ENTER FATHER HUMPERDINCK
On the day following my--and Thorndyke’s--masterly retreat from
Salter’s Club, the plain-clothes officer called to make his report;
and even before he spoke, I judged from his rather sheepish expression
that he had failed. And so it turned out. He had waited in the
porter’s lodge, he told us, until midnight keeping a watch on the
watcher, who, for his part, lurked in the street, always keeping in
sight of the hospital, and whiling away the time by gazing into the
shop windows. The spy had evidently failed to recognize Thorndyke, for
when the latter left the hospital in company with one of the
physicians, he had given only a passing glance at the open carriage in
which the two men sat.
After the shops had shut, the persevering shadower had occupied
himself with a sort of dismal sentry-go up and down the street,
disappearing into the darkness and reappearing at regular intervals.
Once or twice, the plain-clothes man went out and followed his quarry
in his perambulations, but, not considering it prudent to expose
himself too much to view, he remained mostly in the Lodge. It was
after one of these sallies that the mischance occurred. Returning to
the Lodge, he saw the spy pass the gates and disappear up the dark
street; he looked, after the usual interval, for him to reappear. But
the interval passed and there was no reappearance. Then the officer
hurried out in search of his quarry, but found only an empty street.
Even the apparently inexhaustible patience of the spy had given out at
last. And so the quest had ended.
I cannot say that Thorndyke impressed me as being deeply disappointed;
in fact, I thought that he seemed, if anything, rather relieved at his
emissary’s failure. This was Jervis’s opinion also, and he had no
false delicacy about expressing it.
“Well,” Thorndyke replied, “as the fellow thrust himself right under
my nose, I could hardly do less than make some sort of an attempt to
find out who he is. But I don’t particularly want to know. My
investigations are proceeding from quite another direction; and you
see, Jervis, how awkward it might have been to have this person on our
hands. We could only charge him with loitering with felonious intent,
and we couldn’t prove the intent after all; for we can’t produce any
evidence connecting this man with the three attempted murders. He may
not be the same man at all. And I certainly don’t want to go into the
witness box just now, and still less do I want my new clerk, Mr.
Howard, put into that position. I don’t want to take any action until
I have the case quite complete and am in a position to make a decisive
move.”
“The truth is,” said Jervis, addressing me confidentially in a stage
whisper, “Thorndyke hates the idea of spoiling a really juicy problem
by merely arresting the criminal and pumping his friends. He looks on
such a proceeding much as a Master of Fox-hounds would look on the act
of poisoning a fox.”
Thorndyke smiled indulgently at his junior. “There is such a thing,”
said he, “as failing to poison a fox and only making him too unwell to
leave his residence. A premature prosecution is apt to fail; and then
the prisoner has seen all the cards of his adversaries. At present I
am playing against an unseen adversary, but I am hoping that I, in my
turn, am unseen by him, and I am pretty certain that he has no idea
what cards I hold.”
“Gad!” exclaimed Jervis, “then he is in much the same position as I
am.” And with this the subject dropped.
The first week of my residence in Thorndyke’s chambers was quite
uneventful, and was mainly occupied in settling down to the new
conditions. My letters were sent on by Mrs. Blunt to the hospital
whence they were brought by my principal--as I may now call my quondam
teacher--with the exception of Sylvia’s; which we had agreed were to
be sent to the chambers enclosed in an envelope addressed to
Thorndyke.
At first, I had feared that the confinement would be unendurable; but
the reality proved to be much less wearisome than I had anticipated. A
horizontal bar rigged up by Polton in the laboratory, gave me the
means of abundant exercise of one kind; and in the early mornings,
before the gates of the inn were opened, I made it my daily practice
to trot round the precincts for an hour at a time, taking the circuit
from our chambers through Crown Office Road to Fountain Court and back
by way of Pump Court and the Cloisters, to the great benefit of my
health and the mild surprise of the porters and laundresses.
Nor was I without occupation in the daytime. Besides an exhaustively
detailed account of all the remarkable experiences that had befallen
me of late which I wrote out at Thorndyke’s request, I had a good deal
of clerical work of one kind and another, and was frequently employed,
when clients called, in exhibiting my skill as a stenographer; taking
down oral statements, or making copies of depositions or other
documents which were read over to me by Thorndyke or Jervis.
It was the exercise of these latter activities that introduced me to a
certain Mr. Marchmont, and through him to some new and rather
startling experiences. Mr. Marchmont was a solicitor, and, as I
gathered, an old client of Thorndyke’s; for, when he called one
evening, about ten days after my arrival, with a bagful of documents,
he made sundry references to former cases by which I understood that
he and Thorndyke had been pretty frequently associated in their
professional affairs.
“I have got a lot of papers here,” he said, opening the bag, “of which
I suppose I ought to have had copies made; but there hasn’t been time
and I am afraid there won’t be, as I have to return them to-morrow.
But perhaps, if you run your eye over them, you will see what it is
necessary to remember and make a few notes.”
