Strong Poison · Chapter 13 (2/2)

“Thank you,” said Wimsey, modestly. “It’s a simple matter, Bill, but as the young lady is inexperienced with locks and so on, I’ve brought her along to be coached. You see, Miss Murchison, before Bill here saw the light⁠—”

“Praise God!” put in Bill.

“He was the most accomplished burglar and safe breaker in the three kingdoms. He doesn’t mind my telling you this, because he’s taken his medicine and finished with it all and is now a very honest and excellent locksmith of the ordinary kind.”

“Thanks be to Him that giveth the victory!”

“But from time to time, when I need a little help in a righteous cause, Bill gives me the benefit of his great experience.”

“And oh! what ’appiness it is, miss, to turn them talents which I so wickedly abused to the service of the Lord. His ’oly Name be blessed that bringeth good out of evil.”

“That’s right,” said Wimsey, with a nod. “Now, Bill, I’ve got my eye on a solicitor’s deed box, which may or may not contain something which will help me to get an innocent person out of trouble. This young lady can get access to the box, Bill, if you can show her the way inside it.”

“If?” grunted Bill, with sovereign contempt. “ ’Course I can! Deed box, that’s nuffin’. That ain’t no field for a man’s skill. Robbin’ the kids’ money box, that’s what it is with they trumpery little locks. There ain’t a deed box in this ’ere city wot I couldn’t open blindfold in boxing gloves with a stick of boiled macaroni.”

“I know, Bill; but it isn’t you that’s got to do it. Can you teach the lady how to work it?”

“Sure I can. What kinder lock is it, lidy?”

“I don’t know,” said Miss Murchison. “An ordinary lock, I think. I mean, it has the usual sort of key⁠—not a Bramah, or anything of that kind. Mr.⁠—that is, the solicitor has one set of keys and Mr. Pond has another⁠—just plain keys with barrels and wards.”

“Ho!” said Bill, “then ’arf an hour will teach you all you want, miss.” He went to a cupboard and brought out half a dozen lock plates and a bunch of curious, thin wire hooks, strung on a ring like keys.

“Are those pick locks?” asked Miss Murchison, curiously.

“That’s what they are, miss. Ingines of Satan!” He shook his head as he lovingly fingered the bright steel. “Many’s the time sech keys as these ’ave let pore sinners in by the back gate into ’ell.”

“This time,” said Wimsey, “they’ll let a poor innocent out of prison into the sunshine⁠—if any, in this beastly climate.”

“Praise Him for His manifold mercies! Well, miss, the fust thing is to understand the construction of a lock. Now jest you look ’ere.”

He picked up one of the locks and showed how, by holding up the spring, the catch could be thrust back.

“There ain’t no need of all them fancy wards, you see, miss. The barrel and the spring⁠—that’s all there is to it. Jest you try.”

Miss Murchison accordingly tried, and forced several locks with an ease that astonished her.

“Well now, miss, the difficulty is, you see, that when the lock’s in place, you can’t use your eyes, but you ’as your ’earin’ and you ’as the feelin’ in your fingers, giv’ you by Providence (praise His Name!) for that purpose. Now what you ’as to do, miss, is to shet your eyes and see with your fingers, like, w’en you’ve got your spring ’ooked back sufficient ter let the catch go past.”

“I’m afraid I’m very clumsy,” said Miss Murchison, at the fifth or sixth attempt.

“Now don’t you fret, miss. Jest take it easy and you’ll find the right way of it come to you all of a sudden, like. Jest feel when it seems to go sweet and use your ’ands independent. Would you like to ’ave a little go at a Combination while you’re ’ere, sir? I’ve got a beauty ’ere. Giv’ to me it was by Sam, you know ’oo I mean. Many’s the time I’ve tried to show ’im the error of ’is ways. ‘No, Bill,’ ’e ses, ‘I ain’t got no use for religion,’ ’e ses, pore lost sheep, ‘but I ain’t got no quarrel with you, Bill,’ ses ’e, ‘and I’d like for ter give you this ’ere little sooveneer.’ ”

“Bill, Bill,” said Wimsey, shaking a reproachful finger, “I’m afraid this wasn’t honestly come by.”

“Well, sir, if I knowed the owner I’d ’and it over to ’im with the greatest of pleasure. It’s quite good, you see. Sam put the soup in at the ’inges and it blowed the ’ole front clean off, lock and all. It’s small, but it’s a real beauty⁠—new pattern to me, that is. But I mastered it,” said Bill, with unregenerate pride, “in an hour or two.”

