AN UNSEEN ENEMY
From my late principal’s house we walked away quickly down the
lamplit street, all, I think, dimly amused at the circumstances of our
departure.
“Is Batson always like that?” Thorndyke asked.
“Always,” I replied. “Hurry and bustle are his normal states.”
“Dear, dear,” commented Thorndyke, “what a terrible amount of time he
must waste. Of course, one can understand now how that cremation
muddle came about. Your incurable hustler is always thinking of the
things he has got to do next instead of the thing that he is doing at
the moment. By the way, Jardine, I am taking it for granted that you
would like to inspect these premises. It is not essential. Jervis and
I had a preliminary look round last night, and I daresay we picked up
most of the facts that are likely to be of importance if we should be
going farther into the matter.”
“I think it would be as well for me to take a look at the place and
show you exactly where and how the affair happened.”
“I think so too,” said Thorndyke. “It was all pretty evident, but you
might be able to show us something that we had overlooked. Here we
are. I wonder if Mr. Gill is on the premises--supposing him still to
frequent them.”
He looked up and down the street, and, taking a key from his pocket,
inserted it into the lock.
“Why, how on earth did you get the key?” I asked. Thorndyke looked at
me slyly.
“We keep a tame mechanic,” said he, as he turned the key and opened
the wicket.
“Yes, but how did he get the pattern of the lock?” I asked.
Thorndyke laughed softly. “It is only a simple trade lock. The fact
is, Jardine, that in our branch of practice we have occasionally to
take some rather irregular proceedings. For instance, I usually carry
a small set of picklocks--fortunately for you. That is how I got in
last night. Then I never go abroad without a little box of moulding
wax; a most invaluable material, Jardine, for collecting certain kinds
of evidence. Well, with a slip of wood and a bit of wax I was able to
furnish my man with the necessary data for filing up a blank key. One
doesn’t want to be seen using a picklock. Now, can you show us the
way?”
He flashed a pocket electric lamp on the ground, and we advanced over
the rough cobbles until we reached a door at the side.
“This is where I went in,” said I. “It opens into a sort of corridor,
and at the end is a door opening on some steps that lead down to the
passage below.”
Thorndyke tried the handle of the door and pushed, but it was
evidently locked or bolted.
“I left this door unlocked last night,” said he; “so it is clear that
someone has been here since. I hardly expected that. I thought our
friend would have cleared off for good. But it is possible that Gill
had nothing to do with the attempt. The premises may have been used by
someone who happened to know that they were unoccupied. It would have
been quite easy for such a person to gain admittance; as you see.”
While speaking, he had produced from his pocket a little bunch of
skeleton keys, with one of which he now quietly unlocked the door.
“These builders’ locks,” said he, “are merely symbolic of security.
You are not expected to unfasten them without authority, but you can
if you like and happen to have a bit of stiff wire.”
We entered the corridor, and, as we proceeded, looked into the rooms
that opened out of it. One of them was meagrely furnished as an
office, but the thick layer of dust on the desk and stools showed
clearly that it had been long disused; the other rooms were empty and
desolate, and showed no trace of use or occupation.
“The worthy Gill,” said Jervis, “seems to have been able, like
Diogenes, to get on with a very modest outfit.”
“Yes,” agreed Thorndyke, “it is a little difficult to guess what his
occupation is. The place looks as if it had never been used at all.
Shall I go first?”
He halted for a moment, passing the light of his lamp over the massive
door at the head of the steps, and then began to descend. It was
certainly a horrible and repulsive place, especially to my eyes, with
the recollection of my late experience fresh in my mind. The rough
brick walls, covered with the crumbling remains of old white-wash, the
black masses of cobwebs that drooped like funereal stalactites from
the ceiling, the fungi that sprouted in corners, and the snail-tracks
that glistened in the lamplight on the stone floor, all contributed to
a vault-like sepulchral effect that was most unpleasantly suggestive
of what might have been and very nearly had been.
My late prison was easily distinguished by the two holes in the door.
We looked in; but that cellar was completely empty save for a few
chips of wood and a pinch or two of sawdust; memorials of my sojourn
in the lethal chamber at which I could hardly look without a shudder.
Then we passed on to the next cellar--the one adjoining my prison--and
this was an object of no little curiosity to me. Here, while I was
securely bolted into my cell, that unknown villain had, deliberately
and in cold blood, made all the arrangements for my murder;
arrangements which he little suspected that I should survive to look
upon.
