THE SHIP OF THE DESERT
The case which I am now about to describe has always appeared to me a
singularly instructive one, as illustrating the value and importance
of that fundamental rule in the carrying out of investigations which
Thorndyke had laid down so emphatically--the rule that all facts, in
any way relating to a case, should be collected impartially and
without reference to any theory, and each fact, no matter how trivial
or apparently irrelevant, carefully studied. But I must not
anticipate the remarks of my learned and talented friend on this
subject which I have to chronicle anon; rather let me proceed to the
case itself.
I had slept at our chambers in King’s Bench Walk--as I commonly did
two or three nights a week--and on coming down to the sitting-room,
found Thorndyke’s man, Polton, putting the last touches to the
breakfast-table, while Thorndyke himself was poring over two
photographs of finger-prints, of which he seemed to be taking
elaborate measurements with a pair of hair-dividers. He greeted me
with his quiet, genial smile and, laying down the dividers, took his
seat at the breakfast-table.
“You are coming with me this morning, I suppose,” said he; “the
Camberwell murder case, you know.”
“Of course I am if you will have me, but I know practically nothing
of the case. Could you give me an outline of the facts that are
known?”
Thorndyke looked at me solemnly, but with a mischievous twinkle.
“This,” he said, “is the old story of the fox and the crow; you ‘bid
me discourse,’ and while I ‘enchant thine ear,’ you claw to windward
with the broiled ham. A deep-laid plot, my learned brother.”
“And such,” I exclaimed, “is the result of contact with the criminal
classes!”
“I am sorry that you regard yourself in that light,” he retorted,
with a malicious smile. “However, with regard to this case. The facts
are briefly these: The murdered man, Caldwell, who seems to have been
formerly a receiver of stolen goods and probably a police spy as
well, lived a solitary life in a small house with only an elderly
woman to attend him.
“A week ago this woman went to visit a married daughter and stayed
the night with her, leaving Caldwell alone in the house. When she
returned on the following morning she found her master lying dead on
the floor of his office, or study, in a small pool of blood.
“The police surgeon found that he had been dead about twelve hours.
He had been killed by a single blow, struck from behind, with some
heavy implement, and a jemmy which lay on the floor beside him fitted
the wound exactly. The deceased wore a dressing-gown and no collar,
and a bedroom candlestick lay upside down on the floor, although gas
was laid on in the room; and as the window of the office appears to
have been forced with the jemmy that was found, and there were
distinct footprints on the flower-bed outside the window, the police
think that the deceased was undressing to go to bed when he was
disturbed by the noise of the opening window; that he went down to
the office and, as he entered, was struck down by the burglar who was
lurking behind the door. On the window-glass the police found the
greasy impression of an open right hand, and, as you know, the
finger-prints were identified by the experts as those of an old
convict named Belfield. As you also know, I proved that those
finger-prints were, in reality, forgeries, executed with rubber or
gelatine stamps. That is an outline of the case.”
The close of this recital brought our meal to an end, and we prepared
for our visit to the scene of the crime. Thorndyke slipped into his
pocket his queer outfit--somewhat like that of a field
geologist--locked up the photographs, and we set forth by way of the
Embankment.
“The police have no clue, I suppose, to the identity of the murderer,
now that the finger-prints have failed?” I asked, as we strode along
together.
“I expect not,” he replied, “though they might have if they examined
their material. I made out a rather interesting point this morning,
which is this: the man who made those sham finger-prints used two
stamps, one for the thumb and the other for the four fingers; and the
original from which those stamps were made was the official
finger-print form.”
“How did you discover that?” I inquired.
“It was very simple. You remember that Mr. Singleton of the
Finger-print Department sent me, by Superintendent Miller, two
photographs, one of the prints on the window and one of the official
form with Belfield’s finger-prints on it. Well, I have compared them
and made the most minute measurements of each, and they are obviously
duplicates. Not only are all the little imperfections on the
form--due to defective inking--reproduced faithfully on the
window-pane, but the relative positions of the four fingers on both
cases agree to the hundredth of an inch. Of course the thumb stamp
was made by taking an oval out of the rolled impression on the form.”
