The Pothunters, P. G. Wodehouse [digital book reader .TXT] 📗

Can’t say for certain, but probably done with a chisel.”

“With a chisel? Surely not.”

“Yes. Probably with a chisel. Probably the man knocked the pane out with one blow, then removed all the glass so as to make it look like the work of an old hand. Very good idea, but amateurish. I am told that three cups have been taken. Could you tell me how long they had been in the Pavilion?”

Mr. Thompson considered.

“Well,” he said. “Of course it’s difficult to remember exactly, but I think they were placed there soon after one o’clock the day before yesterday.”

“Ah! And the robbery took place yesterday in the early morning, or the night before?”

“Yes.”

“Is the Pavilion the usual place to keep the prizes for the Sports?”

“No, it is not. They were only put there temporarily. The board room, where they are usually kept, and which is in the main buildings of the School, happened to be needed until the next day. Most of us were very much against leaving them in the Pavilion, but it was thought that no harm could come to them if they were removed next day.”

“But they were removed that night, which made a great difference,” said Mr. Roberts, chuckling at his mild joke. “I see. Then I suppose none outside the School knew that they were not in their proper place?”

“I imagine not.”

“Just so. Knocks the idea of professional work on the head. None of the regular trade can have known this room held so much silver for one night. No regular would look twice at a cricket pavilion under ordinary circumstances. Therefore, it must have been somebody who had something to do with the School. One of the boys, perhaps.”

“Really, I do not think that probable.”

“You can’t tell. Never does to form hasty conclusions. Boy might have done it for many reasons. Some boys would have done it for the sake of the excitement. That, perhaps, is the least possible explanation. But you get boy kleptomaniacs just as much in proportion as grown-up kleptomaniacs. I knew a man. Had a son. Couldn’t keep him away from anything valuable. Had to take him away in a hurry from three schools, good schools, too.”

“Really? What became of him? He did not come to us, I suppose?”

“No. Somebody advised the father to send him to one of those North Country schools where they flog. Great success. Stole some money. Got flogged, instead of expelled. Did it again with same result. Gradually got tired of it. Reformed character now.⁠ ⁠… I don’t say it is a boy, mind you. Most probably not. Only say it may be.”

All the while he was talking, his eyes were moving restlessly round the room. He came to the window through which Jim had effected his entrance, and paused before the broken pane.

“I suppose he tried that window first, before going round to the other?” hazarded Mr. Thompson.

“Yes. Most probably. Broke it, and then remembered that anyone at the windows of the boarding houses might see him, so left his job half done, and shifted his point of action. I think so. Yes.”

He moved on again till he came to the other window. Then he gave vent to an excited exclamation, and picked up a piece of caked mud from the sill as carefully as if it were some fragile treasure.

“Now, see this,” he said. “This was wet when the robbery was done. The man brought it in with him. On his boot. Left it on the sill as he climbed in. Got out in a hurry, startled by something⁠—you can see he was startled and left in a hurry from the different values of the cups he took⁠—and as he was going, put his hand on this. Left a clear impression. Good as plaster of Paris very nearly.”

Mr. Thompson looked at the piece of mud, and there, sure enough, was the distinct imprint of the palm of a hand. He could see the larger of the lines quite clearly, and under a magnifying glass there was no doubt that more could be revealed.

He drew in a long breath of satisfaction and excitement.

“Yes,” said the detective. “That piece of mud couldn’t prove anything by itself, but bring it up at the end of a long string of evidence, and if it fits your man, it convicts him as much as a snapshot photograph would. Morning, sir. I must be going.” And he retired, carrying the piece of mud in his hand, leaving Mr. Thompson in the full grip of the detective fever, hunting with might and main for more clues.

After some time, however, he was reluctantly compelled to give up the search, for the bell rang for dinner, and he always lunched, as did many of the Masters, in the Great Hall. During the course of the meal he exercised his brains without pause in the effort to discover a fitting suspect. Did he know of any victim of kleptomania in the School? No, he was sorry to say he did not. Was anybody in urgent need of money? He could not say. Very probably yes, but he had no means of knowing.

After lunch he went back to the common room. There was a letter lying on the table. He picked it up. It was addressed to “J. Thomson, St. Austin’s.” Now Mr. Thompson’s Christian name was John. He did not notice the omission of the p until he had opened the envelope and caught a glimpse of the contents. The letter was so short that only a glimpse was needed, and it was not till he had read the whole that he realised that it was somebody else’s letter that he had opened.

This was the letter:

“Dear Jim⁠—Frantic haste. Can you let me have that two pounds directly you come back? Beg, borrow, or steal it. I simply must have it.⁠—Yours ever,

“Allen.”

XI The Sports

Sports weather at St. Austin’s was as a rule a quaint but unpleasant solution of mud, hail, and