Drury Lane’s Last Case

13 The Saga of Dr. Ales

A very English butler with wonderful whiskers admitted them superbly to a Louis-Quinze reception-room. No, Mrs. Saxon was not at home. No, he had no idea when Mrs. Saxon would return. No, she had left no message. No, she—

“Listen, you!” snarled Inspector Thumm, that violent foe of flunkeyism, “is Crabbe in?”

“Mr. Crabbe? I’ll see, sir,” replied whiskers stiffly. “Whom shall I say, sir?”

“Say anybody you blasted please, but get him out here!”

An eyebrow rose, whiskers bowed slightly, and sailed away.

Patience sighed. “Father, did anyone ever tell you you’ve atrocious manners? Bellowing at a servant!”

“I don’t like these limeys,” grumbled the Inspector, slightly abashed. “All except Trench. Only human Englishman I ever met. You’d think he’d been born in the Fifth Ward... Well, well, here’s Little Lord Fauntleroy.”

Gordon Rowe, passing through the foyer, book under his arm and hat in hand, started, grinned, and hurried into the reception-room. “Avaunt! What ho, visitors! Charming of you to call. Mr. Lane, Inspector — Pat! You didn’t tell me over the ’phone—”

“I didn’t know,” said Patience with dignity.

“Divine ignorance.” The young man’s hazel eyes narrowed. “On a trail?” he said in a low voice.

“Gordon,” said Patience abruptly, “what does 3HS wM mean to you?”

“Patty, for God’s sake!” snarled the Inspector. “We don’t want—”

“Please, Inspector,” said Drury Lane quietly. “There’s no reason why Gordon shouldn’t know.”

The young man looked from Patience to the two men. “Abracadabra to me,” he said. “What’s it all about?”

Patience told him.

“The Saxon Library,” he muttered. “That’s the funniest thing— This is a problem! I think... Hold it. Here comes Crabbe.”

The ancient librarian shuffled quickly into the reception-room, holding a pair of gold-rimmed spectacles aloft in one hand and peering inquisitively at his callers. He brightened at once and came forward. Patience would have sworn his bones groaned and creaked in the process.

“Ah, Mr. Lane,” said Crabbe with a leathery smile. “And Miss Thumm. And the Inspector. Quite a deputation! Rowe, I thought you were going out? Or perhaps the young lady’s presence—? Mrs. Saxon is indisposed, you know. Colic. With her girth, of course, that’s a major tragedy.” He grinned, an enfant terrible. “And to what—?”

“For one thing,” smiled Lane, before the Inspector could get out what was already growling in the depths of his thick throat, “we should like to see the famous Saxon Library.”

“I see.” Crabbe stood still, one thin shoulder lower than the other, head cocked on a side, squinting with remarkable keenness at his visitors. “Just a friendly visit of exploration, eh?” He cackled, showing decrepit gums, and swung about. “No reason why you shouldn’t,” he said with astonishing amiability. “Although really you’re the first strangers... Eh, Rowe? Break the rule for once?”

“That’s human of you,” grinned young Rowe.

“Oh, I’m not so bad as I’m painted. Follow me, please.”

He led them down several corridors embellished in the grand French style to what was apparently an east wing of the mansion. He unlocked a heavy door and stood aside with what might have been a welcoming smile, but succeeded only in being the villainous grimace of an opéra bouffe Fagin. They entered a vast room with a lofty ceiling ribbed with square oak beams, the walls bristling with full bookshelves. A huge vault frowned from one corner. At the farther side there was an open door through which they could see another chamber apparently quite as large and similarly lined with books. A large desk and one chair stood in the centre of the room; there was a billowing Persian rug on the floor; and nothing else.