“I think,” said Thorndyke, “that my friend, Mr. Howard, will be able
to help us by taking down the essentials in shorthand. Let me
introduce you. Mr. Howard is very kindly assisting me for a time by
relieving me of some of the extra clerical work.”
Mr. Marchmont bowed, and, as we shook hands, looked at me, as I
thought, rather curiously; then he extracted the papers from his bag,
and, spreading them out on the table, briefly explained their nature.
“There is no need,” said he, “to have copies of them all, but I
thought you had better see them. Perhaps you will glance through them
and see which you think ought to be copied for reference.”
Thorndyke ran his eye over the documents, and, having made one or two
brief notes of the contents of some, which he then laid aside,
collected the remainder and began to read them out to me, while I took
down the matter verbatim, interpolating Marchmont’s comments and
explanations on a separate sheet of paper. The reading and the
discussion occupied a considerable time, and, before the business was
concluded, the Treasury clock had struck half-past nine.
“It’s getting late,” said Marchmont, folding the papers and putting
them back in the bag. “I must be going or you’ll wish me at Halifax,
if you aren’t doing so already.” He snapped the fastening of the bag,
and, grasping the handle, was about to lift it from the table, when he
appeared to recollect something, for he let go the handle and once
more faced my principal.
“By the way, Thorndyke,” said he, “there is a matter on which I have
wanted to consult you for some time past, but couldn’t get my client
to agree. It is a curious affair; quite in your line, I think; a case
of disappearance--not in the legal sense, as creating a presumption of
death, but disappearance from ordinary places of resort with a very
singular change of habits, so far as I can learn. Possibly a case of
commencing insanity. I have been wanting to lay the facts before you,
but my client, who is a Jesuit and as suspicious as the devil,
insisted on trying to ferret out the evidence for himself and wouldn’t
hear of a consultation with you. Of course he has failed completely,
and now, I think, he is more amenable.”
“Are you in possession of the facts, yourself?” asked Thorndyke.
“No, I’m hanged if I am,” replied Marchmont. “The case is concerned
with a certain Mr. Reinhardt, who was a client of my late partner,
poor Wyndhurst. I never had anything to do with him; and it
unfortunately happens that our old clerk, Bell--you remember Bell--who
had charge of Mr. Reinhardt’s business, left us soon after poor
Wyndhurst’s death, so there is nobody in the office who has any
personal knowledge of the parties.”
“You say it is a case of disappearance?” asked Thorndyke.
“Not exactly disappearance, but--well, it is a most singular case. I
can make nothing of it, and neither can my worthy and reverend client,
so as I say, he is now growing more amenable, and I think I shall be
able to persuade him to come round with me and take your opinion on
such facts as we have. Shall you be at home to-morrow evening?”
“Yes, I can make an appointment for to-morrow, after dinner, if you
prefer that time.”
“We won’t call it an appointment,” said Marchmont. “If I can overcome
his obstinacy, I will bring him round and take the chance of your
being in. But I think he’ll come, as he is on his beams’ ends; and if
he does, I fancy you will find the little problem exactly to your
liking.”
With this Mr. Marchmont took his departure, leaving Thorndyke and me
to discuss the various legal aspects of disappearance and the changes
of habit and temperament that usher in an attack of mental alienation.
I could see that the solicitor’s guarded references to an obscure and
intricate case had aroused Thorndyke’s curiosity to no small extent,
for, though he said little on the subject, it evidently remained in
his mind, as I judged by the care with which he planned the disposal
of his time of the following day, and the little preparations that he
made for the reception of his visitors. Nor was Thorndyke the only
expectant member of our little establishment. Jervis also, having
caught the scent of an interesting case, made it his business to keep
the evening free, and so it happened that when eight o’clock struck on
the Temple bell, it found us gathered round the fire, chatting on
indifferent subjects, but all three listening for the expected tread
on the stairs.
“It is to be hoped,” said Jervis, “that our reverend friend won’t jib
at the last moment. I always expect something good from Marchmont. He
doesn’t get flummoxed by anything simple or commonplace. I think we
have had most of our really thrilling cases through him. And seeing
that Jardine has laid in two whole quarto note-blocks and put those
delightful extra touches to his already alluring get-up--”
“There is no such person here as Jardine,” Thorndyke interrupted.
“I beg his pardon. Mr. Howard, I should have said. But listen! There
are two persons coming up the stairs. You had better take your place
at the table, Ja--Howard, and look beastly business-like, or the
reverend gentleman will want you chucked out, and then you’ll lose the
entertainment.”
I hurried across to the table and had just seated myself and taken up
a pen when the brass knocker on our inner door rattled out its
announcement. Thorndyke strode across and threw the door open, and as
Mr. Marchmont entered with his client I looked at the latter
inquisitively. But only for a single instant. Then I looked down and
tried to efface myself utterly, for Mr. Marchmont’s client was none
other than the cleric with whom I had travelled from Folkestone to
London.
