Detective Fiction Weekly. Vol. 36, No. 4, October 20, 1928

The Flight of Stephen Barr J. S. Fletcher

Archer Dawe, man of many disguises, tracks a coffin and a body to the million dollar loot from a bank robbery.

“Guilty!”

The foreman of the jury uttered the fatal word with the hesitation of a man who is loath to voice the decision which deprives a human being of his liberty. He and his fellow jurymen kept their eyes away from the man in the dock; every one of them at some time or another had partaken of his good fare, drunk his vintage wines, smoked his cabinet cigars, and now—

“You find the prisoner guilty; and that is the verdict of you all?”

“We find the prisoner guilty, and that is the verdict of us all,” repeated the foreman in dull tones.

Something in his mien suggested that he was glad to have to say no more. He and his eleven companions in the cramped-in jury-box wanted to get away, to breathe, to have done with an ugly passage in the life of their little town. What need of more talking? It had been impossible not to find their old friend and neighbor guilty. Of course, he was guilty — guilty as Cain or Judas. Get the thing over.

The man in the dock seemed to share the opinion of the jury. His face was absolutely emotionless as he heard the fatal words drop limply from the foreman’s lips, and he shook his head with something of a contemptuous smile when asked if he had anything to say as to why sentence should not be passed upon him. What was there to say?

“John Barr,” said the stern-faced embodiment of justice whom he faced. “You have been convicted on the clearest evidence of the very serious crime of embezzlement. There were no fewer than nine counts in the indictment against you. It was only considered necessary to proceed with one — that relating to your embezzlement during the month of July, 1926, of a sum of three thousand seven hundred dollars, the moneys of your employers, the Yorkshire Banking Company — and upon that charge you have been found guilty.

“But it has been clearly established during the course of your trial that this forms only a small part of your depredations upon your employers’ funds.

“I note that the sums mentioned in the nine counts total up to nine hundred and eighty-seven thousand dollars, and we have heard it stated by the prosecution that there are further sums to be accounted for, and that the probable total loss to the bank will exceed two million dollars.

“Now, there are several unfortunate features about this case, and not the least unfortunate lies in the fact that it is believed that a very considerable portion of the money which you have embezzled is at this moment at your disposal. Appeals have been made to you from time to time, since you were first committed for trial, to make restitution. All these appeals have been in vain.

“Now, if it be a fact that any part of the money of which you have robbed your employers is recoverable, let me beg of you to make proper restitution for the sake of your own conscience and the honor of your family, which, as I am informed, has long occupied a foremost position in this town.

“This has been a singularly painful case, and it is a painful thing for me, in the discharge of my duty, to feel obliged to pass upon you a sentence of ten years’ penal servitude.”

John Barr heard his sentence with as little show of emotion as he had heard the verdict of the jury. He looked round the court for a moment as if seeking some face.

A man sitting in a retired seat caught his eye — a man who bore a distinct resemblance to him, and who had listened to the whole of the proceedings with downcast head. This man was now regarding the convicted man with an intent look.

John Barr, for the fraction of a second, returned it; then, with a quick glance round him — the glance of a man who looks at familiar objects and faces for the last time — he bowed to the seat of justice, turned, and was gone.

The people who had crowded the court since the door first opened that morning streamed out into Market Place. There were several cases to come on yet, but the great case of the day was over, and all Normancaster wanted to get somewhere to talk over the result.

Ten years’ penal servitude! — well, it was only what any one could expect. And two million dollars — and had John Barr disposed of some of it in such a fashion that he could handle it when he came out of prison?

Men were gabbling like geese over these questions, and particularly over the last, as they crossed the cobblestones of Market Square.

Two men, leaving the court together, drew aside from the throng and turned into a quiet street. One of them, a big, burly, bearded man, was obviously excited; the other, an odd-looking little individual, dressed in an antique frock coat and trousers much too short to reach the tops of his shoes, wore a rusty, old-fashioned hat far back on his head, and carried a Gamplike umbrella on his arm. You would have thought him an oddly-attired, respectable old party who had retired on some pension.

None of the people in the court that day had known him for Archer Dawe, the famous amateur detective, expert criminologist, a human ferret — none, at least, hut the man at whose side he now walked.