“Sorry I can’t offer you chairs,” said Crabbe in his rustling voice, closing the door and going to the desk. “But no one ever uses the library except old Crabbe these days. Rowe’s quite deserted me. Ah, youth, always flitting after the will-o’-the-wisp!” He cackled again. “I had Mr. Saxon’s desk and chair removed when he died. Now what would you like to—”

He broke off, actually startled. The Inspector, who had been hurling surly glances about, had suddenly pounced forward toward the desk as if he meant to demolish it. “Ha!” he cried. “That’s it! That’s it!” and he snatched from the desk a sheet of neutral-grey stationery.

“What on earth—?” began Crabbe in astonishment; and then his pointed face screwed up with rage and he darted toward Thumm with something very like a snarl. “You take your hands off things!” he shrieked. “So that’s it. It was a trick. Spying—”

“Lay off, runt,” growled the Inspector, flinging away the librarian’s curving talons. “Keep your shirt on. No one’s stealing anything. We just wanted to take a look at your stationery. And by God, it’s good-looking, too! Have a squint at this, Lane.”

But there was no need for close scrutiny. One glance was sufficient to establish that this was the same stationery as had been employed for the writing of the cryptic symbol by the man with the pied beard.

“No doubt about it, of course,” murmured Lane. “You’ll excuse the Inspector’s rather violent methods, Mr. Crabbe; he’s a trifle high-handed in these matters.”

“Indeed,” sniffed Crabbe, glaring at the Inspector’s back.

“Have you an envelope, please?” continued Lane with a smile.

Crabbe hesitated, scratched his wrinkled cheeks, shrugged, and went to the desk. He produced a small square grey envelope.

“The very same,” breathed Patience. “What can it—?” and then she stopped and glanced very suspiciously at the old librarian.

Young Gordon Rowe seemed much agitated, for him; and he showed it by remaining perfectly still and glaring at the envelope.

“Sit down, my dear,” said Lane softly; obediently she took the lone chair. “Inspector, control yourself. We mustn’t alarm Mr. Crabbe. Now, sir, I’m sure you have no objection to answering a few simple questions?”

A shrewd and faintly baffled glint came into Crabbe’s beady eyes. “Of course not. Old Crabbe’s got nothing to conceal. I haven’t a notion what this is about, but if I can be of any service...”

“Splendid of you,” said the old gentleman heartily. “Now, who exactly uses this stationery with the imprint of The Saxon Library?”

“I do.”

“Naturally. For the usual library correspondence. But who else?”

“No one, Mr. Lane.”

“Ha,” said Thumm; and Lane shook his head at him impatiently.

“This is very important, Mr. Crabbe. You’re positive?”

“No one but myself, I assure you,” replied the librarian with a licking of his thin chops.

“Not even Mrs. Saxon?”

“Oh, Lord, no. Mrs. Saxon has her own stationery — half a dozen kinds. And since she never bothers with the library, you see—”

“Quite so. But how about you, Gordon? You’ve been living here for some time. Can you throw a little light on the subject?”

Patience watched the young man anxiously, and the Inspector eyed him with what he fancied was detached coolness.

“I?” Young Rowe seemed startled. “Ask friend Crabbe. He’s cock of this walk.”

“Oh, Mr. Rowe rarely if ever comes here, Mr. Lane,” squeaked Crabbe, his torso curved like a melting candle. “Our young friend has been doing some research in Shakespeare, as I suppose you know, but it’s been a rule of the household — Mr. Saxon’s own rule, you understand — and... when he’s wanted anything, he’s asked me and I’ve given him the requested volumes.”

“I hope,” said Mr. Rowe huffily, “that that answers your question, Mr. Lane.”

The old gentleman smiled. “Down off your horse, Gordon. You know that’s a very infantile attitude. You would say, then, Mr. Crabbe, that apart from yourself no one in this house has access to the Saxon Library stationery?”

“I would say so, yes. It’s kept only here, you know. Of course, if some one really wanted to—”

“Yes, yes, Mr. Crabbe, we thoroughly understand that. Gordon, please smile. I take it these rooms have been forbidden territory for years. Now—”

“How about the servants?” asked Patience suddenly, avoiding the misery in Rowe’s eyes.

