Reginald Cruden by Talbot Baines Reed (8 ebook reader .txt) 📖

Chapter Twenty. Samuel Shuckleford finds Virtue its own Reward.

It was just as well for Horace’s peace of mind, during his time of anxious watching, that two short paragraphs in the morning papers of the following day escaped his observation.

“At — police-court yesterday, two men named Medlock and Shanklin were brought before the magistrate on various charges of fraud connected with sham companies in different parts of the country. After some formal evidence they were remanded for a week, bail being refused.”

“A youth named Reginald was yesterday charged at Liverpool with conspiracy to defraud by means of fictitious circulars addressed in the name of a trading company. He was remanded for three days without bail, pending inquiries.”

It so happened that it fell to Booms’s lot to cut the latter paragraph out. And as he was barely aware of the existence of Cruden’s brother, and in no case would have recognised him by his assumed name, the news, even if he read it, could have conveyed no intelligence to his mind.

Horace certainly did not read it. Even when he had nothing better to do, he always regarded newspapers as a discipline not to be meddled with out of office hours. And just now, with his mother lying in a critical condition, and with no news day after day of Reginald, he had more serious food for reflection than the idle gossip of a newspaper.

The only other person in London whom the news could have interested was Samuel Shuckleford. But as he was that morning riding blithely in the train to Liverpool, reading the Law Times, and flattering himself he would soon make the public “sit up” to a recognition of his astuteness, he saw nothing of them.

He found himself on the Liverpool platform just where, scarcely three months ago, Reginald had found himself that dreary afternoon of his arrival. But, unlike Reginald, it cost the young ornament of the law not a moment’s hesitation as to whether he should take a cab or not to his destination. If only the cabman knew whom he had the honour to carry, how he would touch up his horse!

“Shy Street. Put me down at the corner,” said Samuel, swinging himself into the hansom.

So this was Liverpool. He had never been there before, and consequently it was not to be wondered at that the crowds jostling by on the pavement, without so much as a glance in his direction, neither knew him nor had heard of him. He could forgive them, and smiled to think how different it would be in a few days, when all the world would point at him as he drove back to the station, and say,—

“There goes Shuckleford, the clever lawyer, who first exposed the Select Agency Corporation, don’t you know?”

Don’t you know? What a question to ask respecting S.S.!

At the corner of Shy Street he alighted, and sauntered gently down the street, keeping a sharp look-out on both sides of him, without appearing to regard anything but the pavement.

Humph! The odd numbers were on the left side, so S.S. would walk on the right, and get a good survey of Number 13 from a modest distance.

What, thought he, would the precious Cruden Reginald (ha! ha!) think if he knew who was walking down the other side of the road?

Ah! he was getting near it now. Here was 17, a baker’s; 15, a greengrocer’s; and 13—eh? a chemist’s? Ah, yes, he noticed that the first floors of all the shops were let for offices, and the first floor of the chemist’s shop was the place he wanted.

He could see through the grimy window the top rail of a chair-back and the corner of a table, on which stood an inkpot and a tattered directory. No occupant of the room was visible; doubtless he found it prudent to keep away from the window; or he might possibly have seen the figure of S.S. advancing down the street.

Samuel crossed over. No name was on the chemist’s side-door, but it stood ajar, and he pushed it open and peered up the gloomy staircase. There was a name on the door at the top, so he crept stealthily up the stairs to decipher the word “Medlock” in dim characters on the plate.

“Medlock!” Ho! ho! He was getting warm now. Not only was his man going about with his own name turned inside out, but he had the effrontery to stick up the name of one of his own directors on his door!

Samuel knew Mr Medlock—whom didn’t he know? He had been introduced to him by Durfy, and had supped with him once at the Shades. A nice, pleasant-spoken gentleman, who had made some very complimentary little speeches about Samuel in Samuel’s own hearing. This was the man whose name Cruden had borrowed for his door-plate, in the hope of further mystifying the public as to his own personality!

Ah! ah! He might mystify the public, but there was one whose initials were S.S. whom it would need a cleverer cheat than Cruden Reginald, Esquire, to mystify!

He listened for a moment at the door, and, hearing no sound, made bold to enter. Had Reginald been in, he was prepared to represent that, being on a chance visit to Liverpool, he had been unable to pass the door of an old neighbour without giving him a friendly call.

But he was not put to this shift, for the room was empty. “Gone out to his dinner, I suppose,” said Sam to himself. “Well, I’ll take a good look round while I am here.”

Which he proceeded to do, much to his own satisfaction, but very little to his information, for scarcely a torn-up envelope was to be found to reward the spy for his trouble. The only thing that did attract his attention as likely to be remotely useful was a fragment of a pink paper with the letters “gerskin” on it—a relic Love would have recognised as part of the cover of an old favourite, but which to the inquiring mind of the lawyer appeared to be a document worth impounding in the interests of justice.