“Then do you suggest that this murder was committed by some one
connected with the Finger-print Department at Scotland Yard?”
“Hardly. But some one has had access to the forms. There has been
leakage somewhere.”
When we arrived at the little detached house in which the murdered
man had lived, the door was opened by an elderly woman, and our
friend, Superintendent Miller, greeted us in the hall.
“We are all ready for you, doctor,” said he. “Of course, the things
have all been gone over once, but we are turning them out more
thoroughly now.” He led the way into the small, barely-furnished
office in which the tragedy had occurred. A dark-stain on the carpet
and a square hole in one of the window-panes furnished memorials of
the crime, which were supplemented by an odd assortment of objects
laid out on the newspaper-covered table. These included silver
teaspoons, watches, various articles of jewellery, from which the
stones had been removed--none of them of any considerable value--and
a roughly-made jemmy.
“I don’t know why Caldwell should have kept all these odds and ends,”
said the detective superintendent. “There is stuff here, that I can
identify, from six different burglaries--and not a conviction among
the six.”
Thorndyke looked over the collection with languid interest; he was
evidently disappointed at finding the room so completely turned out.
“Have you any idea what has been taken?” he asked.
“Not the least. We don’t even know if the safe was opened. The keys
were on the writing-table, so I suppose he went through everything,
though I don’t see why he left these things if he did. We found them
all in the safe.”
“Have you powdered the jemmy?”
The superintendent turned very red. “Yes,” he growled, “but some
half-dozen blithering idiots had handled the thing before I saw
it--been trying it on the window, the blighters--so, of course, it
showed nothing but the marks of their beastly paws.”
“The window had not really been forced, I suppose?” said Thorndyke.
“No,” replied Miller, with a glance of surprise at my colleague,
“that was a plant; so were the footprints. He must have put on a pair
of Caldwell’s boots and gone out and made them--unless Caldwell made
them himself, which isn’t likely.”
“Have you found any letter or telegram?”
“A letter making an appointment for nine o’clock on the night of the
murder. No signature or address, and the handwriting evidently
disguised.”
“Is there anything that furnishes any sort of clue?”
“Yes, sir, there is. There’s this, which we found in the safe.” He
produced a small parcel which he proceeded to unfasten, looking
somewhat queerly at Thorndyke the while. It contained various odds
and ends of jewellery, and a smaller parcel formed of a
pocket-handkerchief tied with tape. This the detective also
unfastened, revealing half-a-dozen silver teaspoons, all engraved
with the same crest, two salt-cellars and a gold locket bearing a
monogram. There was also a half sheet of notepaper on which was
written, in a manifestly disguised hand: “There are the goods I told
you about.--F. B.” But what riveted Thorndyke’s attention and mine
was the handkerchief itself (which was not a very clean one and was
sullied by one or two small bloodstains), for it was marked in one
corner with the name “F. Belfield,” legibly printed in marking-ink
with a rubber stamp.
Thorndyke and the superintendent looked at one another and both
smiled.
“I know what you are thinking, sir,” said the latter.
“I am sure you do,” was the reply, “and it is useless to pretend that
you don’t agree with me.”
“Well, sir,” said Miller doggedly, “if that handkerchief has been put
there as a plant, it’s Belfield’s business to prove it. You see,
doctor,” he added persuasively, “it isn’t this job only that’s
affected. Those spoons, those salt-cellars and that locket are part
of the proceeds of the Winchmore Hill burglary, and we want the
gentleman who did that crack--we want him very badly.”
