THE HUE AND CRY
The silence of the room remained unbroken for a quite considerable
time after the two bearers had passed out with their dreadful burden.
My two friends sat apart and, with a tact of which I was gratefully
sensible, left me quietly undisturbed by banal words of consolation,
to sustain the first shock of grief and horror and get my emotion
under control. Still dazed and half-incredulous, I sat with my elbows
on the table and my teeth clenched hard, looking dreamily across the
room, half unconsciously observing my two friends as they silently
examined the fatal letter. I saw Thorndyke rise softly and take a
small bottle from a cabinet, and watched him incuriously as he
sprinkled on the paper some of the dark-coloured powder that it
contained. Then I saw him blow the powder from the surface of the
paper into the fire and scan the letter closely through a lens. And
still no word was spoken. Only once, when Jervis, in crossing the
room, let his hand rest for a moment on my shoulder, did any
communication pass between us; and that silent touch told me
unobtrusively--if it were needful to tell me--how well he understood
my grief for the woman who had walked open-eyed into the valley of the
shadow, had offered her heart’s blood that I might pass unscathed.
In about a quarter of an hour the tall stranger returned, bringing
with him an atmosphere of bustling activity that at once dispelled the
gloomy silence. His busy presence and brisk, matter-of-fact speech,
though distressing to me at the moment, served as a distraction and
brought me out of my painful reverie to the grim realities of this
appalling catastrophe.
“You were quite right, sir,” said he. “The chambers were an empty set.
Mr. Courtland left them about six weeks ago, so they tell me at the
office. I’ve looked them over carefully, and I think it is pretty
clear what this man meant to do.”
“Did you go in?” asked Thorndyke.
“Yes. Mr. Polton went with me and picked the lock, so I was able to go
right through the rooms. And it is evident that this villain was not
acting on the spur of the moment. He’d made a very neat plan, and I
should say that it was pretty near to coming off. He had selected his
chambers with remarkable judgment, and uncommonly well suited they
were to his purpose. In the first place, they were the top
set--nothing above them; no chance strangers passing up or down; and
they were the only set on that landing. Then some previous tenant had
made a little trap or grille in the outer door, a little hole about
six inches square with a sliding cover on the inside. That was the
attraction, I fancy. The landing lamp was alight--he must have lighted
it himself, as the landing was out of use--and I fancy he meant to
watch through the grille for your friend to come and shoot him as he
knocked at the door.”
“That would be taking more risk than he usually did,” said Thorndyke.
“You mean that the report of the shot would have been heard. Perhaps
it might. But these modern, small-bore, repeating pistols make very
little noise, though they are uncommonly deadly, especially if you
open the nose of the bullets.”
“But,” objected Thorndyke, “if he had been heard, there he would have
been, boxed up in the chambers with no means of escape.”
Our acquaintance shook his head. “No,” said he; “that’s just what he
wouldn’t have been, and there is where he had planned the affair so
neatly. These chambers are a double set. They have a second entrance
that opens on the staircase of the next house. You see the idea. When
he’s fired his shot and made sure that it was all right--or all wrong,
if you prefer it--he would just have slipped through to the other
entrance, let himself out, shut the door quietly and walked down the
stairs. Then, if the shot had been heard, there was he, coming out of
the next house to join the crowd and see what was the matter. It was a
clever scheme, and, as I say, it might very well have come off if this
poor young lady hadn’t given it away. So that’s all about the
chambers; and now”--here he cast a glance in my direction--“I must ask
for a few particulars.” He produced a large, black-covered notebook
and, opening it on the table, looked at me inquiringly.
“This,” said Thorndyke, “is Mr. Superintendent Miller of the Criminal
Investigation Department. He has charge of this case, so you must tell
him exactly what happened. And try, Jardine, to be as clear and
circumstantial as possible.”
The Superintendent looked up sharply. “I had an impression,” said he,
“that this gentleman’s name was Howard.”