As nobody appeared after the lapse of half an hour, Samuel considered his time was being wasted, and therefore withdrew. He looked into the chemist’s shop as he went down, but the chemist was not at home; so he strolled into the greengrocer’s next door, and bought an orange, which he proceeded to consume, making himself meanwhile cunningly agreeable to the lady who presided over the establishment.

“Fine Christmas weather,” said he, looking up in the middle of a prolonged suck.

“Yes,” said the lady.

“Plenty of customers?”

She shrugged her shoulders. Sam might interpret that as he liked.

“I suppose you supply the Corporation next door?” said Sam, digging his countenance once more into the orange.

“Eh?” said the lady.

“The—what’s-his-name?—Mr Reginald—I suppose he deals with you?”

“He did, if you want to know.”

“I thought so—a friend of mine, you know.”

“Oh, is he?” said the lady, finding words at last, and bridling up in a way that astonished her cross-examiner; “then the sooner you go and walk off after him the better!”

“Oh, very well,” said Sam. “He’s not at home just now, though.”

“Oh, ain’t he?” said the woman, “that’s funny!”

“Why, what do you mean?”

“Oh, nothing—what should I? If you’re a friend of his, you’d better take yourself off! That’s what I mean.”

“All right; no offence, old lady. Perhaps he’s come in by this time.”

The lady laughed disagreeably. The Corporation had bought coals of her three months ago.

Samuel returned to the office, but it was as deserted as ever. He therefore resolved to try what his blandishments could do with the chemist’s boy downstairs in the way of obtaining information.

That young gentleman, as the reader will remember, had been a bosom friend of Love in his day, and was animated to some extent by the spirit of his comrade.

“Hullo, my man!” said Sam, walking into the shop. “Governor’s out, then?”

“Yus.”

“Got any lollipops in those bottles?”

“Yus.”

“Any brandy-balls?”

“No.”

“Any acid-drops?”

“Yus.”

“I’ll take a penn’orth, then. I suppose you don’t know when the gentleman upstairs will be back?”

The boy stopped short in his occupation and stared at Sam.

“What gentleman?” he asked.

“Mr Medlock, is it? or Reginald, or some name like that?”

“Oh yus, I do!” said the boy, with a grin.

“When?”

“Six months all but a day. That’s what I reckon.”

“Six months! Has he gone away, then?”

“Oh no—he was took off.”

“Took off—you don’t mean to say he’s dead?”

“Oh, ain’t you a rum ’un! As if you didn’t know he’s been beaked.”

“Beaked! what’s that?”

The boy looked disgusted at the fellow’s obtuseness.

“’Ad up in the p’lice-court, of course. What else could I mean?”

Samuel jumped off his stool as if he had been electrified.

“What do you say?” said he, gaping wildly at the boy.

“Go on; if you’re deaf, it’s no use talkin’ to you. He’s been up in the p’lice-court,” said he, raising his voice to a shout. “Yesterday—there you are—and there’s your drops, and you ain’t give me the penny for them.”

Samuel threw down the penny, and, too excited to take up the drops, dashed out into the street.

What! yesterday—while he was lounging about town, fancying he had the game all to himself. Was ever luck like his?

He rushed to a shop and bought a morning paper. There, sure enough, was a short notice of yesterday’s proceedings, and you might have knocked S.S. down with a feather as he read it.

“Anyhow,” said he to himself, crumpling up the paper in sheer vexation, “they won’t be able to do without me, I’ll take care of that. I can tell them all about it—but catch me doing it now, the snobs, unless they’re civil.”

With which valiant determination he swung himself into another cab, and ordered the man to drive to the head police-station.

The inspector was not in, but his second-in-command was, and to him, much against his will, Samuel had to explain his business.

“Well, what do you know about the prisoner?” asked the official.

“Oh, plenty. You’d better subpoena me for the next examination,” said Sam.

The sub-inspector smiled.

“You’re like all the rest of them,” he said, “think you know all about it. Come, let’s hear what you’ve got to say, young fellow; there’s plenty of work to be done here, I can tell you, without dawdling our time.”

“Thank you,” said Sam, “I’d sooner tell the magistrate.”

“Go and tell the magistrate then!” shouted the official, “and don’t stay blocking up the room here.”

This was not what Samuel expected. There was little chance of the magistrate being more impressed with his importance than a sub-inspector. So he felt the only thing for it was to bring himself to the unpleasant task of showing his cards after all.

“The fact is—” he began.

“If you’re going to say what you know about the case, I’ll listen to you,” said the sub-inspector, interrupting him, “if not, go and talk in the street.”

“I am going to say what I know,” said the crestfallen Sam.

“Very well. It’s a pity you couldn’t do it at first,” said the official, getting up and standing with his back turned, warming his hands at the fire.

Under these depressing circumstances Samuel began his story, showing his weakest cards first, and saving up his trumps as long as he could. The sub-inspector listened to him impassively, rubbing his hands, and warming first one toe and then the other in the fender.

At length it was all finished, and he turned round.

“That’s all