LITERATURE.

Globe, Volume XX, Issue 1527, 9 January 1879, Page 3

LITERATURE.

SHADOWED FOETH. By the Author of “In the Dead of Night.” ( Concluded .) One other piece of information was furnished mo by my landlord’s garrulity, which might or might nob prove useful in time to come. He gave me to understand that he had a pass-key which would open the lock of every door in thehouse. Ho had a applied himself with this in consequence of one of his lodgers having committed suicide in his room, and tho affair not having been discovered for upwards of a week. Ever since that time, if any of his lodgers were missing for more than twenty-four hours, he entered their rooms without ceremony, and satisfied himself that all was right on his premises. I did not fail to note carefully the particular nail in the plate rack on which tho masterkey was usually hung. Lenoir and I were now close neighbours indeed, but still, in one soasc, as far apart as ever. The proverbial politeness of foreigners was certainly not exemplified in his case ; and, for my own part, seeing that I could never Ppass the man without a shudder, it was hardly likely that I should try to cultivate his acquaintance. He must have known that I lodged in the same house with hfmjinall probability lie was quite aware that I had removed into the room next his ; but whether ou that account ho distrusted me, and began to regard mo with suspicion, I have no means of knowing. In any case, there we were, separated only by six inches of wall, but as much strangers to each other as though one of us dwelt inside the Great Pyramid and the other one outside. Many were the hours that I sat brooding and smoking by the open window of my room, turning over this scheme and that, vainly trying to devise some plan which should bring mo nearer the end I had in view. That end I had by this time set clearly before myself. It was neither more nor less than to bring Lenoir to justice as the murderer of Osric Imray. That he was the murderer I never once doubted. The certainty was impressed upon me at the moment of my seeing him and his shadow in conjunction at the cafe, and from that certainly I had never yet wav< it 1, By-and-by a scheme began to shape itself vaguely in my brain. .1 worked it out bit by b t, and adopted it at last ouly because I cou’d think of nothing better. It might succeed in furthering my cuds, but the probuhdity was that it would not succeed. In any case it was better to make an effort and fail than not to make an eff- rt at all. But to carry out the scheme in question it was needful that I should have a c mfederatOj I was not long in making up my mind as to whom that confederate should be. Some

two years previously I had picked a young arab out of the London gutters and had induced him to si'; to me, rags and all, as a subject in one of my pictures. I got to feel an interest in the lad, poor, neglected waif though he was, and after I had done with him for art purposes I determined not to lose sight of him. The result was that, after giving Tim eighteen months’ rough schooling, I found a situation for him as assistant to a greengrocer. To this greengrocer I now went, and asked him to lend Tim to me for a month, a request with which he at once complied. 80 Tim and I went back to Winckworth street, whore Drew, my land’ lord, provided him with a shakedown in the attic.

The first thing I did next morning was to put into Tim’s hand a lump of wax, one surface of which boro the impression !of the wards of a key. It was a facsimile of Drew’s master key. Watching my opportunity evening after evening when I went downstairs to smoke a pipe with the old man, there came a time when ho was called out of the room to answer a knock at the front door. Left aione, I possessed myself of the key for a couple of minutes, and took a careful impression of it on the piece of wax which I had brought in my pocket for that purpose. This I now handed to Tim. * Take this,’ I said, ‘ and get a key made from it.’ Four days later he brought me the key. I tried it on my own floor first of all, but it would neither lock or unlock it. Then Tim procured two or three files of different sizes and patterns, and he and I worked on the key at intervals for a couple of days. At tho end of that time our labors were crowned with success.

That moment of triumph was worth all the time and labour it had cost me. I inserted the key in Lenoir’s lock, and 'the bolt shot noiselessly back ; I turned the handle and the door seemed to open of its own aecord I stood on tho threshold of Pierre Lenoir’s room.

The room was an exact counterpart of my own. There wa« the same old fashioned grate and quaintly carved chimney piece. The same deep skirting board of oak, black with age. The same foliated cornice of ornamental plaster work running round the room at the junction of walls and ceiling. The same unwieldly shutters, and the same grand old door, f'f the furniture I no note. Whether it were good, bad, or indifferent, was no concern of mine Satisfied with what I had seen, I shut the door, relockcd it, and went back to my own room. So far I had been successful. Should Ibe equally successful in that which I proposed to myself to do next ? I wanted to make a hiding-place from which, myself unseen, I could, whenever I should choose to do so, see everything that went on inside Lenoir’s room.

