A DETECTIVE'S STORY.

Temuka Leader, Issue 2327, 10 March 1892, Page 4

A DETECTIVE'S STORY.

(Contin "Me ? Me take anything not my own ? u he cried, looking more stupid than ever. “ I don’t believe it; but if I did, it must have been my mistake. I assure you I don't remember anything about it. And if anytiling was taken, it’ll be in my pocket still. Turn out my pockets, Maggie." •• I don’t think three clocks would go into your pockets," I quietly remarked, as his wile hastened to obey. " Three clocks ? Do they say I took clocks ?" he answered, looking alarmed. " Oh, that must be a mistake. What could Jdo with clocks? I could not carry three at once ; and they would be of no use to me if I could. Had I any clocks with me when 1 came in ?" he inquired of his wife, who tearfully declared that he had none. She turned out the contents of his coat pocket, but there was no trace of any of the articles oh my list. Neither was there any trace of a small bundle of winding keys and the book of addresses which he usually carried on his rounds. He himself searched and turned out his trouser and waistcoat pockets with no better success, and missed the lastnamed articles before I had thought of them. *• I had them with me in the morning when I set out, but I might have left them in that public-house that those fellows would insist on taking me ipto.” He then admitted that he had gone into a publichouse with two men, who claimed him as an old acquaintance and insisted on treating him. The house was well known to me, and I warned him that it would be easy to prove if his statement was false, and that, if it should be. it would tell against him. He did not remember coming out of the public-house, or how he had spent the day. His wife declared that he had been brought home very drunk by a friend who chanced to find him in a back lane, sleeping peacefully, with a kerb-stone for a pillow, and a crowd about him, who spoke of taking him to the station.

" If I took any things not my own—which I don’t believe—l must have been robbed of them, for you see yourself they are not there,” said he helplessly. “I suppose I’ll get all the blame. Oh, what a fool I was to take drink in the morning !” All this seemed to be one of the lamest defences I had ever listened to. The wildest story he could have concocted would have looked plausible beside this one. I suggested that perhaps he or his wife might ;.md some of the articles about the house—especially if they got me to assist in the search. They did not seem to see the satire, and readily helped me, but I did not get anything, and in the end I was content with taking Brunton with me to the station. He made a statement similar to that he had uttered before me, and was locked up. He had not been an hour in the cells, however, before he complained of being ill. He was very sick and pale, and shook as if the time bad been the dead of winter, and a surgeon i,eing called ordered him to be removed to a bed, and there tenderly cared till morning. The doctor was slow to pass an opinion on the trouble, but at length expressed a suspicion that Brunton had " taken something poisonous in his drink,” which had temporarily deranged the system. In the morning Brunton was much better, and clearer headed, but he still professed to have no recollection of taking any thing on his rounds that did not belong to him. Great satisfaction was expressed by those robbed at the "smart capture,” as they expressed it, of the thief, and most of the day was occupied in taking down the statements of these persons, and having Brunton up from his cell to be identified as the thief. The conduct of one of these accusers was curioys. He was an office messenger—a bi<7 stout man, with a full face of good temper and good living. He wore a livery coat, and I believe had a free house, with his wife, attached to the offices which had been robbed. He had himself admitted the clockwinder on the previous morning, and before seeing our prisoner he expressed an opinion to me to the effect that the cause of the whole was bad company. ’ v ~_ The identification was soon over, but what struck me as curious was that Mr Peter Pomflet, the office messenger, said to our prisoner jocularly—- •• Well, what’s your name to-day?” John Brunton, of course —it never was anything else.” . . There was a spice of indignation in the lone of the answer, and Pomflet nodded his head pleasantly, as if not wishing to quarrel about such a trifle, and said— Oh, of course, you said the same yesterday at the office when you came to wind the clocks. But though you’ve a bad memory I haven't. Howandever. it don’s matter, as you've put your foot in it at lasfjs and got caught.” " Did you see me take anything when I was at your place ?” cried Brunton angrily. « No, I didn’t, but this I knows, that the things was missed after you left, and that nobody else got into the rooms but you. And, wot’s more,” cried Mr Pomflet, waxing warm, " I've heerd ac how you say you was drunk w’en you called at your places, and as you are trying to put the blame on the drink, I don't know woe you might ha’ been arter, but this I’ll swear my dyin’ oath that you was sober as a judge w'en you wound our clocks. There! ’ ’ " I don’t remember anything about it," said Brunton dejectedly, " Oli. no, it’s convenient not to remember.” said Pomflet satirically, "like it was with the Strand business.” Brunton stared and made no reply, and was shortly after led back to his cell. Pomflet appeared slightly exultant after the prisoner was gone, and I had no difficulty in drawing out of him the following account of what be called " the Strand business.” “Ye see, sir, I met him in the Strand one evening, when I was stepping home arter being to the theatre. There was a tall, thin chap with him, I was in a good temper, os the missus was away peeing her mother, n.;-ci I’d been enjoyin' of myself fust rate. -Vvlf, w’en I seas him I shouts out, * ’Ullo, nder, vvot’s o’clock ?’ quite good-natured you know—fact, that was my little ;:e. He took it rather short, but, seeing ;ie a-larfin’ fit to bust myself, he simmered down a little, 'specially as I axed him to come an’ ’ave a drop o’ somethink ’ot. W’en we was a-goin' to the nearest public 'onse I ’appined to mention bis name, and lie stared at me. and .then nudged the tall rhap. and they both laded. Arter a bit, Ven we'd had glasses round, ’e says to me, • Wot name was that you called me by ?' I said ' Brunton, of course —that’s your name, jtintit ? or I'm a bo’n ijeot.’ ' Oh, Brunton ? —I thought it was Ned .' I didn’t - zctW catch wot he said there, for they stjt to alarfin’ and sniggerin’, w’ich in politeness, I pretended not to see, ‘ Q’uite a family name.’ I heerd the winder say: • I've as much right to it as my own ?' I think ’« must a’been werry tight, for he couldn’t remember where we d met till I told lurn, or where he worked, or anythink. The ideer of a man forgettin’ his own name, even if he was tight! Well, now you’ll see tthejoke. W’en he came yesterday morning So wind the clock. I says to him,' 'UJJo, winder, wot’s o’clock ?’—my littejoke again, you see. sir. He took it rather short again, and I said, ’ Wot’s your name now ?’ ‘ W’y, Brunton. of course, John Brunton,’ he said ; 'it was never anythink else.’ * Oh, warn t it. though?’ I says, 'Have you forgot about the Strand business ?' Well, he preSended he’d never seen me in the Strand, or lasted a drop of anythink, or been with the 4all, thin chap he called Lanky. Now you Vo continued?)