“He has used the name of Howard since he has been staying here, for
reasons which no longer exist but which I will explain to you later.
His name is Humphrey Jardine, and he is a bachelor of medicine.”
Mr. Miller entered these particulars in his book and then said:
“I suppose it is not necessary to ask if you were actually present
when this poor lady was murdered?”
“No, I was not.”
“And I presume you did not see the murderer?”
“I saw a man, whom I believe to have been the murderer, come out of
our entry and walk quickly towards the Tudor Street Gate. But I can
give you no description of him. I saw him from the window and by the
light of the entry lamp.”
The Superintendent wrote down my answer and reflected for a few
moments.
“Perhaps,” said he, “you had better just give us an account of what
happened and we can ask you any questions afterwards. It’s very
painful for you, I know, but it has to be, as you will understand.”
It was more than painful; it was harrowing to reconstitute that
hideous tragedy, step by step, with the knowledge that the poor
murdered corpse was still warm. But it had to be, and I did it,
haltingly, indeed, and with many a pause to command my voice; but in
the end, I gave the superintendent a full description of the actual
occurrences, though I withheld any reference to those words that my
poor dead friend had spoken for my ear alone.
When I had read through and signed my statement, Mr. Miller studied
his note-book with an air of dissatisfaction and then turned to
Thorndyke.
“This is all quite clear, Doctor,” said he, “and just about what you
inferred from that letter. But it doesn’t help us much. The question
is, Who is this man? I’ve an inkling that you know, Doctor.”
“I have a very strong suspicion as to who he is,” replied Thorndyke.
“That will do for me,” said Miller. “Your strong suspicion is equal to
another man’s certainty. Do you know his name, sir?”
“He has recently passed under the name of Samway,” replied Thorndyke.
“What his real name is, I think I shall be able to tell you later.
Meanwhile, I can give you such particulars as are necessary for making
an arrest.”
The Superintendent looked narrowly at Thorndyke as the latter pressed
the button of the electric bell.
“Apparently, Doctor,” said he, “you have been making some
investigations concerning this man, and, as it was not in connection
with this crime, it must have been in connection with something else.”
“Yes,” replied Thorndyke, “you are quite right, Miller, and it will be
a matter of the deepest regret to me to my dying day that
circumstances have hindered those investigations as they have. The
delay has cost this poor woman her life. A few more days and my case
would almost certainly have been complete, and then this terrible
disaster would have been impossible.”
As Thorndyke finished speaking, the door opened quietly and Polton
entered with a small, neatly-made parcel in his hand.
“Ah!” said Thorndyke, “you guessed what I wanted, and guessed right,
as you always do, Polton. How many are there in that parcel?”
“Three dozen, sir,” replied Polton.
“That ought to be enough for the moment. Hand them to the
Superintendent, Polton. If you want any more, Miller, we can let you
have a further supply, and I am having a half-tone block made which
will be ready to-morrow morning.”
“Are these portraits of the man you suspect?” asked Miller.
“No, I haven’t his portrait, unfortunately, but on each card is a
photograph of three of his finger-prints, which are all I have been
able to collect, and on the back is a description which will enable
you easily to identify him. You can post them off to the various
sea-ports and telegraph the description in advance; and I would
recommend you especially to keep a watch on Dover and Folkestone, as I
know that he has been in the habit of using that route.”
“Speaking of finger-prints,” said Miller, “have you tried that letter
for them?”
“Yes,” replied Thorndyke, “I powdered it very carefully, but there is
not a single trace of a fingerprint. He must have realized the risk he
was taking and worn gloves when he wrote it.”
The Superintendent pocketed the parcel with a thoughtful air, and,
after a few moments’ cogitation, turned once more to Thorndyke.
“You’ve supplied me with the means of arresting the man, Doctor,” said
he, “but that’s all. Supposing I find him and detain him in custody?
What then?
