“I hope it has,” said Miller. “A good cast of a footprint which you

can let the jury compare with the boot is first-class evidence.” He

took the cast, which I had produced from the research-case, and

turning it over tenderly and gloatingly, exclaimed: “Beautiful!

beautiful! Absolutely distinctive! There can’t be another exactly like

it in the world. It is as good as a finger-print. For the Lord’s sake

take care of it. It means a conviction if we can find the boot.”

The superintendent’s efforts to engage Thorndyke in discussion were

not very successful, and the conversational brunt was borne by me. For

we both knew my colleague too well to interrupt him if he was disposed

to be meditative. And such was now his disposition. Looking at him as

he sat in his corner, silent but obviously wrapped in thought, I knew

that he was mentally sorting out the data and testing the hypotheses

that they yielded.

“Here we are,” said Miller, opening the door as the taxi stopped. “Now

what are we going to say? Shall I tell him who I am?”

“I expect you will have to,” replied Thorndyke, “if you want him to

let us in.”

“Very well,” said Miller. “But I shall let you do the talking, because

I don’t know what you have got up your sleeve.”

Thorndyke’s prediction was verified literally. In response to the

third knock, with an obbligato accompaniment on the bell, wrathful

footsteps--I had no idea footsteps could be so expressive--advanced

rapidly along the lobby, the door was wrenched open--but only for a

few inches--and an angry, hairy face appeared in the opening.

“Now then,” the hairy person demanded, “what the deuce do you want?”

“Are you Mr. William Ponting?” the superintendent inquired.

“What the devil is that to do with you?” was the genial answer--in the

Scottish mode.

“We have business,” Miller began persuasively.

“So have I,” the presumable Ponting replied, “and mine won’t wait.”

“But our business is very important,” Miller urged.

“So is mine,” snapped Ponting, and would have shut the door but for

Miller’s obstructing foot, at which he kicked viciously, but with

unsatisfactory results, as he was shod in light slippers, whereas the

superintendent’s boots were of constabulary solidity.

“Now, look here,” said Miller, dropping his conciliatory manner very

completely, “you’d better stop this nonsense. I am a police officer,

and I am going to come in”; and with this he inserted a massive

shoulder and pushed the door open.

“Police officer, are you?” said Ponting. “And what might your business

be with me?”

“That is what I have been waiting to tell you,” said Miller. “But we

don’t want to do our talking here.”

“Very well,” growled Ponting. “Come in. But understand that I am busy.

I’ve been interrupted enough this evening.”

He led the way into a rather barely furnished room with a wide

bay-window in which was a table fitted with a writing-slope and

lighted by an electric standard lamp. A litter of manuscript explained

the nature of his business and his unwillingness to receive casual

visitors. He sulkily placed three chairs, and then, seating himself,

glowered at Thorndyke and me.

“Are they police officers, too?” he demanded.

“No,” replied Miller, “they are medical gentlemen. Perhaps you had

better explain the matter, doctor,” he added, addressing Thorndyke,

who thereupon opened the proceedings.

“We have called,” said he, “to inform you that Miss Millicent Fawcett

died suddenly this evening.”

“The devil!” exclaimed Ponting. “That’s sudden with a vengeance. What

time did this happen?”

“About a quarter to nine.”

“Extraordinary!” muttered Ponting. “I saw her only the day before

yesterday, and she seemed quite well then. What did she die of?”

“The appearances,” replied Thorndyke, “suggest suicide.”

“Suicide!” gasped Ponting. “Impossible! I can’t believe it. Do you

mean to tell me she poisoned herself?”

“No,” said Thorndyke, “it was not poison. Death was caused by injuries

to the throat inflicted with a razor.”

“Good God!” exclaimed Ponting. “What a horrible thing! But,” he added

after a pause, “I can’t believe she did it herself, and I don’t. Why

should she commit suicide? She was quite happy, and she was just going

to be married to that mealy-faced parson. And a razor, too! How do you

suppose she came by a razor? Women don’t shave. They smoke and drink

and swear, but they haven’t taken to shaving yet. I don’t believe it.