Thorndyke, too, was interested. He stood at the open door, looking in
as if considering the positions of various objects. As in fact he was.
“Someone has been here since last night, Jervis,” said he.
“Yes,” agreed Jervis. “That gas bottle has been taken down from the
opening. You see, Jardine,” he continued, “he had stood that big
packing-case up on end and laid the gas bottle along the top, with its
nozzle just opposite the hole. Two other bottles were standing upright
with their nozzles upwards.”
“I understand,” said Thorndyke, “that you heard three bottles only
turned on?”
“Yes,” I answered; “there was the one opposite the hole and two
others.”
“I ask,” Thorndyke said, “because there are, as you see, seven other
bottles, lying by the wall. Those are all empty. We tried them when we
came here last night.”
“I know nothing about those others,” said I. “The three bottles that I
have mentioned I heard distinctly, and after he had turned on the
third, the man went out of the cellar and closed up the door.”
“Then,” said Thorndyke, “the other seven were presumably used for some
other--and let us hope, more legitimate--purpose. I wonder why our
friend has been at the trouble of moving the cylinders.”
“Perhaps,” suggested Jervis, “he thought that the arrangement might be
a little too illuminating for the police, if they should happen to pay
a visit to the place. He may not be aware that the apparatus had
already been inspected _in situ_ by us. Or, again, the cylinders may
have been moved by someone else. We are assuming that he is a lawful
occupant of the premises; but he may be a mere secret intruder like
ourselves, who has discovered that the place is more or less
unoccupied and has made use of the premises and plant for his own
benevolent purposes.”
“Yes,” agreed Thorndyke, “that is perfectly true. But we can put the
matter to the test, at least negatively. If the cylinders have been
moved by an innocent stranger they will bear the prints of hands.”
“But why shouldn’t the man himself leave the prints of his hands on
the cylinders?” I asked.
“Because, my dear Jardine, he is too knowing a bird. Jervis and I went
carefully over the cylinders last night in the hope of getting a few
finger-prints to submit to Scotland Yard; but not a vestige could we
find. Our friend had seen to that. We assumed that he had operated in
gloves and your description of him confirmed our assumption. Which, in
its way, is an interesting fact, for a man who is knowing enough to
take these precautions has probably had some previous experience of
crime, or, at least, has some acquaintance with the ways of criminals.
The suggestion, in fact, is that, although this is not an ordinary
professional crime, the perpetrator may be a professional criminal.
And the further suggestion is, of course, that of very deliberate
premeditation.”
While he had been speaking he had produced from his pocket a small,
flattened bottle fitted with a metal cap and filled with a yellowish
powder. Removing the cap and uncovering a perforated inner cap, like
that of an iodoform dredger, he proceeded to shake a cloud of the
light powder over the three upper cylinders, jarring them with his
foot to make the powder spread. Then he blew sharply on them, one
after the other, when the powder disappeared from their surfaces,
leaving visible one or two shapeless whitened smears but never a trace
of a finger-print or even the shape of a hand.
Thorndyke rose and slipped the bottle back in his pocket.
“Apparently,” said he, “the cylinders were moved by our unknown
friend, with the same careful precautions as on the first occasion. A
wary gentleman, this, Jervis. He’ll give us a run for our money, at
any rate.”
“Yes,” agreed Jervis, “he doesn’t mean to give himself away. He
preserves his incognito most punctiliously. I’ll say that for him.”
“And meanwhile,” said Thorndyke, “we had better proceed with our
measures for drawing him out of this modest retirement. I want you,
Jardine, to look round this cellar and tell us if any of the things
that you see in it reminds you of anything that has happened to you,
or suggests any thought or reflection.”
I looked round, I am afraid rather vacantly. A more unsuggestive
collection of objects I have never looked upon.
“There are the gas cylinders,” I said, feebly; “but I have told you
about them. I don’t see anything else excepting a few oddments of
rubbish.”
“Then take a good look at the rubbish,” said he. “Remember that it may
be necessary at some future time for you to recall exactly what this
cellar was like, and what it contained. You may even have to make a
sworn statement. So cast your eye round and tell us what you see.”
I did so, wondering inwardly what the deuce I was expected to see and
what might be the importance of my seeing it.