The solicitor ushered in his client with an air of but half-concealed
triumph and proceeded with exaggerated geniality to do the honours of
introduction.
“Let me make you known to one another, gentlemen,” said he. “This is
the Very Reverend Father Humperdinck. These gentlemen are Dr.
Thorndyke, Dr. Jervis and Mr. Howard, who will act, on this occasion,
as the recording angel to take down in writing the particulars of your
very remarkable story.”
Father Humperdinck bowed stiffly. He was evidently a little
disconcerted at finding so large an assembly, and glanced at me, in
particular, with undisguised disfavour, while I, my oiled hair,
deformed eyebrows and false beard notwithstanding, perspired with
anxiety lest he should recognize me. But however unfavourably the
reverend father may have viewed our little conclave, Mr. Marchmont,
who had been watching him anxiously, gave him no chance of raising
objections, but proceeded to open the matter forthwith.
“I have not brought any digest or précis of the case,” said he,
“because I know you prefer to hear the facts from the actual parties.
But I had better give you a brief outline of the matter of our
inquiry. The case is concerned with a Mr. Vitalis Reinhardt, who has
been closely associated with Father Humperdinck for very many years
past, and who has now, without notice or explanation, disappeared from
his ordinary places of resort, ceased from communication with his
friends, and adopted a mode of life quite alien from and inconsistent
with his previous habits. Those are the main facts, stated in general
terms.”
“And the inquiry to which you referred?” said Thorndyke.
“Concerns itself with three questions,” replied Marchmont, and he
proceeded to check them off on his fingers. “First, is Vitalis
Reinhardt alive or dead? Second, if he is alive, where is he? Third,
having regard to the singular change in his habits, is his conduct
such as might render it possible to place him under restraint or to
prove him unfit to control his own affairs?”
“To certify him as insane, if I may put it bluntly,” said Thorndyke.
“That question could be decided only on a full knowledge of the nature
of the changes in this person’s habits, with which, no doubt, you are
prepared to furnish us. But what instantly strikes me in your epitome
of the proposed inquiry is this: you raise the question whether Mr.
Reinhardt is alive or dead, and then you refer to certain changes in
his habits; but, since a man must be alive to have any habits at all,
the two questions seem to be mutually irreconcilable in relation to
the same group of facts.”
Father Humperdinck nodded approvingly.
“Zat is chust our great diffigulty,” said he. “Zome zings make me
suspect zat my friend Reinhardt is dead; zome ozzer zings make me feel
certain zat he is alife. I do not know vich to zink. I am gombletely
buzzled.”
“Perhaps,” said Thorndyke, “the best plan would be for Father
Humperdinck to give us a detailed account of his relations with Mr.
Reinhardt and of the latter gentleman’s habits as they are known to
him; after which we could discuss any questions that suggest
themselves and clear up any points that seem to be obscure. What do
you say, Marchmont?”
“It will be a long story,” Marchmont replied, doubtfully.
“So much the better,” rejoined Thorndyke. “It will give us the more
matter for consideration. I would suggest that Father Humperdinck
tells us the story in his own way and that Mr. Howard takes down the
statement. Then we shall have the principal data and can pursue any
issue that seems to invite further investigation.”
To this proposal Marchmont agreed, a little reluctantly, fortifying
himself for the ordeal by lighting a cigar; and Father Humperdinck,
having cast a somewhat disparaging glance at me, began his account of
his missing friend, which I took down verbatim, and which I now
reproduce shorn of the speaker’s picturesque but rather tiresome
peculiarities of pronunciation.
“My acquaintance with Vitalis Reinhardt began more than forty years
ago, when we were both school-boys in the Jesuit’s house at Louvain.
But I did not see much of him then, as I was preparing for the
novitiate while he was on the secular side. In spite of his German
name, Vitalis was looked upon as an English boy, for his father had
married a rich English lady and was settled in England; and Vitalis,
being the only child, had very great expectations. When he left school
I lost sight of him for some years, and it was only after the war had
broken out between Germany and France that we met again. I had then
just been ordained and was attached as chaplain to a Bavarian
regiment; he had come out from England as a volunteer to attend the
sick and wounded; and so we met, soon after the battle of Saarbrück,
in the wards of a temporary hospital. But our career in the field was
not a long one. Less than a month after Saarbrück, our little force
met a French division and had to retreat, leaving a number of men and
guns and all the wounded in the hands of the enemy. Both of us were
among the prisoners, and Vitalis was one of the wounded, for, just as
the retreat began, a French bullet struck him in the right hip. We
were both taken to Paris with the rest of the prisoners, and there, in
the hospital for wounded prisoners, I was allowed to visit him.
“His wound was a severe one. The bullet had entered deeply and lodged
behind the bone of the hip, so that the repeated efforts of the
surgeons to extract it not only failed but caused great pain and made
the wound worse. From day to day poor Vitalis grew thinner and more
yellow, and we could see plainly that if no change occurred, the end
must come quite soon. So the doctors said and so Vitalis himself felt.