“I don’t know that he murdered this poor woman. Do you? Dr. Jardine
can’t identify him, and apparently no one else saw him. I have no
doubt that you have substantial grounds for suspecting him, but I
should like to know what they are.”
Thorndyke reflected for a moment or two before replying.
“You are quite right, Miller,” he said, at length, “you ought to have
enough information to establish a _prima facie_ case. But I think,
that on this occasion, I can say no more than that, if you produce the
man, you can rely upon me to furnish enough evidence to secure a
conviction. Will that do?”
“It will do from you, sir,” replied Miller, rising and buttoning his
overcoat. “I will get this description circulated at once. Oh--there
was one more matter: the name of the deceased lady was Samway--the
same as that of the suspected murderer. What was the relationship?”
“She passed as--and presumably was--his wife.”
“Ah!” said Miller. “I see. That was how she knew. Well, well. She was
a brave woman, to take the risk that she did, and she deserved
something very different from what she got. But we are taught that
there is a place where people who suffer injustice and misfortune in
this world get it made up to them. I hope it’s true, for her sake--and
for his,” he added abruptly with a sudden change of tone.
“Naturally you do,” said Thorndyke, “but, meanwhile, our business is
with this world. Spread your net close and wide, Miller. I shall never
forgive you if you let this villain slip. It is our sacred duty to
purge the world of his presence. You do your part, Miller, and be
confident that I will do mine.”
“You can depend on me to do my best, sir,” said Miller, “though I _am_
working rather in the dark. I suppose you couldn’t give me any sort of
hint as to what you’ve got up your sleeve. You’ve no doubt, for
instance, that it was really the man Samway who committed this
murder?”
Thorndyke, according to his usual habit, considered the
Superintendent’s question for awhile before answering. At length he
replied:
“I don’t know why I shouldn’t take you into my confidence to some
extent, Miller, knowing you as I do. But you will remember that this
_is_ a confidence. The fact is that I am proposing to proceed against
this man on an entirely different charge. But I am not quite ready to
lay an information; and I want you to secure his person on the charge
of murdering his wife while I complete the other case.”
“Is that another case of murder?” asked Miller.
“Yes. The facts are briefly these. A certain Septimus Maddock, who was
living with the Samways, died some time ago under what seem to me very
suspicious circumstances. He was nursed by Samway and his wife and by
no one else. The cause of death given on the certificate was, in my
opinion, not the true one, and I am proceeding to verify my theory as
to what was the real cause of death.”
“I see,” said Miller. “You are applying for an exhumation of the
body?”
“Well, hardly an exhumation. The man Maddock was cremated.”
“Cremated!” exclaimed Miller. “Then we’ve done. There isn’t any body
to exhume.”
“No,” agreed Thorndyke, “there is no body, but there are the ashes.”
“But, surely,” said Miller, “you can’t get any information out of a
few handfuls of bone ash?”
“That remains to be proved,” replied Thorndyke. “I have applied for an
authority to make an exhaustive examination of those ashes, and, if my
opinion as to the cause of death is correct, I shall be able to
demonstrate its correctness; and that will involve a charge of murder
against this man Samway. It will also support a charge against him of
attempts to murder Dr. Jardine, and furnish strong evidence connecting
him with the horrible crime that has just been committed. So you see,
Miller, that the important thing is to get possession of him before he
has time to escape from this country, and hold him in custody, if
necessary, while the evidence against him is being examined and
completed. And I must impress on you that no time ought to be lost in
getting the description circulated.”
“No, that’s true,” said Miller. “I’ll go and telegraph it off at once,
and I’ll send one or two of our best men to watch the likely
seaports.”
He shook hands with us all round, and, when we had all most fervently
wished him success, he took his departure.