Do you?”

He glared ferociously at the superintendent, who replied:

“I am not sure that I do. There’s a good deal in what you’ve just

said, and the same objections had occurred to us. But, you see, if she

didn’t do it herself, someone else must have done it, and we should

like to find out who that someone is. So we begin by ascertaining

where any possible persons may have been at a quarter to nine this

evening.”

Ponting smiled like an infuriated cat.

“So you think me a possible person, do you?” said he.

“Everyone is a possible person,” Miller replied blandly, “especially

when he is known to have uttered threats.”

The reply sobered Ponting considerably. For a few moments he sat,

looking reflectively at the superintendent; then, in comparatively

quiet tones, he said:

“I have been working here since six o’clock. You can see the stuff for

yourself, and I can prove that it has been written since six.”

The superintendent nodded, but made no comment, and Ponting gazed at

him fixedly, evidently thinking hard. Suddenly he broke into a harsh

laugh.

“What is the joke?” Miller inquired stolidly.

“The joke is that I have got another alibi--a very complete one. There

are compensations in every evil. I told you I had been interrupted in

my work already this evening. It was those fools next door, the

Barnetts--cousins of mine. They are musicians, save the mark! Variety

stage, you know. Funny songs and jokes for mental defectives. Well,

they practise their infernal ditties in their rooms, and the row comes

into mine, and an accursed nuisance it is. However, they have agreed

not to practise on Thursdays and Fridays--my busy nights--and usually

they don’t. But to-night, just as I was in the thick of my writing, I

suddenly heard the most unholy din; that idiot, Fred Barnett, bawling

one of his imbecile songs--‘When the pigs their wings have folded,’

and balderdash of that sort--and the other donkey accompanying him on

the clarinet, if you please! I stuck it for a minute or two. Then I

rushed round to their flat and raised Cain with the bell and knocker.

Mrs. Fred opened the door, and I told her what I thought of it. Of

course she was very apologetic, said they had forgotten that it was

Thursday and promised that she would make her husband stop. And I

suppose she did, for by the time I got back to my rooms the row had

ceased. I could have punched the whole lot of them into a jelly, but

it was all for the best as it turns out.”

“What time was it when you went round there?” asked Miller.

“About five minutes past nine,” replied Ponting. “The church bell had

struck nine when the row began.”

“Hm!” grunted Miller, glancing at Thorndyke. “Well, that is all we

wanted to know, so we need not keep you from your work any longer.”

He rose, and being let out with great alacrity, stumped down the

stairs, followed by Thorndyke and me. As we came out into the street,

he turned to us with a deeply disappointed expression.

“Well,” he exclaimed, “this is a suck in. I was in hopes that we had

pounced on our quarry before he had got time to clear away the traces.

And now we’ve got it all to do. You can’t get round an alibi of that

sort.”

I glanced at Thorndyke to see how he was taking this unexpected check.

He was evidently puzzled, and I could see by the expression of

concentration in his face that he was trying over the facts and

inferences in new combinations to meet this new position. Probably he

had noticed, as I had, that Ponting was wearing a tweed suit, and that

therefore the shreds of clothing from the fence could not be his

unless he had changed. But the alibi put him definitely out of the

picture, and, as Miller had said, we now had nothing to give us a

lead.

Suddenly Thorndyke came out of his reverie and addressed the

superintendent.

“We had better put this alibi on the basis of ascertained fact. It

ought to be verified at once. At present we have only Ponting’s

unsupported statement.”

“It isn’t likely that he would risk telling a lie,” Miller replied

gloomily.

“A man who is under suspicion of murder will risk a good deal,”

Thorndyke retorted, “especially if he is guilty. I think we ought to

see Mrs. Barnett before there is any opportunity of collusion.”

“There has been time for collusion already,” said Miller. “Still, you

are quite right, and I see there is a light in their sitting-room, if

that is it, next to Ponting’s. Let us go up and settle the matter now.

I shall leave you to examine the witness and say what you think it

best to say.”

We entered the building and ascended the stairs to the Barnetts’ flat,

where Miller rang the bell and executed a double knock. After a short

interval the door was opened and a woman looked out at us

inquisitively.

