A VISITOR FROM THE STATES
As I pushed open the inner door and entered the room I conceived the
momentary hope of a reprieve from the wrath to come, for I found my
two friends in what was evidently a business consultation with a
stranger, and was on the point of backing out when Thorndyke stopped
me.
“Don’t run away, Howard,” said he. “There are no secrets being
disclosed--at least, I think not. We have finished with your affairs,
Mr. O’Donnell, haven’t we?”
“Yes, doctor,” was the answer; “you’ve run me dry with the exception
of your own little business.”
“Then, come in and sit down, Howard, and let me present you to Mr.
O’Donnell who is a famous American detective and has been telling us
all sorts of wonderful things.”
Mr. O’Donnell paused in the act of returning a quantity of papers to a
large attaché case and offered his hand.
“The doctor,” he remarked, “is blowing his trumpet at the wrong end. I
haven’t come here to give information but to get advice. But I guess I
needn’t tell you that.”
“I hope that isn’t quite true,” said Thorndyke. “You spoke just now of
my little business; haven’t you anything to tell me?”
“I have; but I fancy it isn’t what you wanted to hear. However, we’ll
just have a look at your letter to Curtis and take your questions one
by one. By the way, what made you write to Curtis?”
“I saw, when I inspected Maddock’s will at Somerset House, that he had
left a small legacy to Curtis. Naturally, I inferred that Curtis knew
him and could give me some account of him.”
“It struck you as a bit queer, I reckon, that he should be leaving a
legacy to the head of an American detective agency.”
“The circumstance suggested possibilities,” Thorndyke admitted.
O’Donnell laughed. “I can guess what possibilities suggested
themselves to you, if you knew Maddock. Your letter and the lawyer’s,
announcing the legacy, came within a mail or two of one another.
Curtis showed them both to me and we grinned. We took it for granted
that the worthy testator was foxing. But we were wrong. And so are
you, if that is what you thought.”
“You assumed that the will was not a genuine one?”
“Yes; we thought it was a fake, put up with the aid of some shyster to
bluff us into giving up Mr. Maddock as deceased. So, as I had to come
across about these other affairs, Curtis suggested that I should look
into the matter. And a considerable surprise I got when I did; for the
will is perfectly regular and so is everything else. That legacy was a
sort of posthumous joke, I guess.”
“Then do I understand that Mr. Curtis was not really a friend of
Maddock’s?”
O’Donnell chuckled. “Not exactly a friend, doctor,” said he. “He felt
the warmest interest in Maddock’s welfare, but they weren’t what you
might call bosom friends. The position was this: Curtis was the chief
of our detective agency; Maddock was a gentleman whom he had been
looking for and not finding for a matter of ten years. At last he
found him; and then he lost him again; and this legacy, I take it, was
a sort of playful hint to show which hole he’d gone down.”
“Was Maddock in hiding all that time?” asked Thorndyke.
“In hiding!” repeated O’Donnell. “Bless your innocent heart, doctor,
he had a nice convenient studio in one of the best blocks in New York
a couple of doors from our agency, and he used to send us cards for
his private views. No, sir, our dear departed friend wasn’t the kind
that lurks out of sight in cellars or garrets. It was Maddock, sure
enough, that Curtis wanted, only he didn’t know it. But I guess I’m
fogging you. I’d better answer the questions that you put to Curtis.
“First, do we know anything about Maddock? Yes, we do. But we didn’t
know that his name was Maddock until a few months ago. Isaac Vandamme
was the name we knew him by, and it seems that he had one or two other
names that he used on occasion. We now know that the gay Isaac was a
particularly versatile kind of crook, and a mighty uncommon kind, too,
the Lord be praised; for, if there were many more like him we should
have to raise our prices some. He wasn’t the kind of fool that makes a
million dollar coup and then goes on the razzle and drops it all. That
sort of man is easy enough to deal with. When he’s loaded up with
dollars everybody knows it, and he’s sure to be back in a week or two
with empty pockets, ready for another scoop. Isaac wasn’t that sort.
