“Are you speaking of Sir Albert?” Mr. Clemspool blurted out, grasping at the possibility that this Pickler fellow had come with a message from his employer.
Mr. Pickler gazed at him quizzically. “Sir Albert,” he echoed. “Have you had dealings with him?”
“Oh, well,” replied Mr. Clemspool, realizing he had blundered but trying to effect an indifferent manner. “Now and again, once or twice, sometime or other, I suppose I have. Nothing to speak of. Nothing.” He removed his own hat and with deliberate casualness, put it aside.
“But you did speak of it,” Mr. Pickler pressed. “Would you be kind enough to provide me with the details of this connection?”
It was not particularly warm in the room, but the top of Mr. Clemspool’s head began to glisten. “No, I don’t think I will be so kind,” he said. “Dealings between gentlemen are strictly private matters.”
“Well then,” the investigator continued, “perhaps the name Sir Laurence Kirkle will mean something to you.”
“Sir Laurence Kirkle,” Mr. Clemspool repeated with exaggerated emphasis. “No, I have never heard of such a personage.”
“You arrived here this morning with a boy.”
“Sir, you have no business meddling in the affairs of a private citizen who—”
“Mr. Clemspool,” Mr. Pickler interrupted in a very quiet voice, “I should be perfectly happy to go with you to the Metropolitan Police office and present them with such information as I have. May I assure you, however, that Lord Kirkle is much more interested in the return of his boy to his proper home as soon as possible.”
Mr. Clemspool began to see a spark of light upon an otherwise dim landscape. “Well, actually,” he said, “now that you mention it, I did come upon a boy. It was in”—he plucked at the air as if snatching at old memories—“Euston Station, London. Yes! An unhappy boy. A boy dressed in rags. And with no money.”
“None?” exclaimed Mr. Pickler.
“Not a brass farthing.”
“I believe you took it, sir.”
“Me! Take money from Sir Laurence Kirkle?” Mr. Clemspool replied with indignation. “My boy, Mr. Pickler, informed me his name was Laurence Worthy.” Mr. Clemspool stressed the last name even as he put his hand to his heart. “I would swear to that fact on the tallest stack of Bibles in Creation.”
“Laurence Worthy,” Mr. Pickler murmured.
Mr. Clemspool went on, warming to the task. “Mr. Pickler, if I have a fault—and who amongst us does not?—I am too kind a fellow. Too given to charity. You might well ask, Am I my brother’s keeper? To make my point precisely, my answer is yes. You might even go so far as to say my business is helping brothers. This boy, this Laurence Worthy, fairly begged my help and assistance. How could I”—Mr. Clemspool plucked at his airy harp again—“a man of profound sympathies, not respond?
“I found him exhausted. I provided lodgings in perfectly respectable circumstances. I found him ill. I brought him an apothecary who prescribed medicine for which I paid. I found him hungry. I fed him. His clothes were ragged. I purchased new clothes for him. All out of my own pocket, Mr. Pickler!” The more Mr. Clemspool tallied his expenses, the more indignant he became.
“Mr. Clemspool,” the other man asked, “where is Sir Laurence Kirkle?”
But Mr. Clemspool was not yet done with his bill of particulars. “Laurence Worthy slept in the bed I’d provided, ate the food I’d fetched him. Then, to make my point precisely, he left without a word! Vanished. Disappeared.”
“Out the window?”
“Very rude of him.” Mr. Clemspool scowled. “Don’t you think?”
“If you were helping him, why did he run away?”
“Sir,” Mr. Clemspool cried, “I should very much like to know the answer to that question myself.”
“Mr. Clemspool, I believe you informed the attendant at the desk below that the boy was your son.”
“Did I? Perhaps the fellow misunderstood. Or a slip of my tongue, a reference to my fondness for youth. I do confess, sir, to treating him like a son.”
“Mr. Clemspool, where is Sir Laurence Kirkle?”
“Mr. Pickler!” Mr. Clemspool bellowed, losing all patience. “I do not know! Haven’t the foggiest. But if he were before me now, I should like to ask him why he gave me a false name and abused my hospitality. What’s more, if he is of that highly esteemed family you mentioned—the Kirkles—I intend to lay down the specifics of my expenses so they may know how much the young impostor has cost me! Mr. Pickler, to make my point precisely, I have been taken advantage of!”