“I see,” said I, “a mouldy-looking cellar about fifteen feet by
twelve, with very bad brick walls, a plaster ceiling in an advanced
stage of decay, and a concrete floor. In the left hand wall is a hole
about six inches square opening into the adjoining cellar. The
contents are ten gas cylinders, all apparently empty, a key or spanner
which seems to have been used to turn the cocks, a large packing-case,
which, to judge by its shape, seems to have contained gas cylinders--”
“The word ‘large,’” interrupted Thorndyke, “is not a particularly
exact one.”
“Well, then, a packing-case about seven feet long by two and a half
feet wide and deep.”
“That’s better,” said Thorndyke. “Always give your dimensions in
quantitative terms if possible. Go on.”
“There are a couple of waterproof sheets,” said I. “I don’t see quite
what they can have been used for.”
“Never mind their use,” said Thorndyke. “Note the fact that they are
here.”
“I have,” said I; “and that seems to complete the list with the
exception of the straw in which I suppose the gas cylinders were
packed. There is a large quantity of that, but not more than would
seem necessary for the purpose. And that seems to complete the
inventory, and, I may say, that none of these things conveys any
suggestion whatever to my mind.”
“Probably not,” said Thorndyke, “and it is quite possible that none of
these things has any particular significance at all. But as they are
the only facts offered us, we must make the best of them. There is one
other cellar that we have not yet looked into, I think.”
We came out, and, walking along the passage, came to another door
which stood slightly ajar. Thorndyke opened it, and, throwing in the
light of his lamp, revealed a considerable stack of long iron gas
bottles, and one or two packing-cases similar to the one I had already
seen.
“I presume,” said he, “that these are full cylinders; the store from
which our friend got his supply, but we may as well make sure.”
He ran back into the adjoining cellar, and returned with the spanner,
with which he proceeded to turn the cock of one of the topmost
cylinders; upon which a loud hiss and a thin, snowy cloud showed that
his surmise was correct.
He had just closed the cock and stepped out into the passage to take
back the spanner, when I saw him stop suddenly as if listening. And
then he sniffed once or twice.
“What is it?” asked Jervis; but Thorndyke, without replying, ran
quickly along the passage and up the steps, and I heard him trying the
door at the top.
“Bring up one of the empty cylinders,” he said quietly. “They have
bolted us in and apparently set fire to the place.”
We did not require much urging to act quickly. Picking up one of the
long, ponderous iron cylinders, we ran with it along the passage
towards the light of Thorndyke’s lamp. As we ascended the steps I
became plainly aware of the smell of burning wood and of a crackling
sound, faintly audible through the massive door.
“There is only one bolt,” said Thorndyke; “I noticed it as we came in.
I will throw my light on the part of the door where it is fixed, and
you two must batter on that spot with the cylinder.”
The door was, as I have said, a massive one, but it would have been a
massive door indeed that could have withstood the blows of that
ponderous iron cylinder, wielded by two strong men whose lives
depended on their efforts. At the very first crash of the
battering-ram, a tiny chink opened and at each thundering blow, the
building shook. Furiously we pounded at the thick, plank-built door,
and slowly the chink widened as the screws of the bolt tore out of the
woodwork. And as the chink opened, a thin reek of pungent smoke
filtered in, and the cold light of Thorndyke’s lantern became
contrasted with a red glare from without. And then suddenly, the door,
under the heavy battering, burst from its fastenings and swung open. A
blinding, choking cloud of smoke and sparks rolled in upon us, through
which we could see in the corridor outside a pile of straw and crates
and broken packing-cases, blazing and cracking furiously. It looked as
if we were cut off beyond all hope.
Jervis and I had dropped the now useless cylinder and were gazing in
horror at the blazing mass that filled the corridor and cut off our
only means of escape, when we were recalled by the voice of Thorndyke,
speaking in his usual quiet and precise manner.
“We must get the full cylinders up as quickly as possible,” said he;
and, running down the steps he made straight for the end cellar,
whither we followed him. Picking up one of the cylinders, we carried
it quickly to the top of the steps.
“Lay it down,” said Thorndyke, “and fetch another.”
Jervis and I ran back to the cellar, and taking up another cylinder,
brought it along the passage. As we were ascending the steps, there
suddenly arose a loud, penetrating hiss, and as we reached the top, we
saw Thorndyke disengaging the spanner from the cock of the cylinder
out of which a jet of liquid was issuing, mingled with a dense, snowy
cloud.