“Are you Mrs. Frederick Barnett?” Thorndyke inquired. The woman

admitted her identity in a tone of some surprise, and Thorndyke

explained: “We have called to make a few inquiries concerning your

neighbour, Mr. Ponting, and also about certain matters relating to

your family. I am afraid it is a rather unseasonable hour for a visit,

but as the affair is of some importance and time is an object, I hope

you will overlook that.”

Mrs. Barnett listened to this explanation with a puzzled and rather

suspicious air. After a few moments’ hesitation, she said:

“I think you had better see my husband. If you will wait here a moment

I will go and tell him.” With this, she pushed the door to, without

actually closing it, and we heard her retire along the lobby,

presumably to the sitting-room. For, during the short colloquy, I had

observed a door at the end of the lobby, partly open, through which I

could see the end of a table covered with a red cloth.

The “moment” extended to a full minute, and the superintendent began

to show signs of impatience.

“I don’t see why you didn’t ask her the simple question straight out,”

he said, and the same question had occurred to me. But at this point

footsteps were heard approaching, the door opened, and a man

confronted us, holding the door open with his left hand, his right

being wrapped in a handkerchief. He looked suspiciously from one to

the other of us, and asked stiffly:

“What is it that you want to know? And would you mind telling me who

you are?”

“My name is Thorndyke,” was the reply. “I am the legal adviser of the

Reverend Charles Meade, and these two gentlemen are interested

parties. I want to know what you can tell me of Mr. Ponting’s recent

movements--to-day, for instance. When did you last see him?”

The man appeared to be about to refuse any conversation, but suddenly

altered his mind, reflected for a few moments, and then replied:

“I saw him from my window at his--they are bay-windows--about

half-past eight. But my wife saw him later than that. If you will come

in she can tell you the time exactly.” He led the way along the lobby

with an obviously puzzled air. But he was not more puzzled than I, or

than Miller, to judge by the bewildered glance that the superintendent

cast at me, as he followed our host along the lobby. I was still

meditating on Thorndyke’s curiously indirect methods when the

sitting-room door was opened; and then I got a minor surprise of

another kind. When I had last looked into the room, the table had been

covered by a red cloth. It was now bare; and when we entered the room

I saw that the red cover had been thrown over a side table, on which

was some bulky and angular object. Apparently it had been thought

desirable to conceal that object, whatever it was, and as we took our

seats beside the bare table, my mind was busy with conjectures as to

what that object could be.

Mr. Barnett repeated Thorndyke’s question to his wife, adding: “I

think it must have been a little after nine when Ponting came round.

What do you say?”

“Yes,” she replied, “it would be, for I heard it strike nine just

before you began your practice, and he came a few minutes after.”

“You see,” Barnett explained, “I am a singer, and my brother, here,

accompanies me on various instruments, and of course we have to

practise. But we don’t practise on the nights when Ponting is

busy--Thursdays and Fridays--as he said that the music disturbed him.

To-night, however, we made a little mistake. I happen to have got a

new song that I am anxious to get ready--it has an illustrative

accompaniment on the clarinet, which my brother will play. We were so

much taken up with the new song that we all forgot what day of the

week it was, and started to have a good practise. But before we had

got through the first verse, Ponting came round, battering at the door

like a madman. My wife went out and pacified him, and of course we

shut down for the evening.”

While Mr. Barnett was giving his explanation, I looked about the room

with vague curiosity. Somehow--I cannot tell exactly how--I was

sensible of something queer in the atmosphere of this place; of a

certain indefinite sense of tension. Mrs. Barnett looked pale and

flurried. Her husband, in spite of his volubility, seemed ill at ease,

and the brother, who sat huddled in an easy-chair, nursing a

dark-coloured Persian cat, stared into the fire, and neither moved nor

spoke. And again I looked at the red table-cloth and wondered what it

covered.

“By the way,” said Barnett, after a brief pause, “what is the point of

these inquiries of yours? About Ponting, I mean. What does it matter

to you where he was this evening?”

