swine shot out his hand and…'
Sir William gulped.
`I had three appointments this afternoon before I came here; two of 'em in the City. Even going to make monthly calls. Call on Lord Tarlotts. Call on my nephew. Call — Never mind. But I couldn't and wouldn't go anywhere, because I hadn't got one. And I was damned if I'd pay three guineas for a third one that swine might… What's he done?' bellowed Sir William, breaking off again. `He's stolen my hat, that's what he's done! And it's the second hat he's stolen from me in three days!'
2. Manuscripts and Murder
Hadley rapped on the table. `A double whisky here,' he said to the waiter. `Now sit down and calm yourself. People think this is a madhouse already… And let me introduce you to some friends of mine.'
`D'ye do?' said the other, grudgingly, and bobbed his head at the introductions. He resumed in his high, argumentative voice as he sat down. `The only reason I came here was because I'd got to see you if I’d had to come without my boots. Ha. No other hat in the house. Just bought two new hats last week — top-hat and Homburg. And Saturday night this maniac pinched the top-hat, and this afternoon he got the Homburg. By God! I won't have it! I tell you — He glared round as the waiter appeared. 'Eli? — Oh, Whisky.' Just a splash.'
Spluttering, he sat back to take a drink, and Rampole studied him. Everybody knew, by hearsay of this man's fiery humours. Jingo newspapers frequently dwelt on his career: how he had begun in a draper's shop at the age of eighteen, become a whip in Parliament at forty-two, managed the armament policy of one Government, and had gone down still battling for a bigger navy in the peace reaction after the war. He had been the prince of jingoes; his speeches were full of reference to Drake, the long-bow, and hurrah for old England; and he still wrote letters vilifying the present Prime Minister. Now Rampole saw a man hardly past his prime at seventy: wiry, vigorous, with a long neck thrust out of his wing collar, and uncannily shrewd blue eyes.
Suddenly Sir William put down his glass and stared at Dr Fell with narrowed eyes. `Excuse me, he said, in his jerky but wonderfully clear fashion, `I didn't catch your name at first. Dr Gideon Fell? — Ah, I thought so. I have been wanting to meet you, I have your work on the history of the supernatural in English fiction. But this damned business about hats…'
Hadley said, brusquely `I think we've heard quite enough about hats, for the, moment. You understand that according to the story you told me we can't take official cognizance of it at the Yard. That's why I've summoned Dr Fell. There's no time to go into it now, but he has helped us before. I am not one of those fools who distrust amateurs. And it is particularly in his line. All the same… '
The chief inspector was troubled. Suddenly he drew a long breath. Evenly he continued:
`Gentlemen, neither am I one of those fools who call themselves thoroughly practical men. A moment ago I said we had heard quite enough about hats; and before I saw Sir William I thought so. But this second theft of his hat has it occurred to you that in some fashion (I do not pretend to understand it) this may relate to the theft of the manuscript?'
`It had occurred to me, of course,' Dr Fell rumbled, beckoning the waiter and pointing to his empty glass, `that the theft of the hats was more than an undergraduate prank. It's quite possible that some scatter-brained chap might want to collect stolen hats a policeman's helmet, a barristers wig, any sort of picturesque headgear he could proudly display to his friends. I noticed the same habit when I was teaching in America, among the students. There it ran to signs and signboards of all kinds to decorate the walls of their rooms.
`But this is a different thing, you see. This chap isn't a lunatic collector. He steals the hat and props it up somewhere else, like a symbol, for everybody to see. There's one other explanation, nonetheless..'
Sir William's thin lips wore a wintry smile as he glanced from Rampole to the absorbed face of the doctor; but shrewd calculation moved his eyes.
`You're a quaint parcel of detectives,' he said. `Are you seriously suggesting that a thief begins pinching hats all over London so that he can pinch a manuscript from me? Do you think I'm in the habit of carrying valuable manuscripts around in my hat? Besides, I might point out that it was stolen several days before either one of my hats.'