When he made a little pile, he invested his winnings like a sensible
man and didn’t live beyond his means; and the only mystery to me is
that, when he died, he didn’t leave more pickings. I see from his
will--which I’ve had a look at--that the whole estate couldn’t have
been above five thousand dollars. He had a lot more than that at one
time.”
“He may have disposed of the bulk of his property by gift just before
his death,” Jervis suggested.
“That’s possible,” agreed O’Donnell. “He’d escape the death dues that
way. However, to return to his engaging little ways. His leading line
was penmanship--forgery--and he did it to an absolute finish. He was
the most expert penman that I have ever known. But where he had us all
was that he didn’t only know _how_ to write another man’s name; he
knew _when_ to write it. I reckon that the great bulk of his forgeries
were never spotted at all, and, of the remainder very few got beyond
the bare suspicion that they _were_ forgeries. In the case of the few
that were actually spotted as forgeries, his tracks were covered up so
cleverly that no one could guess who the forger was.”
“And how did you come to suspect him eventually?” Thorndyke asked.
“Ah!” said O’Donnell. “There you are. Every crook--even the
cleverest--has a strain of the fool in him. Isaac’s folly took the
form of suspicion. He suspected us of suspecting him. We didn’t; but
he thought we did, and then he started to dodge and make some false
clues for us. That drew our attention to him. We looked into his
record, traced his little wanderings and then we began to find things
out. A nice collection there was, too, by the time we had worked a
month or two at his biography; forgeries, false notes, and, at least,
two murders that had been a complete mystery to us all. We made ready
to drop on Isaac, but, at that psychological moment, he disappeared.
It looked as if he had left the States, and, as we have no great
affection for extradition cases, we let the matter rest, more or less,
expecting that he would turn up again, sooner or later. And then came
this lawyer’s letter and yours, announcing his decease. Of course
Curtis and I thought he was at the old game; that it was a bit of that
sort of extra caution that won’t let well alone. So, as I was coming
over, I thought I’d just look into the affair as I told you; and, to
my astonishment, I found everything perfectly regular; the will
properly proved, the death certificate made out correctly and a second
certificate signed by two doctors.”
“Did you go into the question of identity?” asked Thorndyke.
“Oh, yes. I called on one of the doctors, a man named Batson, and
ascertained that it was all correct. Batson’s eyesight seemed to be
none of the best, but he made it quite clear to me that his late
patient was certainly our friend Isaac, or Maddock. So that’s the end
of the case. And if you want to go into it any further you’ve got to
deal with a little pile of bone ash, for our friend is not only dead;
he’s cremated. That’s enough for us. We don’t follow our clients to
the next world. We are not so thorough as you seem to be.”
“You are flattering me unduly,” said Thorndyke. “I’m not so thorough
as that; but our clients, when they betake themselves to the happy
hunting-ground, usually leave a few of their friends behind to
continue their activities. Do you happen to know what Maddock’s
original occupation was? Had he any profession?”
“He was originally an engraver, and a very skilful engraver, too, I
understand. That was what made him so handy in working the flash note
racket. Then he went on the stage for a time, and didn’t do badly at
that; but I fancy he was more clever at making-up and mimicry than at
acting in the dramatic sense. For the last ten years or so he was
practising as a painter--chiefly of landscape, though he could do a
figure subject or a portrait at a pinch. I don’t fancy he sold much,
or made any great efforts to sell his work. He liked painting and the
art covered his real industries, for he used to tour about in search
of subjects and so open up fresh ground for the little operations that
actually produced his income.”
“Was his work of any considerable merit?” Thorndyke asked.
“Well, in a way, yes. It was rather in the American taste, though
Maddock was really an Englishman. Our taste, as you know, runs to
technical smartness and novelty of handling; and Maddock’s work was
very peculiar and remarkably smart and slick in handling. He used the
knife more than the brush and he used it uncommonly cleverly. In fact,
he was unusually skilful in many ways; and that’s the really
surprising thing about him, when one considers his
extraordinary-looking paws.”
