The Hidden Man Read Free Page B

of thick ledgers, and there were doors to the right and left, one of which led to the smithing workshop and the other to Phillip Pimbo’s private business room.
    I walked up between the two counters to the cashier’s cage, where I passed the time of day.
    â€˜How do, Mr Cragg?’ he replied.
    â€˜Mr Pimbo asked me to call,’ I said. ‘A legal matter.’
    Hazelbury jerked his thumb up and over his right shoulder at Pimbo’s door. The words Phillip Pimbo Esq. were painted on it in a plate-engraver’s script, below which hung a sign, written on pasteboard in block capitals: ENGAGED AND NOT TO BE DISTURBED .
    â€˜He’s been closeted behind that sign since before we opened, before I had even arrived myself.’
    â€˜He is alone?’
    Hazelbury shrugged his shoulders.
    â€˜I hear no voices. Happen he’s writing.’
    He rose from his stool, stretched, and stepped up to the door. He gave it three firm knocks with his knuckles, then waited with an ear cocked. There was no answer from within.
    â€˜Mr Pimbo?’ he called with his lips close to the door panel, ‘I have Mr Titus Cragg here to see you.’
    There was still no reply and he gave a second knock, twice as loudly. Hearing nothing, he took a step back.
    â€˜Strange. Perhaps he’s dropped asleep.’
    â€˜Or is taken ill,’ I ventured. ‘You had better disregard that notice and go in, Mr Hazelbury.’
    Hazelbury turned the door’s brass knob and pushed on the door. It did not move. Hazelbury turned to me with an impotent look.
    â€˜It’s locked. What should I do, Mr Cragg?’
    â€˜Unlock it,’ I replied. ‘And with dispatch.’
    But unlocking could not be done with dispatch. After a search for a duplicate key had failed, a boy was sent into the alley that ran along the side of the shop. He climbed onto the sill of the barred window that lit the room but, as he reported half a minute later, the window was shuttered and he could see nothing inside.
    Next, Arthur Benn the locksmith was fetched to come and pick the lock. He made sure that we onlookers admired the mystery of his craft as, with much muttering to himself, he assessed the thickness of the door and then, removing his hat, put his eye analytically to the keyhole. He had with him a leather roll containing, as we saw when he now unrolled it, a range of instruments shaped like miniature hayrakes. He meditated on these for a few moments before selecting one, which he introduced into the lock. With eyes shut, he twisted it this way and that, blindly seeking the position that would turn the lock. After a minute or so of failure he picked out another hayrake, which also failed, as did the third, fourth and fifth hayrakes. Finally he stood back, uttered a curse, and rolled his lock-picks up again.
    â€˜Key’s in lock on t’other side. There’s your obstruction, and I can’t push it out. If you’ll have my advice, you’ll break the door.’
    Watched by a craning audience of shop customers and passers-by, it took two men, a crowbar and a mallet to break in. They were recruited from a house-building crew at work a few doors along the street. With Hazelbury visibly wincing at the damage, they drove the crowbar between the door and the lintel, then levered it until the wood creaked and gave out a few sharp cracks. An instant later, with the sound like a gunshot, the frame splintered and the door was freed. One of the workmen pushed at it and the door swung open. There was a momentary pause in activity as two dozen eyes focused on the interior room, then the workmen and their mob of attendants surged through the doorway. But as soon as they had done so they stopped again, letting out a collective cry.
    â€˜Oh!’
    It was a spacious room, with a large sash window on the side wall to the left. In the wall facing us, behind Phillip Pimbo’s writing table, was a fire grate with a handsome