As soon as he was gone, Jervis turned to his senior, and, looking at
him with a sort of puzzled curiosity, exclaimed:
“You are a most astounding person, Thorndyke! You really are! I
thought I had begun to see daylight in that Maddock case, and now I
find that I was all abroad. And I can’t, for the life of me, conceive
what in the world you expect to discover by examining a few pounds of
calcined phosphates. Suppose Maddock was poisoned, what evidence will
be obtainable from the ashes? Of the poisons which could possibly have
been used under the known circumstances, not one would leave a trace
after cremation. But, of course, you’ve thought of all that.”
“Certainly, I have,” replied Thorndyke, “and I agree with you that the
ashes of a body that has been cremated are highly unpromising material
for a primary investigation. But, does it not occur to you that, in a
case where certain circumstantial evidence is available, excellent
corroborative data might be obtained by the examination of the ashes?”
“No,” replied Jervis, “I can’t say that it does.”
“It is not too late to consider the question,” said Thorndyke. “I
shall probably not get the authority for a day or two, so you will
have time to turn the problem over in the interval. It is quite worth
your while, I assure you, apart from this particular case, as a mere
exercise in constructive theory. You can acquire experience from
imaginary cases as well as from real ones, as I have often pointed
out; in fact, much of my own experience has been gained in this way. I
think I have mentioned to you that, in my early days, when I had more
leisure than practice, it was my custom to construct imaginary crimes
of an elaborately skilful type, and then--having, of course, all the
facts--to consider the appropriate procedure for their detection. It
was a most valuable exercise, for I was thus able to furnish myself
with an abundance of problems of a kind that, in actual practice, are
met with only at long intervals of years. And since then a quite
considerable number of my imaginary cases have presented themselves,
in a more or less modified form, for solution in the course of
practice, and have come to me with the familiarity of problems that
have already been considered and solved. That is what you should do,
Jervis. Try the synthetic method and then consider what analytical
procedure would be appropriate to your result.”
“I have,” Jervis replied, gloomily. “I have worked at this confounded
case until I feel like a rat that has been trying to gnaw through a
plate-glass window. Still, I’ll have another try. By the way, where
are you going to make this examination?”
“I think I shall do it here. I had thought of handing the ashes over
to one of the more eminent analysts, but it will be only a small
operation, well within the capacity of our own laboratory. I think of
asking Professor Woodfield to come here and carry out the actual
analysis. Polton will give him any help that he may want and, of
course, we shall be here to give any further assistance if he should
need it.”
“Why not have made the analysis yourself?” asked Jervis. “Is there
anything specially difficult or intricate about it?”
“Not at all,” replied Thorndyke. “But, as the case will have to go
into Court on a capital charge--that is, assuming that my hypothesis
turns out to be correct--I thought it best to have the analysis made
by a man whose name as an authority on chemistry will carry special
weight. Neither the judge nor the jury are likely to have much special
knowledge of chemistry, but they will be able to appreciate the fact
that Woodfield is a man with a world-wide reputation, and they will
respect his opinion accordingly.”
“Yes,” agreed Jervis, “I think you are quite right. A well-known name
goes a long way with a jury. I hope your experiment will turn out as
you expect, and I hope, too, that some of Miller’s men will manage to
lay that murderous devil by the heels. But I’m afraid they’ll have
their work cut out. He is a clever scoundrel; one must admit that. How
do you suppose he contrived to track Jardine here?”
“I think,” replied Thorndyke, “that he must have seen us on one of the
two occasions when we went to the mineral water works and followed us
here. Then, when Jardine disappeared from his lodgings, he would
naturally look for him here, this being, in fact, the only place known
to him in connection with Jardine, excepting Batson’s house, on which
he also probably kept a watch.”
“But how would he have discovered that Jardine actually was here?”
