in that. He’s a comrade, or he used to be, he’s got a bit slack lately. Calls himself Samuels, but his real name’s Szamuelly. One of his relations was one of Lenin’s men, and fought a glorious fight for the cause in Hungary. Killed himself rather than be caught when the capitalists put the bourgeois back again. Never mind, that won’t last long. The whole of Europe is already on the brink—’
‘But this man Samuels and his bale of goods?’ interrupted Harold, feeling that an account of anything that happened on that fatal evening was preferable to an oration on Bolshevism.
Mr Boost checked himself and returned to his story. ‘Well, George told me that he got the message—there’s a telephone belonging to a man in his yard, and he’ll take a message for George from one of us dealers—and went down to Samuels’ place. He didn’t see the old man himself, but heard him wheezing and coughing in the back shop. When George raps on the counter, out comes Samuels’ nephew, a half-witted sort of chap who comes and lives with his uncle when he can’t get a job anywhere else. The nephew shows him a bale done up with mats and rope, and between them they got it into the van. George says it was about six foot long, and weighed best part of a couple of hundredweight. “Uncle says if Mr Boost isn’t in, you can leave it under the porch, it won’t hurt in the open for a night or two,” the nephew tells him. George asks if he can have his money, twelve-and-six, for the job. The nephew goes into the back room, and George hears the old man coughing and wheezing again. I’ll bet he did, too.’
Mr Boost allowed his austere frown to melt into a smile at the idea. ‘Old Samuels is worth a lot of money,’ he explained, ‘but it’s like drawing a tooth to get a shilling out of him. By and by the nephew comes back, and gives George his twelve-and-sixpence exact, not a penny more for a drink, you may bet. George comes straight here, or so he says, carries the stuff up to the door, and props it under the porch. And what I want to know is, what’s become of it?’
Mr Boost fixed his fiery eye upon Harold, as though he expected him to confess immediately to the theft of this bale of goods. But for a moment Harold made no reply. There seemed no reason to doubt the truth of the story—in any case it could easily be verified by referring to George or to Mr Boost’s friend, old Samuels. It was just possible that the disappearance of this bale was in some way connected with the other mysterious happening of that eventful night.
‘Look here, Mr Boost,’ he said at last. ‘I may be a pretty fair rotter, but at least I haven’t tried my hand at theft, as yet. Besides, if I wanted to steal a bale of that size and weight, I shouldn’t know how to set about it or where to dispose of it. For that matter, I can account for every minute of my time that evening. I give you my word I know nothing of the matter. Will that do?’
Mr Boost’s frown relaxed a little. ‘I’m not saying you took it,’ he conceded. ‘But there were some pretty queer happenings about here that night, and I reckon that you know more about them than you’re prepared to say. How do I know that the disappearance of that bale hasn’t got something to do with them?’
‘Well, Mr Boost, I can only assure you that nobody wants to know what happened that night more than I do,’ replied Harold. Then he added maliciously, ‘Why don’t you tell the police about it? They’d be glad to help you, I dare say.’
‘Police!’ exclaimed Mr Boost contemptuously. ‘I don’t want them fooling about with my business. I don’t recognise their right to interfere in a free man’s affairs. No, I’m going to find out about this myself, I am.’
‘In that case, I shall be very pleased to give you all the help I can,’ replied Harold. ‘I have an idea if we could find out what happened to your bale of goods, we should learn something about the man I found dead in my bed. What was in this precious bale, anyhow?’
Mr Boost shook his head. ‘I don’t know,’ he said. ‘Old Samuels’ nephew didn’t tell George. Don’t suppose he knew; the old man keeps his business pretty much to himself. He knew I should find out what it was when I opened it, and that was good enough for him.’
‘Was it likely to have been anything of any great value?’ suggested Harold.
‘Old Samuels wouldn’t have told George to leave it in the porch if it had been. Besides, he’d have written to me by now asking for the money. He doesn’t like parting with anything that’s worth much, doesn’t that old man.’
‘Then the only way to find out what was in the bale is to ask old Samuels himself,’ said Harold. ‘Why don’t you write him a note and find out? You can’t begin to trace the stuff until you know what it was.’
Mr Boost shook his head. ‘No, I don’t care to write,’ he replied. ‘Like as not the old man wouldn’t answer, or if he did, would send a bill for the stuff. And I can’t very well go and see him today, I don’t want to leave the place till George has delivered that lot from Leicester.’
An idea struck Harold and he blurted it out before he had time to consider the consequences it might entail.
‘Look here, Mr Boost, I’m as interested in the fate of this bale of goods as you are, only for a slightly different reason. Someone must have taken it away that night, and it is just possible that that someone could throw some light on what I want to know. If you like, I’ll go to Camberwell and see old Samuels for you.’
Mr Boost considered for a moment without replying. ‘Couldn’t do no harm,’ he said at last, rather reluctantly. ‘If you can get anything at all out of the old man, that is. He’s as close as an oyster. I’m beginning to believe that your story’s right, that you’ve been fooled over this night’s business same as I have. Perhaps that fellow did break in after my stuff. But if so, what did he take the trouble to climb up to your rooms for? Why break in if the stuff he wanted was already outside? How did he get it away if he was dead? No, it beats me, but it may not be your fault, after all. Yes, you can go and see old Samuels, if you like.’
‘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.