The Bartenstein Case/Chapter 18
CHAPTER III
THE HOUSE AT HIGHBURY
As the strange and mysterious being, only known. to him by the name which Mitchell had just voiced, was at that moment uppermost in his thoughts, Inspector Dwayne received this news with interest, and demanded to know how much there was of it.
"Not a great deal," replied Mitchell, "and some of it not very clear, but I believe it refers to the old chap. I've been on the telephone about it. Something in the description made me think it must be Grandfather Punctuality. He's only one eye, you know."
Inspector Dwayne looked sharply at his man.
"Oh, you noticed that, did you?" he said.
"Well, what I mean is, that the old chap you pointed out to me had a shade over his left eye that night," answered Mitchell, "so I naturally concluded he'd lost the other."
The Inspector, who just then had a thousand things to think of, let his memory go back to Mr. Marks's shop and its occupants.
"Now I come to think of it, he had," he said. "I'd forgotten it for the moment. But—just wait a minute, Mitchell, while I step to the telephone."
He rang up Mr. Aaron Abrahams, who, as he never went out except to his religious duties, was on the spot.
"Is that you, Mr. Abrahams?" he asked. "This is Inspector Dwayne."
"Yes, my dear sir," answered Mr. Abrahams.
"When the old gentleman—you know whom I mean—called at your place yesterday, was he wearing a patch over his left eye?"
"No, indeed, sir," replied the curio dealer.
"Just as usual?"
"Just as usual."
"Have you ever seen him wear a patch?"
"Never, my dear sir."
"All right, thank you; good-bye."
Without waiting to receive Mr. Abrahams' farewell, the Inspector rang off, and returned to Mitchell, muttering to himself, "If it were he, and he lost his eye there, he's had a new one fitted between our seeing him at Marks's shop and his visit to Abrahams yesterday. Well, Mitchell, go on," he said as he sat down again. "Give me the facts."
"It could scarcely be called a 'missing' case," said Mitchell. "The old gentleman in question has only been 'missing', as his daughter calls it, one night—last night."
"What's she uneasy for, then?" asked the Inspector.
"Because it's the very first night he's ever been away from his home," replied Mitchell. "Briefly, it's this. Miss Catherine Berridge, of twenty-one Dermiston Road, Highbury, reported that she was uneasy about her father, Anthony Berridge, who, for the first time in her recollection, failed to return home last night, and of whose whereabouts she knows nothing. As he is a very old man—probably over eighty years of age—and of such regular habits, she is afraid something may have happened to him. She describes him as thin and stooping, clean-shaven, as having lost most of his teeth and the left eye, in which he wears an artificial substitute, and as wearing a somewhat worn suit of black, and an old-fashioned tall hat and black stock."
Inspector Dwayne listened to this attentively. He rubbed his chin, considering matters.
"I wonder if he was at Marks's shop last night?" he said.
"No, he wasn't," answered Mitchell. "I made sure of that. And I've been there today."
The Inspector thought matters over a little more. Then he started into action again, and locked up his desk—a sure sign, as Mitchell knew, that he meant to have a hard evening's work outside.
"Come along, Mitchell," said Inspector Dwayne. "We'll go and see this Miss Berridge. And after that—but let's get that done with first."
During the journey to Highbury the Inspector remained very thoughtful, and scarcely broke the silence which had fallen upon him as soon as he left his office. He was reflecting upon the strange events of the past twenty-four hours, and endeavouring to hit upon a theory which could reconcile and piece together certain patent facts. He was in a maze, he knew, but he also knew that all that he required was one moment's inspiration or illumination, one moment's lifting up—so that he could see from above instead of from below—to make things clear to him. At present there seemed little doubt that the old man, whom he knew as Grandfather Punctuality, an eccentric collector of curiosities, and who might turn out to be Anthony Berridge in real life, was in some way or other connected with all the mystery which surrounded Marcus Bartenstein's murder.
On arriving at Dermiston Road, which lay in the district sandwiched between Highbury Barn and Highbury Park, Inspector Dwayne was somewhat surprised to find it a thoroughfare of what agents usually term highly desirable residences—that is to say, the houses were of some pretensions, with small gardens in front, porticoed doors reached by at least six steps, and four storeys of evidently lofty and capacious rooms. They were, in fact, just the sort of mansions in miniature in which the well-to-do tradesman, the solicitor with a nice practice, the well-established doctor, and the man retired from business, loves to dwell, and in Inspector Dwayne's opinion they did not exactly fit in with what he had seen of Grandfather Punctuality.
"Doesn't seem very likely the old man would live in a street like this, Mitchell," he said, voicing his thoughts. "These houses'll let for not a penny less than eighty-five to a hundred a year."
"Just so, sir," agreed Mitchell. "But then," he added with a philosophic shake of his head, "you never can tell in these cases. The old man might be as rich as what-d'ye-call-him! There's no knowing. Here's the house, anyway, Inspector."
