The chief inspector said sharply to the manager: `Thank you very much. This gentleman has just arrived in London; he knows nothing about it. I can explain.'
As the red-faced manager hurried towards the restaurant, Dr Fell sighed.
`Now you've driven him away,' he protested, querulously, `and I was just beginning to enjoy it. I perceive among London hatters a bustling, up-to-the-minute, go-get-'em spirit.' He took a deep drink of beer, and shook his great head of hair like a mane. Then he beamed on his companions.
`Blast you… ' said the chief inspector. He struggled with dignity, and lost. `Oh well. Confound it, I hate scenes, and you seem to revel in them. All the same, he was talking perfect sense. It's a kid's prank, of course. But it keeps on and on. If he'd stopped at stealing one or two hats, and this infernal newspaper ragging hadn't begun, no harm would have been done. But it's making us look foolish.'
The doctor adjusted his glasses.
`Do you mean to say,' he demanded, `that a real hatter is going about London stealing… '
"'Mad Hatter" is what the newspapers call him. It was started by this young cub Driscoll, the free-lance. Driscoll is Bitton's nephew; it would be difficult to muzzle him, and if we did try to muzzle him we should look foolish. He's doing the damage… Laugh, by all means!' Hadley invited.
Dr Fell lowered his chins into his collar.
`And Scotland Yard, he asked, with suspicious politeness, `is unable to apprehend this villainous.:. '
Hadley retained his repose with an effort. Hadley said, in a quiet voice: `I don't give a damn, personally, if he steals the Archbishop of Canterbury's mitre. But the effect of a police force's being laughed at is not at all humorous. Besides, suppose we catch him? To the newspapers the trial would be much funnier than the offence.' Can you imagine two stolen wigged counsel battling as to whether the defendant did, or did not, on the evening of March 5, 1932, abstract the helmet of Police Constable Thomas Sparkle from the head of the said constable in or about the premises of Euston Road, and did thereafter elevate the said helmet to the top of a lamp-standard before the premises of New Scotland Yard, SW — or whatever they say?'
'Did he do that?' Dr Fell queried, with interest.
`Read it,' said Hadley, and drew the newspaper from his pocket. `That's young Driscoll's column. It's the worst, but the others are almost as facetious.'
Dr Fell grunted. `I say, Hadley, this isn't the case you wanted to talk to me about, is it? Because, if it is, I'm damned if I help you. Why man, it's glorious!'
Hadley was not amused. `That,' he answered, coldly, `is not the case. But out of what I have on hand, I hope to put a brake on Driscoll. Unless… ' He hesitated, turning something over in his mind. `Read it. It will probably delight you.
HAT-FIEND STRIKES AGAIN!
Is There a Political Significance in the Movements of the Sinister Master Mind?
BY PHILIP C. DRISCOLL, our special correspondent in charge of the latest Mad Hatter atrocities.
London, March 12.
Not since the days of Jack the Ripper has this city been so terrorized by a mysterious fiend who strikes and vanishes without a clue, as in the exploits of the diabolical criminal genius known as the Mad Hatter. On Sunday morning fresh exploits of the Mad Hatter challenged the best brains of Scotland Yard. passing the, cab-rank on the east side of Leicester Square about 5 A.M., P.C. James McGuire was struck by a somewhat unusual circumstance. A hansom-cab was drawn up at the kerb, from which certain not untuneful noises indicated that the driver was asleep inside. The horse (whose name has subsequently been ascertained to be Jennifer) was chewing a large stick of peppermint and looking benevolently upon P.C. McGuire. What. especially, struck the quick-witted policeman, however, was the fact that on her head Jennifer wore a large white wig with flowing sides: in fact, a barrister's wig.
Though some caution was manifested in taking steps when Mr McGuire reported to Vine Street Police Station the presence of a horse in a barrister's wig eating peppermint in Leicester Square, ultimate investigation proved it true. It became obvious that the Hat-Fiend was again at large.
Readers of the Daily Recorder are, already aware how, on the preceding day, a beautiful pearl-grey top-hat was discovered on the head of one of the lions on the Nelson Monument in Trafalgar Square, looking towards Whitehall. By its inscription it was found to belong to Sir Isaac Simonides Levy, of Curzon Street, the well-known member of the Stock Exchange. Under, cover of a light mist, that cloak of evil-doers, it had been twitched from Sir Isaac's head as he was leaving his home the preceding evening to address a meeting of the Better Orphans' League., It will be obvious that Sir Isaac, in a pearl-grey top-hat for evening wear, was (at the least) conspicuous.
The origin of the wig on Jennifer's head was, therefore, clear to the authorities. At the present moment its owner has not been ascertained, nor has he come forward. Detectives believe that the Mad Hatter must have been near the cab-rank only, a few moments before the arrival of P.C. McGuire, inasmuch as the stick of peppermint was scarcely a third gone when the policeman first saw her. It is further inferred that the criminal was well acquainted with Leicester Square, and probably with the horse Jennifer, since he took advantage of her liking for peppermints to place the wig upon her head. Beyond this, the police have little to work on….
`There's more of it,' Hadley said, when he saw Dr Fell fold over the paper at this point, `but it doesn't matter. I hate this damned ragging, that's all.'
`Undoubtedly,' said Dr Fell, sadly, `you police are a persecuted lot. And no clue, I suppose. I'm sorry I can't take the case. Perhaps, though, if you sent your best men to all the sweet-shops near Leicester Square, and inquire who bought…'
'`I didn't bring you down from Chatterham,' Hadley retorted, with asperity, `to talk about an undergraduate prank. But I may stop this young pup Driscoll from writing such tosh; and that will stop the rest of them. I wired you that it had something to do with Bitton; Bitton is this boy's uncle, and holds the purse strings…. One of the most valuable manuscripts in Bitton's collection, he tells me, has been stolen.'
`Ah,' said Dr Fell. He put aside the paper, and sat back with his arms folded.
`The devil about these thefts of manuscripts or rare books,' Hadley continued, `is that you can't trace them like an ordinary theft. In the case of precious stones, or plate, or even pictures, it's fairly simple. We know our pawnshops and our receivers of stolen goods too well. But you can't do it with books or manuscripts. When a thief takes something like that, he has a definite person in mind to whom he intends to dispose of it; or else he's acting under the buyer's orders, to begin with. In any case, you can be sure the buyer won't tell.'
The chief inspector paused.
`And the Yard's intervention in the matter is further complicated by the fact that the manuscript stolen from Bitton was one to which he had well, a rather dubious right himself.'
`I see,' murmured the doctor. `And what was it?'
Hadley picked up his glass slowly, and set it down hastily. Feet clattered on the brass stair-rods. A tall man in a flapping greatcoat strode down into the room; the bartender drew a deep breath, resignedly, and tried not to notice the wild look in the stranger's eye. The bartender murmured, `Good afternoon, Sir William,' and returned to polishing glasses.
`It's not a good afternoon,' Sir William Bitton announced, violently. He passed the end of his white scarf across his face, moist from the thickening mist outside, and glared. `Ah, hallo, Hadley! Now, look here, something's got to be done. I tell you I won't… ' He strode into the alcove, and his eye fell on the paper Dr Fell had discarded. `So you're reading about that swine who steals hats?'