“So much for the Lascar manager. Now for the sinister cripplewho lives upon the second floor of the opium den, and who wascertainly the last human being whose eyes rested upon NevilleSt. Clair. His name is Hugh Boone, and his hideous face is onewhich is familiar to every man who goes much to the City. He is aprofessional beggar, though in order to avoid the police regulationshe pretends to a small trade in wax vestas. Some little distancedown Threadneedle Street, upon the left-hand side, there is, asyou may have remarked, a small angle in the wall. Here it is thatthis creature takes his daily seat, cross-legged with his tiny stockof matches on his lap, and as he is a piteous spectacle a small rainof charity descends into the greasy leather cap which lies upon thepavement beside him. I have watched the fellow more than oncebefore ever I thought of making his professional acquaintance,and I have been surprised at the harvest which he has reaped ina short time. His appearance, you see, is so remarkable that noone can pass him without observing him. A shock of orange hair,a pale face disfigured by a horrible scar, which, by its contraction,has turned up the outer edge of his upper lip, a bulldog chin, anda pair of very penetrating dark eyes, which present a singularcontrast to the colour of his hair, all mark him out from amid thecommon crowd of mendicants and so, too, does his wit, for he isever ready with a reply to any piece of chaff which may be thrownat him by the passers-by. This is the man whom we now learn tohave been the lodger at the opium den, and to have been the lastman to see the gentleman of whom we are in quest.”
“But a cripple!” said I. “What could he have done single-handedagainst a man in the prime of life?”
“He is a cripple in the sense that he walks with a limp; but inother respects he appears to be a powerful and well-nurturedman. Surely your medical experience would tell you, Watson, thatweakness in one limb is often compensated for by exceptionalstrength in the others.”
“Pray continue your narrative.”
“Mrs. St. Clair had fainted at the sight of the blood upon thewindow, and she was escorted home in a cab by the police, asher presence could be of no help to them in their investigations.
Inspector Barton, who had charge of the case, made a very carefulexamination of the premises, but without finding anything whichthrew any light upon the matter. One mistake had been made innot arresting Boone instantly, as he was allowed some few minutesduring which he might have communicated with his friend theLascar, but this fault was soon remedied, and he was seized andsearched, without anything being found which could incriminatehim. There were, it is true, some blood stains upon his right shirtsleeve,but he pointed to his ring-finger, which had been cutnear the nail, and explained that the bleeding came from there,adding that he had been to the window not long before, and thatthe stains which had been observed there came doubtless fromthe same source. He denied strenuously having ever seen Mr.
Neville St. Clair and swore that the presence of the clothes inhis room was as much a mystery to him as to the police. As toMrs. St. Clair’s assertion that she had actually seen her husbandat the window, he declared that she must have been either mador dreaming. He was removed, loudly protesting, to the policestation,while the inspector remained upon the premises in thehope that the ebbing tide might afford some fresh clue.
“And it did, though they hardly found upon the mud-bank whatthey had feared to find. It was Neville St. Clair’s coat, and notNeville St. Clair, which lay uncovered as the tide receded. Andwhat do you think they found in the pockets?”
“I cannot imagine.”
“No, I don’t think you would guess. Every pocket stuffed withpennies and half-pennies—421 pennies and 270 half-pennies.
It was no wonder that it had not been swept away by the tide.
But a human body is a different matter. There is a fierce eddybetween the wharf and the house. It seemed likely enough thatthe weighted coat had remained when the stripped body had beensucked away into the river.”
“But I understand that all the other clothes were found in theroom. Would the body be dressed in a coat alone?”
“No, sir, but the facts might be met speciously enough. Supposethat this man Boone had thrust Neville St. Clair through thewindow, there is no human eye which could have seen the deed.
What would he do then? It would of course instantly strike him thathe must get rid of the tell-tale garments. He would seize the coat,then, and be in the act of throwing it out, when it would occur tohim that it would swim and not sink. He has little time, for he hasheard the scuffle downstairs when the wife tried to force her wayup, and perhaps he has already heard from his Lascar confederatethat the police are hurrying up the street. There is not an instant tobe lost. He rushes to some secret hoard, where he has accumulatedthe fruits of his beggary, and he stuffs all the coins upon whichhe can lay his hands into the pockets to make sure of the coat’ssinking. He throws it out, and would have done the same with theother garments had not he heard the rush of steps below, and onlyjust had time to close the window when the police appeared.”
“It certainly sounds feasible.”
“Well, we will take it as a working hypothesis for want of abetter. Boone, as I have told you, was arrested and taken to thestation, but it could not be shown that there had ever beforebeen anything against him. He had for years been known as aprofessional beggar, but his life appeared to have been a veryquiet and innocent one. There the matter stands at present,and the questions which have to be solved—what Neville St.
