The Big Bow Mystery | Page 4

desire to enjoy his greatness among
his early cronies counted for something, too, for he had been born and
bred at Bow, receiving when a youth his first engagement from the
local police quarters, whence he had drawn a few shillings a week as an
amateur detective in his leisure hours.
Grodman was still a bachelor. In the celestial matrimonial bureau a
partner might have been selected for him, but he had never been able to
discover her. It was his one failure as a detective. He was a
self-sufficing person, who preferred a gas stove to a domestic; but in
deference to Glover Street opinion he admitted a female factotum
between ten A.M. and ten P.M., and, equally in deference to Glover
Street opinion, excluded her between ten P.M. and ten A.M.
"I want you to come across at once," Mrs. Drabdump gasped.
"Something has happened to Mr. Constant."
"What! Not bludgeoned by the police at the meeting this morning, I
hope?"
"No, no! He didn't go. He is dead."
"Dead?" Grodman's face grew very serious now.
"Yes. Murdered!"
"What?" almost shouted the ex-detective. "How? When? Where?
Who?"
"I don't know. I can't get to him. I have beaten at his door. He does not

answer."
Grodman's face lit up with relief.
"You silly woman! Is that all? I shall have a cold in my head. Bitter
weather. He's dog-tired after yesterday--processions, three speeches,
kindergarten, lecture on 'the moon,' article on cooperation. That's his
style." It was also Grodman's style. He never wasted words.
"No," Mrs. Drabdump breathed up at him solemnly, "he's dead."
"All right; go back. Don't alarm the neighbourhood unnecessarily. Wait
for me. Down in five minutes." Grodman did not take this Cassandra of
the kitchen too seriously. Probably he knew his woman. His small,
bead-like eyes glittered with an almost amused smile as he withdrew
them from Mrs. Drabdump's ken, and shut down the sash with a bang.
The poor woman ran back across the road and through her door, which
she would not close behind her. It seemed to shut her in with the dead.
She waited in the passage. After an age--seven minutes by any honest
clock--Grodman made his appearance, looking as dressed as usual, but
with unkempt hair and with disconsolate side-whisker. He was not
quite used to that side-whisker yet, for it had only recently come within
the margin of cultivation. In active service Grodman had been
clean-shaven, like all members of the profession--for surely your
detective is the most versatile of actors. Mrs. Drabdump closed the
street door quietly, and pointed to the stairs, fear operating like a polite
desire to give him precedence. Grodman ascended, amusement still
glimmering in his eyes. Arrived on the landing he knocked
peremptorily at the door, crying, "Nine o'clock, Mr. Constant; nine
o'clock!" When he ceased there was no other sound or movement. His
face grew more serious. He waited, then knocked, and cried louder. He
turned the handle but the door was fast. He tried to peer through the
keyhole, but it was blocked. He shook the upper panels, but the door
seemed bolted as well as locked. He stood still, his face set and rigid,
for he liked and esteemed the man.
"Ay, knock your loudest," whispered the pale-faced woman. "You'll not
wake him now."

The grey mist had followed them through the street door, and hovered
about the staircase, charging the air with a moist sepulchral odour.
"Locked and bolted," muttered Grodman, shaking the door afresh.
"Burst it open," breathed the woman, trembling violently all over, and
holding her hands before her as if to ward off the dreadful vision.
Without another word, Grodman applied his shoulder to the door, and
made a violent muscular effort. He had been an athlete in his time, and
the sap was yet in him. The door creaked, little by little it began to give,
the woodwork enclosing the bolt of the lock splintered, the panels bent
inwards, the large upper bolt tore off its iron staple; the door flew back
with a crash. Grodman rushed in.
"My God!" he cried. The woman shrieked. The sight was too terrible.
* * * * *
Within a few hours the jubilant newsboys were shrieking "Horrible
Suicide in Bow," and The Moon poster added, for the satisfaction of
those too poor to purchase, "A Philanthropist Cuts His Throat."

II
But the newspapers were premature. Scotland Yard refused to prejudice
the case despite the penny-a-liners. Several arrests were made, so that
the later editions were compelled to soften "Suicide" into "Mystery."
The people arrested were a nondescript collection of tramps. Most of
them had committed other offences for which the police had not
arrested them. One bewildered-looking gentleman gave himself up (as
if he were a riddle), but the