago by Mrs. Wrayburn. I’ve written down the gist of it on a bit of paper for you. Here it is. Now the snag about it is that that draft was typed on a machine which, as you tell me, was bought new from the makers only three years ago.”
“Do you mean that’s what he was typing that evening he stayed late at the office?”
“It looks like it. Now, why? If he had the original draft, why