Dr Fell ruffled his big dark mane with a thoughtful hand. `The repetition of that word 'hat',' he observed, `has rather a confusing effect. I'm afraid I shall say 'hat' when I mean almost anything else…: Suppose you tell us about the manuscript first — what was it, and how did you get it, and when was it stolen?'
`I'll tell you what it was,' Sir William answered, in a low voice, `because Hadley vouches for you. Only one collector in the world — no, say two — know that I found it. One of them had to know; I had to show it to him to make sure it was genuine. The other I'll speak of presently. But I found it.
`It is the manuscript of a completely unknown story by Edgar Allan Poe. Myself and one other person excepted, nobody except Poe has ever seen or heard of it…. Find that hard to believe, do you?'
There was a frosty pleasure in his look, and he chuckled without opening his mouth.
`I've never collected Poe manuscripts. But I have a first edition of the Al Araaf collection, published by subscription while he was at West Point, and a few copies of the Southern Literary Messenger he edited in Baltimore. Well! — I was poking about for odds and ends in the States last September, and I happened to be visiting Dr Masters, the Philadelphia collector. He suggested that I have a look at the house where Poe lived there, at the corner of Seventh and Spring Garden Streets. I did. I went alone. And a jolly good thing I did.'
`It was a mean neighbourhood, dull brick fronts and washing hung in gritty backyards. The house was at the corner of an alley, and I could hear a man in a garage swearing at a back-firing motor. Very little about the house had been changed.
`From the alley I went through a gate in a high board fence, and into a paved yard with a crooked tree growing through the bricks. In a little brick kitchen a glum-looking workman was making some notations on an envelope; there was a noise of hammering from the front room. I excused myself; I said that the house used to be occupied by a writer I had heard of, and I was looking round. He growled
to go ahead, and went on ciphering. So I went to the other room. You know the type; small and low- ceilinged; cupboards set flush with the wall, and papered over, on either side of a low black mantelpiece.'
Sir William Bitton obviously saw that he had caught his audience, and it was clear from his mannerisms and pauses that he enjoyed telling a story.
`They were altering the cupboards. The cupboards, mind you.' He bent forward suddenly. `And again — a jolly good thing they took out the inner framework instead of just putting up plaster-board and papering them out. There was a cloud of dust and mortar in the place. Two workmen were just bumping down the framework, and I saw…’
`Gentlemen, I went cold and shaky all over. It had been shoved down between the edges of the framework: thin sheets of paper, spotted with damp, and folded twice lengthwise. It was like a revelation, for when I had pushed open — the gate, and first saw those workmen altering the house, I thought: Suppose I were to find… Well, I confess I almost lunged past those men. One of them said, 'What the hell!' and almost dropped the frame. One glance at the handwriting, what I could make out of it, was enough; you know that distinctive curly line beneath the title in Poe's MSS., and the fashioning of the E. A. Poe?
`But I had to be careful. I didn't know the owner of the house; and he might know the value of this. If I offered the workmen money to let me have it, I must be careful not to offer too much, or they would grow suspicious and insist on more….'
Sir William smiled tightly. `I explained it was something of sentimental interest to a man who had lived here before. And I said, 'Look here, I'll give you ten dollars for this.' Even at that, they were suspicious; I think they had some idea of buried — treasure, or directions for finding it, or something. The ghost of Poe, would have enjoyed that.’ Again that chuckle behind the closed teeth. Sir William swept out his arm.
'But they looked over it, and saw that it was only — 'a kind of a story, or some silly damn thing, with long words at the beginning.' Finally they compromised at twenty dollars, and I took the manuscript away
`As you may know, the leading authorities on Poe are Professor Hervey. Allen of New York and Dr Robertson of Baltimore. I knew Robertson, and took my find to him. First I made him promise that, no, matter what I showed him, he would never mention it to anybody.’
