John Rhode - The Paddington Mystery

‘Thank you, Mr Boost, I will,’ replied Harold gravely. ‘What sort of a chap is the old man, anyway?’

‘He’s a queer old fish,’ replied Mr Boost. ‘Always grumbling and grousing under his breath. You can’t tell what he’s saying, he mumbles so. To look at him, you wouldn’t think he had a bean in the world, though I know for a fact he’s got some thousands locked up in a tin box in the back room. He doesn’t know I know that, or I believe he’d murder me. He’s a stingy old skinflint as ever you’ve heard of; I’ve only known him wear one suit of clothes all the time I’ve known him, all loose and baggy, with about half a dozen ragged waistcoats underneath it. You can hardly see his face, he’s all shaggy like a bear, long hair, whiskers and beard, which haven’t ever been combed, by the look of it. Like as not, unless you tell him you come from me, he’ll mumble and cough at you and tell you to mind your own business.’

‘I’ll risk that,’ said Harold with a smile. ‘I’ll be off to see old Samuels or Szamuelly tomorrow afternoon. What’s his address, by the way?’

‘Thirty-six, Inkerman Street, Camberwell,’ replied Mr Boost. ‘A tram from Victoria will take you pretty close to the place. It’s a little shop up a side street, not unlike this, only he’s more stuff in his window. He does a bit of retail trade sometimes.’

‘All right, I’ll find it,’ said Harold. ‘Any message for him?’

‘No, I don’t think he wants my love,’ said Mr Boost sourly. ‘You may not find him in, he goes about the country buying sometimes, same as I do. I rather thought he’d be in Leicester the other day. Don’t you go and tell him I lost that stuff, if you see him.’

‘Not I,’ replied Harold. ‘You can rely on me to tell him no more than I can help.’

Mr Boost nodded and left the room. Harold, remembering his appointment with Professor Priestley, got through the intervening time as best he could, and was shown into the Professor’s study punctually at three o’clock.

‘WE will take a taxi-cab,’ said the Professor as soon as they were outside the house. ‘I should like to approach Riverside Gardens in the same way as you approached it that night.’

So it happened that Professor Priestley and Harold were set down at the Register Office, and walked through the side streets to Mr Boost’s house. They were regarded with interest by the few inhabitants of the neighbourhood they met on their way; the case had attracted considerable attention in the newspapers, and the locality had for some days been a centre of pilgrimage. Harold shrank from the interested scrutiny and scarcely-veiled personal remarks, but the Professor’s attention seemed wholly devoted to close observation of his surroundings.

The first remark made by the latter was evoked by the spectacle of Mr Boost’s front garden. It was certainly a deplorable sight, littered with broken wooden crates, straw, shavings, and the remnants of the woven mats employed by furniture packers, with here and there a broken-down piece of furniture among the jumble.

‘This antique dealer of yours seems to be a slovenly sort of person,’ commented the Professor. ‘He lives in a room leading from the shop, I believe?’

‘Yes, when he is here,’ replied Harold. ‘He’s very often away, attending sales in the country. It is a pity that he was not at home when all this happened. He would have been bound to see the man break in.’

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