“No doubt you do,” replied Thorndyke, “but this handkerchief won’t
help you. A sharp counsel--Mr. Anstey, for instance--would demolish
it in five minutes. I assure you, Miller, that handkerchief has no
evidential value whatever, whereas it might prove an invaluable
instrument of research. The best thing you can do is to hand it over
to me and let me see what I can learn from it.”
The superintendent was obviously dissatisfied, but he eventually
agreed, with manifest reluctance, to Thorndyke’s suggestion.
“Very well, doctor,” he said; “you shall have it for a day or two. Do
you want the spoons and things as well?”
“No. Only the handkerchief and the paper that was in it.”
The two articles were accordingly handed to him and deposited in a
tin box which he usually carried in his pocket, and, after a few more
words with the disconsolate detective, we took our departure.
“A very disappointing morning,” was Thorndyke’s comment as we walked
away. “Of course the room ought to have been examined by an expert
before anything was moved.”
“Have you picked up anything in the way of information?” I asked.
“Very little excepting confirmation of my original theory. You see,
this man Caldwell was a receiver and evidently a police spy. He gave
useful information to the police, and they, in return, refrained from
inconvenient inquiries. But a spy, or ‘nark,’ is nearly always a
blackmailer too, and the probabilities in this case are that some
crook, on whom Caldwell was putting the screw rather too tightly,
made an appointment for a meeting when the house was empty, and just
knocked Caldwell on the head. The crime was evidently planned
beforehand, and the murderer came prepared to kill several birds with
one stone. Thus he brought with him the stamps to make the sham
finger-prints on the window, and I have no doubt that he also brought
this handkerchief and the various oddments of plate and jewellery
from those burglaries that Miller is so keen about, and planted them
in the safe. You noticed, I suppose, that none of the things were of
any value, but all were capable of easy identification?”
“Yes, I noticed that. His object, evidently, was to put those
burglaries as well as the murder onto poor Belfield.”
“Exactly. And you see what Miller’s attitude is; Belfield is the bird
in the hand, whereas the other man--if there is another--is still in
the bush; so Belfield is to be followed up and a conviction obtained
if possible. If he is innocent, that is his affair, and it is for him
to prove it.”
“And what shall you do next?” I asked.
“I shall telegraph to Belfield to come and see us this evening. He
may be able to tell us something about this handkerchief that, with
the clue we already have, may put us on the right track. What time is
your consultation?”
“Twelve-thirty--and here comes my ’bus. I shall be in to lunch.” I
sprang onto the footboard, and as I took my seat on the roof and
looked back at my friend striding along with an easy swing, I knew
that he was deep in thought, though automatically attentive to all
that was happening.
My consultation--it was a lunacy case of some importance--was over in
time to allow of my return to our chambers punctually at the luncheon
hour; and as I entered, I was at once struck by something new in
Thorndyke’s manner--a certain elation and gaiety which I had learned
to associate with a point scored successfully in some intricate and
puzzling case. He made no confidences, however, and seemed, in fact,
inclined to put away, for a time, all his professional cares and
business.
“Shall we have an afternoon off, Jervis?” he said gaily. “It is a
fine day and work is slack just now. What say you to the Zoo? They
have a splendid chimpanzee and several specimens of that remarkable
fish _Periophthalmos Kölreuteri_. Shall we go?”
“By all means,” I replied; “and we will mount the elephant, if you
like, and throw buns to the grizzly bear and generally renew our
youth like the eagle.”
But when, an hour later, we found ourselves in the gardens, I began
to suspect my friend of some ulterior purpose in this holiday jaunt;
for it was not the chimpanzee or even the wonderful fish that
attracted his attention. On the contrary, he hung about the vicinity
of the lamas and camels in a way that I could not fail to notice; and
even there it appeared to be the sheds and houses rather than the
animals themselves that interested him.
“Behold, Jervis,” he said presently, as a saddled camel of seedy
aspect was led towards its house, “behold the ship of the desert,
with raised saloon-deck amidships, fitted internally with watertight
compartments and displaying the effects of rheumatoid arthritis in
his starboard hip-joint. Let us go and examine him before he hauls
into dock.” We took a cross-path to intercept the camel on its way to
its residence, and Thorndyke moralized as we went.