“No, Miss Thumm. That’s been a strict rule. I clean these rooms myself. Mr. Saxon insisted on it.”

“When the books left to the Britannic were packed off,” asked Lane, “were you present, Mr. Crabbe?”

“Certainly.”

“I was, too,” muttered Mr. Rowe morbidly.

“Every moment?”

“Oh, yes,” said Crabbe. “Mr. Rowe fussed about the truckmen, but I had my eyes open, I assure you.” Crabbe snapped his toothless gums together viciously. That he had kept his eyes open, that he would always keep his eyes open, seemed unquestionable.

“Well!” smiled Lane. “All this, Inspector, seems to establish that it’s difficult to get one’s clutches on a sheet of this stationery. Doesn’t seem to wash, does it?”

“You’re tellin’ me?” grinned Thumm.

Lane gazed squarely into the old librarian’s eyes. “There is no mystery about this, Mr. Crabbe,” he said quietly. “We have come into possession of a sheet of Saxon Library stationery — and an envelope — the source of which it is necessary for us to trace. You’re innocently making it difficult...” Suddenly a thought struck him, for he smacked his forehead and exclaimed: “How stupid I’ve been! Of course!”

“Piece of my stationery?” said Crabbe, puzzled.

The old gentleman tapped Crabbe’s shoulder. “Do you often have visitors?”

“Visitors? To the Saxon Library? He, he! Tell him, Rowe.”

“This prime sample of fossilized wormwood,” said Mr. Rowe with a shrug, “is the world’s most faithful watchdog.”

“Come, come, you must have some. Please think! Has there been any visitor to this room in recent months whom you have reason to recall?”

Crabbe’s eyes blinked. His scraggly jaw opened a little, and he stared at his inquisitor without seeing him. Then astonishingly he doubled in laughter and slapped his scrawny shanks. “Ho, ho! That’s... that’s one on me!” and he straightened and wiped his rheumy eyes.

“Ah,” said Lane. “I believe we’ve struck oil. Well, sir?”

Crabbe stopped laughing as abruptly as he had begun. He half-turned his reptilian head and rasped his dry palms together. “So that’s it, eh? Well, well. Wonders never cease... Yes, there was one. Yes, indeed. A very interesting gentleman. He called several times before I would see him. Then when I did see him, he begged — very prettily, he, he! — if I would not permit him just a glimpse of the famous Saxon collection.”

“Yes?” said Lane sharply.

“He was a book fancier, he said, and he’d heard so much— You know. As a matter of fact,” continued Crabbe slyly, “the man knew books. So I let down the bars once — he looked harmless enough — and showed him this room. He was working on something, he said, and was most anxious to consult a certain volume. It would take just a moment, he said...”

“What was the book?” demanded Rowe with a frown. “You never told me about this, Crabbe!”

“Didn’t I, my boy? I must have forgotten,” chuckled Crabbe. “It was the 1599 edition of the Jaggard Passionate Pilgrim!”

For a moment they were silent, scarcely daring to look at one another.

“Go on,” urged Lane softly. “And you brought it out for him?”

Crabbe grinned an ugly grin. “Not Crabbe! No, sir. Couldn’t, I said. Standing rule, I said. He nodded as if he’d sort of expected that. Then he looked about a bit. I began to get a little suspicious, but he jabbered on about books... Finally he got back to the desk here. There was some stationery — paper and envelopes — on it. A queer look came into his eye and he said: ‘Is this your Saxon Library stationery, Mr. Crabbe?’ and I said yes, it was. So he turned to me with an appealing look. ‘Ha, ha!’ he said. ‘Very interesting. This is a deucedly hard place to get into, you know. I’d wagered a friend of mine, you know, that I could gain entrance to the Saxon Library, and by the Lord Harry I’ve done it!’ ‘Oh, you did, did you?’ I said. ‘And,’ he said, ‘now that I’m really here, would you be a good chap and let me collect my wager? I’ll need proof that I’ve been here. Ah, yes,’ he said, just as if it had struck him at that moment, and he picked up a sheet of the stationery and an envelope and fingered ’em, ‘the very thing! This will prove it. Thank you, Mr. Crabbe, a thousand times!’ and before I could say anything he ran out!’