Mr. Pickler studied his bowler in search of a response. Gradually, he came to the opinion that, whatever his intentions, Mr. Clemspool no longer knew where Laurence was.
“Sir,” said Mr. Pickler, “do you have an office in London?”
“I do.”
“Might I have the address?”
“By all means,” Mr. Clemspool replied with an air of a man who felt he had acquitted himself on the whole so skillfully that he was no longer in any danger. “The City. 12 Bow Lane.”
The investigator committed the information to memory, then said, “Mr. Clemspool, I am myself searching for Sir Laurence Kirkle at his father’s behest. You understand that speed is of the essence. From here I am going to the headquarters of the police.”
“Mr. Pickler—!”
The man held up a hand and rose from his chair. “I shall ask the police to help me find the boy. On the assumption that I am successful, the boy will be questioned closely about your role in his disappearance from the city of London.”
Mr. Clemspool opened his mouth to protest, but Mr. Pickler hurried on. “Furthermore, I intend to inform Lord Kirkle of what I have learned, along with my suspicion that there has been some connection between you and his elder son, Sir Albert Kirkle, in regard to this case. Finally, sir, I intend to ask a chemist to analyze the contents of this.” Mr. Pickler reached into his pocket and held up the bottle of tincture of rhubarb.
Just the sight of it was enough to make Mr. Clemspool sag.
“If you think you are frightening me,” a frightened Mr. Clemspool returned, “you have, to make my point precisely, utterly failed.” He mopped his brow.
“I was merely informing you of what I intend to do,” Mr. Pickler replied. So saying, he set his bowler on his head and walked past Mr. Clemspool out of the room.
Mr. Clemspool watched him go, shut the door, locked it, again wiped his brow. The next moment he rushed to his wardrobe, pulled out his traveling bag, and began to stuff it with everything he had brought with him from London.
In the lobby, he paused briefly to speak to Mr. Hudson. “Urgent business requires me to leave,” he announced. “Send a bill to my London address!”
“Whatever you say, sir,” replied Mr. Hudson, greatly relieved that the man was going. As Mr. Clemspool rushed away, Mr. Hudson made a mental note not to make rooms available to him again.
Twenty minutes later, Mr. Clemspool was pounding upon Mr. Grout’s door at the elegant Mayfair Hotel.
The door opened a crack. Mr. Grout peered out with his one good eye. “Oh, it’s yer, is it?”
“Let me in immediately!”
Mr. Grout pulled back the door.
“America!” announced Mr. Clemspool as he swept into the room. “I must leave for America as fast as possible.”
“Must yer now. Wot’s the rush?”
“I am in danger!”
“’Oo from?”
“It doesn’t matter who from,” Mr. Clemspool cried. “There can be no delay.”
Mr. Grout grinned. “Is that so? Well, it so ’appens I’ve got me education startin’ tomorrow.”
“Hang your education! We must leave immediately.”
“No ’arm in yer goin’ yerself.”
“Mr. Grout, considering the nature of the emergency, I have insufficient funds!”
The one-eyed man laughed. “Oh, now, so that’s wot it is. Yer beggin’ me for some ’
elp.”
Mr. Clemspool waved his fingers about as if clearing away a cloud of frustration. “Yes,” he said through gritted teeth, “I am in need of your help.”
“All right then, if yer willin’ to say that, Toby Grout is not a man to let yer down.”
The Liverpool police headquarters was to be found at the back of City Hall, down a circular iron staircase. These offices consisted of one large whitewashed room illuminated by the glare of two rather noisy gas jets. Aside from a few paper notices pinned to one wall, and a large pendulum clock on another, the only decoration was a shabby picture of Queen Victoria.
For prisoners, a small cagelike structure had been erected. Two constables lounged on a bench nearby, their greatcoats partially unbuttoned, their hats low over closed eyes.
At the rear of the room, facing the door, stood a high desk behind which sat the duty officer, one Inspector Knox. Having already been on duty for twelve hours, Mr. Knox was bleary eyed. His pug nose, thin unsmiling mouth, and bristling muttonchop whiskers all conspired to give him the appearance of a rather cross hedgehog.