As he spoke, he produced a pipe and tobacco-pouch and proceeded to

fill the former, holding it in his bandaged right hand and filling it

with his left. The facility with which he did this suggested that he

was left-handed, an inference that was confirmed by the ease with

which he struck the match with his left hand, and by the fact that he

wore a wrist-watch on his right wrist.

“Your question is a perfectly natural one,” said Thorndyke. “The

answer to it is that a very terrible thing has happened. Miss

Millicent Fawcett, who is, I think, a connexion of yours, met her

death this evening under circumstances of grave suspicion. She died,

either by her own hand or by the hand of a murderer, a few minutes

before nine o’clock. Hence it has become necessary to ascertain the

whereabouts at that time of any persons on whom suspicion might

reasonably fall.”

“Good God!” exclaimed Barnett. “What a shocking thing!”

The exclamation was followed by a deep silence, amidst which I could

hear the barking of a dog in an adjacent room, the unmistakable sharp,

treble yelp of a Pekinese. And again I seemed to be aware of a strange

sense of tension in the occupants of this room. On hearing Thorndyke’s

answer, Mrs. Barnett had turned deadly pale and let her head fall

forward on her hand. Her husband had sunk on to a chair, and he, too,

looked pale and deeply shocked, while the brother continued to stare

silently into the fire.

At this moment Thorndyke astonished me by an exhibition of what

seemed--under the tragic circumstances--the most outrageous bad

manners and bad taste. Rising from his chair with his eyes fixed on a

print which hung on the wall above the red-covered table, he said:

“That looks like one of Cameron’s etchings,” and forthwith stepped

across the room to examine it, resting his hand, as he leaned forward,

on the object covered by the cloth.

“Mind where you are putting your hand, sir!” Fred Barnett called out,

springing to his feet.

Thorndyke looked down at his hand, and deliberately raising a corner

of the cloth, looked under. “There is no harm done,” he remarked

quietly, letting the cloth drop; and with another glance at the print,

he went back to his chair.

Once more a deep silence fell upon the room, and I had a vague feeling

that the tension had increased. Mrs. Barnett was as white as a ghost

and seemed to catch at her breath. Her husband watched her with a

wild, angry expression and smoked furiously, while the

superintendent--also conscious of something abnormal in the atmosphere

of the room--looked furtively from the woman to the man and from him

to Thorndyke.

Yet again in the silence the shrill barking of the Pekinese dog broke

out, and somehow that sound connected itself in my mind with the

Persian cat that dozed on the knees of the immovable man by the fire.

I looked at the cat and at the man, and even as I looked, I was

startled by a most extraordinary apparition. Above the man’s shoulder,

slowly rose a little round head like the head of a diminutive,

greenish-brown man. Higher and higher the tiny monkey raised itself,

resting on its little hands to peer at the strangers. Then, with

sudden coyness, like a shy baby, it popped down out of sight.

I was thunderstruck. The cat and the dog I had noted merely as a

curious coincidence. But the monkey--and such an unusual monkey,

too--put coincidences out of the question. I stared at the man in

positive stupefaction. Somehow that man was connected with that

unforgettable figure lying upon the couch miles away. But how? When

that deed of horror was doing, he had been here in this very room.

Yet, in some way, he had been concerned in it. And suddenly a

suspicion dawned upon me that Thorndyke was waiting for the actual

perpetrator to arrive.

“It is a most ghastly affair,” Barnett repeated presently in a husky

voice. Then, after a pause, he asked: “Is there any sort of evidence

as to whether she killed herself or was killed by somebody else?”

“I think that my friend, here, Detective-Superintendent Miller, has

decided that she was murdered.” He looked at the bewildered

superintendent, who replied with an inarticulate grunt.

“And is there any clue as to who the--the murderer may be? You spoke

of suspected persons just now.”

“Yes,” replied Thorndyke, “there is an excellent clue, if it can only

be followed up. We found a most unmistakable footprint; and what is

more, we took a plaster cast of it. Would you like to see the cast?”

Without waiting for a reply, he opened the research-case and took out

the cast, which he placed in my hands.

