THE DEALER IN RARE STAMPS
"Buried—and deep-down, too—for many and many a year," Mr. Myerst, his with glances. "I that, gentlemen, a very remark—very remarkable!"
Rathbury his thumbs in the of his again and and in his chair. He looked at Spargo. And with his knowledge of men, he that all Spargo's had been aroused, and that he was as to be off on a new scent.
"Remarkable—remarkable, Mr. Myerst!" he assented. "What do you say,
Mr. Spargo?"
Spargo slowly, and for the time since Myerst had entered a of him. The seconds; then Spargo spoke.
"And what did you say to that?" he asked quietly.
Myerst looked from his to Rathbury. And Rathbury it time to the caller.
"I may as well tell you, Mr. Myerst," he said smilingly, "that this is Mr. Spargo, of the Watchman. Mr. Spargo the article about the Marbury case of which you spoke when you came in. Mr. Spargo, you'll gather, is in this matter—and he and I, in our different capacities, are together. So—you understand?" Myerst Spargo in a new light. And while he was so looking at him. Spargo the question he had just put.
"I said—What did you say to that?"
Myerst hesitated.
"Well—er—I don't think I said anything," he replied. "Nothing that one might call material, you know."
"Didn't ask him what he meant?" Spargo.
"Oh, no—not at all," Myerst.
Spargo got up from his chair.
"Then you missed one of the opportunities I of!" he said, half-sneeringly. "You might have such a story—"
He paused, as if it were not while to continue, and to
Rathbury, who was him with amusement.
"Look here, Rathbury," he said. "Is it possible to that box opened?"
"It'll have to be opened," answered Rathbury, rising. "It's got to be opened. It the we want. I'm going to ask Mr. Myerst here to go with me just now to take the steps about having it opened. I shall have to an order. We may the through today, but at any we'll have it done tomorrow morning."
"Can you for me to be present when that comes off?" asked Spargo. "You can—certain? That's all right, Rathbury. Now I'm off, and you'll ring me up or come if you anything, and I'll do the same by you."
And without word, Spargo away, and just as returned to the Watchman office. There the who had been told off to wait upon his orders this new met him with a card.
"This came in to see you about an hour ago, Mr. Spargo," he said. "He thinks he can tell you something about the Marbury affair, and he said that as he couldn't wait, you'd step to his place when you came in."
Spargo took the card and read:
MR. JAMES CRIEDIR, DEALER IN PHILATELIC RARITIES, 2,021, STRAND.
Spargo put the card in his pocket and out again, why Mr. James Criedir not, would not, or did not call himself a in stamps, and so use plain English. He up Fleet Street and soon the shop on the card, and his at its that might have been done by Mr. Criedir in the past at that there was to be none done there in the by him, for there were newly-printed in the window announcing that the place was to let. And he a short, portly, man who was the packing-up and of the last of his stock. He a bright, on the journalist.
"Mr. Criedir?" said Spargo.
"The same, sir," answered the philatelist. "You are—?"
"Mr. Spargo, of the Watchman. You called on me."
Mr. Criedir opened the door of a at the of the very little shop and his to enter. He him in and closed the door.
"Glad to see you, Mr. Spargo," he said genially. "Take a seat, sir—I'm all in here—giving up business, you see. Yes, I called on you. I think, having read the Watchman account of that Marbury affair, and having the man's photograph in your columns, that I can give you a of information."
"Material?" asked Spargo, tersely.
Mr. Criedir one of his at his visitor. He drily.
"That's for you to decide—when you've it," he said. "I should say, everything, that it was material. Well, it's this—I open until yesterday—everything as usual, you know—stock in the window and so on—so that who was would naturally have that the was going on, though as a of fact, I'm retiring—retired," added Mr. Criedir with a laugh, "last night. Now—but won't you take what I've got to tell you?"
"I am taking it down," answered Spargo. "Every word. In my head."
Mr. Criedir laughed and his hands.
"Oh!" he said. "Ah, well, in my days used to out pencil and notebook at the opportunity. But you modern men—"
"Just so," Spargo. "This information, now?"
"Well," said Mr. Criedir, "we'll go on then. Yesterday the man as Marbury came into my shop. He—"
"What time—exact time?" asked Spargo.
"Two—to the very minute by St. Clement Danes clock," answered Mr. Criedir. "I'd twenty on that point. He was as you've him—dress, everything—I tell you I his as soon as I saw it. He was a little box—"
"What of box?" said Spargo.