“It is interesting,” he remarked, “to note the way in which these
specialized animals, such as the horse, the reindeer and the camel,
have been appropriated by man, and their special character made to
subserve human needs. Think, for instance, of the part the camel has
played in history, in ancient commerce--and modern too, for that
matter--and in the diffusion of culture; and of the rôle he has
enacted in war and conquest from the Egyptian campaign of Cambyses
down to that of Kitchener. Yes, the camel is a very remarkable
animal, though it must be admitted that this particular specimen is a
scurvy-looking beast.”
The camel seemed to be sensible of these disparaging remarks, for as
it approached it saluted Thorndyke with a supercilious grin and then
turned away its head.
“Your charge is not as young as he used to be,” Thorndyke observed to
the man who was leading the animal.
“No, sir, he isn’t; he’s getting old, and that’s the fact. He shows
it too.”
“I suppose,” said Thorndyke, strolling towards the house by the man’s
side, “these beasts require a deal of attention?”
“You’re right, sir; and nasty-tempered brutes they are.”
“So I have heard; but they are interesting creatures, the camels and
lamas. Do you happen to know if complete sets of photographs of them
are to be had here?”
“You can get a good many at the lodge, sir,” the man replied, “but
not all, I think. If you want a complete set, there’s one of our men
in the camel-house that could let you have them; he takes the photos
himself, and very clever he is at it, too. But he isn’t here just
now.”
“Perhaps you could give me his name so that I could write to him,”
said Thorndyke.
“Yes, sir. His name is Woodthorpe--Joseph Woodthorpe. He’ll do
anything for you to order. Thank you, sir; good afternoon, sir;” and
pocketing an unexpected tip, the man led his charge towards its lair.
Thorndyke’s absorbing interest in the camelidæ seemed now suddenly to
become extinct, and he suffered me to lead him to any part of the
gardens that attracted me, showing an imperial interest in all the
inmates from the insects to the elephants, and enjoying his
holiday--if it was one--with the gaiety and high spirits of a
schoolboy. Yet he never let slip a chance of picking up a stray hair
or feather, but gathered up each with care, wrapped it in its
separate paper, on which was written its description, and deposited
it in his tin collecting-box.
“You never know,” he remarked, as we turned away from the ostrich
enclosure, “when a specimen for comparison may be of vital
importance. Here, for instance, is a small feather of a cassowary,
and here the hair of a wapiti deer; now the recognition of either of
those might, in certain circumstances, lead to the detection of a
criminal or save the life of an innocent man. The thing has happened
repeatedly, and may happen again tomorrow.”
“You must have an enormous collection of hairs in your cabinet,” I
remarked, as we walked home.
“I have,” he replied, “probably the largest in the world. And as to
other microscopical objects of medico-legal interest, such as dust
and mud from different localities and from special industries and
manufactures, fibres, food-products and drugs, my collection is
certainly unique.”
“And you have found your collection useful in your work?” I asked.
“Constantly. Over and over again I have obtained, by reference to my
specimens, the most unexpected evidence, and the longer I practise,
the more I become convinced that the microscope is the sheet-anchor
of the medical jurist.”
“By the way,” I said, “you spoke of sending a telegram to Belfield.
Did you send it?”
“Yes. I asked him to come to see me to-night at half-past eight, and,
if possible, bring his wife with him. I want to get to the bottom of
that handkerchief mystery.”
“But do you think he will tell you the truth about it?”
“That is impossible to judge; he will be a fool if he does not. But I
think he will; he has a godly fear of me and my methods.”