Although he made a point of coming home at midnight, or soon after, Lenoir rarely retired to bed till a couple of hours later. Listening in the silence and darkness, I could hear him at intervals moving about his room long after everybody else was in bed, and all the lights in 'Winckworth street but his own were extinguished. The question was, in what way did Pierre Lenoir occupy himself during those two hours ? What did he find to do at that time of the morning ? This was the problem I had set myself to solve, and the examination of Lenoir’s room was but a preliminary step towards that end. The first thing I did, the day after my visit to the Frenchman’s room, was to send Tim out to buy a step-ladder of a certain height. This was readily obtained, and when Tim brought it I found that, as I stood on the second step from the top, my head nearly touched the ceiling of my room. I now proceeded to mark out, on the surface of tho wall that divided my room from Lenoir’s, a space measuring twelve inches in a straight line from the ceiling downwards, and twenty-four inches acro-s the base. As soon as Lenoir had gone out for the day I instructed Tim, in the first place, to strip the paper off tho space thus marked out, and, in the second place, to carefully remove a couple of feet of the elaborate foliated cornice, which, as already stated, ran round the top of the room, and extended to a depth of six inches down the walls. This done, Tim’s next next job was to pick away the plaster from off the marked space till the bare bricks were exposed to view. The next thing was to remove the two top tiers of bricks for a space of twelve inches out of tho twenty-four, and yet leave intact and unbroken the cornice and plaster work on Lenoir’s side of the wall. This proved more easy of accomplishment than I had dared to hope. The mortar with which the bricks had been laid was rotten with age, crumbling almost at a touch, and was easily prodded out of tho interstices between the bricks by means of the iron skewer which Tim made use of for that purpose. When this was done a little careful manipulation enabled me to remove the bricks one by one, till half a dozen of them were taken out and laid on tho floor. The plaster on the opposite side of the wall could now be seen, and the most difficult part of our task was yet before ua. Next aftrnoon, when Lenoir had gone out for the day and hardly anyone was left in the house, Tim, having unlocked the door by moans of my duplicate key, took the step, ladder and boldly planted it and himself in the Frenchman’s room, while I took up my position close to the opening in the wall of my room. Taking an instrument which I had made for the purpose, Tim inserted the point of it between two of the leaves of the cornice, and pressed it forward till it pierced clean through the plaster behind, so that its point became visible to me on the other side. The tiny hole thus made was carefully enlarged by scraping with the knife at the plaster till an irregularly-shaped orifice about two inches in diameter was cut out. A second hole was cut a few inches farther on in the same way. The result was that from my side of the wall, through the opening just made, I had a clear view over about two thirds of the Frenchman’s room, while it was next to impossible for him to detect the openings from his side, they being cut out behind the foliated work of the cornice, and consequently all but invisible from below. It was, in fact, as though I were looking out from behind a screen of leaves, only the leaves in this case were made of plaster of Baris. As soon as I was satisfied that there was nothing more to be done, I plugged up the holes with cotton wool for the time being. Tim brought back the ladder and carefully swept up every speck of plaster that had fallen on the floor of Lenoir’s room. Then we relocked the door and waited for midnight.

As soon as twelve o’clock had struck I took uio my position on the ladder and removed the plugs of cotton wool, The lamp in our room was then extinguished, and Tim coiled himself up in an easy-chair, waiting till he might be wanted. Wo had already provided ourselves with slippers made of felt, so that our movements might not be hoard. By-and-by Lenoir came home On entering his room he locked the door behind him, as he always did. Then he struck a match and lighted his lamp. Then lie flung off his coat and waistcoat—the night was warm—and sitting down with the air c f a man thoroughly tired out, he began to smoke. After a time he produced a bundle of letters from his pocket, and read them through one after another. All this was clearly visible to me from my eyrie close to the coiling Not only could I soo his every movement, bat the varying expressions that crossed his face were plainly to be seen, At half-past one ho wont to bed.