“Then it came to me that, if the skill of man failed us, we should ask
for help from above. It happened that I possessed a relic of the
blessed Saint Vincent de Paul, which was contained in a small gold
reliquary, and which I had been permitted by the Father General to
keep. I proposed to Vitalis that we should apply the relic and make a
special appeal to the saint for help, and also that he should promise
to dedicate some part of his great possessions to the service of God.
“He agreed readily, for he had always been a deeply pious man.
Accordingly he made the promises as I had suggested, we offered up
special prayers to the saint, and, with the permission of the
surgeons, I attached the reliquary to the dressings of the wound,
praying that it should avail to draw out the bullet.”
“And did it?” asked Marchmont in a tone which evidently did not escape
the observant Jesuit, for that nimble-witted gentleman turned sharply
on the lawyer and replied with severe emphasis:
“No, sir, it did not. And why? Because there was no need. The very
next day after the reliquary was applied, when the dressings were
changed, a small shred of filthy cloth came out of the wound. _That_
was the cause of the trouble, not the clean metal bullet. The saint,
you see, sir, knew better than the surgeon.”
“Evidently,” said Marchmont, glancing quickly at me, and the
expression that I caught in the eye of that elderly heathen suggested
that he had actually contemplated a wink and then thought better of
it.
“As soon as the piece of cloth was out of the wound,” Father
Humperdinck resumed, “all the trouble ceased. The fever abated, the
wound healed, and very soon Vitalis was able to get about, none the
worse for his mishap.
“It was natural that he should be grateful to the saint who had saved
his life, for though we look forward to the hereafter, we do not wish
to die. Also was it natural that he should feel a devotion to the holy
relic which had been the appointed instrument of his recovery. He did,
and to gratify him, I obtained the Father General’s permission to
bestow it on him, which gave him great joy, and thenceforth he always
carried the reliquary on his person.”
“I hope he kept his promise to the saint,” said Marchmont.
“He did; faithfully, and, indeed, handsomely. No sooner was he
recovered of his wound than he proposed to me the founding of a new
society of brothers of charity to attend the sick and wounded. I
consulted with the Father General of my Society--the Society of
Jesus--and received his sanction to act as director of the new society
or fraternity which was to be affiliated to the Society of Jesus under
the title of ‘The Poor Brothers of Saint Joseph of Aramithea.’”
“Why not Saint Vincent de Paul?” asked Marchmont.
“Because there was already a society named after that saint, and
because Saint Joseph was a man of eminent charity. But I shall not
weary you with a history of our society. It was founded and blessed by
His Holiness, the Pope, it prospered, and it still prospers to the
glory of God and to the benefit and relief of the sick, the poor, and
the suffering. At first Vitalis paid all the costs, and he has been a
generous benefactor ever since.”
“This is all extremely interesting,” said Marchmont, “but--you will
excuse my asking--has it any bearing on your friend’s disappearance?”
“Yes, sir, it has,” replied Father Humperdinck, “as you shall berceive
ven I my narradive gondinue.”
Mr. Marchmont bowed, and Father Humperdinck, quite undisturbed by the
interruption, “gondinued his narradive.”
“Our first house was established in Belgium, near Brussels, and
Vitalis came to live with us in community. He did not regularly join
the society or take any vows, but he lived with us as one of ourselves
and wore the habit of a lay brother when in the house and the dress of
one when he went abroad. This he has continued to do ever since.
Though bound by no vows, he has lived the life of a professed
religious by choice, occupying an ordinary cell for sleeping and
taking his meals at the refectory table. But not always. From time to
time he has taken little holidays to travel about and mix with the
outer world. Sometimes he would come to England to visit his
relatives, and sometimes he would spend a few weeks in one of the
great cities of the Continent, looking over the museums and
picture-galleries. He was greatly interested in art and liked to
frequent the society of painters and sculptors, of whom he knew
several; and one, in particular--an English painter named Burton,
whose acquaintance he made quite recently--he seemed very much
attached to, for he stayed with him at Bruges for more than a month.
“When he came back from Bruges, he told me that he purposed going to
England to see his relatives and to make certain arrangements with his
lawyers for securing a part of his property to our Society. I had
often urged him to do this, but, hitherto, he had retained complete
control of his property and only paid the expenses of the Society as
they occurred. He was most generous, but, of course, this was a bad
arrangement, because, in the event of his death, we should have been
left without the support that he had promised. It seemed that while he
was at Bruges he had discussed this matter with Mr. Burton, who was a
Catholic, and that the Englishman also had advised him to make a
permanent provision for the Society. It seemed that he had decided to
divide his property between our community and a cousin of his who
lives in England, a project of which I strongly approved. After
staying with us for a month or two, he left for England with the
purpose of making this arrangement. That was in the middle of last
September, and I have not seen him since.”
“Did he complete the arrangements that he had mentioned?” Thorndyke
asked.
