Allen Upward

The Adventure of the Stolen Doormat

“Truth is stranger than fiction.”

BYRON, Don Juan, can. xiv., st. 101.

THE harsh duty is cast on me of exposing a charlatan who, after trading for a long time on the credulity of the public, has now gone to his long account.

A Roman poet has declared that we should speak no evil of the dead; but on the other hand a modern writer, the author of Odgers on the Law of Libel and Slander, has pointed out that there are certain disadvantages in speaking evil of the living. On one side there is the maxim—De mortuis nil nisi bonum, on the other, the maxim—Actio personalis moritur cum persona. If both these writers had their way, Judas Iscariot would go scot free. On the whole it has seemed to me that the advice of the Roman litterateur may be more safely ignored than that of his English successor. I therefore withheld this memoir from the press during the lifetime of the late specialist.

Now that he is no more, having met with a fatal accident while travelling in Switzerland, I have decided, at whatever risk of causing pain to the sorrowing relatives, that I must go through with my distasteful task.

I was sitting over my breakfast, in the Dovecote, one morning when Susan rushed into my presence, all tear-stained and dishevelled, and exclaimed:

“If you please, sir, the doormat’s gone!”

This doormat, destined to such celebrity in the annals of crime, I should explain was a prized gift from my dear Aunt Penelope. It was made of indiarubber, and bore the inscription WELCOME, in large capitals. During the day time it occupied a position on the top of the steps outside the front door. Every night it was my custom to bring it inside before locking-up, and in the morning it was Susan’s duty to restore it to its place.

Susan is a female. She might be pardoned for giving way under the stress of misfortune. But such weakness was not for a man. Without permitting myself to waste the precious moments in idle grief, I resolved on instant action.

“Bring me a telegraph form,” I commanded the agitated girl. “I will wire at once to a criminal specialist in Baker Street who, without doubt, will be able to solve this dark problem and recover my missing property.”

“Yes, sir. Shall I tell a policeman?” asked Susan.

I have had cause ere now to suspect that Susan is not such a stranger to the constable on duty in Camberwell Grove as she would have me believe. I am not easily deceived, and when a constable is constantly haunting the pavement outside my front gate, and greeting me with effusive familiarity every time I go in or out, I draw my own conclusions. On this occasion I fixed a sternly searching gaze on Susan, under which she quailed, as I responded:

“It can do no harm to communicate with the police. But I will not have the Dovecote overrun by officers on the pretext of making inquiries about this crime—you understand?” The crimson flush which mantled in her cheek showed that she did.

The wire was despatched, and within an hour I got the following response:

Arrive next tram. Put no trust in police.

H     LM     S.

He was as good as his word. Within five minutes of the arrival of his wire he was seated before me, clad in the well-known ulster and travelling-cap without which he never went anywhere, even in the hottest weather. As he explained to me, it was his uniform, and if he had not worn it, the public would not have recognised him at a glance in the illustrations.

Along with him the celebrated expert brought a rather insignificant, stupid-looking man whom he introduced as Dr. W     . I received the doctor coldly.

“Pardon me,” I said to his principal, “if I remark that I expected to see you here alone, Mr. H     s. The very distressing crime which has plunged my household in grief, and stirred Camberwell to its depths, is not one to be laid bare to every stranger’s eye.”

The medico blushed, but his friend took up the cudgels on his behalf.

“I know it looks like bad taste,” he said, “but I have to cart him about with me in order that he may write an account of my investigation, for publication in a well-known magazine.” He drew me aside and added in a whisper, “Poor fellow, although he has been through so many of my cases with me, and seen so much of my method, he still remains as simple and credulous as a child, and every fresh case comes as a complete surprise to him. He is no use in my work, but he gets money by reporting my doings, and I get reputation, so I put up with him as best I can.”

While he was speaking he glanced once or twice round the room, and played with the leaves of a photograph album on the table.

“Well, of course, if it is your custom, I will say no more, but I should have thought it would be far more convenient to leave your friend at home, and tell him all about it when you get back. Now to come to this case. The facts are extremely simple.”

He stopped me with a gesture.

“My dear MR. LOBBF that is just what I have to explain to my friend W     ! It is precisely the cases which appear extremely simple which present the greatest difficulties. Give me a really bizarre crime, like a murder by a Mormon or an Andaman Islander, and I can dispose of it without leaving my room, whereas with a thoroughly ordinary affair like this of yours, I find myself all at sea.”

“Well, let me tell you how this case stands so far. Susan     ”

He interrupted me again.

“Susan? Who is that?”

“Susan is my general.”

“Ah!” He looked round at the doctor. “Make a note of that, W     . Yes?”

“She has been in my service eleven years and two months. During that time I have found her faithful, honest and obliging. Her habits are clean; she is an early riser, and a regular attendant at Divine Service.”

The expert shook his head doubtfully.

“All that tells me nothing. Has she any followers?”I hung my head. I saw that the net was closing round the unsuspecting girl, and that unless I were careful she would be lost.

“No,” I answered uneasily, “at least I have sometimes thought that the policeman on the beat—”

Mr. H     s threw up his hands.

“Always the police!” he cried. “They meet me at every turn! When was this policeman seen last?”

“Susan tells me that she saw him this morning, and gave information of the robbery. He is now on the track of the criminals.”

The specialist lay back in his chair, and smiled a smile of supreme scorn.

“He has got a clue,” I continued. “Two gipsies were seen passing down the Grove this morning, and they afterwards went off along the Peckham Road. The officer has gone in pursuit of them.”

