“That’ll be the Wrychester Second Friendly,” answered Mitchington. “There are two such societies in the town—the first’s patronized by small tradesmen and the like; the second by workingmen. The second does take deposits from its members. The office is in Fladgate—secretary’s name outside—Mr. Stebbing. What are you after?”
“Tell you later,” said Jettison. “Just an idea.”
He went leisurely out and across the market square and into the narrow, old-world street called Fladgate, along which he strolled as if doing no more than looking about him until he came to an ancient shop which had been converted into an office, and had a wire blind over the lower half of its front window, wherein was woven in conspicuous gilt letters Wrychester Second Friendly Society—George Stebbing, Secretary. Nothing betokened romance or mystery in that essentially humble place, but it was in Jettison’s mind that when he crossed its threshold he was on his way to discovering something that would possibly clear up the problem on which he was engaged.
The staff of the Second Friendly was inconsiderable in numbers—an outer office harboured a small boy and a tall young man; an inner one accommodated Mr. Stebbing, also a young man, sandy-haired and freckled, who, having inspected Detective-Sergeant Jettison’s professional card, gave him the best chair in the room and stared at him with a mingling of awe and curiosity which plainly showed that he had never entertained a detective before. And as if to show his visitor that he realized the seriousness of the occasion, he nodded meaningly at his door.
“All safe, here, sir!” he whispered. “Well fitting doors in these old houses—knew how to make ‘em in those days. No chance of being overheard here—what can I do for you, sir?”
“Thank you—much obliged to you,” said Jettison. “No objection to my pipe, I suppose? Just so. Ah!—well, between you and me, Mr. Stebbing, I’m down here in connection with that Collishaw case—you know.”
“I know, sir—poor fellow!” said the secretary. “Cruel thing, sir, if the man was put an end to. One of our members, was Collishaw, sir.”
“So I understand,” remarked Jettison. “That’s what I’ve come about. Bit of information, on the quiet, eh? Strictly between our two selves—for the present.”
Stebbing nodded and winked, as if he had been doing business with detectives all his life. “To be sure, sir, to be sure!” he responded with alacrity. “Just between you and me and the door post!—all right. Anything I can do, Mr. Jettison, shall be done. But it’s more in the way of what I can tell, I suppose?”
“Something of that sort,” replied Jettison in his slow, easy-going fashion. “I want to know a thing or two. Yours is a working-man’s society, I think? Aye—and I understand you’ve a system whereby such a man can put his bits of savings by in your hands?”
“A capital system, too!” answered the secretary, seizing on a pamphlet and pushing it into his visitor’s hand. “I don’t believe there’s better in England! If you read that—”
“I’ll take a look at it some time,” said Jettison, putting the pamphlet in his pocket. “Well, now, I also understand that Collishaw was in the habit of bringing you a bit of saved money now and then a sort of saving fellow, wasn’t he?” Stebbing nodded assent and reached for a ledger which lay on the farther side of his desk.
“Collishaw,” he answered, “had been a member of our society ever since it started—fourteen years ago. And he’d been putting in savings for some eight or nine years. Not much, you’ll understand. Say, as an average, two to three pounds every half-year—never more. But, just before his death, or murder, or whatever you like to call it, he came in here one day with fifty pounds! Fairly astounded me, sir! Fifty pounds—all in a lump!”
“It’s about that fifty pounds I want to know something,” said Jettison. “He didn’t tell you how he’d come by it? Wasn’t a legacy, for instance?”
“He didn’t say anything but that he’d had a bit of luck,” answered Stebbing. “I asked no questions. Legacy, now?—no, he didn’t mention that. Here it is,” he continued, turning over the pages of the ledger. “There! 50 pounds. You see the date—that ‘ud be two days before his death.”
Jettison glanced at the ledger and resumed his seat.
“Now, then, Mr. Stebbing, I want you to tell me something very definite,” he said. “It’s not so long since this happened, so you’ll not have to tag your memory to any great extent. In what form did Collishaw pay that fifty pounds to you?”
“That’s easy answered, sir,” said the secretary. “It was in gold. Fifty sovereigns—he had ‘em in a bit of a bag.” Jettison reflected on this information for a moment or two. Then he rose.
“Much obliged to you, Mr. Stebbing,” he said. “That’s something worth knowing. Now there’s something else you can tell me as long as I’m here—though, to be sure, I could save you the trouble by using my own eyes. How many banks are there in this little city of yours?”
“Three,” answered Stebbing promptly. “Old Bank, in Monday Market; Popham & Hargreaves, in the Square; Wrychester Bank, in Spurriergate. That’s the lot.”
“Much obliged,” said Jettison. “And—for the present—not a word of what we’ve talked about. You’ll be hearing more—later.”
He went away, memorizing the names of the three banking establishments—ten minutes later he was in the private parlour of the first, in serious conversation with its manager. Here it was necessary to be more secret, and to insist on more secrecy than with the secretary of the Second Friendly, and to produce all his credentials and give all his reasons. But Jettison drew that covert blank, and the next, too, and it was not until he had been closeted for some time with the authorities of the third bank that he got the information he wanted. And when he had got it, he impressed secrecy and silence on his informants in a fashion which showed them that however easy-going his manner might be, he knew his business as thoroughly as they knew theirs.
It was by that time past one o’clock, and Jettison turned into the small hotel at which he had lodged himself. He thought much and gravely while he ate his dinner; he thought still more while he smoked his after-dinner pipe. And his face was still heavy with thought when, at three o’clock, he walked into Mitchington’s office and finding the inspector alone shut the door and drew a chair to Mitchington’s desk.
“Now then,” he said. “I’ve had a rare morning’s work, and made a discovery, and you and me, my lad, have got to have about as serious a bit of talk as we’ve had since I came here.”
Mitchington pushed his papers aside and showed his keen attention.
“You remember what that young fellow told us last night about that man Collishaw paying in fifty pounds to the Second Friendly two days before his death,” said Jettison. “Well, I thought over that business a lot, early this morning, and I fancied I saw how I could find something out about it. So I have—on the strict quiet. That’s why I went to the Friendly Society. The fact was—I wanted to know in what form Collishaw handed in that fifty pounds. I got to know. Gold!”
Mitchington, whose work hitherto had not led him into the mysteries of detective enterprise, nodded delightedly.
“Good!” he said. “Rare idea! I should never have thought of it! And—what do you make out of that, now?”
“Nothing,” replied Jettison. “But—a good deal out of what I’ve learned since that bit of a discovery. Now, put it to yourself—whoever it was that paid Collishaw that fifty pounds in gold did it with a motive. More than one motive, to be exact—but we’ll stick to one, to begin with. The motive for paying in gold was—avoidance of discovery. A cheque can be readily traced. So can banknotes. But gold is not easily traced. Therefore the man who paid Collishaw fifty pounds took care to provide himself with gold. Now then—how many men are there in a small place like this who are likely to carry fifty pounds