# The Bartenstein Case/Chapter 9

CHAPTER IV
GRANDFATHER PUNCTUALITY
Inspector Dwayne now summoned a co-adjutor, one Sergeant Mitchell, with whom he had a whispered consultation, after which he announced his readiness to depart and his intention of taking Mitchell with him.
"And as I don't want you to be seen any more than is possible, Lieutenant," he said, "for the description of you in the newspapers is so accurate that any of our people would know you, we'll just get out by the quickest way we can and find a taxi-cab in Whitehall."
This being done, the four men were speedily on their way to Mortimer Street, Mr. Hasleton greatly enjoying the sensation of being brought into the thick of things. As a rule his life was spent in comparative uneventfulness. To find himself suddenly involved, even in a minor way, in a drama or tragedy, as it might yet be, was a pleasant change from his usual peaceful atmosphere of books, pictures, and curios.
"Abrahams is sure to be closed," he said, as they ​swung into Mortimer Street from Regent Street. "It is now nearly eight o'clock and he always closes at seven to the minute. But his private door is round the corner from the shop, and he'll let me in—I have been there before. You had better let me get out of the cab a few doors away, Inspector, and I will walk on and prepare him. He's rather a curious man, Abrahams, and if he saw a large concourse at his door, might not be disposed to admit us."
Inspector Dwayne considered this to be a wise suggestion, and Mr. Hasleton was, therefore, presently set down, and with the aid of his stick moved away as fast as he could round the corner, while his companions waited in the cab. In five minutes he reappeared, waving his hand. "It's all right," he said. "He is at his repast after the day's toil, and would naturally see no one under ordinary circumstances, but when I explained the urgent nature of our business he consented to receive us."
Having paid and discharged the driver, who favoured them all, and especially Lauderdale, with a minute inspection, the party was led by Mr. Hasleton to a door in a side street, where stood Mr. Aaron Abrahams himself, a tall, elderly person, whose chief garment was a long gabardine-like coat which reached nearly to his heels, where its fringes swept a pair of enormous carpet-slippers. Mr. Abrahams, as his name implied, was of a decidedly Semitic type of countenance. His grey hair, which overflowed ​his ears and descended upon his collar, was surmounted by a rusty-black velvet cap; his large nose supported a pair of enormous round spectacles, and he looked altogether like a wise old goat meditating on many difficult problems.
"Come in, gentlemen, come in!" said Mr. Abrahams. "Anything that I can be of use to you in, I shall be happy to do. If you will follow Mr. Hasleton, gentlemen, he knows the way, and I will remain to close the door. Into my little parlour, Mr. Hasleton, if you please, sir."
It was quite a feat of navigation to make a clear course for Mr. Abraham's parlour, for the passage was by no means wide, and it was so much encumbered by such trifling matters as grandfather clocks, oak presses, and bureaus, Chippendale chairs and other flotsam and jetsam of the old-furniture trade, that it was with difficulty that Mr. Hasleton's personally conducted party made its way along without knocking heads against this or breaking shins against that. They were safely led, however, into a small parlour which Mr. Abrahams appeared to utilize in a three-fold capacity—first as a species of overflow depository from the shop; second as a bed-sitting-room; and third as a kitchen. There was excellent olfactory evidence that Mr. Abrahams was supping off steak-and-onions, and washing the solids down with rum-and-water, and Inspector Dwayne ​begged him to continue his repast, which invitation the furniture- and antique-dealer compromised by placing his dinner in the oven, where, he said, it would keep warm until they had finished their little conversation.
"And that need not keep you long, Mr. Abrahams," said the Inspector, who then gave the old man an outline of his business, during which the dealer regarded Lauderdale with great interest. "Now," he said, "have you any idea as to how that sword-stick came into Mr. Bartenstein's possession from yours? We know he was a collector—did you sell it him?"
"No, sir," replied Mr. Abrahams. "No, I did not. I have heard of Mr. Bartenstein as a collector, but he never came to me so far as I remember."
"But you sold the stick, of course?" said Inspector Dwayne.
"Certainly, sir, I did," answered the dealer. "I sold it three days after I acquired it from Mr. Hasleton to an old man who is well known to us dealers, and who, I knew, would buy it. He is a very curious and eccentric person, and the general opinion is that he collects for some big people behind him, because with him price is nothing."
"What's his name?" asked the Inspector.
Mr. Abrahams laughed.
"The only name anyone knows him by, sir, is Grandfather Punctuality," he replied.
​"Grandfather Punctuality!" exclaimed the Inspector. "What's that mean?"
"It's on account of his method of doing business," answered the dealer. "When he takes a fancy to anything and has agreed upon the price, he names a day and an hour on which he will return and pay for it. He will never pay cash, nor give a deposit, but he is always back to the minute, at the appointed time, and pays over the sum—no matter what the amount is—in gold. That's how he got the name of Grandfather Punctuality."
"Where does he live?" asked the Inspector.
"Ah, sir, that's what nobody knows!" replied Mr. Abrahams. "He's one of the sort that keeps his private affairs very close. But I know where you would be almost certain to find him at this time."
"Where, then?" said Inspector Dwayne.
