Harvey Garrard's Crime

Harvey Garrard, as his limousine crawled over London Bridge and
turned into the dingy streets beyond, leaned forward in his seat
looking out of the window with the half-weary anticipation of one
who revisits familiar but distasteful scenes. There was a faint
air of disgust in his expression as the well-known odours of the
neighbourhood assailed his nostrils. Forty-eight hours ago he had
been living in a paradise of mimosa and roses warmed by Riviera
sunshine, his senses reacting pleasurably to the mild excitement,
the music and the gaiety of Monte Carlo. The malodorous atmosphere
of Bermondsey, into which district he had now passed--the smell of
leather, the sullen, brooding skies through which it seemed
impossible that the sun could ever force its way, all added to his
depression. He glanced with distaste at the familiar landmarks
which he passed, exchanged mechanical greetings with one or two
passers-by whose names he failed to remember, and finally stepped
out on to the pavement with the sigh of an unaccountable feeling of
depression as his car drew up before the magnificent pile of
buildings, the pride of the whole neighbourhood, the enormous
warehouse built by his grandfather, Phineas Garrard, the Quaker,
nearly a hundred years ago.

"You had better wait for a time, John," he told the chauffeur. "If
I have to stay here long, I'll send down word and you can go home
in case your mistress requires you."

The man touched his hat and turned off his engine. Harvey Garrard
mounted the steps, pushed open the swing doors and made his
leisurely way past the spacious suites of offices which occupied
the front of the ground floor into the open spaces beyond--spaces
piled with great stacks of all descriptions of sole leather, from
the odour of which he shrank once more with a little instinctive
aversion. With his hand upon the iron railing of the circular
staircase which led to the first floor where his own private office
was situated he paused for a moment to look round. Perhaps because
he had just emerged from an utterly different world, he was
conscious of a queer sense of unreality in all he saw. He was
unable to link together the past and the present. It seemed to him
indeed that the men in their aprons and overalls who moved
backwards and forwards were like the ghosts of themselves rather
than actual human beings. Reminiscences of past years here in
these surroundings puzzled at the same time that they depressed
him. The clerks in the offices--he could see them through the
glass partition--were all grey-headed, all seemed to bend a little
wearily over their tasks. Many of their faces were familiar but
all seemed changed. It was the same thing with the porters. He
called one of them to him--one of the few whose name he remembered.

"Well, James," he said, "still working as hard as ever?"

The man shook his head doubtfully

"No chance of that nowadays, sir," he replied. "There ain't enough
to do to keep any of us busy."

"Business bad, eh?"

"Bad enough in our department anyway, sir," was the somewhat
depressed admission.

His master turned away with a nod and mounted the winding stairway.
Arrived on the first floor he paused and looked downward once more
at the great room below. A vague sense of uneasiness, which had at
odd times assailed him during the last six months, took to itself
very definite shape in those few moments. The change in his
surroundings was too apparent to exist only in his imagination; a
spirit of listlessness seemed to have taken the place of those old
days of bustle and commotion. The huge stacks of leather looked as
though they had lain undisturbed for many months, the warehousemen,
of whom there were a sufficient number in evidence, seemed to be
occupying themselves with purely trivial tasks. After a brief but
puzzled contemplation he turned away, acknowledged mechanically the
salutations of the salesmen whose counters he passed, and entered
his own office--a spacious apartment with a thick carpet upon the
floor, filled with heavy Victorian furniture and hung with oil
paintings of various members of the firm. The window was open, but
the atmosphere was still musty after many months of disuse. The
handsome table was carefully dusted but bare except for a clean
sheet of blotting paper and a massive inkstand. Harvey hung up his
hat on a huge wooden peg, seated himself in the familiar chair and
rang the bell.