This man led Archer Dawe down a side street to the door of an office which formed part of the buildings of a big factory. He unlocked the door. They entered. He locked the door behind them. Then, without a word, but pointing Archer Dawe to a seat, he went over to a cupboard, brought out whisky, soda, glasses, and a box of cigars, and motioned the little man to help himself. They had both lighted cigars, both taken a hearty pull at their glasses before the big, bearded man spoke — spoke vehemently:

“Dawe, it’s a damned plant!”

Archer Dawe took another pull at his whisky-and-soda.

“What’s your notion, Mr. Holland?” he inquired.

Mr. Holland stamped up and down his office for a few minutes. Then he fell to swinging his arms.

“It’s a damned plant, Dawe!” he repeated. “And that chap Stephen Barr is in it as well as John. John’s going to take the grueling — being the younger and stronger. He’ll be a model prisoner — he’ll get out in some seven and a half years. Lord! What’s that? And then—”

He fell to stamping the floor, to waving his arms again.

“You mean,” said Archer Dawe, “you mean—”

“I mean that they’ve got the money. It hasn’t gone on the Stock Exchange. It’s not gone on the turf. It’s not gone over the card table. They’ve got it. It’s planted somewhere as safe as — as safe as I am standing here, Dawe! Did you see John give Stephen that look before he left the dock? Eh?”

“I did,” replied Archer Dawe.

“Now, I wonder what that meant? But — or, hang it,” exclaimed Mr. Holland, “don’t let’s theorize — I want you to keep an eye on Stephen Barr. It’s lucky that nobody knew you here in Normancaster — they would think this morning that you were some old fogy who’d just dropped into the court for an hour or so — you know, eh?”

“The matter stands thus,” said Archer Dawe slowly. “John Barr, who for ten years has been manager of the Yorkshire Bank here in Normancaster, has been to-day convicted of the crime of embezzlement and sentenced to ten years’ penal servitude. You, as a director of that bank, know that he has secured close upon two million dollars. You, personalty, believe that — eh?”

“I believe, as a private individual, that both of them have been in at this, that John’s going to do his seven and a half years, and that in the meantime Stephen’s going off to some other clime, there to prepare a comfortable place for his brother,” said Mr. Holland. “Why, bless me, John Barr will only be forty-three when he comes out, even if he serves the whole ten years — which he won’t. And Stephen isn’t anything like fifty yet. I’ve known them both since they were boys.”

“Your plan of campaign, Mr. Holland?” said Archer Dawe.

“Well, I have one, I’ll confess, Dawe,” answered Mr. Holland. “I’m going to have it communicated to Stephen Barr by a secret channel this afternoon that application for a warrant for his arrest is to be made to the borough magistrates first thing tomorrow morning. I want to see if that won’t stir him.

“Now, I happen to live exactly opposite his house, and I shall have a watch kept on his movements. I want you to stay here in my private office — there, you see, is a bedroom attached to it, with all conveniences, so that you’ll be comfortable if you have to stay the night, and, of course, I’ll see that you have everything in the shape of food and so on. If I telephone you that Stephen Barr makes a sudden move from his house you’ll be ready to follow him — you’ve plenty of disguises, I suppose?”

“Oh, yes,” answered Archer Dawe, with a glance at his old suitcase. “But, Mr. Holland, do you think that Stephen Barr would set off from here like that? Wouldn’t it look like — giving himself away?”

“No,” replied Mr. Holland. “And for this reason — Stephen Barr always goes up to town once a week — has done so for the last two years — why, nobody knows. He has no particular day; sometimes it’s Monday, sometimes Thursday, sometimes Friday. My notion is that if he’s startled by the rumor about the warrant he’ll go to-night. If he does I want you to go with him, and to keep an eye on him.”

“Then in that case I shall hold myself in readiness an hour before the night train starts,” said Archer Dawe.

“And in the meantime,” said Mr. Holland, “I shall put you in charge of a confidential clerk of mine who will see that you are properly taken care of, and will be at your disposal Here, I’ll have him in and introduce him.”

If anybody had been able to look through the carefully-closed blinds of Mr. Holland’s office at a quarter past seven o’clock that evening they would have seen a dapper little gentleman who, from his attire, might have been a judge, a doctor or a barrister, leisurely finishing a bottle of claret in company with a younger man, who was obviously lost in admiration of his elderly friend’s cleverness in the art of making up.