"Well, sir, if you go along Holborn you will find, before you come to the First Avenue Hotel there, a little narrow passage which turns up in the direction of Bedford Row," answered Mr. Abrahams. "There are several old shops there, where curiosities and antiques of one sort or another are sold, but you will see one in which there is practically nothing in the window but old prints—name of Marks over the door, sir. That's where Grandfather Punctuality is usually to be found of an evening—he and Marks are great friends, sir—they drink together."
​Inspector Dwayne thanked Mr. Abrahams for his courtesy, and the party once more navigated the passage and regained the fresh air.
"We'll go straight to Holborn," said the Inspector, signalling for another cab. "And I only hope we shall find this old Grandfather Punctuality there. You may depend upon it that he sold the stick to Bartenstein."
By Inspector's Dwayne's instructions the driver of the taxi-cab which they now entered, instead of taking them to the Holborn entrance of the passage described by Mr. Abrahams, drove them along Theobald's Road and down Bedford Row, where he was instructed to wait. There were very few people about when they alighted, and the narrow passage was deserted.
"Look here, we mustn't all go down there," said the Inspector. "Lieutenant Lauderdale, you come with me, and you, Mr. Hasleton, stay with Sergeant Mitchell. If we can find this old man, we'll try to give you a sight of him, but we mustn't go in force—we might frighten him."
Lauderdale and Inspector Dwayne soon found the little shop which Mr. Abrahams had told him of—an affair of a small window, with very dirty panes, within which were hung a quantity of old prints, most of them in a faded and mildewed condition. There was a light at the back of the shop, and looking between the prints they were able to obtain a view of the place without being seen themselves.
Lauderdale found himself gazing at a scene ​which reminded him of some of Hogarth's interiors. Two old men sat at a table on which was placed a lamp; its light fell on patches of their wrinkled faces and on the white hair which showed beneath their hats; on a big black bottle which stood between them, and on the ruby-coloured liquid in their glasses. Each was smoking a long church-warden pipe, and the fumes of strong tobacco were perceivable through a broken pane in the dirty window.
"Queer-looking couple!" said the Inspector. "Let's see if we can get in."
On trying the door it was found to be fast, and the Inspector, signing to his companion to stand a little on one side, knocked loudly at it. But he had to knock again before an old man, even more Semitic in appearance than Mr. Abrahams, opened the door a little way and thrust out a large nose.
"What do you want?" he said peevishly. "I don't do no business tonight."
"I want," said the Inspector, dexterously putting a foot over the threshold, "to have a word or two with Grandfather."
"What grandfather?" said Mr Marks. "Whose grandfather?"
"Come on, now," said Inspector Dwayne, gradually edging his way in. "That's Grandfather over his rum-and-water there, and I want to speak to him. Stand aside, man—I'm a police officer."
At this Mr. Marks stood aside hastily, and ​Inspector Dwayne, motioning Lauderdale to follow him, walked down the shop to where Grandfather Punctuality sat at the table, pipe in mouth and glass at hand. In front of him lay an evening newspaper, black with great head-lines about the Bartenstein case.
"He's as deaf as a post," said Mr. Marks, following them. "You'll have to shout at him."
Grandfather Punctuality evidently heard no sound until the Inspector tapped him on the shoulder, when he looked up and stared at the two strangers. But when his eyes fell on Lauderdale a curious expression covered his face; he rose slowly from his chair, and taking a step nearer the young man peered at him as if searching for something. It was a queer face that then brought itself so near to Lauderdale's—the face of a very, very old man, seamed, wrinkled, scarred, crafty, sly, but clever, framed in a mass of white hair which straggled all round it. There was a strange light in the old eyes as they regarded Lauderdale, and it deepened as the old man went back to the table and, nodding his head with great satisfaction, tapped that paragraph in the newspaper in which Chester's description of Lauderdale was given.
"He's recognized you," said Inspector Dwayne. "Here, Grandfather, I want to ask you a question. You bought an old sword-stick from Mr. Abrahams in Mortimer Street—did you sell it to Mr. Bartenstein?"
​The old man heard this shouted in his ear, but he paid no heed to it—he sipped at his glass, relighted his pipe, and turned again to the newspaper.
"He'll not answer you, if he's not minded to," said Mr. Marks. "He's very queer to deal with."
Inspector Dwayne tapped Grandfather Punctuality on the shoulder.
"You'd better answer my question," he said. "I'm from Scotland Yard, and I want to know if you sold that stick to Bartenstein."
Grandfather Punctuality made a show of relighting his pipe.
"Bartenstein?" he said presently, in a wheezy voice.
"Yes, Bartenstein," answered the Inspector. "Come, now!"
"Ah!" said Grandfather Punctuality. "Maybe I did, and maybe I didn't—I'm getting a very old man, and my memory's a-going."
"He's having you," said the friendly Mr. Marks. "His memory's as good as ever, especially about money. You can bet your boots it was him sold that stick to Bartenstein—he's collected lots o' things for him."
"Come along, sir," said the Inspector. "I've seen enough for what I want—I don't think there's much doubt about the history of the sword-stick at that stage."
He turned away, and Lauderdale was about to follow him, when he suddenly felt his wrist ​clutched as in the grip of steel. He turned to find Grandfather Punctuality's burning eyes fixed on his own.
"Did you drive it through his heart?" he whispered. "Did you—did you—did you? Excellent young man! His heart, eh—Bartenstein's heart! Excellent!"