Though Mr. Pickler walked right to the inspector’s desk, Mr. Knox chose to continue reading his official papers. Only after some minutes had passed did he lift his eyes. “Can I help you, sir?” he inquired in a tone so sour, it was perfectly clear he did not think he could nor did he wish to.
“My name, sir, is Phineas Pickler, late of the London Metropolitan Police.”
“You say late, sir,” the inspector snorted as if he were accepting a confession of guilt. “What might you be doing presently?”
“I am functioning as a private investigator.”
“Are you now?”
“Indeed, sir,” Mr. Pickler said quietly. “Currently under the private employ of Lord Kirkle.”
The inspector lifted one eyebrow. “Is that … Lord Kirkle of the Treasury Bench?” he inquired.
“The same,” Mr. Pickler replied with a modest bob of his head.
The two constables on the bench opened their eyes and sat up. One of them began to button his coat.
The inspector leaned back in his chair and peered down sardonically at Mr. Pickler. “Well now, it’s not often we have exalted ones up from London asking for our help. What can we do for you?”
Mr. Pickler glanced about the room. The eyes of the constables were upon him. He turned back to Mr. Knox. “Sir,” he said in a hushed voice, “it’s a rather private matter.”
“Tingley! Baker!” Mr. Knox barked. “You’re not wanted! I’ve matters of state here that are above you. Get yourselves outside.”
The two men, grinning sheepishly, lumbered to their feet, then stepped from the room.
“Now then, sir,” Mr. Knox observed, “you’ve got your privacy.”
Mr. Pickler was perfectly aware he was being mocked. He did not care. He had a job to do. “Mr. Knox,” he said, “I am looking for Lord Kirkle’s son.”
“The Lord Kirkle?”
“Yes.”
The inspector pursed his lips. “Are you now?” he allowed.
Refusing to be provoked, Mr. Pickler cleared his throat. “Yesterday Sir Laurence Kirkle ran off from his illustrious London home, saying he was going to America. Of course, he did not really mean it. But hard upon his saying so, there is reason to believe he was abducted and brought to Liverpool. He must be found immediately.”
Mr. Knox shook his head glumly. “I dare say you do want to find him,” he said. “And you’ll forgive me for remarking, Mr. Pickler, but it’s many a father who comes to stand before me in search of a runaway son. Abducted, you say. That’s what all fathers claim. It’s the rare one who’ll admit his boy’s a runaway. Instead they insist their darling has been stolen or tricked away. But between you and me, sir, there is no abductor.”
Mr. Pickler bridled. “You are speaking of Lord Kirkle’s son!” he exclaimed. “And I have found the abductor.”
Mr. Knox rubbed his tired eyes. “If you’ve found the abductor, where’s the boy?” he asked.
“He escaped before I could get to him,” Mr. Pickler admitted.
“That’s not very original either,” Mr. Knox said.
“It’s true!”
The inspector clasped his hands before him, leaned over his desk, and stared down at Mr. Pickler. “Sir, since the boy is now free—as you yourself admit—then surely he’ll hasten back to his laudable home or he will come here looking for help. No need for us to do a thing.”
“I must find him,” said Mr. Pickler firmly.
Mr. Knox shook his head in a most melancholy fashion. “Sir, do you know Liverpool?”
“Only slightly.”
“To find one boy—even Lord Kirkle’s son—will be extremely difficult.”
“I’m perfectly aware of that, sir. But I needed to bring the matter to your attention.”
“I do appreciate your confidence, Mr. Pickler,” Mr. Knox said dryly. “And considering who the boy is, I suppose we must do everything possible to merit that confidence. If you’ll be good enough to leave us with his description, I shall share it with everybody on the force and commence a search.
“Perhaps someone will report your boy. But, speaking from experience, sir, it’s not likely. Have you inquired at the ticket agencies?”
“Why should I do that?”
“It is there one gets a ticket for America.”
“Mr. Knox, I repeat, the boy does not wish to set sail. He was abducted. As for money, all evidence suggests he has none. It is my belief it was taken from him.”