“What was there peculiar about his hands?” asked Thorndyke. “Were they
noticeably clumsy in appearance?”
“Clumsy!” exclaimed O’Donnell. “They were more than that. They were
positively deformed. A monkey’s hands would be delicate compared with
Maddock’s. They were short and thick like the paws of an animal.
There’s some jaw-twisting name for the deformity that he suffered
from; bronchodactilious, or something like that.”
“Brachydactylous,” suggested Thorndyke.
“That’s the word; and I daresay you know the sort of paw I mean. It
didn’t look a very likely hand for a first-class penman and engraver
of flash notes, but you can’t always judge by appearances. And now as
to your other questions: You ask what Maddock was like in appearance.
I can only give you the description which I gave to Batson and which
he recognized at once.”
“Had he noticed the peculiarity of the hands?” enquired Thorndyke.
“Yes. I asked him about it and he remembered having observed it when
he was attending Maddock. Well, then, our friend was about five feet
nine in height, fairly broad and decidedly strong, of a medium
complexion with grey eyes and darkish brown hair. That’s all I can
tell you about him.”
“You haven’t got his finger-prints, I suppose?”
“No. He was never in prison, so we had no chance of getting them.”
“Was he married?”
“He had been; but some years ago his wife divorced him, or he divorced
her. Latterly he has lived as a bachelor.”
“There is nothing else that you can think of as throwing light on his
personality or explaining his actions?”
“Nothing at all, doctor. I’ve told you all I know about him, and I
only hope the information may be more useful than it looks to me.”
“Thank you,” said Thorndyke; “your information is not only useful; I
expect to find it quite valuable. Reasoning, you know, Mr. O’Donnell,”
he continued, “is somewhat like building an arch. On a supporting
mould, the builder lays a number of shaped stones, or voussoirs; but
until all the voussoirs are there, it is a mere collection of stones,
incapable of bearing its own weight. Then you drop the last
voussoir--the keystone--into its place, and the arch is complete; and
now you may take away the supports, for it will not only bear its own
weight, but carry a heavy superstructure.”
“That’s so, doctor,” said O’Donnell. “But, if I may ask, is this all
gratuitous wisdom or has it any particular bearing?”
“It has this bearing,” replied Thorndyke. “I have myself been, for
some time past, engaged, metaphorically, in the building of an arch.
When you came here to-night, it was but a collection of shaped and
adjusted stones, supported from without. With your kind aid, I have
just dropped the keystone into its place. That is what I mean.”
The American thoughtfully arranged the papers in his case, casting an
occasional speculative glance at Thorndyke.
“I’d like to know,” he said presently, “what it was that I told you.
It doesn’t seem to me that I have produced any startling novelties.
However, I know it’s no use trying to squeeze you, so I’ll get back to
my hotel and have a chew at what you’ve told me.”
He shook hands with us all round, and, when Thorndyke had let him out,
we heard him bustling downstairs and away up King’s Bench Walk towards
Mitre Court.
For a minute or more after his departure none of us spoke. Thorndyke
was apparently ruminating on his newly-acquired information, and
Jervis and I on the statement that had so naturally aroused the
detective’s curiosity.
At length Jervis opened the inevitable debate.
“I begin to see a glimmer of daylight through the case of Septimus
Maddock, deceased,” said he; “but it is only a glimmer. Whereas, from
what you said to O’Donnell, I gather that you have the case quite
complete.”
“Hardly that, Jervis,” was the reply. “I spoke metaphorically, and
metaphors are sometimes misleading. Perhaps I overstated the case; so
we will drop metaphor and state the position literally in terms of
good, plain, schoolboy logic. It is this: we had certain facts
presented to us in connection with Maddock’s death. For instance, we
observed that the cause of death was obscure, that the body was
utterly destroyed by cremation and that Jardine, who was an unofficial
witness to some of the formalities, was subsequently pursued by some
unknown person with the unmistakable purpose of murdering him. Those
were some of the observed facts; and the explanation of those facts
was the problem submitted to us; that is to say, we had to connect
those facts and supply others by deduction and research, so that they
should form a coherent and intelligible sequence, of which the motive
for murdering Jardine should form a part.