“Really, Mr. Lobb, I am ashamed of you. The idea of supposing that the stupid brains of the regular police could possibly fathom an inscrutable affair like this. This tale about gipsies is clearly a blind. I am glad the police are out of the way, however, as I can now pursue my own inquiry undisturbed. What kind of mat was it?”

Before I could answer Dr. W      hurriedly leant over and murmured something in his friend’s ear.

“Oh, ah, I forgot!” said Mr. H     s. And turning to me he remarked: “My friend here reminds me that I have forgotten the usual preliminary demonstration. I have first to give you a specimen of my detective powers. Let me tell you then, that I have already discovered you to be a man of independent means, not following any regular profession, but occupying yourself with literary pursuits, and particularly the study of poetry; you hold Evangelical views, are a teetotaller, have a quarrelsome disposition, and were formerly friendly with a clergyman of the Church of England from whom you are now estranged.”

I was stupefied. As soon as I recovered breath I cried out:

“You must be a necromancer! a Mahatma F Except the quarrelsome disposition, which is false and will lead to unpleasantness between us if repeated, you speak as if you had known me all my life.”

Dr. W     , who had taken out a notebook and was writing hard, looked up and smiled admiringly on his friend, who turned to him, and asked:

“Now, can you explain how I found all that out, W     ?”

The doctor shook his head.

“Dear me, you never get any brighter,” muttered the expert in a tone of disappointment. Then he turned to me.

“I will explain. From your being at home in the middle of the morning I inferred that you had no regular profession, and therefore that you must have private means. Your literary pursuits, and their direction, were revealed to me by that bulky manuscript on your desk, which bears the title ‘The Principles of Shakespearean Punctuation.’ On your wall hangs a text, which leads me to suppose that you are Evangelical; and as the words of the text are: Blessed are the Meek, I conclude that it was given to you by some friend who had observed your failing and wished to correct it. [This was nasty. The text was given me by my own sister. I have returned it to her.] I judge you to be a teetotaller, because my friend and I have been in your house half an hour, and you have not offered us a drink. That you were once friendly with a clergyman is proved by this photograph in your album, below which is written—‘With the Vicar’s Compliments’—and that your friendship has met with interruption I gather from the fact that a pencil has been drawn through those words, and has written beneath them the word—‘Serpent.’”

I could hardly help laughing as he finished.

“Really, Mr. H     s, you must excuse my saying so, but all that is so childishly simple, that I am afraid I can’t give you credit for much astuteness in finding it out. But if you meant it merely as a hint that you are thirsty, why—”

I got up and went to the sideboard.

As soon as the refreshments had been disposed of, the specialist rose to go out to the scene of the crime, accompanied by his medical friend. I was coming too, but he waved me back.

“Your presence would only distract me,” he said. “I am about to make a microscopical investigation outside, and I wish to be alone, so that my brain may work freely, and my reasoning powers have full play.”

I heard them open the front door and pass outside. Tortured by curiosity I went to the window and tried to see what they were doing. I could just catch a glimpse of the celebrated detective’s legs. He appeared to be kneeling on the steps, going over every inch in search of those minute indicia which escape the notice of ordinary minds, but which reveal a whole complicated tragedy to the trained intellect of a literary detective. The fool W      was standing on the garden path, notebook in hand, looking on with an expression of childlike reverence, and every now and then taking down something which fell from his friend, but in accents too low for me to overhear.

At last I could bear the suspense no longer. I had come out into the hall, resolved to find out what they had discovered, when my wish was anticipated by Mr. H     s stepping softly in, followed by the inevitable W., and closing the door behind him.

The great expert’s look was grave, almost to weeping. An expression in sycophantic imitation was assumed by the tiresome doctor.

“Well, have you found out anything?” I asked with a beating heart.

“Everything!” was the solemn answer. “Prepare yourself for the worst. You have been boldly and shamelessly robbed by one who is evidently numbered among your most intimate friends, who had supper here only last night, and went away at twelve o’clock, in a partially intoxicated condition, dressed in a covert coat and gaiters, and smoking Pioneer tobacco in a shilling briar. He is five feet eleven inches in height, aged thirty-eight, wears No. 9 boots, and earns a precarious livelihood on the Stock Exchange.”

“Johnson!” I wailed, and sank senseless on to a chair.

My cry brought Susan from the kitchen with a rush. She was closely followed by a police-constable, who was hurriedly passing the sleeve of his coat across his mouth.

The Baker Street consultant glanced at him with ineffable scorn.

“What are you doing here?” he demanded, with ill-concealed jealousy.

“I came here about MR. LOB’S mat,” stammered the officer. “It’s all right. I caught the gipsies the other side of New Cross.”

The specialist gave a lordly wave of his hand.

“So much for the intelligence of the police,” he sneered. “Where is MR. LOB’S mat, pray?”

“I brought it back with me, sir.”

I sprang to my feet, darted to the front door, and flung it open. There, in its familiar spot, with the dear old WELCOME staring on its honest face, it smiled up at me like an innocent child.

The mat had been lying there for the past hour!

I was disappointed in Mr. H     s. In the reports in the magazine his language has never been other than that of a gentleman and a philosopher. I am sorry to say that my experience puts him in a far less favourable light.

P.S.—I had the greatest difficulty in restraining Johnson, when he heard of the affair, from going into Baker Street to “have it out with that beggar, H     s.”