“It’d have to be a good bit of work to beat you, Bill”; Wimsey set the lock up before him, and began to manipulate the knob, his fingers moving with micrometer delicacy and his ear bent to catch the fall of the tumblers.

“Lord!” said Bill⁠—this time with no religious intention⁠—“wot a cracksman you’d a-made, if you’d a-given your mind to it⁠—which the Lord in His mercy forbid you should!”

“Too much work in that life for me, Bill,” said Wimsey. “Dash it! I lost it that time.”

He turned the knob back and started over again.

By the time the trotters arrived, Miss Murchison had acquired considerable facility with the more usual types of lock and a greatly enhanced respect for burglary as a profession.

“And don’t you let yourself be ’urried, miss,” was Bill’s final injunction, “else you’ll leave scratches on the lock and do yourself no credit. Lovely bit of work, that, ain’t it, Lord Peter, sir?”

“Beyond me, I’m afraid,” said Wimsey, with a laugh.

“Practice,” said Bill, “that’s all it is. If you’d a-started early enough you’d a-been a beautiful workman.” He sighed. “There ain’t many of ’em nowadays⁠—glory be!⁠—that can do a real artistic job. It fair goes to my ’eart to see a elegant bit o’ stuff like that blowed all to bits with gelignite. Wot’s gelignite? Any fool can ’andle it as doesn’t mind makin’ a blinkin’ great row. Brutal, I calls it.”

“Now, don’t you get ’ankerin’ back after them things, Bill,” said Mrs. Rumm, reprovingly. “Come along, do, now and eat yer supper. Ef anybody’s goin’ ter do sech a wicked thing as breakin’ safes, wot do it matter whether it’s done artistic or inartistic?”

“Ain’t that jest like a woman?⁠—beggin’ your pardon, miss.”

“Well, you know it’s true,” said Mrs. Rumm.

“I know those trotters look very artistic,” said Wimsey, “and that’s quite enough for me.”

The trotters having been eaten, and “Nazareth” duly sung, to the great admiration of the Rumm family, the evening closed pleasantly with the performance of a hymn, and Miss Murchison found herself walking up the Whitechapel Road, with a bunch of picklocks in her pocket and some surprising items of knowledge in her mind.

“You make some very amusing acquaintances, Lord Peter.”

“Yes⁠—rather a jape, isn’t it? But Blindfold Bill is one of the best. I found him on my premises one night and struck up a sort of an alliance with him. Took lessons from him and all that. He was a bit shy at first, but he got converted by another friend of mine⁠—it’s a long story⁠—and the long and short of it was, he got hold of this locksmith business, and is doing very well at it. Do you feel quite competent about locks now?”

“I think so. What am I to look for when I get the box open?”

“Well,” said Wimsey, “the point is this. Mr. Urquhart showed me what purported to be the draft of a will made five years ago by Mrs. Wrayburn. I’ve written down the gist of it on a bit of paper for you. Here it is. Now the snag about it is that that draft was typed on a machine which, as you tell me, was bought new from the makers only three years ago.”

“Do you mean that’s what he was typing that evening he stayed late at the office?”

“It looks like it. Now, why? If he had the original draft, why not show me that? Actually, there was no need for him to show it to me at all, unless it was to mislead me about something. Then, though he said he had the thing at home, and must have known he had it there, he pretended to search for it in Mrs. Wrayburn’s box. Again, why? To make me think that it was already in existence when I called. The conclusion I drew is that, if there is a will, it’s not along the lines of the one he showed me.”

“It looks rather like that, certainly.”

“What I want you to look for is the real will⁠—either the original or the copy ought to be there. Don’t take it away, but try to memorise the chief points in it, especially the names of the chief legatee or legatees and of the residuary legatee. Remember that the residuary legatee gets everything which falls in by a legatee’s dying before the testatrix. I specially want to know whether anything was left to Philip Boyes or if any mention of the Boyes family is made in the will. Failing a will, there might be some other interesting document, such as a secret trust, instructing the executor to dispose of the money in some special way. In short, I want particulars of any document which may seem to be of interest. Don’t waste too much time making notes. Carry the provisions in your head if you can and note them down privately when you get away from the office. And be sure you don’t leave those skeleton keys about for people to find.”

Miss Murchison promised to observe these instructions, and, a taxi coming up at that moment, Wimsey put her into it and sped her to her destination.