The Middle Temple Murder J. S. Fletcher (the reading strategies book .txt) 📖

say so. The fact is that on June 21st at about⁠—to be precise⁠—three o’clock in the afternoon, a stranger, who gave the name of John Marbury, and his present address as the Anglo-Orient Hotel, Waterloo, called at our establishment, and asked if he could rent a small safe. He explained to me that he desired to deposit in such a safe a small leather box⁠—which, by the by, was of remarkably ancient appearance⁠—that he had brought with him. I showed him a safe such as he wanted, informed him of the rent, and of the rules of the place, and he engaged the safe, paid the rent for one year in advance, and deposited his leather box⁠—an affair of about a foot square⁠—there and then. After that, having exchanged a remark or two about the altered conditions of London, which, I understood him to say, he had not seen for a great many years, he took his key and his departure. I think there can be no doubt about this being the Mr. Marbury who was found murdered.”

“None at all, I should say, Mr. Myerst,” said Rathbury. “And I’m much obliged to you for coming here. Now you might tell me a little more, sir. Did Marbury tell you anything about the contents of the box?”

“No. He merely remarked that he wished the greatest care to be taken of it,” replied the secretary.

“Didn’t give you any hint as to what was in it?” asked Rathbury.

“None. But he was very particular to assure himself that it could not be burnt, nor burgled, nor otherwise molested,” replied Mr. Myerst. “He appeared to be greatly relieved when he found that it was impossible for anyone but himself to take his property from his safe.”

“Ah!” said Rathbury, winking at Spargo. “So he would, no doubt. And Marbury himself, sir, now? How did he strike you?”

Mr. Myerst gravely considered this question.

“Mr. Marbury struck me,” he answered at last, “as a man who had probably seen strange places. And before leaving he made, what I will term, a remarkable remark. About⁠—in fact, about his leather box.”

“His leather box?” said Rathbury. “And what was it, sir?”

“This,” replied the secretary. “ ‘That box,’ he said, ‘is safe now. But it’s been safer. It’s been buried⁠—and deep-down, too⁠—for many and many a year!’ ”

IX The Dealer in Rare Stamps

“Buried⁠—and deep-down, too⁠—for many and many a year,” repeated Mr. Myerst, eyeing his companions with keen glances. “I consider that, gentlemen, a very remarkable remark⁠—very remarkable!”

Rathbury stuck his thumbs in the armholes of his waistcoat again and began swaying backwards and forwards in his chair. He looked at Spargo. And with his knowledge of men, he knew that all Spargo’s journalistic instincts had been aroused, and that he was keen as mustard to be off on a new scent.

“Remarkable⁠—remarkable, Mr. Myerst!” he assented. “What do you say, Mr. Spargo?”

Spargo turned slowly, and for the first time since Myerst had entered made a careful inspection of him. The inspection lasted several seconds; then Spargo spoke.

“And what did you say to that?” he asked quietly.

Myerst looked from his questioner to Rathbury. And Rathbury thought it time to enlighten the caller.

“I may as well tell you, Mr. Myerst,” he said smilingly, “that this is Mr. Spargo, of the Watchman. Mr. Spargo wrote the article about the Marbury case of which you spoke when you came in. Mr. Spargo, you’ll gather, is deeply interested in this matter⁠—and he and I, in our different capacities, are working together. So⁠—you understand?” Myerst regarded Spargo in a new light. And while he was so looking at him. Spargo repeated the question he had just put.

“I said⁠—What did you say to that?”

Myerst hesitated.

“Well⁠—er⁠—I don’t think I said anything,” he replied. “Nothing that one might call material, you know.”

“Didn’t ask him what he meant?” suggested Spargo.

“Oh, no⁠—not at all,” replied Myerst.

Spargo got up abruptly from his chair.

“Then you missed one of the finest opportunities I ever heard of!” he said, half-sneeringly. “You might have heard such a story⁠—”

He paused, as if it were not worth while to continue, and turned to Rathbury, who was regarding him with amusement.

“Look here, Rathbury,” he said. “Is it possible to get that box opened?”

“It’ll have to be opened,” answered Rathbury, rising. “It’s got to be opened. It probably contains the clue we want. I’m going to ask Mr. Myerst here to go with me just now to take the first steps about having it opened. I shall have to get an order. We may get the matter through today, but at any rate we’ll have it done tomorrow morning.”

“Can you arrange for me to be present when that comes off?” asked Spargo. “You can⁠—certain? That’s all right, Rathbury. Now I’m off, and you’ll ring me up or come round if you hear anything, and I’ll do the same by you.”

And without further word, Spargo went quickly away, and just as quickly returned to the Watchman office. There the assistant who had been told off to wait upon his orders during this new crusade met him with a business card.

“This gentleman came in to see you about an hour ago, Mr. Spargo,” he said. “He thinks he can tell you something about the Marbury affair, and he said that as he couldn’t wait, perhaps you’d step round to his place when you came in.”

Spargo took the card and read:

Mr. James Criedir,
Dealer in Philatelic Rarities,
2,021, Strand.

Spargo put the card in his waistcoat pocket and went out again, wondering why Mr. James Criedir could not, would not, or did not call himself a dealer in rare postage stamps, and so use plain English. He went up Fleet Street and soon found the shop indicated on the card, and his first glance at its exterior showed that whatever business might have been done by Mr. Criedir in the past at that establishment there was to be none done there in the future by him, for there were newly-printed bills in the window announcing that the place was to let. And inside he found a short, portly, elderly man who