Джордж Энгланд: Detective Fiction Weekly. Vol. 62, No. 2, October 3, 1931

“Don’t be a damned idiot,” said Martin Hewes, calmly. “We’re going to eat.” He said it almost eagerly, his manner belying the fact that he had just completed an enormous dinner.

“You’re awfully kind, old man,” said the ragged one, “but I’ve just had something.”

“That,” said Martin Hewes, “is a damned lie. Come on, I don’t care to stand here all night. Please don’t make it necessary for me to call on the taxi driver to lift you into the cab. You know you’re so hungry you can’t stand on your feet.”

Very slowly the young man rose to his feet and walked unsteadily toward the cab. “I don’t know who you are,” he said, “but you’re right. I’m as hungry as hell!”

He got into the cab and Hewes joined him after giving an address to the driver. They rode only a few short blocks in silence and then the cab drew up before the old brownstone house where Martin Hewes lived. They got out and after Hewes had paid the driver they mounted the stairs and the fat man opened the door with a latchkey and switched on a light.

“My housekeeper’s gone home,” he said, “but there’s always a cold bird or a bit of ham in the ice box. Cheese, beer, bread and butter! How does that sound?”

The ragged young man moistened his lips. “It sounds swell!” he said, and grinned.

“Follow me,” said Martin Hewes.

Cold partridge, thick slices of ham, bread and butter, ice cold beer and a Stilton cheese all came out of the ice box and were spread on the kitchen table by the host. He said nothing but waved the young man to a chair. With a grateful glance the young man attacked the food with an ardor that left no question as to his appetite. Martin Hewes sat down on a kitchen chair and lit a cigarette. He watched the young man, his eyes twinkling benevolently behind his gold-rimmed spectacles. He liked to see people enjoy food. He hoped the young man wasn’t too ravenous to appreciate the really fine flavor of that cheese.

At last the young man leaned back in his chair with a satisfied sigh. Hewes passed his cigarette case and the young man took one, lit it, and drew the smoke hungrily into his lungs. This chap has suffered, thought Martin Hewes. He was young, yet there was a sprinkling of gray in his close-cropped hair, and the lines about his eyes and mouth betrayed tragedy.

“I don’t know how to thank you, sir,” said the young man, in a low voice. “If there is any way I can pay you for this I’ll gladly—”

“What’s your name?” cut in Martin Hewes.

The young man hesitated noticeably. Then he spoke. “Garth,” he said quietly. “Jim Garth.”

Martin Hewes gazed reflectively at the ceiling. “Former international polo player, former amateur trap-shooting champion, former millionaire, and — er — former convict,” he said.

Jim Garth smiled bitterly. “You seem to have me down to a T, Mr. — er—”

“Hewes. Martin Hewes.”

“Everything about me is ‘former,’ Mr. Hewes.”

“Just released?” asked Martin Hewes, casually.

“Ten days ago.”

“No job, eh? Friends not too cordial?”

“Precisely.”

Martin Hewes watched the ash drop from his cigarette onto his vest unmoved. “You turned your whole fortune over to the people who were caught in that oil fraud, didn’t you. Mr. Garth?”

“I did.”

“Quixotic but admirable,” said Martin Hewes. “I gather you are what is known in modern parlance as a ‘fall guy.’ ”

“I believe that’s the term.”

“I take it,” said Martin Hewes. “that under the circumstances your are open to a business proposition.”

“I told you,” said Jim Garth, “ that I would do anything to square myself for that meal I’ve eaten. It saved my life.”

“Anything?” asked Martin Hewes, slowly.

“Anything.”

“Come up to my study,” said the fat man.

Martin Hewes’s study was something to see, and Jim Garth stared at it in undisguised amazement. To begin with, Martin Hewes never allowed his housekeeper to clean it but once once a year, and it was heavy with dust and cigarette ashes. Papers were littered helter-skelter over everything while the desk and tables were the repositories for the strangest collection of odds and ends, guns, pieces of pottery, pipes, fishhooks, empty liquor bottles and pieces of string. In one corner a chessboard stood on a littered taboret, an unfinished game set up on it. Pictures of considerable value hung crookedly on the walls, coated with dust. The room was lighted by a soot-darkened skylight and every Inch of wall space not occupied by pictures was covered with shelves of books.

Martin Hewes seemed unaware of anything unusual about the room and he pointed out a battered chair to Garth. He placed a box of cigarettes at the young man’s disposal and leaned back in his own plush arm chair with the comfortable sigh of a man who is content. For a moment or two he studied Garth’s face, the tips of his fingers together.

“I’ll tell you, Mr. Garth,” he said, abruptly. “I’m a sort of detective. That is to say I’m interested in crime, and when something turns up that interests me I work on it whether I’m hired or not. When I’m not hired I keep my findings to myself. It doesn’t matter much to me one way or another. It’s just that I love the game.”

“ I see,” said Garth. He was instinctively drawn to the sloppy Hewes, drawn by the magnetic twinkle in his eyes, and by the kindness of his voice.

“I’ve knocked around the world a good deal,” said Hewes, “and I’ve picked up a thing or two that stand me in good stead. To-night I was sitting in a restaurant having dinner, and at the next table two men were planning a colossal crime. They discussed it quite openly because they didn’t think anyone would understand them. They spoke in Arabic. Now there probably aren’t more than four people in all of New York who can speak Arabic fluently, but I happen to be one of them.”

“Extraordinary,” said Garth. “ What were they plotting?”

“One of them is going to steal the famous Carrington necklace.”

“Why, that’s nonsense!” cried Garth. “It can’t be done.”

“Just the same,” said Hewes, “the other man thought so highly of his ability that he is going to pay him four hundred and fifty thousand dollars for the attempt — win or lose!”

“Good God!”

“Precisely. You see the purchaser has ample confidence in the other man to accomplish the theft.”

“Aren’t you going to Carrington and warn him?” demanded Garth.

Mr. Hewes looked at his guest, a faint smile flitting over his lips. “I’m not interested in the moral aspects of crime, Mr. Garth. It’s a game with me, a game I play and from which I exact as much recompense — financial recompense — as possible. I see an opportunity for the making of a tidy little sum of money in this deal and if you see fit to join me I think we can manage.”

“Join you?”

“Yes. The fact is, Mr. Garth, I am about to offer you a partnership in my business. Fifty-fifty on all profits, and I’ll stake you to clothes and money until there are profits.”

For a moment Jim Garth wondered if this ineffectual looking fat man was day-dreaming. But something about those mild eyes behind the glasses made Jim Garth realize that he was in earnest, and that he was capable.

“It’s a generous offer, Mr. Hewes. What is your plan in regard to the Carrington necklace?”

Martin Hewes brushed the cigarette ash from his expanse of waistcoat. “If we go to Carrington and warn him,” he said slowly, “we will probably get laughed at for our pains. But, if we wait until the necklace is stolen, and then steal it back — well, Carrington might be willing to part with a tidy little sum to regain his treasure. Twenty-five — fifty thousand dollars. Who knows?”