"A queer, old-fashioned, much-worn leather box—a very trunk, in fact," Mr. Criedir. "About a square; the of thing you see nowadays. It was very much worn; it me for that very reason. He set it on the and looked at me. 'You're a in stamps—rare stamps?' he said. 'I am,' I replied. 'I've something here I'd like to you,' he said, the box. 'It's—'"
"Stop a bit," said Spargo. "Where did he take the key from with which he the box?"
"It was one of which he on a ring, and he took the out of his left-hand pocket," Mr. Criedir. "Oh, I keep my open, gentleman! Well—he opened his box. It to me to be full of papers—at any there were a of legal-looking documents on the top, up with red tape. To you how I notice I saw that the papers were with age, and that the red tape was to a washed-out pink."
"Good—good!" Spargo. "Excellent! Proceed, sir."
"He put his hand under the papers and out an envelope," Mr. Criedir. "From the he produced an rare, valuable set of Colonial stamps—the very-first issued. 'I've just come from Australia,' he said. 'I promised a friend of mine out there to sell these for him in London, and as I was this way I of your shop. Will you 'em, and how much will you give for 'em?'"
"Prompt," Spargo.
"He to me the of man who doesn't waste words," Mr. Criedir. "Well, there was no about the stamps, about their great value. But I had to to him that I was retiring from that very day, and did not wish to enter into a single deal, and that, therefore, I couldn't do anything. 'No matter,' he says, 'I there are of men in your line of trade—perhaps you can me to a good firm?' 'I you to a dozen extra-good firms,' I answered. 'But I can do for you. I'll give you the name and address of a private who, I haven't the least doubt, will be very to that set from you and will give you a big price.' 'Write it down,' he says, 'and thank you for your trouble.' So I gave him a of as to the price he ought to get, and I the name and address of the man I to on the of one of my cards."
"Whose name and address?" asked Spargo.
"Mr. Nicholas Cardlestone, 2, Pilcox Buildings, Middle Temple Lane," Mr. Criedir. "Mr. Cardlestone is one of the most and in Europe. And I he didn't that set of stamps."
"I know Mr. Cardlestone," Spargo. "It was at the of his stairs that Marbury was murdered."
"Just so," said Mr. Criedir. "Which makes me think that he was going to see Mr. Cardlestone when he was set upon, murdered, and robbed."
Spargo looked at the retired stamp-dealer.
"What, going to see an in his rooms in the Temple, to offer to sell him at—past midnight?" he said. "I think—not much!"
"All right," Mr. Criedir. "You think and argue on modern lines—which are, of course, superior. But—how do you account for my having Marbury Mr. Cardlestone's address and for his having been dead—murdered—at the of Cardlestone's stairs a hours later?"
"I don't account for it," said Spargo. "I'm trying to."
Mr. Criedir no on this. He looked his visitor up and for a moment; some idea of his capabilities, and offered him a cigarette. Spargo it with a word of thanks, and half-way through it he spoke again.
"Yes," he said. "I'm trying to account. And I shall account. And I'm much to you, Mr. Criedir, for what you've told me. Now, then, may I ask you a question or two?"
"A thousand!" Mr. Criedir with great geniality.
"Very well. Did Marbury say he'd call on Cardlestone?"
"He did. Said he'd call as soon as he could—that day."
"Have you told Cardlestone what you've just told me?"
"I have. But not until an hour ago—on my way from your office, in fact. I met him in Fleet Street and told him."
"Had he a call from Marbury?"
"No! Never of or the man. At least, of him until he of the murder. He told me he and his friend, Mr. Elphick, another philatelist, to see the body, if they it as any man they'd known, but they couldn't."
"I know they did," said Spargo. "I saw 'em at the mortuary. Um! Well—one more question. When Marbury left you, did he put those in his box again, as before?"
"No," Mr. Criedir. "He put them in his right-hand pocket, and he locked up his old box, and off it in his left hand."
Spargo away Fleet Street, nobody. He to himself, and he was still when he got into his room at the office. And what he was the same thing, over and over again:
"Six hours—six hours—six hours! Those six hours!"
Next the Watchman came out with four of up-to-date news about the Marbury Case, and right across the top of the four ran a line of great capitals, black and staring:—
WHO SAW JOHN MARBURY BETWEEN 3.15 P.M. AND 9.15 P.M. ON THE DAY PRECEDING HIS MURDER?