Outwardly, at any rate, No. 21 looked just as genteel, solid and respectable, as its neighbours. The garden was ornamented by a statue of Ceres enthroned on a pedestal; the window-blinds and curtains were unimpeachable; the steps were stainless, and the brasswork of the front door was so highly polished that it shone like burnished gold. Inspector Dwayne was more than ever convinced that they had come on a fruitless errand, and he rang the bell in a doleful manner, which became more doleful when a smart maid-servant answered the summons. Somehow she did not seem to fit in with Grandfather Punctuality, rank tobacco, and Mr. Marks's spirit-bottle.
The maid conducted them into a room on the left of the hall—a solidly furnished, middle-Victorian sort of apartment, which appeared to be a dining-room such as highly respectable people favour. They had not been a minute in this before a lady hurriedly entered. It was obvious that this arrival had set up a state of considerable nervous agitation in her. She advanced upon Inspector Dwayne with questioning eyes and hands.
"Oh," she said, "I—I hope you have brought me no bad news of my father?"
"No, ma'am, no!" replied the Inspector hastily; "certainly not, ma'am—Miss Berridge. I suppose? The fact is, ma'am, we haven't brought any news at all—we came to get some information. Don't be afraid, ma'am."
Miss Berridge sat down and silently motioned her visitors to be seated. Inspector Dwayne gathered a general impression of her in a swift glance. She was, he considered, a woman of about forty, who had been very handsome, and might still have been so but for the fact that her fine features bore the traces of some great sorrow, and that her hair, which had apparently been raven black, was now thickly streaked with white. He observed, too, that she was well dressed in something of an old-fashioned style, and wore several very good rings on her hands, which were white and shapely. And again he could connect nothing that he saw with Grandfather Punctuality.
Miss Berridge, who had now_recovered her composure, glanced at Inspector Dwayne's card, which he had sent in by the maid, and then at him.
"Yes?" she said. "What can I tell you?"
"Well, ma'am," replied the Inspector, "I think I might be able to assist you, if you can answer a few questions. I understand you are anxious because Mr. Berridge didn't return home last night. Was that so very remarkable?"
"Very," replied Miss Berridge; "we have lived in this house since I can remember anything—in fact, I was born here—and this is the first time he has ever failed to return home."
"And he was a man of very regular habits, ma'am, I believe?" said Inspector Dwayne.
"The most regular," replied Miss Berridge. "He left the house of a morning between ten and eleven and he returned home at night as a rule about half past ten. Sometimes he was later—but he invariably returned."
"Could you say what time he returned home three nights ago, ma'am?" inquired the Inspector.
Miss Berridge thought the question over.
"Three nights ago?" she said. "Oh yes, that night he was very late—it must have been half past one o'clock when he came in."
"Very late for such an old gentleman, wasn't it, ma'am?" suggested the Inspector.
"Yes, but he was often out late," said Miss Berridge. "I—I think he had friends that he went to of an evening. I had never any fear of him, because he always came home—generally in a cab."
"I gather, then, that you didn't know much of what your father did with himself at night, ma'am?" said Inspector Dwayne.
"No," she replied in a low voice, "I didn't. My father is a little eccentric."
"May I ask what his business or profession is?" said the Inspector.
Miss Berridge shook her head.
"I don't know that, either," she answered. "And what is more, I never did. He never told me anything, though for over twenty years I have been all he had. You see this house!" she exclaimed with some emotion. "Everything in it is full of comfort; there has always been plenty and to spare of money, and I had only to ask for anything I wanted; but beyond seeing him in it for an hour in a morning, and a few hours on Sunday, I know nothing of his business or of his life outside these walls. He is the sort of man one dare not ask questions of."
"Just so, ma'am; I quite understand," said Inspector Dwayne. "Now, has your father, Mr. Berridge, any little hobbies? Does he go in for anything?"
"He is a great collector of old china, old glass, and similar things," answered Miss Berridge. "If you will come this way I will show you some of his collection."
She led them into a large room at the rear of the house, the windows of which commanded a view of a large garden. Here were cabinets after cabinets of rare china and glass, all systematically arranged and labelled, and in prim and proper order. It might have been a small museum presided over by officials.
"Ah, I see!" said Inspector Dwayne. "Very fine, ma'am. Now I think Mr. Berridge wears an artificial eye? Do you know whether he had any accident to it this week?"
"Yes," replied Miss Berridge unhesitatingly. "The morning after he had been out so late he came down to breakfast with a patch over his eye and said that he had had an accident, and lost the artificial eye, but laughed, and remarked that he could soon buy another. In fact, yesterday morning he appeared with the new one, and went out wearing it."
"Ah, I think I've seen your father sometimes looking round the old shops," said the Inspector diplomatically. "In fact, I'm sure I have. Don't you be afraid, ma'am—I've no doubt he will turn up all right. He hasn't had any great trouble of late, ma'am, has he, that would affect him a little, eh?"
"He had a terrible trouble a few years ago," Miss Berridge replied in a low tone. "My sister—ran away from home. I often think," she went on rapidly, "that he may be searching for her when he stays out so late at night. She—she was his favourite—he worshipped. her!"
Here Miss Berridge showed signs of great emotion, and Inspector Dwayne, promising to do his best for her, said good-bye and left the house.
"Now, then, Mitchell," he said when they were walking briskly away, "the thing to do is to find Anthony Berridge, alias Grandfather Punctuality. So here's for it!"