“There are a number of ways in which he might have ascertained the
fact. A good many persons knew that we had a new resident. We could
not conceal his presence here. Many of our visitors have seen him, and
the porter and hangers-on of the inn will have noticed him taking his
exercise in the morning. Samway, himself, even, may have seen him, and
he would easily have penetrated the disguise if he saw him out of
doors, for there is no disguising a man’s stature. He might have made
enquiries of one of the porters or lamp-lighters, or he might have
employed someone else to make enquiries. The fact that someone was
staying here and that his name was Howard could not have been very
difficult to discover, while, as for ourselves, we are as well known
in the inn as the griffin at Temple Bar. From the circumstance that he
knew of our attendance at the Maidstone Assizes, it seems likely that
he had subsidized some solicitor’s clerk who would know our
movements.”
“And I suppose,” said I, “as he is gone now, I may as well go back to
my lodgings.”
“Not at all,” replied Thorndyke. “In the first place, we don’t know
that he is gone, and we do know that he is now absolutely desperate
and reckless. And you must not forget, Jardine, that whether we charge
him with murder in the case of Maddock, with the murder of poor Mrs.
Samway, or the attempted murder of yourself, in either case you are
the chief witness for the prosecution. You are the appointed
instrument of retribution in this man’s case, and you must take the
utmost care of yourself until your mission is accomplished. He knows
the value of your evidence better than you do, and it is still worth
his while to get rid of you if he can. But you, I am sure, are at
least as anxious as we are to see him hanged.”
“I’d sooner twist his neck with my own hands,” said I.
“I daresay you would,” said Thorndyke, “and it is perfectly natural
that you should. But it is not desirable. This is a case for a few
fathoms of good, stout, hempen rope, and the common hangman. The
private vengeance of a decent man would be an undeserved honour for a
wretch like this. So you must stay here quietly for a few days more
and give us a little help when we need it.”
Thorndyke’s decision was not altogether unwelcome. Shaken as I was by
the shock of this horrible tragedy, I was in no state to return to the
solitude of my lodgings. The quiet and tactful sympathy of my two
friends--or I should rather say three, for Polton was as kind and
gentle as a woman--was infinitely comforting, and their sober
cheerfulness and the interest of their talk prevented me from brooding
morbidly over the catastrophe of which I had been the involuntary
cause. And, dreadful as the associations of the place were, I could
not but feel that those of my older resorts would be equally painful.
For me, at present, the Heath would be haunted by the figure of poor
Letitia, walking at my side, telling me her pitiful tale and so
pathetically craving my sympathy and friendship. And the Highgate Road
could not but wring my heart with the recollection of that evening
when we had walked together up the narrow lane--all unconscious of the
black-hearted murderer stealing after us and foiled only by that
futile spy--when, as we said good-bye, I had kissed her and she had
run off blushing like a girl.
Moreover, if Thorndyke’s chambers were fraught with terrible and
gloomy associations, they were also pervaded by an atmosphere of
resolute, relentless preparation which was itself a relief to me; for,
as the first shock of horrified grief passed, it left me possessed by
a fury of hatred for the murderer and consumed by an inextinguishable
craving for vengeance. Nor was the time of suspense so long as we had
anticipated. On the very next morning a letter arrived from the Home
Office containing the necessary authority to make the proposed
examination and informing Thorndyke that, on the following day, the
police would take possession of the ashes, which would be delivered to
him by an officer who would remain to witness the examination and to
resume possession of the remains when it was concluded.
I saw very little more of Thorndyke that day, but I gathered that he
was busy making the final arrangements for the important work of the
morrow and in clearing off various tasks so as to leave himself free
from engagements. Nor did I enjoy much of Jervis’s society, for he,
too, was anxious to have the day free for the “Crucial Experiment,”
which was--we hoped--to solve the mystery of Septimus Maddock’s death
and explain the villain Samway’s strange vindictiveness towards me.
Left to myself, and by no means enamoured of my own society, I
wandered up to the laboratory to see what Polton was doing and to
distract my gloomy thoughts by a little gossip with him on the various
technical processes of which he possessed so much curious information.