“Having observed and examined our facts, we next propose a hypothesis
which shall explain them. In this case it would naturally take the
form of a hypothetical reconstruction of the circumstances of
Maddock’s death. That hypothesis must, of course, be in complete
agreement with all the facts known to us, including the attempts to
murder Jardine. Then, having invented a hypothesis which fits our
facts completely, the next stage is to verify it. If the circumstances
of Maddock’s death were such as we have assumed, certain antecedent
events must have occurred and certain conditions must have existed. We
make the necessary inquiries and investigations, and we find that
those events had actually occurred and those conditions had actually
existed. Then it is probable that our hypothesis is correct,
particularly if our researches have brought to light nothing that
disagrees with it.
“With our new facts we can probably amplify our hypothesis;
reconstruct it in greater detail; and then we have to test and verify
it afresh in its amplified and detailed form. And if such new tests
still yield an affirmative result, the confirmation of the hypothesis
becomes overwhelmingly strong. It is, however, still only hypothesis.
But perhaps we light on some final test which is capable of yielding a
definite answer, yes or no. If we apply that test--the ‘Crucial
Experiment’ of the logicians--and obtain an affirmative result, our
inquiry is at an end. It has passed out of the region of hypothesis
into that of demonstrative proof.”
“And are we to understand,” asked Jervis, “that you have brought
Maddock’s case to the stage of complete demonstration?”
“No,” answered Thorndyke. “I am still in the stage of hypothesis; and
when O’Donnell came here to-night there were two points which I had
been unable to verify. But with his aid I have been able to verify
them both, and I now have a complete hypothesis of the case which has
been tested exhaustively and has answered to every test. All that
remains to be done is to apply the touchstone of the final
experiment.”
“I suppose,” said Jervis, “you have obtained a good many new facts in
the course of your investigations?”
“Not a great many,” replied Thorndyke; “and what new data I have
obtained, I have, for the most part, communicated to you and Jardine.
I assure you, Jervis, that if you would only concentrate your
attention on the case, you have ample material for a most convincing
and complete elucidation of it.”
Jervis looked at me with a wry smile.
“Now, Jardine-Howard,” said he; “why don’t you brush up your wits and
tell us exactly what happened to the late Mr. Maddock and why some
person unknown is so keen on your vile body. You have all the facts,
you know.”
“So you tell me,” I retorted; “but this case of yours reminds me of
those elaborate picture puzzles that used to weary my juvenile brain.
You had a hatful of irregular-shaped pieces which, if you fitted them
together, made a picture. Only the beggars wouldn’t fit together.”
“A very apt comparison,” said Thorndyke. “You put the pieces together,
and, if they made no intelligible part of a picture, you knew you were
wrong, no matter how well they seemed to fit. On the other hand, if
they seemed to make parts of a picture you had to verify the result by
finding pieces of the exact shape and size of the empty spaces. That
is what I have been doing in this case; trying the data together and
watching to see if they made the expected picture. As I have told you,
O’Donnell’s visit found me with the picture entire save for two empty
spaces of a particular shape and size; and from him I obtained two
pieces that dropped neatly into those spaces and made the picture
complete. All I have to do now is to see if the picture is a true
representation or only a consistent work of imagination.”
“I take it that you have worked the case out in pretty full detail,”
said Jervis.
“Yes. If the final verification is successful I shall be able to tell
you exactly what happened in Maddock’s house, what was the cause of
death--and I may say that it was not that given in the
certificates--who the person is who has been pursuing Jardine and what
is his motive, together with a number of other very curious items of
information. And the mention of that person reminds me that our friend
has been disporting himself in public, contrary to advice and to what
I thought was a definite understanding.”
