one-shilling melodrama, Goodcastle slipped the young deliveryman a paper-wrapped package, which contained a music box. He gave instructions to take it to Goodcastle’s own house as quickly as possible. Witnessing the apparently furtive mission, and probably assuming that the box contained loot or damning evidence, one of the detectives started after the young man as soon as he left the shop.
Goodcastle then dismissed Markham for the day and gave him a similar package, with instructions to take it home with him and make sure the music box mechanism was dependable. The remaining detective observed the craftsman leave the shop, clutching the parcel, and, after a moment of debate, appeared to decided it was better to pursue this potential source of evidence rather than remain at his station.
Goodcastle carefully perused the street and saw no more detectives. The workers had left and the avenue was deserted except for a married couple, who paused at the front window, then stepped inside. As they looked over the armoires, Goodcastle told them he would return in a moment and, with another glance outside into the empty street, stole into the office, closing the door behind him.
He sat at his desk, lifted aside the Turkish rug and opened the secret panel then the safe. He was just reaching inside when he was aware of a breeze wafting on his face, and he knew the door to the office had been opened.
Goodcastle leapt up, crying, “No!” He was staring at the husband of the couple who’d just walked into the shop. He was holding a large Webley pistol.
“Lord in heaven!” Goodcastle said, gasping. “You’ve come to rob me!”
“No, sir, I’m here to arrest you,” he said calmly. “Pray don’t move. I don’t wish to harm you. But I will if you give me no choice.” He then blew into a police whistle, which uttered a shrill tone.
A moment later, beyond him, Goodcastle could see the door burst open, and in ran two Scotland Yard inspectors in plain clothes, as well as two uniformed constables. The woman — who’d obviously been posing as the first inspector’s wife — waved them toward the office. “The safe is back there,” she called.
“Capital!” called one inspector — the lean, dark man who’d been in the store earlier, masquerading as a customer. His fellow officer, wearing a bowler, was dressed similarly, a greatcoat over a morning suit, though this man differed in his physique, being taller and quite pale, with a shock of flaxen hair. Both policemen took the shopkeeper by the arms and led him out into the store proper.
“What’s the meaning of this?” Goodcastle blustered.
The white-faced inspector chuckled. “I warrant you know right well.”
They searched him and, finding no weapons, unhanded him. The inspector who’d entered with the woman on his arm replaced his Webley with a notebook, in which he began taking down evidence. They dismissed the woman with effusive thanks and she explained that she’d be back at the police precinct station house if they needed her further.
“What is this about?” Goodcastle demanded.
The pale officer deferred to the lean one, apparently a chief inspector, who looked Goodcastle over carefully. “So you’re the man who burglarized Robert Mayhew’s apartment.”
“Who? I swear I don’t know what you’re speaking of.”
“Please, Mr. Goodcastle, don’t malign our intelligence. You saw me in your shop earlier, did you not?”
“Yes.”
“During that visit here I managed to collect a sample of furniture wax from several wooden pieces. The substance is identical to the wax we found traces of in Lord Mayhew’s dressing chamber — a material that neither he nor his servants had ever been in contact with. We found too a horse hair that matched one that I extracted from your chair.”
“I’m at a loss—”
“And what do you have to say about the fact that the brick dust in front of your store is the same as that which we found on the rungs of the ladder used to break into Lord Mayhew’s first floor? Don’t deny you are the thief.”
“Of course I deny it. This is absurd!”
“Go search the safe,” the chief inspector said to a constable, nodding toward the back office. He then explained, “When I was here earlier I tried to ascertain where you might have a hiding place for your ill-gotten gains. But your shop boasts far too much inventory and too many nooks and crannies to locate what we are seeking without searching for a week. So we stationed those two detectives outside on the street to make you believe we were about to arrest you. As we had anticipated, you led them off… I assume in pursuit of two parcels of no evidentiary value whatsoever.”
“Those deliveries a moment ago?” Goodcastle protested. “I sent one music box home for myself to work on tonight. Another, my man was taking with him to do the same.”
“So you say. But I suspect you’re prevaricating.”
“This is most uncalled for. I—”
“Please, allow me to finish. When you sent our men on a goose chase, that told us that your flight was imminent, so my colleague here and a typist from the precinct house came in as customers, as they’d been waiting to do for several hours.” He turned to the policeman who’d played the husband and added, “Capital job, by the way.”
“Most kind of you.”
The chief inspector turned back to Goodcastle. “You were lulled to incaution by the domestic couple and, prodded by the urgency of escape, you were kind enough to lead us directly to the safe.”
“I am, I swear, merely an antiques merchant and craftsman.”
The pale detective chuckled again, while the “husband” continued to take everything down in his notebook.
“Sir,” the constable said as he stepped from the office. “A problem.”
“Is the safe locked?”
“No, sir. The door was open. The trouble is that ring is not inside.”
“Ring?” Goodcastle asked.
“What
“Money, sir. That’s all. About five hundred pounds.”
“Are they guineas?”
“No, sir. Varied currency but notes mostly. No gold.”
“It’s the receptacle for my receipts, sirs. Most merchants have one.”
Frowning, the head detective looked into the office beyond them and started to speak. But at that moment the door opened again and in strode Bill Sloat. The ruffian took one look at the constables and inspectors and started to flee. He was seized by the two coppers and dragged back inside.
“Ah, look who we have here, Mad Bill Sloat,” said the bowlered inspector, lifting an eyebrow in his pale forehead. “We know about you, oh, yes. So you’re in cahoots with Goodcastle, are you?”
“I am not, copper.
“Keep a respectable tone in your mouth.”
Goodcastle said uneasily, “By the queen, sir, Mr. Sloat has done nothing wrong. He comes in sometimes to view my wares. I’m sure that’s all he’s doing here today.”
The chief inspector turned to him. “I sense you’re holding back, Goodcastle. Tell us what is on your mind.”
“Nothing, truly.”
“You’ll be in the dock sooner than we have planned for you, sir, if you do not tell us all.”
“Keep your flamin’ gob shut,” Sloat muttered.
“Quiet, you,” a constable growled.
“Go on, Goodcastle. Tell us.”
The shopkeeper swallowed. He looked away from Sloat. “That man is the terror of Great Portland Street! He extorts money and goods from us and threatens to sic his scoundrels from the Green Man on us if we don’t pay. He comes in every Saturday and demands his tithe.”
“We’ve heard rumors of such,” the flaxen-haired detective said.
The chief inspector looked closely at Goodcastle. “Yet today is Monday, not Saturday. Why is his here now?”