The Inspector had listened to this remarkable story with open mouth. When Crabbe had finished with smacking lips, he thundered: “Of all the hogwash! You let him get away with that? Why, it—”

“So that’s how our man secured the stationery,” said Patience slowly.

“My dear,” said Lane in a low voice, “let’s not take any more of Mr. Crabbe’s valuable time than is absolutely necessary. Mr. Crabbe, can you describe this extraordinary visitor?”

“Oh, yes. Tall, thin, middle-aged chap. Rather English.”

“Good God,” said the Inspector hoarsely. “Patty, that’s just—”

“Please, Inspector. Exactly when did this man call? On what day?”

“Let me think. Four, five — about seven weeks ago. Yes, I remember now. It was early in the morning, on a Monday. May sixth.”

“The sixth of May!” exclaimed Patience. “Father, Mr. Lane, did you hear that?”

“I heard it, too, Pat,” complained Mr. Rowe fretfully. “You make it sound like the Ides of March. Queer!”

Crabbe’s bright little eyes darted from one to another of them; there was a repressed and malicious mirth in their depths, as if he were holding in an immense joke by main force.

“This man, then, a tall thin Englishman of middle age,” murmured Lane, “called on May sixth and managed by a none too credible ruse to get hold of a sample of your stationery. Very good, Mr. Crabbe, we’ve progressed. There’s one thing more and then I believe we shall have finished. Did he give a name?”

Crabbe regarded him with that irritating half-smile. “Did he give a name, eh? You are a card for asking pertinent questions, Mr. Lane! Did he give a name? Certainly he gave a name. How it all comes back to me.” And he chuckled. He scudded like an aged crab around the desk and began exploring various drawers. “Excuse me, Miss Thumm... Did he give a name!” and he chuckled once more. “Ah, the very thing!” He handed a small pasteboard to Lane. Patience rose very quickly and the four of them read the name upon it together.

It was an extremely cheap visiting card. On it was printed in bold black characters the name:

There was nothing more — no address, no telephone, no given name.

“Dr. Ales!” said Patience with a frown.

“Dr. Ales!” said the Inspector with a grunt.

“Dr. Ales!” said Rowe with a thoughtful look.

“Dr. Ales!” nodded Crabbe with a leer.

“Dr. Ales,” said the old gentleman, and something in his voice made them look at him swiftly. But he was staring at the card. “Heavens, it doesn’t seem possible. Dr. Ales... Patience, Inspector, Gordon,’ he said abruptly, “do you know who Dr. Ales is?”

“Totally unfamiliar name,” said Patience with a keen glance at his intent face.

“Never heard of him,” said the Inspector.

“There’s something about it,” said Rowe thoughtfully.

“Ah, Gordon. I might have known he would strike a responsive chord in the student’s memory. He—”

Crabbe made a grotesque dancing movement, like a trained monkey. His gold-rimmed spectacles slipped down the bridge of his nose and he grinned in a horrible way. “I can tell you who Dr. Ales is,” he said, pursing his shrivelled lips like a perfumed old dandy.

“You can, eh?” said Lane quickly.

“I mean I can tell you who he really is, where he is, and everything!” cackled Crabbe. “Oh, it’s an enormous joke! It came over me all of a sudden.”

“Well, for God’s sake,” said the Inspector harshly, “who is he?”

“I knew him the minute I saw him that day at the museum. Oh, yes,” gurgled the old librarian. “Did you see him look away? He knew I knew him, the precious scoundrel! I tell you the man who visited me seven weeks ago and left this card, the man who called himself Dr. Ales, is — Hamnet Sedlar!”