“Just take it round and show it to them,” he said.

The superintendent had witnessed Thorndyke’s amazing proceedings with

an astonishment that left him speechless. But now he sprang to his

feet, and, as I walked round the table, he pressed beside me to guard

the precious cast from possible injury. I laid it carefully down on

the table, and as the light fell on it obliquely, it presented a most

striking appearance--that of a snow-white boot-sole on which the

unshapely patch, the circular heel, and the marks of wear were clearly

visible.

The three spectators gathered round, as near as the superintendent

would let them approach, and I observed them closely, assuming that

this incomprehensible move of Thorndyke’s was a device to catch one or

more of them off their guard. Fred Barnett looked at the cast stolidly

enough, though his face had gone several shades paler, but Mrs.

Barnett stared at it with starting eye-balls and dropped jaw--the very

picture of horror and dismay. As to James Barnett, whom I now saw

clearly for the first time, he stood behind the woman with a

singularly scared and haggard face, and his eyes riveted on the white

boot-sole. And now I could see that he wore a suit of blue serge and

that the front both of his coat and waistcoat were thickly covered

with the shed hairs of his pets.

There was something very uncanny about this group of persons gathered

around that accusing footprint, all as still and rigid as statues and

none uttering a sound. But something still more uncanny followed.

Suddenly the deep silence of the room was shattered by the shrill

notes of a clarinet, and a brassy voice burst forth:

“_When the pigs their wings have folded_

_And the cows are in their nest----_”

We all spun round in amazement, and at the first glance the mystery of

the crime was solved. There stood Thorndyke with the red table-cover

at his feet, and at his side, on the small table, a

massively-constructed phonograph of the kind used in offices for

dictating letters, but fitted with a convoluted metal horn in place of

the rubber ear-tubes.

A moment of astonished silence was succeeded by a wild confusion. Mrs.

Barnett uttered a piercing shriek and fell back on to a chair, her

husband broke away and rushed at Thorndyke, who instantly gripped his

wrist and pinioned him, while the superintendent, taking in the

situation at a glance, fastened on the unresisting James and forced

him down into a chair. I ran round, and having stopped the

machine--for the preposterous song was hideously incongruous with the

tragedy that was enacting--went to Thorndyke’s assistance and helped

him to remove his prisoner from the neighbourhood of the instrument.

“Superintendent Miller,” said Thorndyke, still maintaining a hold on

his squirming captive, “I believe you are a justice of the peace?”

“Yes,” was the reply, “ex officio.”

“Then,” said Thorndyke, “I accuse these three persons of being

concerned in the murder of Miss Millicent Fawcett; Frederick Barnett

as the principal who actually committed the murder, James Barnett as

having aided him by holding the arms of the deceased, and Mrs. Barnett

as an accessory before the fact in that she worked this phonograph for

the purpose of establishing a false alibi.”

“I knew nothing about it!” Mrs. Barnett shrieked hysterically. “They

never told me why they wanted me to work the thing.”

“We can’t go into that now,” said Miller. “You will be able to make

your defence at the proper time and place. Can one of you go for

assistance or must I blow my whistle?”

“You had better go, Jervis,” said Thorndyke. “I can hold this man

until reinforcements arrive. Send a constable up and then go on to the

station. And leave the outer door ajar.”

I followed these directions, and having found the police station,

presently returned to the flat with four constables and a sergeant in

two taxis.

When the prisoners had been removed, together with the three

animals--the latter in charge of a zoophilist constable--we searched

the bedrooms. Frederick Barnett had changed his clothing completely,

but in a locked drawer--the lock of which Thorndyke picked neatly, to

the superintendent’s undisguised admiration--we found the discarded

garments, including a pair of torn shepherd’s plaid trousers, covered

with blood-stains, and a new, empty razor-case. These things, together

with the wax cylinder of the phonograph, Miller made up into a neat

parcel and took away with him.

“Of course,” said I, as we walked homewards, “the general drift of

this case is quite obvious. But it seemed to me that you went to the

Barnetts’ flat with a definite purpose already formed, and with a

definite suspicion in your mind. Now, I don’t see how you came to

suspect the Barnetts.”

