To an old Londoner, the aspect of the town in the small hours of the morning, in “the middle watch” as those dark hours are called in the language of the mariner, is not without its attractions. For however much he may love his fellow-creatures, it is restful, at least for a time, to take their society in infinitesimal doses, or even to dispense with it entirely, and to take one’s way through the empty and silent streets free to pursue one’s own thoughts undistracted by the din and hurly-burly that prevail in the daylight hours.
Thus I reflected as I turned out of Marylebone Station at about half-past two in the morning, and, crossing the wide, deserted road, bore away south-east in the direction of the Temple. Through what side streets I passed I cannot remember, and in fact never knew, for, in the manner of the born-and-bred Londoner, I simply walked towards my destination without consciously considering my route. And as I walked in a silence on which my own footfalls made an almost startling impression, I looked about me with something like curiosity and listened for the occasional far-off sounds which told of some belated car or lorry wending its solitary way through some distant street.
I was approaching the neighbourhood of Soho and passing through a narrow street lined by old and rather squalid houses, all dark and silent, when my ear caught a sound which, though faint and far-away, instantly attracted my attention: the clang of a bell, not rung, but struck with a hammer and repeating the single note in a quick succession of strokes — the warning bell of a fire-engine. I listened with mild interest — it was too far off to concern me — and compared the sound with that of the fire-engines of my young days. It was more distinctive, but less exciting. The bell gave its message plainly enough, but it lacked that quality of urgency and speed that was conveyed by the rattle of iron tyres on the stones and the sound of galloping horses.
Ding, ding, ding, ding, ding. The sound was more distinct. Then the engine must be coming my way; and even as I noted the fact, the clang of another bell rang out from the opposite direction, and suddenly I became aware of a faintly pungent smell in the air. Then, as I turned a corner, I met a thin cloud of smoke that was drifting up the street and noticed a glow in the sky over the house-tops; and presently, reaching another corner, came into full view of the burning house, though it was still some distance away, near the farther end of the street.
I watched it with some surprise as I walked quickly towards it, for there seemed to be something unusual in its appearance. I had not seen many burning houses but none that I had seen had looked quite like this one. There was a furious intensity in the way that it flared up that impressed me as abnormal. From the chimneys, flames shot up like the jets from a gas-blowpipe, and the windows emitted tongues of fire that looked as if they were being blown out by bellows. And the progress of the fire was frightfully rapid, for even in the short time that it took me to walk the length of the street there was an evident change. Glowing spots began to appear in the roof flames poured out of the attic windows, and smoke and flame issued from the ground floor, which seemed to be some kind of shop.
No crowd had yet collected, but just a handful of chance wayfarers like myself and a few policemen, who stood a little distance away from the house, looking on the scene of destruction and listening anxiously to the sounds of the approaching engines, now quite near and coming from several different directions.
“It’s a devil of a blaze,” I remarked to one of the constables. “What is it? An oil-shop?”
“It’s worse than that, sir,” he replied. “It’s a film dealer’s. The whole place chock full of celluloid films. It’s to be hoped that there isn’t anybody in the house, but I’m rather afraid there is. The caretaker of the offices next door says that there is a gentleman who has rooms on the first floor. Poor look-out for him if he is in there now. He will be burned to a cinder by this time.”
At this moment the first of the engines swung round the corner and swept up to the house with noiseless speed, discharging its brass-helmeted crew, who began immediately to prepare for action: opening the water-plugs, rolling out lengths of hose, and starting the pumps. In a minute or two, four other engines arrived, accompanied by a motor fire-escape; but the latter, when its crew had glanced at the front of the house, was trundled some distance up the street out of the way of the engines. There was obviously no present use for it, nor did there seem to be much left for the engines to do, for, almost at the moment when the first jet of water was directed at the flaming window-space, the roof fell in with a crash and a roar, a volume of flame and sparks leaped up into the sky, and through the holes which had once been windows an uninterrupted sheet of fire could be seen from the top of the house to the bottom. Evidently, the roof in its fall, had carried away what had been left of the floors, and the house was now no more than an empty shell with a mass of flaming debris at its base.
