The policeman was quickly disposed of. He had not been on duty on Tuesday; but a little persuasion in tangible form soon secured the name of the constable who had, and the news that he had only been kept away that night by a misadventure, and would be on duty again the following night. Ellery made a note of the name, and said to himself that he must see the other policeman later. For the present he strolled over towards the watchman, whom he found reading a tattered book in his little cabin, by the light partly of the lamps and sky signs, and partly, though it was a warm summer evening, of a blazing fire in a pail. He was a little, old man with a pair of steel spectacles, which had carved a deep rut in his nose, and he seemed to be reading with extraordinarily concentrated attention. Ellery managed to see what the book was. It was Sartor Resartus. The man was clearly a “scholar,” and probably a homely philosopher of the working-class.
It seemed best to use the opening which providence had provided. “That’s a fine book you’ve got there,” said Ellery, casting his mind back to the days at school, when he had first and last read his Sartor, only to forget all about it and Carlyle as he reached years of discretion.
The little old man peered up at him over his glasses. “It is the book for me,” he said. “That Carlyle, sir, he was a man.”
“I dare say you manage to read a great deal at your job.”
“I do that. You see, I had a accident ten years ago. ’Fore that, I was a navvy; but that finished me—for heavy work, I mean. At first, I was wretched at this job; the company gave it me, when doctor said I was fit for light work. And then it came to me I’d take up reading, like. I hadn’t hardly ever opened a book till then—not since school. I can tell you, it’s been a revelation to me. I don’t ask nothing better than to sit here with a good book now. But it isn’t often one of you gentlemen seems to notice what I’m reading.”
The old man spoke slowly, and rather as if he was thinking aloud. He seemed almost to have forgotten that Ellery was there.
“Perhaps I shouldn’t have noticed, unless there had been something I wanted to ask you. A man’s life may depend on it, and I wanted your help.”
The old man peered up at him again, and a little gleam of excitement came into his eyes; but he only nodded to Ellery to go on.
Ellery handed him a photograph of Walter Brooklyn. “On Tuesday night, at about half-past ten, that man stopped for some minutes on the island in the middle of the Circus here. He is accused of having been somewhere else, and his life may depend on our finding someone who saw him here. What I want to ask is whether you happened to notice him.”
The old man thought for a minute before answering. “I can’t say I did; but I seem to know his face somehow. Half-past ten, you said?”
“Then or then abouts, it must have been.”
“No, I didn’t see him. At half-past ten I was in here reading, and I didn’t notice much. But I know I’ve seen that chap somewhere. Wait a minute while I think.”
Ellery waited. It seemed a long while before the old man went on.
“Now, if you’d have said half-past eleven, or maybe a quarter-past, I should have said I saw him.”
“Yes. Why, he did cross the Circus again at about that time.”
“Then I saw him. It was like this, you see. About a quarter-past eleven on Tuesday I gets up to walk round the works here and see if all’s right. Up there at the corner by Shaftesbury Avenue I saw a gentleman—very like your gentleman he was and smoking a big cigar—come strolling across the road. Very slow, he was walking. Seemed as if he was annoyed about something—waving his stick in the air, he was, as if he was making believe to hit somebody. I only noticed him because a big motorcar came round suddenly from Regent Street as he was crossing, and he had to skip. Came straight into the ropes round the work up there. I hurried to see if he was all right; but before I got there he dusted himself down and walked on. I’m almost sure he was your man. I’ve got a memory for faces, and I noticed him particularly because he seemed that ratty, if I may say so.”
“Can you tell me again what time that was?”
“Not far short of half-past eleven—leastways it was after the quarter, twenty to twenty-five past, maybe.”
Ellery congratulated himself on an extraordinary stroke of luck. It was, of course, far more important to establish Walter Brooklyn’s presence in Piccadilly Circus between 11:15 and 11:30 than at 10:30; but it had seemed impossible to do so. Someone might have noticed him when he hung about there for several minutes; but it seemed very unlikely that his mere walking across the Circus at the later time could have been confirmed. By a lucky chance it had been, and the first link in the