As soon as our dinner was finished and cleared away, Thorndyke
produced the “collecting-box” from his pocket and began to sort out
the day’s “catch,” giving explicit directions to Polton for the
disposal of each specimen. The hairs and small feathers were to be
mounted as microscopic objects, while the larger feathers were to be
placed, each in its separate labelled envelope, in its appropriate
box. While these directions were being given, I stood by the window
absently gazing out as I listened, gathering many a useful hint in
the technique of preparation and preservation, and filled with
admiration alike at my colleague’s exhaustive knowledge of practical
detail and the perfect manner in which he had trained his assistant.
Suddenly I started, for a well-known figure was crossing from Crown
Office Row and evidently bearing down on our chambers.
“My word, Thorndyke,” I exclaimed, “here’s a pretty mess!”
“What is the matter?” he asked, looking up anxiously.
“Superintendent Miller heading straight for our doorway. And it is
now twenty minutes past eight.”
Thorndyke laughed. “It will be a quaint position,” he remarked, “and
somewhat of a shock for Belfield. But it really doesn’t matter; in
fact, I think, on the whole, I am rather pleased that he should have
come.”
The superintendent’s brisk knock was heard a few moments later, and
when he was admitted by Polton, he entered and looked round the room
a little sheepishly.
“I am ashamed to come worrying you like this, sir,” he began
apologetically.
“Not at all,” replied Thorndyke, serenely slipping the cassowary’s
feather into an envelope, and writing the name, date and locality on
the outside. “I am your servant in this case, you know. Polton,
whisky and soda for the superintendent.”
“You see, sir,” continued Miller, “our people are beginning to fuss
about this case, and they don’t approve of my having handed that
handkerchief and the paper over to you as they will have to be put in
evidence.”
“I thought they might object,” remarked Thorndyke.
“So did I, sir; and they do. And, in short, they say that I have got
to get them back at once. I hope it won’t put you out, sir.”
“Not in the least,” said Thorndyke. “I have asked Belfield to come
here to-night--I expect him in a few minutes--and when I have heard
what he has to say I shall have no further use for the handkerchief.”
“You’re not going to show it to him!” exclaimed the detective, aghast.
“Certainly I am.”
“You mustn’t do that, sir. I can’t sanction it; I can’t indeed.”
“Now, look you here, Miller,” said Thorndyke, shaking his forefinger
at the officer; “I am working for you in this case, as I have told
you. Leave the matter in my hands. Don’t raise silly objections; and
when you leave here to night you will take with you not only the
handkerchief and the paper, but probably also the name and address of
the man who committed this murder and those various burglaries that
you are so keen about.”
“Is that really so, sir?” exclaimed the astonished detective. “Well,
you haven’t let the grass grow under your feet. Ah!” as a gentle rap
at the door was heard, “here’s Belfield, I suppose.”
It was Belfield--accompanied by his wife--and mightily disturbed they
were when their eyes lighted on our visitor.
“You needn’t be afraid of me, Belfield,” said Miller, with ferocious
geniality; “I am not here after you.” Which was not literally true,
though it served to reassure the affrighted ex-convict.
“The superintendent dropped in by chance,” said Thorndyke; “but it is
just as well that he should hear what passes. I want you to look at
this handkerchief and tell me if it is yours. Don’t be afraid, but
just tell us the simple truth.”
He took the handkerchief out of a drawer and spread it on the table;
and I now observed that a small square had been cut out of one of the
bloodstains.
Belfield took the handkerchief in his trembling hands, and as his eye
fell on the stamped name in the corner he turned deadly pale.
“It looks like mine,” he said huskily. “What do you say, Liz?” he
added, passing it to his wife.
Mrs. Belfield examined first the name and then the hem. “It’s yours,
right enough, Frank,” said she. “It’s the one that got changed in the
wash. You see, sir,” she continued, addressing Thorndyke, “I bought
him half-a-dozen new ones about six months ago, and I got a rubber
stamp made and marked them all. Well, one day when I was looking over
his things I noticed that one of his handkerchiefs had got no mark on
it. I spoke to the laundress about it, but she couldn’t explain it,
so as the right one never came back, I marked the one that we got in
exchange.”