Whether the jets of water that were directed in through the window-holes had any effect, or whether the highly inflammable material had by this time all been burnt, I could not judge, but, after the fall of the roof, the fire began almost suddenly to die down, and a good deal of the firemen’s attention became occupied by the adjoining house, which had already suffered some injury from the fire and now seemed likely to suffer more from the water. But in this I was not greatly interested, and, as the more spectacular phase of the disaster seemed to have come to an end, I extricated myself from the small crowd that had now collected and resumed my progress towards the Temple and the much-desired bed that awaited me there.
To a man who has turned in at past four o’clock in the morning, competition with the lark is not practicable. It was getting on for eleven when I emerged from my bedroom and descended the stairs towards the breakfast-room, becoming agreeably conscious of a subtle aroma which memory associated with bacon and coffee.
“I heard you getting up, sir,” said Polton with a last, satisfied glance at the breakfast-table, “and I heard you come in last night, or rather this morning, so I have cooked an extra rasher. You did make a night of it, sir.”
“Yes,” I admitted, “it was rather a late business, and what made me still later was a house on fire some where near Soho which I stopped for a while to watch. A most tremendous blaze. A policeman told me that it was a celluloid film warehouse, so you can imagine how it flared up.”
I produced this item of news designedly, knowing that it would be of interest; for Polton, the most gentle and humane of men, had an almost morbid love of the horrible and the tragic. As I spoke, his eyes glistened, and he commented with a sort of ghoulish relish: “Celluloid films! And a whole warehouse full of them, too! It must have been a fine sight. I’ve never seen a house on fire — not properly on fire; only just smoke and sparks. Was there a fire-escape?”
“Yes, but there was nothing for it to do. The house was like a furnace.”
“But the people inside, sir. Did they manage to get out in time?”
“It’s not certain that there was anybody in the house. I heard something about a gentleman who had rooms there, but there was no sign of him. It is not certain that he was there, but if he was, he is there still. We shall know when the firemen and salvage men are able to examine the ruins.”
“Ha!” said Polton, “there won’t be much of him left. Where did you say the place was, sir?”
“I can’t tell you the name of the street, but it was just off Old Compton Street. You will probably see some notice of the fire in the morning paper.”
Thereupon, Polton turned away as if to go in search of the paper, but at the door he paused and looked back at me.
“Speaking of burning houses, sir,” said he, “Mr. Stalker called about half an hour ago. I told him how things were, so he said he would probably look in again in an hour’s time. If he does, will you see him downstairs or shall I bring him up?
“Oh, bring him up here. We don’t make a stranger of Mr. Stalker.”
“Yes, sir. Perhaps he has come to see you about this very fire.”
“He could hardly have got any particulars yet,” said I. “Besides, fire insurance is not in our line of business.”
“No, sir,” Polton admitted; “but it may be about the gentleman who had the rooms. A charred body might be in your line if they happen to know that there is one among the ruins.”
I did not think it very likely, for there had hardly been time to ascertain whether the ruins did or did not contain any human remains. Nevertheless, Polton’s guess turned out to be right; for when Stalker (having declined a cup of coffee and then explained, according to his invariable custom, that he happened to be passing this way and thought he might as well just look in) came to the point, it appeared that his visit was concerned with the fire in Soho.
“But, my dear Stalker,” I protested, “we don’t know anything about fires.”
“I know,” he replied with an affable smile. “The number of things that you and Thorndyke don’t know anything about would fill an encyclopaedia. Still, there are some things that you do know. Perhaps you have forgotten that fire at Brattle’s oil-shop, but I haven’t. You spotted something that the fire experts had overlooked.”
“Thorndyke did. I didn’t until he pointed it out.”
“I don’t care which of you spotted it,” said he. “I only know that, between you, you saved us two or three thousand pounds.”
I remembered the case quite well, and the recollection of it seemed to............