I found him arrayed in a white apron, with his sleeves turned up,
busily occupied with what I took to be a slab of dough, which he had
spread on a pastry board and was levelling with a hard-wood
rolling-pin. He greeted me, as I entered with his queer, crinkly
smile, but made no remark; and I stood awhile in silence, watching him
cut the paste in halves, sprinkle it with flour, fold it up and once
more roll it out into a sheet with the wooden pin.
“Is this going to be a meat pie, Polton?” I asked, at length.
His smile broadened at my question--for which I suspect he had been
waiting.
“I don’t think you’d care much for the flavour of it, if it was, sir,”
he answered. “But it does look like dough, doesn’t it. It’s
moulding-wax; a special formula of the Doctor’s own.”
“I thought that white powder was flour.”
“So it is, sir; the best wheaten flour. It’s lighter than a mineral
powder and more tenacious. You have to use some powder to reduce the
stickiness of the wax, especially in a soft paste like this, which has
a lot of lard in it.”
“What are you going to use it for?” I asked.
“Ah!” exclaimed Polton, pausing to give the paste a vicious whack with
the rolling-pin, “there you are, sir. That’s just what I’ve been
asking myself all the time I’ve been rolling it out. The Doctor,
sir--God bless him--is the most exasperating gentleman in the world.
He fairly drives me mad with curiosity, at times. He will give me a
piece of work to do--something to make, perhaps--with full
particulars--all the facts, you understand, perfectly clear and exact,
with working drawings if necessary. But he never says what the thing
is for. So I make a hypothesis for myself--whole bundles of
hypotheses, I make. And they always turn out wrong. I assure you,
sir,” he concluded with solemn emphasis, “that I spend the best part
of my life asking myself conundrums and giving myself the wrong
answers.”
“I should have thought,” said I, “that you would have got used to his
ways by now.”
“You can’t get used to him,” rejoined Polton. “It’s impossible. He
doesn’t think like any other man. Ordinary men’s brains are turned out
pretty much alike from a single mould, like a batch of pottery. But
the Doctor’s brain was a special order. If there was any mould at all,
that mould was broken up when the job was finished.”
“What you mean is,” said I, “that he has a great deal more
intelligence than is given to the rank and file of humanity.”
“No, I don’t,” retorted Polton. “It isn’t a question of quantity at
all. It’s a different kind of intelligence. Ordinary men have to
reason from visible facts. He doesn’t. He reasons from facts which his
imagination tells him exists, but which nobody else can see. He’s like
a portrait painter who can do you a likeness of your face by looking
at the back of your head. I suppose it’s what he calls constructive
imagination, such as Darwin and Harvey and Pasteur and other great
discoverers had, which enabled them to see beyond the facts that were
known to the common herd of humanity.”
I was somewhat doubtful as to the soundness of Polton’s views on the
transcendental intellect, though respectfully admiring of the
thoughtfulness of this curious little handicraftsman; accordingly I
returned to the more concrete subject of wax.
“Haven’t you any idea what this stuff is going to be used for?”
“Not the slightest,” he replied. “The Doctor’s instructions were to
make six pounds of it, to make it soft enough to take a squeeze of a
stiff feather if warmed gently, and firm enough to keep its shape in a
half-inch layer with a plaster backing, and to be sure to have it
ready by to-morrow morning. That’s all. I know there’s an important
analysis on to-morrow and I suppose this wax has got something to do
with it. But, as to what moulding wax can have to do with a chemical
analysis, that’s a question that I can’t make head or tail of.”
Neither could I, though I had more data than Polton appeared to
possess. Nor could Jervis, to whom I propounded the riddle when he
came in to tea. We went up to the laboratory together and inspected,
not only the wax, but the exterior of three large parcels addressed to
Professor Woodfield, care of Dr. Thorndyke, and bearing the labels of
a firm of wholesale chemists. But neither of us could suggest any
solution of the mystery; and the only result of our visit to the
laboratory was that Polton was somewhat scandalized by the conduct of
his junior employer, who consoled himself for his failure by executing
with the wax, a life-sized and highly grotesque portrait of Father
Humperdinck.