Two more evenings passed without anything of consequence taking place. On both occasions Lenoir amused himself with a pack of cards, shuiUing and cutting them time aft r time, his object apparently being to ascertain how often out of a given number of times lie could succeed in turning up an acc. But on the fourth evening my patience was rewarded. He got home rather earlier than usual and apparently in high good humour with himself, judging from the way be kept whittling and tinging under his breath. Coat and vest having been iiuag aside as usual, and the inevitable cigarette ligated, he went ty Hie window and satisfied kiiujelt that the Venetians were so arranged that nothing which went on inside the room could be seen from over the way. Then he went to the door ? 4 na

made sure that it was really locked, His next proceeding was a singular one. The thought had struck me more than once that Lenoir’s bedstead, as an article of furniture, looked considerably out of place among its shabby surroundings. It was made of mahogany, in the heavy oldfashioned style not often seen nowadays. The posts that supported the foot of it were especially substantial and solid-looking. Going down on one knee in front of one of these pillars, Lenoir with his finger and thumb drew out of its socket the circular piece of mahogany that covered one of the screw holes of the bedstead. Then selecting one very small key from several others on a ring that ho draw from his pocket, he inserted it into a tiny keyhole in the woodwork of the bedstead, hitherto hidden behind the piece of mahogany which he had just removed. As he turned the key I heard a faint click, and the next moment he pulled open a little door in the lower part of the bed-post, which, turning on invisible hinges, exposed to view a recess or small cupboard cut out of the substance of the wood, From this recess he drew a roll of something that was covered with leather and carefully tied up. Then going to the table he sat down, drew the lamp closer to him, and proceeded to unfasten the roll, the contents of which proved to consist entirely of bank notes. He rubbed his hands, and chuckled to himself, and nodded his head at the notes as soon as he got them unrolled. “Ah! ha! here we are again, mes amis,’ he shid. Then taking pen and ink and a sheet of paper, he proceeded to put down certain particulars concerning the notes, probably their numbers and value, turning them over one by one carefully and tenderly. Then he tied them up in their leather covering as before, put them back in the recess, relocked the little door, and replaced the piece of mahogany over the scrow-holo. Then he rubbed his hands and chuckled to himself again ‘To-morrow night,’ I heard him say, though he hardly spoke above a whisper, ‘ho promised to come, and he won’t break his word. Then I shall be rich—rich—rich !’

I could hardly doubt that the notes I had just seen were those which had been stolen from Imray, and for the sake of which he had been murdered, but how was I to make myself sure of that fact ? Early next morning, some hours before Lenoir was in the habit of rising, I hunted up Sergeant Smith and had a long consultation with him. Unknown to himself, Lenoir was watched that day, from the moment of his leaving the house till the moment of his return. Acting on Smith’s advice, I took up my position on the _ ladder this evening a couple of hours earlier than usual. Lenoir came homo at eleven, a most unsual proceeding with him, and brought with him a bottle of cognac. Having lighted his lamp, he took the roll of out of its hiding-place and stuffed it, for the time being, under his pillow.' Hardly was this done when I heard a low, peculiar whistle. Lenoir heard it also. He went quickly downstairs, opened the front door, and presently came back, followed by a stranger. The bottle of cognac was opmed and the contents approved of, and then the two men sat down to business, one on each side of the little table, with the lamp between them. They spoke in low tones, and in French. The stranger was there to buy the notes, the numbers of which wore known, but which he presumably had the means of forcing into circulation, cither on the Continent or across the Atlantic. The question which he and Lenoir were arguing now was simply one of price. At length they came to terms, and the roll of notes was produced. The stranger checked them off csrefully against a list which he had brought with him, and then put them away into an inner pocket. ‘ The gold is at my lodgings,’ I heard him say. ‘ Como with me, and you can have it at once.’ * Why didn’t you bring it with you ?’ asked Lenoir, sulkily. ‘lt was too heavy,’ said_ the other, laconically. ‘Besides —’ ‘ \ou did not care to trust yourself here with so much hard cash about you,’ sneered the Frenchman, as ho took up his hat. The stranger only laughed and lit another cigarette.

Lenoir then extinguished his lamp, and the two men went downstairs together and let themselves out at the front door, but only to find themselves next moment in the arms of Sergeant Smith and three of his men, who had been lying in ambush for them. They were taken to the nearest police-station and searched. The notes proved to be those which were stolen from Imray, and in one of Lenoir’s pockets was found a ring—the ring, originally mine, which I had exchanged with my friend for his the night we entered into that foolish compact. Lenior was examined before a magistrate and committed for trial, but three days later he contrived to commit suicide in his cell. The ingenious stranger, on whom the notes were found, had a term of penal servitude meted out to him for his share in the transaction.

I having more to add, except that Tim is well and prosperous. Nothing would suit the lad but going into the police force as soon as he was old enough. He has risen to be a sergeant already. His ambition is to become a superintendent, have a fine horse to ride about on, and assist Royalty to open Parliament.