“How long ago was that?” asked Thorndyke.
“About two months ago I noticed it.”
“And you know nothing more about it.”
“Nothing whatever, sir. Nor you, Frank, do you?”
Her husband shook his head gloomily, and Thorndyke replaced the
handkerchief in the drawer.
“And now,” said he, “I am going to ask you a question on another
subject. When you were at Holloway there was a warder--or assistant
warder--there, named Woodthorpe. Do you remember him?”
“Yes, sir, very well indeed; in fact, it was him that----”
“I know,” interrupted Thorndyke. “Have you seen him since you left
Holloway?”
“Yes, sir, once. It was last Easter Monday. I met him at the Zoo; he
is a keeper there now in the camel-house” (here a sudden light dawned
upon me and I chuckled aloud, to Belfield’s great astonishment). “He
gave my little boy a ride on one of the camels and made himself very
pleasant.”
“Do you remember anything else happening?” Thorndyke inquired.
“Yes, sir. The camel had a little accident; he kicked out--he was an
ill-tempered beast--and his leg hit a post; there happened to be a
nail sticking out from that post, and it tore up a little flap of
skin. Then Woodthorpe got out his hand kerchief to tie up the wound,
but as it was none of the cleanest, I said to him: ‘Don’t use that,
Woodthorpe; have mine,’ which was quite a clean one. So he took it
and bound up the camel’s leg, and he said to me: ‘I’ll have it washed
and send it to you if you give me your address.’ But I told him there
was no need for that; I should be passing the camel-house on my way
out and I would look in for the handkerchief. And I did: I looked in
about an hour later, and Woodthorpe gave me my handkerchief, folded
up but not washed.”
“Did you examine it to see if it was yours?” asked Thorndyke.
“No, sir. I just slipped it in my pocket as it was.”
“And what became of it afterwards?”
“When I got home I dropped it into the dirty-linen basket.”
“Is that all you know about it?”
“Yes, sir; that is all I know.”
“Very well, Belfield, that will do. Now you have no reason to be
uneasy. You will soon know all about the Camberwell murder--that is,
if you read the papers.”
The ex-convict and his wife were obviously relieved by this assurance
and departed in quite good spirits. When they were gone, Thorndyke
produced the handkerchief and the half-sheet of paper and handed them
to the superintendent, remarking--
“This is highly satisfactory, Miller; the whole case seems to join up
very neatly indeed. Two months ago the wife first noticed the
substituted handkerchief, and last Easter Monday--a little over two
months ago--this very significant incident took place in the
Zoological Gardens.”
“That is all very well, sir,” objected the superintendent, “but we’ve
only their word for it, you know.”
“Not so,” replied Thorndyke. “We have excellent corroborative
evidence. You noticed that I had cut a small piece out of the
bloodstained portion of the handkerchief?”
“Yes; and I was sorry you had done it. Our people won’t like that.”
“Well, here it is, and we will ask Dr. Jervis to give us his opinion
of it.”
From the drawer in which the handkerchief had been hidden he brought
forth a microscope slide, and setting the microscope on the table,
laid the slide on the stage.
“Now, Jervis,” he said, “tell us what you see there.”
I examined the edge of the little square of fabric (which had been
mounted in a fluid reagent) with a high-power objective, and was, for
a time, a little puzzled by the appearance of the blood that adhered
to it.
“It looks like bird’s blood,” I said presently, with some hesitation,
“but yet I can make out no nuclei.” I looked again, and then,
suddenly, “By Jove!” I exclaimed, “I have it; of course! It’s the
blood of a camel!”
“Is that so, doctor?” demanded the detective, leaning forward in his
excitement.
“That is so,” replied Thorndyke. “I discovered it after I came home
this morning. You see,” he explained, “it is quite unmistakable. The
rule is that the blood corpuscles of mammals are circular; the one
exception is the camel family, in which the corpuscles are
elliptical.”