“I think you will,” he replied, “if you will recall the incidents in

their order from the beginning, including poor Meade’s preliminary

statement. To begin with the appearances of the body: the suggestion

of suicide was transparently false. To say nothing of its incongruity

with the character and circumstances of the deceased and the very

unlikely weapon used, there were the gashed collar and the cut

cap-string. As you know, it is a well-established rule that suicides

do not damage their clothing. A man who cuts his own throat doesn’t

cut his collar. He takes it off. He removes all obstructions.

Naturally, for he wishes to complete the act as easily and quickly as

possible, and he has time for preparation. But the murderer must take

things as he finds them and execute his purpose as best he can.

“But further; the wounds were inflicted near the door, but the body

was on the couch at the other end of the room. We saw, from the

absence of bleeding, that she was dying--in fact, apparently

dead--when she lay down. She must therefore have been carried to the

couch after the wounds were inflicted.

“Then there were the blood-stains. They were all in front, and the

blood had run down vertically. Then she must have been standing

upright while the blood was flowing. Now there were four wounds, and

the first one was mortal. It divided the common carotid artery and the

great veins. On receiving that wound she would ordinarily have fallen

down. But she did not fall, or there would have been a blood-stain

across the neck. Why did she not fall? The obvious suggestion was that

someone was holding her up. This suggestion was confirmed by the

absence of cuts on her hands--which would certainly have been cut if

someone had not been holding them. It was further confirmed by the

rough crumpling of the collar at the back: so rough that the button

was torn off. And we found that button near the door.

“Further, there were the animal hairs. They were on the back only.

There were none on the front--where they would have been if derived

from the animals--or anywhere else. And we learned that she kept no

animals. All these appearances pointed to the presence of two persons,

one of whom stood behind her and held her arms while the other stood

in front and committed the murder. The cloth on the fence supported

this view, being probably derived from two different pairs of

trousers. The character of the wounds made it nearly certain that the

murderer was left-handed.

“While we were returning in the cab, I reflected on these facts and

considered the case generally. First, what was the motive? There was

nothing to suggest robbery, nor was it in the least like a robber’s

crime. What other motive could there be? Well, here was a

comparatively rich woman who had made a will in favour of certain

persons, and she was going to be married. On her marriage the will

would automatically become void, and she was not likely to make

another will so favourable to those persons. Here, then, was a

possible motive, and that motive applied to Ponting, who had actually

uttered threats and was obviously suspect.

“But, apart from those threats, Ponting was not the principal suspect,

for he benefited only slightly under the will. The chief beneficiaries

were the Barnetts, and Miss Fawcett’s death would benefit them, not

only by securing the validity of the will, but by setting the will

into immediate operation. And there were two of them. They therefore

fitted the circumstances better than Ponting did. And when we came to

interview Ponting, he went straight out of the picture. His manuscript

would probably have cleared him--with his editor’s confirmation. But

the other alibi was conclusive.

“What instantly struck me, however, was that Ponting’s alibi was also

an alibi for the Barnetts. But there was this difference: Ponting had

been seen; the Barnetts had only been heard. Now, it has often

occurred to me that a very effective false alibi could be worked with

a gramophone or a phonograph--especially with one on which one can

make one’s own records. This idea now recurred to me; and at once it

was supported by the appearance of an arranged effect. Ponting was

known to be at work. It was practically certain that a blast of

‘music’ would bring him out. Then he would be available, if necessary,

as a witness to prove an alibi. It seemed to be worth while to

investigate.

“When we came to the flat we encountered a man with an injured

hand--the right. It would have been more striking if it had been his

left. But it presently turns out that he is left-handed; which is

still more striking as a coincidence. This man is extraordinarily

ready to answer questions which most persons would have refused to

answer at all. Those answers contain the alibi.