“Well, you’re a perfect marvel in that line, Mr. Dawe,” said the confidential clerk. “I go in a good deal myself for amateur theatricals, but I couldn’t make up as you do, sir. Now that you’ve got into those clothes and done your hair in a different fashion, you look another man. And it’s your attention to small details, sir — that black cravat with the old-fashioned gold pin, and the gold-rimmed spectacles instead of your ordinary ones — my word, those little touches do make a difference!”

“It’s the details that do make a difference, young man,” said Archer Dawe. “And no detail is too small or undignif—”

A sharp tinkle of the telephone bell interrupted him. He nodded to the clerk.

“Take the message,” he said. “If it’s from Holland tell me word for word what he says.”

In another minute the clerk turned to him. “Mr. Holland says: ‘Barr has just left his house, obviously for the station. Tell Dawe to follow him wherever he goes.’ ”

“Answer ‘All right,’ ” said Archer Dawe.

He drank off his claret as the clerk hung up the receiver again and began to button his smartly-cut morning coat. His glance wandered to an overcoat, a traveling bag and a glossy hat which lay set out in orderly fashion on a side table.

“There’s lots of time, Mr. Dawe,” said the clerk, interpreting the glance. “You see, Barr lives opposite to Mr. Holland, a good three-quarters of a mile from here. He’ll walk to the station and he’ll have to pass down this street — the station’s just at the bottom. We can watch him pass this window — there, you can see out.”

Archer Dawe nodded. With a tacit understanding he and the clerk posted themselves at the window, arranging one of the slats of the Venetian blinds so that they could see into the street beneath.

Everything was very cold and still. No one came or went, up or down, until at last a man, cloaked to the eyes, carrying a bag, hurried into the light of the opposite electric lamp, crossed it and disappeared into the gloom again.

“That’s Barr!” whispered the clerk.

Archer Dawe looked at his watch.

“Eight minutes yet,” he said. “Plenty of time.”

The clerk helped the amateur detective on with his fashionable fur-lined overcoat and handed him his fashionable derby hat and gold-mounted umbrella.

“By George, you do look a real old swell!” he said, with an admiring chuckle. “Wish I could get myself up like that — it’s fine.”

“Good-by,” said Archer Dawe.

He slipped quietly out into the fog and made his way to the station. There was no one on the platform but Stephen Barr and two or three porters, moving ghostlike in the fog. The mail came steaming in and pulled up, seeming to fret at even a moment’s delay, Stephen Barr stepped in. Archer Dawe followed. The train was off again.

For a while these two, sitting side by side in the club car, scarcely spoke except to remark on the coldness of the night. At last Archer Dawe remarked pleasantly:

“It’s a great convenience to have an hotel attached to the station. One doesn’t feel inclined to drive far after a four hours’ journey at this time of night and this season of the year. It’s something to be able to step straight from the train into your hotel.”

Stephen Barr nodded.

“Yes,” he said, “and a very comfortable hotel it is, too. I always stay there when I come to town; it is very convenient, as you say.”

“And to those of us who happen to be passing through town,” said Archer Dawe, “it is much pleasanter to break the journey here than to be driven across the city at midnight to another station. Old men like me, sir, begin to appreciate their little comforts.”

The same porter carried Stephen Barr’s bag and Archer Dawe’s bag into the hotel. The clerk in the office gave Stephen Barr No. 45 and Archer Dawe No. 46.

Stephen Barr and Archer Dawe had a smoke together in the smoking room before retiring and enjoyed a little friendly conversation. Archer Dawe was perhaps a little garrulous about himself. He gave Stephen Barr to understand that he, Archer, was a famous consulting physician in New York; that he had been up State to an important consultation, and that he had spent a few hours at Normancaster on his way back to visit an old friend.

He also mentioned incidentally that he might stay in town for a day or two, as he was anxious to see one or two experiments which were just then being carried on in some of the medical schools. Stephen Barr thought his traveling companion a very pleasant old gentleman.

In the privacy of No. 46 Archer Dawe sized up Stephen Barr as a man who at that moment was brooding over some big scheme and would probably lie awake all night thinking about it. As for himself, he meant to sleep, but he had first of all some work to do, and he set to work to do it as soon as the corridor was quiet.