“No, he did not. He made certain arrangements as to his property, but
they were very different ones from those he had proposed. But we shall
come to that presently. Let me finish my story.
“A few days after Vitalis left us, our oldest lay brother was taken
very seriously ill. I wrote to Vitalis, who was deeply attached to
Brother Bartholomew, telling him of this, and, as I did not know where
he was staying, I sent the letter to his cousin’s house at Hampstead.
He replied, on the eighteenth of September, that he should return
immediately. He said that he was then booking his luggage and paying
his hotel bill; that he had to see his cousin again, but that he would
try to come by the night train, or if he missed that, he would sleep
at the station hotel and start as early as possible on the following
day, the nineteenth. That was the last I ever heard from him. He never
came and has never communicated with me since.”
“You have made enquiries, of course?” said Thorndyke.
“Yes. When he did not come, I wrote to his lawyer, Mr. Wyndhurst, whom
I knew slightly. But Mr. Wyndhurst was dead, and my letter was
answered by Mr. Marchmont. From him I learned that Vitalis had called
on him on the morning of the nineteenth and made certain arrangements
of which he, perhaps, will tell you. Mr. Marchmont ascertained that,
on the same day, Vitalis’s luggage was taken from the cloak room in
time to catch the boat train. I have made inquiries and find that he
arrived at Calais, and I have succeeded in tracing him to Paris, but
there I have lost him. Where he is now I am unable to discover.
“And now, before I finish my story, you had better hear what Mr.
Marchmont has to tell. He has been very close with me, but you are a
lawyer and perhaps know better how to deal with lawyers.”
Thorndyke glanced enquiringly at the solicitor, who, in his turn,
looked dubiously at the end of his waning cigar.
“The fact is,” said he, “I am in a rather difficult position. Mr.
Reinhardt has employed me as his solicitor, and I don’t quite see my
way to discussing his private affairs without his authority.”
“That is a perfectly correct attitude,” said Thorndyke, “and yet I am
going to urge you to tell us what passed at your interview with your
client. I can’t go into particulars at present, but I will ask you to
take it from me that there are sound reasons why you should; and I
will undertake to hold you immune from any blame for having done so.”
Marchmont looked sharply and with evidently awakened interest at
Thorndyke.
“I think I know what that means,” he said, “and I will take you at
your word, having learned by experience what your word is worth. But
before describing the interview, I had better let you know how
Reinhardt had previously disposed of his property.
“About twelve years ago he got Wyndhurst to draft a will for him by
which a life interest in the entire property was vested in his cousin,
a Miss Augusta Vyne, with reversion to her niece, Sylvia Vyne, the
only child of his cousin Robert. This will was duly executed in our
office.
“After that our firm had, until quite recently, no special business to
transact for Mr. Reinhardt beyond the management of his investments.
The whole of his property--which was all personal--was in our hands to
invest, and our relations with him were confined to the transfer of
sums of money to his bank when we received instructions from him to
effect such transfer. He never called at the office, and latterly
there has been no one there who knew him excepting Wyndhurst himself
and the clerk, Bell.
“The next development occurred last September. On the seventeenth I
received a letter from him, written at Miss Vyne’s house at Hampstead,
saying that he had been discussing his affairs with her and that he
should like to call on me and make some slight alterations in the
disposal of the property. I replied on the eighteenth, addressing my
letter to him at Miss Vyne’s house, making an appointment for eleven
o’clock on the morning of the nineteenth. He kept the appointment
punctually, and we had a short interview, at which he explained the
new arrangements which he wished to make.
“He began by saying that he had found it somewhat inconvenient,
living, as he did, on the Continent, to have his account at an English
Bank. He proposed, therefore, to transfer it to a private bank at
Paris, conducted by a certain M. Desiré, or rather to open an account
there, for he did not suggest closing his account at his English
bank.”
“Do you know anything about this M. Desiré?” asked Thorndyke.
“I did not, but I have since ascertained that he is a person of
credit--quite a substantial man in fact--and that his business is
chiefly that of private banker and agent to the officers of the army.
“Well, Mr. Reinhardt went on to say that he had become rather tired of
the monotonous life of a lay brother--which he, after all, was
not--and wished for a little freedom and change. Accordingly he
intended to travel for a time--which was his reason for employing M.
Desiré--and did not propose, necessarily, to keep anyone informed of
his whereabouts. He was a rich man and he had decided to get some
advantage from his wealth, which really did not seem to me at all an
unreasonable decision. He added that he had no intention of
withdrawing his support from the Society of the Poor Brothers; he
merely intended to dissociate himself, personally, from it, and he
suggested that any occasions that might arise for pecuniary assistance
should be addressed to him under cover of M. Desiré.
“Finally, he desired me to transfer one thousand pounds stock to his
new agent seven days from the date of our interview, and gave me an
authority in writing to that effect in which he instructed me to
accept M. Desiré’s receipt as a valid discharge.”