“But surely,” I said, “it doesn’t matter now. We have given that spy
chappie the slip, and, even if he hasn’t given up the chase as
hopeless, we know that he is quite harmless.”
“Harmless!” exclaimed Thorndyke. “Why, my dear fellow, he was your
guardian angel. Didn’t you realize that from Father Humperdinck’s
statement? He shadowed you so closely that no attack on you was
possible; in fact, he actually caught a rap on the head that was
apparently meant for you. You were infinitely safer with him at your
heels than alone.”
“But we’ve given the other fellow the slip, too,” I urged.
“We mustn’t take that for granted,” said Thorndyke. “The French
detective, you remember, came on the scene quite recently, whereas the
other man has been with us from the beginning. He probably saw Jervis
and me enter the mineral water works on the night of the fire, for he
was certainly there; and he may even have followed us home to
ascertain who we were. There are several ways in which he could have
connected you with us and traced you here; so I must urge you most
strongly not to venture out of the precincts of the Temple for the
next few days, in fact, it would be much wiser to keep indoors
altogether. It will be only a matter of days unless I get a quite
unexpected set back, for I hope to have the case finally completed in
less than a week; and when I do, I shall take such action as will give
your friend some occupation other than shadowing you.”
“Very well,” I said. “I will promise not to attempt again to escape
from custody. But, all the same, my little jaunt to-day has not been
entirely without result. I have picked up a new fact, and a rather
curious one, I think. What should you say if I suggested that Mrs.
Samway was the wife of that eccentric artist who used to paint on the
Heath? The man, I mean, who always worked in gloves?”
“I have assumed that she was in some such relation to him,” replied
Thorndyke, “but I should like to hear the evidence.”
“Mrs. Samway,” Jervis said in a reflective tone: “isn’t that the
handsome, uncanny-looking lady with the mongoose eyes, who reminded me
of Lucrezia Borgia?”
“That is the lady. Well, I met with a portrait of her to-day which was
evidently the work of the man with the gloves;” and here I gave them a
description of the portrait and an account of the odd way in which it
had been disinterred from the landscape that had been painted over it,
to which they both listened with close attention.
“It’s a queer incident,” said Thorndyke, “and quite dramatic. If one
were inclined to be superstitious one might imagine some invisible
agency uncovering the tracks that have been so carefully hidden and
working unseen in the interests of justice. But haven’t you rather
jumped to your conclusion? The existence of the portrait establishes a
connection, but not necessarily that of husband and wife.”
“I only suggested the relationship; but it seemed a likely one as the
portrait had been painted over and thrown into the rubbish box.”
Jervis laughed sardonically; and even Thorndyke’s impassive face
relaxed into a smile.
“Our young friend,” said the former, “doesn’t take as favourable a
view of the married state as one might expect from a gay Lothario who
breaks out of his cage to go a-philandering. But we’ll overlook that,
in consideration of the very interesting information that he has
brought back with him. Not that it conveys very much to me. It is
obviously a new piece to fit into our puzzle, but I’m hanged if I see,
at the moment, any suitable space to drop it into.”
“I think,” said Thorndyke, “that if you consider the picture as a
whole, you will soon find a vacant space. And while you are
considering it, I will just send off a letter, and then we had better
adjourn this discussion. We have to catch the early train to Maidstone
to-morrow, and that, I hope, will be the last time. Our case ought to
be disposed of by the afternoon.”
He seated himself at the writing-table and wrote his letter, while
Jervis stared into the fire with a cogitative frown. When the letter
was sealed and addressed, Thorndyke laid it on the table while he went
to the lobby to put on his hat and coat, and, glancing at it almost
unconsciously, I noted that the envelope was of foolscap size and was
addressed to the Home Office, Whitehall. The name of the addressee
escaped me, for, suddenly realizing the impropriety of thus inspecting
another man’s letter, I looked away hastily; but even then, when
Thorndyke had taken it away to the post, I found myself speculating
vaguely on the nature of the communication and wondering if it had any
relation to the mysterious and intricate case of Septimus Maddock.