An instantaneous glance, as we laid down the fresh cylinder, reassured
me very considerably. The icy, volatile liquid and the falling cloud
of intensely cold carbonic acid snow had produced an immediate effect;
as was evident in a blackened, smouldering patch in the midst of the
blazing mass. With reviving hope I followed Jervis once more down the
steps and along the passage to the end cellar, from which we brought
forth a third cylinder.
By this time the passage was so filled with smoke that it was
difficult either to see or to breathe, and the bright light that had
at first poured in through the open doorway had already pulled down so
far that Thorndyke’s figure, framed in the opening, loomed dim and
shadowy amidst the smoke and against the dusky red background. We
found him, when we reached the top of the steps, holding the great gas
bottle and directing the stream of snow and liquid on to those parts
of the wood and straw from which flames still issued.
“It will be all right,” he said in his calm, unemotional way; “the
fire had not really got an effective start. The straw made a great
show, but that is nearly all burnt now, and all this carbonic acid gas
will soon smother the burning wood. But we must be careful that it
doesn’t smother us too. The steps will be the safest place for the
present.”
He opened the cock of the new cylinder and, having placed it so that
it played on the most refractory part of the burning mass, backed to
the steps where Jervis and I stood looking through the doorway. The
fire was, as he has said, rapidly dying down. The volumes of gas
produced by the evaporation of the liquid and the melting snow, cut
off the supply of air so that, in place of the flames that had, at
first, looked so alarming, only a dense reek of smoke arose.
“Now,” said Thorndyke, after we had waited on the steps a couple of
minutes more, “I think we might make a sortie and put an end to it. If
we can get the smouldering stuff off that wooden floor down on to the
stone, the danger will be over.”
He led the way cautiously into the corridor, and, once more bringing
his electric lamp into requisition, began to kick the smouldering
cases and crates and the blackened masses of straw down the steps on
to the stone floor of the passage, whither we followed them and
scattered them with our feet until they were completely safe from any
chance of re-ignition.
“There,” said Jervis, giving a final kick at a small heap of smoking
straw, “I should think that ought to do. There’s no fear of that stuff
lighting up again. And, if I may venture to make the remark, the
sooner we are off these premises the happier I shall be. Our friend’s
methods of entertaining his visitors are a trifle too strenuous for my
taste. He might try dynamite next.”
“Yes,” I agreed; “or he might take pot shots at us with a revolver
from some dark corner.”
“It is much more likely,” said Thorndyke, “that he has cleared off in
anticipation of the alarm of fire. Still, it is undeniable that we
shall be safer outside. Shall I go first and show you a light?”
He piloted us along the corridor and up the cobbled yard, putting away
his lamp as he unlocked the wicket. There was no sign of anyone about
the premises nor, when we had passed out of the gate, was there anyone
in sight in the street. I looked about, expecting to see some sign of
the fire; but there was no smoke visible, and only a slight smell of
burning wood. The smoke must have drifted out at the back.
“Well,” Thorndyke remarked, “it has been quite an exciting little
episode. And a highly satisfactory finish, as things turned out;
though it might easily have been very much the reverse. But for the
fortunate chance of those gas-bottles being available, I don’t think
we should be alive at this moment.”
“No,” agreed Jervis. “We should be in much the same condition by this
time as Batson’s late patient, Mr. Maddock, or at least, well on our
way to that disembodied state. However, all’s well that ends well. Are
you coming our way, Jardine?”
“I will walk a little way with you,” said I. “Then I must go back to
Batson to settle up and fetch my traps.”
I walked with them to Oxford Street, and we discussed our late
adventure as we went.
“It was a pretty strong hint to clear out, wasn’t it?” Jervis
remarked.
“Yes,” replied Thorndyke; “it didn’t leave us much option. But the
affair can’t be left at this. I shall have a watch set on those
premises, and I shall make some more particular enquiries about Mr.
Gill. By the way, Jardine, I haven’t your address. I’d better have it
in case I want to communicate with you; and you’d better have my card
in case anything turns up which you think I ought to know.”
We accordingly exchanged cards, and, as we had now reached the corner
of Oxford Street, I wished my friends adieu and thoughtfully retraced
my steps to Jacob Street.