“And you did so?” asked Thorndyke.
“Certainly I did. And I hold M. Desiré’s receipt for the amount.”
“Did you think it necessary to raise the question of your client’s
identity, seeing that no one in the office knew him personally?”
“No, I did not. The question did not arise. There could not possibly
be any doubt on the subject. He was an old client of the firm, and our
correspondence had been carried on under cover of his cousin, Miss
Vyne, who had known him all his life. You remember that I wrote to him
at Miss Vyne’s address, making the appointment for the interview.”
“And what happened next?”
“The next development was a letter from Father Humperdinck asking if I
could give him Mr. Reinhardt’s address. Of course I could not, but I
wrote to M. Desiré asking him if he could give it to me. Desiré
replied that he did not, at the moment, know where Mr. Reinhardt was,
but would, if desired, take charge of any communications and forward
them at the first opportunity. This statement may or may not have been
true, but I don’t think we shall get any more information out of
Desiré. He is Reinhardt’s agent and will act on his instructions. If
Reinhardt has told him not to give anyone his address, naturally he
won’t give it. So there the matter ends, so far as I am concerned.”
“Did Vitalis make no suggestion as to altering his will?” Father
Humperdinck enquired.
“None whatever. Nothing was said about the will. But,” Mr. Marchmont
added, after a cogitative pause, “we must remember that he has another
man of business now. There is no saying what he may have done through
M. Desiré.”
Father Humperdinck nodded gloomily, and Thorndyke, addressing the
solicitor, asked:
“And that is all you have to tell us?”
“Yes. And I’m not sure that it is not a good deal more than I ought to
have told you. It is Father Humperdinck’s turn now.”
The Jesuit acknowledged the invitation to resume his narrative by a
stiff bow and then proceeded:
“You can now see, sir, that what I said is perfectly correct. The
conduct of my friend Vitalis shows a sudden and unaccountable change.
It is quite inconsistent with his habits and his way of thinking. And
the change is, as I say, so sudden. One day he is coming with the
greatest haste to the bedside of his sick friend, Brother Bartholomew,
the next he is making arrangements for a life of selfish pleasure,
utterly indifferent as to whether that friend is alive or dead. As a
matter of fact, the good brother passed away to his reward the day
after Vitalis should have arrived, without even a message from his old
friend. But now I return to my story.
“When Vitalis failed to appear, and I could get no news of him, I
became very anxious; and, as it happened that the business of our
Society called me to England, I determined to inquire into the matter.
Circumstances compelled me to travel by way of Boulogne and cross to
Folkestone. I say ‘circumstances,’ but I should rather say that I was
guided that way by the hand of Providence, for, in the train that
brought me from Folkestone to London, I had a most astonishing
experience. In the carriage, alone with me, there travelled a young
man, a very strange young man indeed. He was a very large man--or, I
should say, very high--and in appearance rather fierce and wild. His
clothes were good, but they were disordered and stained with mud, as
if he had been drunk at night and had rolled in the gutter. And this,
I think, was the case, for, soon after we had started, he began to
turn out his pockets on the seat of the carriage, as if to see whether
he had lost anything during his debauch. And then it was that I saw a
most astonishing thing. Among the objects that this man took from his
pockets and laid on the seat, was the reliquary that I had given so
many years ago to Vitalis.
“I could not mistake it. Once it had been mine, and I had been
accustomed to see it almost daily since. Moreover the young man had
the effrontery to pass it to me that I might examine it, and I found
on it the very letters which I, myself, had caused to be engraved on
it. When I asked him where he had obtained it, he told me that he had
picked it up at Hampstead, and he professed not to know what it was.
But his answers were very evasive and I did not believe him.”
“Nevertheless,” said Mr. Marchmont, “there was nothing improbable in
his statement. Mr. Reinhardt had been at Hampstead and might have
dropped it.”
“Possibly. But he would have taken measures to recover it. He would
not have left England until he had found it. He was a rich man, and he
would have offered a large reward for this his most prized
possession.”
“You say,” said Thorndyke, “that he habitually carried this reliquary
on his person. Can you tell us how he carried or wore it?”
“That,” replied Father Humperdinck, “was what I was coming to. The
reliquary was a small gold object with a ring at each end. It was
meant, I suppose, to be worn round the wrist, or perhaps the neck, by
means of a cord or chain attached to the two rings, or to be inserted
into a chaplet of devotional beads. But this was not the way in which
Vitalis carried it. He possessed a small and very beautiful crucifix
which he set great store by, because it was given to him by one of the
fathers when he left school, and which he used to wear suspended from
his neck by a green silk cord. Now, when I gave him the reliquary, he
caused a goldsmith to link one of its rings to the ring of the
crucifix and he fastened the silk cord to the other ring, and so
suspended both the reliquary and the crucifix from his neck.”
“Did he wear them outside his clothing so that they were visible?”
Thorndyke asked.