Had any of the hotel officials seen what it was that Archer Dawe did they would have jumped to the conclusion that a burglar was in the house. He produced from his bag a curiously ingenious instrument with which he swiftly and noiselessly cut out of the door of his room a solid plug of wood about one-third of an inch in diameter — cut it out cleanly, so that it could be fitted in and withdrawn at will. Withdrawn, the orifice which it left commanded a full view of the door of 45 opposite; fitted in again, nobody could have told that it had ever been cut out.

This done, Archer Dawe went to bed. But early in the morning he was up and at his peephole, waiting there patiently until Stephen Barr emerged for breakfast. Archer Dawe seized his chance at once. He darted across the corridor, secured the key of 45, and in a moment had got an excellent impression of it in wax.

The specialist from New York, more talkative and urbane than ever, begged permission to seat himself at Stephen Barr’s table when he entered the coffee room and found that gentleman breakfasting alone. They got on very well, but Archer Dawe decided that his traveling companion of the previous evening was still deep in thought and had spent most of the night awake. He noticed also that Stephen Barr had a poor appetite.

Going into the smoking room an hour later Archer Dawe found Stephen Barr in conversation with a man about thirty years of age — a man who seemed to have a strong family resemblance to him. They were in the quietest corner of the room, and their conversation was being carried on in whispers. Presently they left the room and Archer Dawe saw them go upstairs together.

After a time Archer Dawe walked out of the hotel, went across to the station, and wrote out two telegrams. The first was addressed to Robert Holland, Normancaster, and ran as follows:

The other was addressed to a certain private detective agency:

This done, Archer Dawe. carrying his wax impression with great care, took a cab and set off to a certain establishment which he knew of, where, before noon, a quick workman turned out a brand new key. Getting back to the hotel a little before one he found a telegram awaiting him. He carried it into the smoking room and opened the envelope.

Under the very eyes of Stephen Barr and his nephew, who were again conversing in a quiet corner, Archer Dawe tore this communication into minute shreds. He affected to take no notice of the Barrs, but he saw that they had a companion with them — a man, who, from his general appearance, he set down as a medical practitioner. Glancing at this person from time to time, Archer Dawe formed the conclusion that he was much of a muchness with the younger Barr — there was something furtive and shifty, if not absolutely sinister in his face. And Archer Dawe was a past master in the art of reading character in faces.

Whatever the conference was about among these three it broke up just before Archer Dawe was expecting Mason. The two Barrs rose, shook hands with the third man, and walked with him towards the door.

“Then I’ll expect you and Dr. Hislop at seven o’clock to-night, doctor?” said Stephen, in a loud voice. “We’ll dine and go to the theatre afterwards. And, by the bye, I wish you’d bring me another bottle of that medicine you gave me last time — I’ve had a touch of the old complaint again this morning.”

“I will,” replied the third man. “But if you’ve felt any symptom of that sort, let me advise you to keep quiet this afternoon. You’d better lie down for a while after lunch.”

Stephen Barr nodded and smiled, and the stranger left, as Mason, in the correct attire of a prosperous-looking clergyman, entered the room. He and Archer Dawe greeted each other in a manner befitting their respective parts, and were soon in apparently genial and friendly conversation.

The two Barrs had retired to their corner again; in the center of the room three young gentlemen in very loud clothes were discussing in equally loud voices the merits of certain race horses. Otherwise the room was empty.

Archer Dawe gave Mason a brief outline of the case as it had so far been revealed to him. His notion, he said, was that some plot was afoot by which Stephen Barr was to get clear away without exciting suspicion, and that that plot was to be worked there, in the hotel.

“And that’s why l sent for you,” he concluded. “I can’t work the thing alone. I want you to find men who can keep a steady watch on every exit from this place and can be trusted to follow Stephen Barr wherever he goes, whether it’s day or night. I’ve a strong notion that some coup is in brewing for to-night.”

“That’s done easily enough,” answered Mason. “If we can keep a watch on him for the next two hours I’ll engage that he won’t move a yard without being followed. Here, I’ll go round to the nearest station and telephone at once, and then come back to lunch with you.”

Two hours later the pseudo-clergyman and the pseudo-doctor having lunched together and afterwards taken their ease over coffee and cigars, the former again absented himself for a while, and came back smiling.

“That’s all right, Mr. Dawe,” he said. “He can’t move a foot out of this place without being shadowed — night or day. Make yourself easy. And now I must be off — let me know if you want anything further, and let’s hear how it goes on.”

