The Old Man in the Corner | Page 9

as you say they are, never started on
the right tack. They believed William Kershaw to have been murdered;
they looked for William Kershaw.
"On December the 31st, what was presumed to be the body of William
Kershaw was found by two lightermen: I have shown you a photograph

of the place where it was found. Dark and deserted it is in all
conscience, is it not? Just the place where a bully and a coward would
decoy an unsuspecting stranger, murder him first, then rob him of his
valuables, his papers, his very identity, and leave him there to rot. The
body was found in a disused barge which had been moored some time
against the wall, at the foot of these steps. It was in the last stages of
decomposition, and, of course, could not be identified; but the police
would have it that it was the body of William Kershaw.
"It never entered their heads that it was the body of Francis Smethurst,
and that William Kershaw was his murderer.
"Ah! it was cleverly, artistically conceived! Kershaw is a genius. Think
of it all! His disguise! Kershaw had a shaggy beard, hair, and
moustache. He shaved up to his very eyebrows! No wonder that even
his wife did not recognize him across the court; and remember she
never saw much of his face while he stood in the dock. Kershaw was
shabby, slouchy, he stooped. Smethurst, the millionaire, might have
served in the Prussian army.
"Then that lovely trait about going to revisit the Torriani Hotel. Just a
few days' grace, in order to purchase moustache and beard and wig,
exactly similar to what he had himself shaved off. Making up to look
like himself! Splendid! Then leaving the pocket-book behind! He! he!
he! Kershaw was not murdered! Of course not. He called at the Torriani
Hotel six days after the murder, whilst Mr. Smethurst, the millionaire,
hobnobbed in the park with duchesses! Hang such a man! Fie!"
He fumbled for his hat. With nervous, trembling fingers he held it
deferentially in his hand whilst he rose from the table. Polly watched
him as he strode up to the desk, and paid twopence for his glass of milk
and his bun. Soon he disappeared through the shop, whilst she still
found herself hopelessly bewildered, with a number of snap-shot
photographs before her, still staring at a long piece of string, smothered
from end to end in a series of knots, as bewildering, as irritating, as
puzzling as the man who had lately sat in the corner.
CHAPTER IV

THE ROBBERY IN PHILLIMORE TERRACE
Whether Miss Polly Burton really did expect to see the man in the
corner that Saturday afternoon, 'twere difficult to say; certain it is that
when she found her way to the table close by the window and realized
that he was not there, she felt conscious of an overwhelming sense of
disappointment. And yet during the whole of the week she had, with
more pride than wisdom, avoided this particular A.B.C. shop.
"I thought you would not keep away very long," said a quiet voice
close to her ear.
She nearly lost her balance--where in the world had he come from? She
certainly had not heard the slightest sound, and yet there he sat, in the
corner, like a veritable Jack-in-the-box, his mild blue eyes staring
apologetically at her, his nervous fingers toying with the inevitable bit
of string.
The waitress brought him his glass of milk and a cheese-cake. He ate it
in silence, while his piece of string lay idly beside him on the table.
When he had finished he fumbled in his capacious pockets, and drew
out the inevitable pocket-book.
Placing a small photograph before the girl, he said quietly:
"That is the back of the houses in Phillimore Terrace, which overlook
Adam and Eve Mews."
She looked at the photograph, then at him, with a kindly look of
indulgent expectancy.
"You will notice that the row of back gardens have each an exit into the
mews. These mews are built in the shape of a capital F. The photograph
is taken looking straight down the short horizontal line, which ends, as
you see, in a cul-de-sac. The bottom of the vertical line turns into
Phillimore Terrace, and the end of the upper long horizontal line into
High Street, Kensington. Now, on that particular night, or rather early
morning, of January 15th, Constable D 21, having turned into the mews

from Phillimore Terrace, stood for a moment at the angle formed by the
long vertical artery of the mews and the short horizontal one which, as I
observed before, looks on to the back gardens of the Terrace houses,
and ends in a cul-de-sac.
"How long D 21 stood at that particular corner