“Yes, outside his waistcoat, so that they were not only visible but
very conspicuous when his coat was unbuttoned. It was, of course, very
unsuitable to the dress of a lay brother, and I spoke to him about it
several times. But he was sometimes rather self-willed, as you may
judge by his refusal to settle an endowment on the Society, and,
naturally, as he was not professed, I had no authority over him. But I
shall return presently to the reliquary. Now I continue about this
young man.
“When I had heard his explanation, and decided that he was telling me
lies, I made a simple pretext to discover his name and place of abode.
With the same effrontery, he gave me his card, which I have here, and
which, you will see, is stained with mud, owing, no doubt, to those
wallowings in the mire of which I have spoken.” He drew the card from
his pocket-book and handed it to Thorndyke, who read it gravely, and,
pushing it across the table to me, said, without moving a muscle of
his face:
“You had better copy it into your notes, Mr. Howard, so that we may
have the record complete.”
I accordingly copied out my own name and address with due solemnity
and a growing enjoyment of the situation, and then returned the card
to Father Humperdinck, who pocketed it carefully and resumed:
“Having the name and address of this young man, I telegraphed
immediately to a private detective bureau in Paris, asking to have
sent to me, if possible, a certain M. Foucault, who makes a specialty
of following and watching suspected persons. This Foucault is a man of
extraordinary talent. His power of disguising himself is beyond belief
and his patience is inexhaustible. Fortunately he was disengaged and
came to me without delay, and, when I had given him the name and
address of this young man, Jardine, and described him from my
recollection of him, he set a watch on the house and found that the
man was really living there, as he had said, and that he made a daily
journey to the hospital of St. Margaret’s, where he seemed to have
some business, as he usually stayed there until evening.”
“St. Margaret’s!” exclaimed Marchmont. “Why that is your hospital,
Thorndyke. Do you happen to know this man Jardine?”
“There is, or was, a student of that name, who qualified some little
time ago, and who is probably the man Father Humperdinck is referring
to. A tall man; quite as tall, I should say, as my friend here, Mr.
Howard.”
“I should say,” said Father Humperdinck, “that the man, Jardine, is
taller, decidedly taller. I watched him as I walked behind him up the
platform at Charing Cross, and M. Foucault has shown him to me since.
But that matters not. Have you seen the man, Jardine, lately at the
hospital?”
“Not very lately,” Thorndyke replied. “I saw him there nearly a
fortnight ago, but that, I think, was the last time.”
“Ah!” exclaimed Humperdinck. “Exactly. But I shall continue my story.
For some time M. Foucault kept a close watch on this man, but
discovered nothing fresh. He went to the hospital daily, he came home,
and he stayed indoors the whole evening. But, at last, there came a
new discovery.
“One morning M. Foucault saw the man, Jardine, come out of his house,
dressed more carefully than usual. From his house, Foucault followed
him to a picture gallery in Leicester Square and went in after him;
and there he saw him meet a female, evidently by a previous
assignation. AND,” Father Humperdinck continued, slapping the table to
emphasize the climax of his story,
“From--the--neck--of--that--female--was--hanging--_Vitalis_--_Reinhardt’s_--Crucifix!”
Having made this thrilling communication, our reverend client leaned
back to watch its effect on his audience. I am afraid he must have
been a little disappointed, for Thorndyke was habitually impassive in
his exterior, and, as for Jervis and me, we were fully occupied in
maintaining a decent and befitting gravity. But Marchmont--the only
person present who was not already acquainted with the incident--saved
the situation by exclaiming:
“Very remarkable! Very remarkable indeed!”
“It is more than remarkable,” said Father Humperdinck. “It is highly
suspicious. You observe that the reliquary and the crucifix had been
linked together. Now they are separated, and since both the rings of
the reliquary were unbroken, it follows that the ring of the crucifix
must have been cut through and a new one made, by which to suspend
it.”
“I don’t see anything particularly suspicious in that,” said
Marchmont. “If Jardine found the two articles fixed together,
and--having failed to discover the owner--wished to give the crucifix
to his friend, it is not unnatural that he should have separated
them.”
“I do not believe that he found them,” Father Humperdinck replied
doggedly; “but I shall continue my story and you will see. There is
not much more to tell.
“It seems that the man, Jardine, suspected Foucault of watching him,
for presently he left the gallery in company with the female, and,
after being followed for some distance, he managed to escape. As soon
as Foucault found that he had lost him, he went to Jardine’s house and
waited about the neighbourhood, and an hour or two later he had the
good fortune to see him coming from Hampstead towards Highgate, in
company with another female. He followed them until they entered a
narrow passage or lane that leads up the hill, and when they had gone
up this some distance, he followed, but could not get near enough to
hear what they were saying.