“Well then, do you think he would attempt to steal money so as to purchase a sailing ticket?”
“You don’t seem to have heard me!” cried a shocked Mr. Pickler. “We are speaking of Lord Kirkle’s son.”
“Yes, of course,” Mr. Knox said with the hint of a smile, “and unlike other mortals.”
“Inspector,” Mr. Pickler exclaimed, “not only did his abductor take all the boy’s money, but he beat him, leaving a cruel mark upon his face!”
“Mr. Pickler, do you know these things as facts?”
“I believe them to be facts!”
Mr. Knox shook his head. “Not the same, sir. Not the same. Well then, since the boy has no money, do you think he might attempt boarding a ship as a stowaway?”
“Sir!” Mr. Pickler cried out with as much heat as he could muster. “How many times must I repeat myself? The boy was brought to Liverpool against his will! He does not wish to leave his family.”
“That’s as may be, sir,” returned Mr. Knox. “But all the same, if I were you, I’d pay some heed to my experience.”
“But—”
“There are as many as a dozen ships sailing for America every day. I’ll be more than happy to provide you with a list. By posting yourself on the quay at the time of embarkation, you just might catch your young fellow. But, considering who the boy is, we’ll set up a watch ourselves. I suggest you come back in the morning to speak to the officers yourself.”
Deeply unhappy, Mr. Pickler wrote out a description of Laurence and promised to return in the morning. But he would hear no more about departing ships.
From police headquarters, Mr. Pickler took a cab and returned to the Royalton Hotel. When he arrived, Mr. Hudson informed him that Mr. Clemspool had only recently checked out.
“Was the boy with him?”
“No.”
Mr. Pickler fixed his birdlike eyes on Mr. Hudson. “And did you, sir, discuss the situation with him at all?”
“Not in the least,” Mr. Hudson hastened to say. “I swear I didn’t.”
Mr. Pickler was too tired to do anything but believe him. “May I have a room, sir?”
“Of course, sir. No fee. Complimentary.”
Once in bed—dressed in his flannel nightshirt and cap—Mr. Pickler pulled the blankets up to his chin, closed his eyes, and tried to sleep. He could not. He kept reviewing the events of the day. In many respects, he had made great progress. But it was Mr. Knox’s insi
stence that Laurence had not been abducted, that he had really run away from Lord Kirkle’s home, that rankled. The impertinence of the man!
And yet … Mr. Pickler was troubled. The inspector’s words were not so very different from what Mr. Clemspool had claimed. What if it were true that Laurence had not been abducted … that the boy had given a false name and truly wanted to flee the country? Such an unhappy circumstance. What of Sir Albert? In some fashion he was involved here. Mr. Clemspool had admitted that. Mr. Pickler sighed. Surely, this was the most frustrating, upsetting case he had been called upon to solve.
The dock police who chased Ralph Toggs from beneath the porthole of the coastal schooner did not pursue him for long. Though they whirled their rattles loudly and demanded with angry authority that he stop, Toggs was too fast for them. They hurried back to the quay. When they reached the ship, no one was there, Laurence and Patrick having already fled.
But then, as far as the police were concerned, they had done their task. A theft had been prevented. After closing up the boat’s porthole, the two constables returned to their posts and thought no more about the incident.
As for Toggs, he simply moved on to his favorite hiding place, an old warehouse in a serious state of ruin. He knew that, once inside, he was quite beyond discovery.
Though it was black as pitch past the entry, he easily made his way down a crumbling hall to a little room once used for coal storage.
Over a period of time, Toggs had furnished the room with an old rug, a few candle stubs, a blanket, even a small sack of cotton, which he used as a pillow.
Now he lay down on the rug, pulled the blanket over his body, and sat back against his pillow. With his hands behind his head, he thought over the day.
He would have been happier if that boy with the welt on his face had been successful in handing out some money. Since he had not, he, Toggs would have to find another way to impress that Irish girl.
The girl … Toggs did like to think about her. She was a comely lass, so slim, with her thick dark brown hair and blue eyes. He even liked it when she had been upset. Her face seemed pitiful then. He did wish he knew her name and wondered if she remembered his.