Chapter 1

=* A Distributed Proofreaders Canada eBook *=

This ebook is made available at no cost and with very few restrictions.
These restrictions apply only if (1) you make a change in the ebook
(other than alteration for different display devices), or (2) you are
making commercial use of the ebook. If either of these conditions
applies, please contact a FP administrator before proceeding.

This work is in the Canadian public domain, but may be under copyright
in some countries. If you live outside Canada, check your country’s
copyright laws. IF THE BOOK IS UNDER COPYRIGHT IN YOUR COUNTRY, DO NOT
DOWNLOAD OR REDISTRIBUTE THIS FILE.

_Title:_ The Case of Oscar Brodski
_Date of first publication:_ 1929
_Author:_ Richard Austin Freeman (1862-1943)
_Date first posted:_ June 30, 2018
_Date last updated:_ June 30, 2018
Faded Page eBook #20180653

This ebook was produced by: Delphine Lettau, Mark Akrigg, Jen Haines &
the online Distributed Proofreaders Canada team at
http://www.pgdpcanada.net

[Cover Illustration]

1 THE CASE OF OSCAR
BRODSKI

_I. The Mechanism of Crime_

A surprising amount of nonsense has been talked about conscience. On the
one hand remorse (or the “again-bite,” as certain scholars of
ultra-Teutonic leanings would prefer to call it); on the other hand “an
easy conscience”: these have been accepted as the determining factors of
happiness or the reverse.

Of course there is an element of truth in the “easy conscience” view,
but it begs the whole question. A particularly hardy conscience may be
quite easy under the most unfavourable conditions—conditions in which
the more feeble conscience might be severely afflicted with the
“again-bite.” And, then, it seems to be the fact that some fortunate
persons have no conscience at all; a negative gift that raises them
above the mental vicissitudes of the common herd of humanity.

Now, Silas Hickler was a case in point. No one, looking into his
cheerful, round face, beaming with benevolence and wreathed in perpetual
smiles, would have imagined him to be a criminal. Least of all, his
worthy, high-church housekeeper, who was a witness to his unvarying
amiability, who constantly heard him carolling light-heartedly about the
house and noted his appreciative zest at meal-times.

Yet it is a fact that Silas earned his modest, though comfortable,
income by the gentle art of burglary. A precarious trade and risky
withal, yet not so very hazardous if pursued with judgment and
moderation. And Silas was eminently a man of judgment. He worked
invariably alone. He kept his own counsel. No confederate had he to turn
King’s Evidence at a pinch; no “doxy” who might bounce off in a fit of
temper to Scotland Yard. Nor was he greedy and thriftless, as most
criminals are. His “scoops” were few and far between, carefully planned,
secretly executed, and the proceeds judiciously invested in “weekly
property.”

In early life Silas had been connected with the diamond industry, and he
still did a little rather irregular dealing. In the trade he was
suspected of transactions with I.D.B.s, and one or two indiscreet
dealers had gone so far as to whisper the ominous word “fence.” But
Silas smiled a benevolent smile and went his way. He knew what he knew,
and his clients in Amsterdam were not inquisitive.

Such was Silas Hickler. As he strolled round his garden in the dusk of
an October evening, he seemed the very type of modest, middle-class
prosperity. He was dressed in the travelling suit that he wore on his
little continental trips; his bag was packed and stood in readiness on
the sitting-room sofa. A parcel of diamonds (purchased honestly, though
without impertinent questions, at Southampton) was in the inside pocket
of his waistcoat, and another more valuable parcel was stowed in a
cavity in the heel of his right boot. In an hour and a half it would be
time for him to set out to catch the boat train at the junction;
meanwhile there was nothing to do but to stroll round the fading garden
and consider how he should invest the proceeds of the impending deal.
His housekeeper had gone over to Welham for the week’s shopping, and
would probably not be back until eleven o’clock. He was alone in the
premises and just a trifle dull.

He was about to turn into the house when his ear caught the sound of
footsteps on the unmade road that passed the end of the garden. He
paused and listened. There was no other dwelling near, and the road led
nowhere, fading away into the waste land beyond the house. Could this be
a visitor? It seemed unlikely, for visitors were few at Silas Hickler’s
house. Meanwhile the footsteps continued to approach, ringing out with
increasing loudness on the hard, stony path.

Silas strolled down to the gate, and, leaning on it, looked out with
some curiosity. Presently a glow of light showed him the face of a man,
apparently lighting his pipe; then a dim figure detached itself from the
enveloping gloom, advanced towards him and halted opposite the garden.
The stranger removed a cigarette from his mouth and, blowing out a cloud
of smoke, asked—

“Can you tell me if this road will take me to Badsham Junction?”

“No,” replied Hickler, “but there is a footpath farther on that leads to
the station.”

“Footpath!” growled the stranger. “I’ve had enough of footpaths. I came
down from town to Catley intending to walk across to the junction. I
started along the road, and then some fool directed me to a short cut,
with the result that I have been blundering about in the dark for the
last half-hour. My sight isn’t very good, you know,” he added.

“What train do you want to catch?” asked Hickler.

“Seven fifty-eight,” was the reply.

“I am going to catch that train myself,” said Silas, “but I shan’t be
starting for another hour. The station is only three-quarters of a mile
from here. If you like to come in and take a rest, we can walk down
together and then you’ll be sure of not missing your way.”

“It’s very good of you,” said the stranger, peering, with spectacled
eyes, at the dark house, “but—I think——”

“Might as well wait here as at the station,” said Silas in his genial
way, holding the gate open, and the stranger, after a momentary
hesitation, entered and, flinging away his cigarette, followed him to
the door of the cottage.

The sitting-room was in darkness, save for the dull glow of the expiring
fire, but, entering before his guest, Silas applied a match to the lamp
that hung from the ceiling. As the flame leaped up, flooding the little
interior with light, the two men regarded one another with mutual
curiosity.