Then the two separated, and Archer Dawe, knowing that his man was under the strictest surveillance, went out for a constitutional.

Returning to the hotel just after six o’clock, he was met on the corner by a plainly dressed man who first smiled, then winked, and as he passed him, whispered his name.

“One of Mr. Mason’s men, sir,” he said, as Archer Dawe came to a standstill. “The man has been out this afternoon — he and the younger man drove first to an office in Madison Avenue, stayed there a quarter of an hour, and then drove to the Bank of Argentina. They were there half an hour; then came back here. They’re safe inside, sir. We’re keeping a strict watch — there’s plenty of us on the job.”

Archer Dawe had a table all to himself that night at dinner. Mr. Stephen Barr’s party occupied one close by. There were five of them — Stephen himself, his nephew, the man Archer Dawe had seen with them that morning, another man whom he conjectured to be the Dr. Hislop he had heard mentioned, and a lady of about thirty whom he soon put down as the nephew’s wife. There was a good deal of laughing and talking amongst this party, and Stephen Barr himself seemed to be its life and soul.

Dinner was nearly over, and Archer Dawe, straining his ears for all they were worth, and using his eyes when he dared, had neither seen nor heard anything that gave him assistance. But there was suddenly a slight commotion at the next table. Looking round, he saw that Stephen Barr had fallen back in his chair, and was pressing one hand over the region of his heart — the other was crushing his eyes and forehead, whereon a frown as of deep pain had gathered. He groaned.

The men at Stephen Barr’s table sprang to their feet. One of them beckoned to a waiter. Ere the rest of the people in the room had grasped the situation the three men and the waiter were carrying Stephen Barr away. The lady, obviously much distressed, followed in their wake.

Archer Dawe beckoned to the head-waiter, who was standing near.

“I’m afraid that gentleman’s very ill,” he said.

“Yes, sir. I’ve seen him like that before, sir. It’s his heart, sir. Well-known customer here, sir. Those two medical gentlemen have attended him here before, sir, often — Dr. Hislop and Dr. Brownson. Very weak heart, I should say, sir. Carry him off some day — sudden.”

Archer Dawe finished his dinner hurriedly and slipped upstairs to his own room, slipped into it unobserved by any one. And once inside, he drew out the plug from the hole in the door, and settled himself for what might be a long and wearying vigil.

During the next hour Archer Dawe saw many strange things. A few minutes after he had posted himself with his eye to the peephole which his foresight had devised, the man whom he now knew as Dr. Brownson came hurriedly out of 45, and sped away along the corridor. Archer Dawe heard the key turned upon him as he left the room. This was at exactly eight-twenty.

At eight-forty this man came just as hurriedly back. He was accompanied by a tall, middle-aged woman in the garb of a district nurse, and he carried a small, black bag in his hand. He tapped twice at the door of 45, and he and the woman were instantly admitted. Once more Archer Dawe heard the key turned in the lock.

At eight-forty-eight the door was opened again. Three people came out. One of them was the man the waiter said was Dr. Hislop; another was James Barr; the third was the lady who had made the fifth at Stephen Barr’s dinner table. She leaned on James Barr’s arm and held a handkerchief to her eyes. Again the door was locked as soon as those leaving the room had crossed the threshold.

Archer Dawe slipped out of his room as soon as he thought these people would be clear of the corridor and the stairs. He reached the hall in time to see the two men assisting the lady into a taxicab. She still held the handkerchief to her eyes and seemed to be in great grief.

When the cab had driven away the two men stepped back into the hotel, and went to the manager’s office. There they remained for some minutes. Coming out at length, they went upstairs again.

Archer Dawe strolled out to the door, making pretense of examining the weather. Turning in again he was met by the under-manager, who smiled in an apologetic manner.

“I believe, sir,” he said, in a low voice, “you are the gentleman in 46?”

“I am,” replied Archer Dawe.

“Well, sir, of course, it is necessary to keep these sad affairs very quiet in a hotel, as you are aware. The poor gentleman in 45, the room opposite yours, is dead.”

“Dead?”

“Yes, sir — he died twenty minutes ago. Heart failure. You are, I believe, a medical man, sir. Yes, then you will understand. He had his own two doctors with him at the time — nothing could be done. He has had these attacks here before. I was wondering if you would like to be transferred to another room, sir?”

