Detective Fiction Weekly. Vol. 36, No. 4, October 20, 1928

I dragged him into his bedroom and on to his bed, switched on the electric fire, undressed him, poured brandy down his throat and set to work on him, but it was an hour and a half before he showed any sign of life, and three hours before I was able to leave him, tucked comfortably between blankets and fast asleep.

The next morning, the hall porter told me that MacDougall wished to see me. Inside his flat again, he was profuse in his thanks, and afterward he looked at me, I thought somewhat strangely, and asked:

“When you searched me, did you find any money?”

“No,” I answered.

“I had twelve or thirteen pounds on me when I left the ‘Old Ship,’ ” he explained. “Some one must have stolen it.”

Some one had — and that some one was Sam Crockett — “Slippery” Sam to his associates.

Crooked as Snakes

Sam is dead now, but in spite of that he remains to me what he was — the slyest, slimiest crook I ever knew. Usually there are redeeming features in crooks. Some of the worst of men from a criminal point of view are the most charming of individuals to meet when one is off duty — generous, good-natured, genial and irresponsible. One can often at least be amused by them, but there was nothing amusing about Slippery Sam.

When, later, as this story will relate, I had occasion to investigate the case of James MacDougall, I unearthed a story as mean and despicable as any of my career.

Sam Crockett had been a solicitor’s clerk in one of those offices which possesses an excellent knowledge of the law and how to dodge it, of fraud which is legally protected. It specialized in accident cases. It bribed hall-porters at hospitals to keep it informed of accidents; it had runners bringing in information from mean and splendid streets — all so that the office might get at the victim first and become empowered to act on his behalf in the matter of compensation.

That office was adept at concocting evidence; it had on its books the names and addresses of a score of professional witnesses — men and women who could swear to facts they had never seen and tell a primed story with an air of conviction.

Slippery had been chief clerk, and in course of time he had blackmailed victims of accidents whose cases the office had won for a goodly share of the damages awarded. Finally Sam, with two or three thousand pounds in his pocket, had retired from drudgery in London and taken himself, his money, and his wits to Brighton with the firm intention of using the last to augment the first and secure him an easy living.

Such is the man, whom later I found to be in the background on which was thrown the figure of James MacDougall, whom I left at Hove a week or so later, as I believed, restored to the same health he had ever possessed.

Six months elapsed. Then Hove had to be my home again for a time. I inquired and was given possession of a furnished flat in the same house as before. I walked into the hall and into the lift. The man in charge expressed pleasure at seeing me again — and before the lift stopped at my floor, he said:

Something Was Wrong

“It’s a sad thing about Mr. MacDougall, sir!”

“Oh, what’s the matter with him?” I asked.

The lift stopped and he strode with me on to the landing.

“He goes into the workhouse tomorrow,” he explained — and went on when I showed surprise: “Yes, poor old chap, he’s lost his memory; he’s failing; he’s got no money; the bailiff’s have cleared his flat — he’s down and out, utterly broken — and to-morrow they are calling for him.”

Within my new abode, I digested this information over lunch. Then I called to the hall porter and told him to ask MacDougall to come up and see me. MacDougall came, though it was with difficulty that I got him to recognize me.

In place of the hale, well-set-up man, there was a decrepit individual who looked half insane and veritably on his last legs. He could answer no questions.

Formerly he had been a man with a good income, now old age was upon him and poverty.

I could not believe it. Some sixth sense told me that somewhere something was wrong. Perhaps the small adventure of the winter had made me more than usually interested in the man. Whatever the cause. I determined he should not die in the work-house.

A Leap in the Dark

Within a few hours, I had seen the manager of the building, arranged with him that the man should be allowed to stay, undertaken some small liability on his behalf, and seen the bailiffs and secured from them the return of a part of the beautiful furniture and silver which they had seized for a paltry debt of some twenty-five pounds.

“You’re a fool to do it,” said the manager with a gesture. “I tell you flatly, I’ve investigated and he has no friends, no relatives; he knows nobody, nobody knows him, he’s got no money, he’s down and out and a sick man into the bargain.”

My answer was to send for a doctor I knew. He came and examined the slobbering, vacant-looking man I had known in better days.

“He’ll be dead in three weeks,” he declared.