“Why,” exclaimed Miller, “that seems to connect Woodthorpe with this
Camberwell job.”
“It connects him with it very conclusively,” said Thorndyke. “You are
forgetting the finger-prints.”
The detective looked puzzled. “What about them?” he asked.
“They were made with stamps--two stamps, as a matter of fact--and
those stamps were made by photographic process from the official
finger-print form. I can prove that beyond all doubt.”
“Well, suppose they were. What then?”
Thorndyke opened a drawer and took out a photograph, which he handed
to Miller. “Here,” he said, “is the photograph of the official
finger-print form which you were kind enough to bring me. What does
it say at the bottom there?” and he pointed with his finger.
The superintendent read aloud: “Impressions taken by Joseph
Woodthorpe. Rank, Warder; Prison, Holloway.” He stared at the
photograph for a moment, and then exclaimed--
“Well, I’m hanged! You _have_ worked this out neatly, doctor! and so
quick too. We’ll have Mr. Woodthorpe under lock and key the first
thing to-morrow morning. But how did he do it, do you think?”
“He might have taken duplicate finger-prints and kept one form; the
prisoners would not know there was anything wrong; but he did not in
this case. He must have contrived to take a photograph of the form
before sending it in--it would take a skilful photographer only a
minute or two with a suitable hand-camera placed on a table at the
proper distance from the wall; and I have ascertained that he is a
skilful photographer. You will probably find the apparatus, and the
stamps too, when you search his rooms.”
“Well, well. You do give us some surprises, doctor. But I must be off
now to see about this warrant. Good-night, sir, and many thanks for
your help.”
When the superintendent had gone we sat for a while looking at one
another in silence. At length Thorndyke spoke. “Here is a case,
Jervis,” he said, “which, simple as it is, teaches a most invaluable
lesson--a lesson which you should take well to heart. It is this:
_The evidential value of any fact is an unknown quantity until the
fact has been examined._ That seems a self-evident truth, but like
many other self-evident truths, it is constantly overlooked in
practice. Take this present case. When I left Caldwell’s house this
morning the facts in my possession were these: (1) The man who
murdered Caldwell was directly or indirectly connected with the
Finger-print Department. (2) He was almost certainly a skilled
photographer. (3) He probably committed the Winchmore Hill and the
other burglaries. (4) He was known to Caldwell, had had professional
dealings with him and was probably being blackmailed. This was all; a
very vague clue, as you see.
“There was the handkerchief, planted, as I had no doubt, but could
not prove; the name stamped on it was Belfield’s, but any one can get
a rubber stamp made. Then it was stained with blood, as handkerchiefs
often are; that blood might or might not be human blood; it did not
seem to matter a straw whether it was or not. Nevertheless, I said to
myself: If it is human, or at least mammalian blood, that is a fact;
and if it is not human blood, that is also a fact. I will have that
fact, and then I shall know what its value is. I examined the stain
when I reached home, and behold! it was camel’s blood; and
immediately this insignificant fact swelled up into evidence of
primary importance. The rest was obvious. I had seen Woodthorpe’s
name on the form, and I knew several other officials. My business was
to visit all places in London where there were camels, to get the
names of all persons connected with them and to ascertain if any
among them was a photographer. Naturally I went first to the Zoo, and
at the very first cast hooked Joseph Woodthorpe. Wherefore I say
again: Never call any fact irrelevant until you have examined it.”
The remarkable evidence given above was not heard at the trial, nor
did Thorndyke’s name appear among the witnesses; for when the police
searched Woodthorpe’s rooms, so many incriminating articles were
found (including a pair of finger-print stamps which exactly answered
to Thorndyke’s description of them, and a number of photographs of
finger-print forms) that his guilt was put beyond all doubt; and
society was shortly after relieved of a very undesirable member.
THE END