“No, I don’t know that I should — I am not squeamish about these things,” replied Archer Dawe.

“Well, sir, I thought it best to mention it to you. Certainly the — the body will not be in the house all night. As the doctors were well acquainted with the deceased gentleman’s complaint they will be able to certify, so there will be no need for an inquest. A... a coffin is coming at half past ten, sir, and they are going to remove the body to Normancaster, where the dead gentleman lived, by the night train. These two gentlemen are going to make arrangements now, sir, I believe.”

Archer Dawe turned and saw James Barr and Dr. Hislop descending the staircase. They passed him and the under-manager, went down the steps of the front entrance, and separated, Barr crossing over to the station, and Hislop entering a cab.

“No, you need not change my room, thank you,” said Archer Dawe to the under-manager, and left him. “I do not mind at all.”

He dawdled about the smoking room for a while, then went upstairs again. And once more he applied himself to the hole in the door. At nine-ten the nurse came out, followed by the man whom he knew as Dr. Brownson. Brownson locked the door and put the key in his pocket. He and the nurse went along the corridor whispering. Archer Dawe cautiously opened his door and tiptoed after them until he saw them descend the stairs. Then he hurried back. Now was his chance! The two women were gone; the three men were gone. There could be nothing in 45 but — what?

In another instant he had whipped out the key which he had caused to be made that morning, had slipped it into the lock of the door behind which so much mystery seemed to be concealed, and had entered the room. His hand sought and found the electric light, and as it flashed out he took one swift glance around him.

The room was empty. Empty! There was neither dead man nor living man in it. Everything was in order. Two large trunks stood side by side against the wall; a large traveling bag, strapped, stood near them; a smaller one, which Archer Dawe recognized as that which Stephen Barr had had with him the night before, stood, similarly strapped, at the foot of the bed. But on the bed itself there was no stark figure. The room was empty.

Archer Dawe saw all these things in a moment. He turned out the light, relocked the door, and went downstairs into the smoking room, where he sipped a whisky and soda. On the other side of the room Dr. Brownson was similarly employed. As Archer Dawe looked at him he thought of Holland’s words of the previous afternoon. “Dawe, it’s a damned plant!”

But where could Stephen Barr be? How had he slipped out of the hotel unobserved? Well, anyway, unless he had very skillfully disguised himself, Mason’s men would follow him. He must wait for news. At ten minutes past ten James Barr came back and joined Brownson; at twenty minutes past Archer Dawe went upstairs. And once more he glued his eye to the little peephole.

A few minutes later James Barr and Brownson came upstairs and entered 45. Five more minutes went by, and then the watcher heard the tread of feet sounding on the corridor. Then Hislop came into view — followed by four men carrying an oak coffin. Two other men came behind.

And now Archer Dawe noted a significant circumstance. When Hislop tapped at the door and James Barr opened it, these two and Brownson took the coffin and carried it within the room. Then the door was locked. Twenty-five minutes went by — the door was opened. The six men entered the room — came out again, carrying the coffin. They went away with it by the way they had come, Hislop following them. Barr and Brownson came out of the room, locked the door, and went downstairs. When Dawe, following them, reached the hall, they were crossing from the hotel to the station.

At that moment a cab, the driver of which had obviously been ordered to forget all about speed ordinances, dashed up to the entrance. Mason sprang out and ran up the steps. He saw Archer Dawe — seized him.

“Dawe!” he exclaimed. “We got him — got him on the steamship pier. He was off for Argentina. We got him to headquarters, and, by George, he’s given us the slip after all — for ever! He must have had something concealed in a hollow tooth — he’s poisoned himself.”

“Dead!” exclaimed Archer Dawe.

“As a door-nail!” said Mason. “But — we found more than a million dollars’ worth of securities on him.”

Archer Dawe dragged him out of the hotel and across to the station.

“Quick man, quick!” he cried. “The coffin — the coffin — and the other three men. Get half a dozen police—”

When they had dispatched Barr, Dr. Brownson, and Dr. Hislop to the nearest police station, Archer Dawe, Mason, and some wondering railway officials broke open the coffin in which, according to the plate upon it, the remains of Stephen Barr rested. There was a moment of suspense when the lid was removed.

Lead ingots, carefully and skillfully packed tight in cotton wool.