“And now he had a most strange and terrible experience. For some time
past he had felt a suspicion that some person--some accomplice of
Jardine’s perhaps--was following and watching him; and now he had
proof of it. At the top of the lane, Jardine stopped to talk to the
female, and Foucault crept on tiptoe towards him; and while he was
doing so, he heard someone approaching stealthily up the lane, behind
him. Suddenly, Jardine began to return down the lane. As it was not
convenient for Foucault to meet him there, he also turned and walked
back; and then he heard a sound as if someone were climbing the high
wooden fence that enclosed the lane. Then Jardine began to run, and
Foucault was compelled also to run but he would have been overtaken if
it had not happened that Jardine fell down.
“Now, just as he heard Jardine fall, he came to a broken place in the
fence, and it occurred to him to creep through the hole and hide while
Jardine passed. He accordingly began to do so, but no sooner had he
thrust his head through the hole than some unseen ruffian dealt him a
violent blow which rendered him instantly insensible. When he
recovered his senses, he found himself lying in a churchyard which
adjoins the lane, but Jardine and the other ruffian were, of course,
nowhere to be seen.
“And now I come to the last incident that I have to relate. The
assault took place on a Saturday; on the Sunday M. Foucault was
somewhat indisposed and unable to go out, but early on Monday he
resumed his watch on Jardine’s house. It was nearly noon when Jardine
came out, dressed as if for travelling and carrying a valise. He went
first to a house near Piccadilly and from thence to the hospital in a
cab. Foucault followed in another cab and saw him go into the hospital
and waited for him to come out. But he never came. Foucault waited
until midnight, but he did not come out. He had vanished.”
“He had probably come out by a back exit and gone home,” said
Marchmont.
“Not so,” replied Humperdinck. “The next day Foucault watched
Jardine’s house, but he did not come there. Then he made enquiries;
but Jardine is not there, and the landlady does not know where he is.
Also the porter at the hospital knows nothing and is not at all
polite. The man Jardine has disappeared as if he had never been.”
“That really is rather queer,” said Marchmont. “It is a pity that you
did not give me all these particulars at first. However, that can’t be
helped now. Is this all that you have to tell us?”
“It is all; unless there is anything that you wish to ask me.”
“I think,” said Thorndyke, “that it would be well for us to have a
description of Mr. Reinhardt; and, as we have to trace him, if
possible, a photograph would be exceedingly useful.”
“I have not a photograph with me,” said Father Humperdinck, “but I
will obtain one and send it to you. Meanwhile I will tell you what my
friend Vitalis is like. He is sixty-two years of age, spare, upright,
rather tall--his height is a hundred and seventy-three centimetres--”
“Roughly five feet nine,” interposed Thorndyke.
“His hair is nearly white, he is, of course, clean shaven, he has grey
eyes, a straight nose, not very prominent, and remarkably good teeth
for his age, which he shows somewhat when he talks. I think he is a
little vain about his teeth and he well may be, for there are not many
men of sixty-two who have not a single false tooth, nor even one that
has been stopped by the dentist. As to his clothing, he wears the
ordinary dress of a lay brother, which you are probably familiar with,
and he nearly always wears gloves, even indoors.”
“Is there any reason for his wearing gloves?” Thorndyke asked.
“Not now. The habit began when he had some affliction of the skin,
which made it necessary for him to keep his hands covered with gloves
which contained some ointment or dressing, and afterwards for a time
to conceal the disagreeable appearance of the skin. The habit having
been once formed, he continued it, saying that his hands were more
comfortable covered up than when exposed to the air.”
“Was he dressed in this fashion when he called at your office,
Marchmont?” asked Thorndyke.
“Yes. Even to the gloves. I noticed, with some surprise, that he did
not take them off even when he wrote and signed the note of which I
told you.”
“Was he then wearing the reliquary and crucifix as Father Humperdinck
has described, on the front of his waistcoat?”
“He may have been, but I didn’t notice them, as I fancy I should have
done if they had been there.”
“And you have nothing more to tell us, Father Humperdinck, as to your
friend’s personal appearance?”
“No. I will send you the photograph and write to you if I think of
anything that I have forgotten. And now, perhaps you can tell me if
you think that you will be able to answer those questions that Mr.
Marchmont put to you.”
“I cannot, of course, answer them now,” replied Thorndyke. “The facts
that you have given us will have to be considered and compared, and
certain enquiries will have to be made. Are you staying long in
England?”
“I shall be here for at least a month; and I may as well leave you my
address, although Mr. Marchmont has it.”
“In the course of a month,” Thorndyke said, as he took the proffered
card, “I think I may promise you that we shall have settled definitely
whether your friend is alive or dead; and if we find that he is alive,
we shall, no doubt, be able to ascertain his whereabouts.”
“That is very satisfactory,” said Father Humperdinck. “I hope you
shall be able to make good your promise.”
With this he rose, and, having shaken hands stiffly with Thorndyke,
bestowed on Jervis and me a ceremonious bow and moved towards the
door. I thought that Marchmont looked a little wistful, as if he would
have liked to stay and have a few words with us alone; indeed, he
lingered for a moment or two after the door was open, but then,
apparently altering his mind, he wished us “good-night” and followed
his client.