“Then there was the incident of the table-cover--I think you noticed

it. That cover was on the large table when we arrived, but it was

taken off and thrown over something, evidently to conceal it. But I

need not pursue the details. When I had seen the cat, heard the dog,

and then seen the monkey, I determined to see what was under the

table-cover; and finding that it was a phonograph with the cylinder

record still on the drum, I decided to ‘go Nap’ and chance making a

mistake. For until we had tried the record, the alibi remained. If it

had failed, I should have advised Miller to hold a boot parade.

Fortunately we struck the right record and completed the case.”

Mrs. Barnett’s defence was accepted by the magistrate and the charge

against her was dismissed. The other two were committed for trial, and

in due course paid the extreme penalty. “Yet another illustration,”

was Thorndyke’s comment, “of the folly of that kind of criminal who

won’t let well alone, and who will create false clues. If the Barnetts

had not laid down those false tracks, they would probably never have

been suspected. It was their clever alibi that led us straight to

their door.”

VI.

PANDORA’S BOX

“I see our friend, S. Chapman, is still a defaulter,” said I, as I

ran my eye over the “personal” column of _The Times_.

Thorndyke looked up interrogatively.

“Chapman?” he repeated; “let me see, who is he?”

“The man with the box. I read you the advertisement the other day.

Here it is again. ‘If the box left in the luggage-room by S. Chapman

is not claimed within a week from this date, it will be sold to defray

expenses.--Alexander Butt, “Red Lion” Hotel, Stoke Varley, Kent.’ That

sounds like an ultimatum; but it has been appearing at intervals for

the last month. As the first notice expired about three weeks ago, the

question is, why doesn’t Mr. Butt sell the box and have done with it?”

“He may have some qualms as to the legality of the proceeding,” said

Thorndyke. “It would be interesting to know what expenses he refers to

and what is the value of the box.”

The latter question was resolved a day or two later by the appearance

in our chambers of an agitated gentleman, who gave his name as George

Chapman. After apologizing for his unannounced visit he explained:

“I have come to you on the advice of my solicitor and on behalf of my

brother, Samuel, who has become involved in a most extraordinary and

horrible set of complications. At present he is in custody of the

police charged with an atrocious murder.”

“That is certainly a rather serious complication,” Thorndyke observed

dryly. “Perhaps you had better give us an account of the

circumstances--the whole set of circumstances, from the beginning.”

“I will,” said Mr. Chapman, “without any reservations. The only

question is, which is the beginning? There are the business and the

domestic affairs. Perhaps I had better begin with the business

concerns. My brother was a sort of travelling agent for a firm of

manufacturing jewellers. He held a stock of the goods, which he used

as samples for large orders, but in the case of small retailers he

actually supplied the goods himself. When travelling, he usually

carried his stock in a small Gladstone bag, but he kept the bulk of it

in a safe in his house, and he used to go home at week-ends, or

oftener, to replenish his travelling stock. Now, about two months ago

he left home on a trip, but instead of taking a selection of his

goods, he took the entire stock in a largish wooden box, leaving the

safe empty. What he meant to do I don’t know, and that’s the fact. I

offer no opinion. The circumstances were peculiar, as you will hear

presently, and his proceedings were peculiar; for he went down to

Stoke Varley--a village not far from Folkestone--put up at the ‘Red

Lion,’ and deposited his box in the luggage-room that is kept for the

use of commercial travellers; and then, after staying there for a few

days, came up to London to make some arrangements for selling or

letting his house--which, it seems, he had decided to leave. He came

up in the evening, and the very next morning the first of his

adventures befell, and a very alarming one it was.

“It appears that, as he was walking down a quiet street, he saw a

lady’s purse lying on the pavement. Naturally he picked it up, and as

it contained nothing to show the name or address of the owner, he put

it in his pocket, intending to hand it in at a police station. Shortly

after this, he got into an omnibus, and a well-dressed woman entered

at the same time and sat down next to him. Just as the conductor was

coming in to collect the fares, the woman began to search her pocket

excitedly, and then, turning to my brother, called on him loudly to

return her purse. Of course, he said that he knew nothing about her

purse, whereupon she roundly accused him of having picked her pocket,

declaring to the conductor that she had felt him take out her purse,

and demanding that the omnibus should be stopped and a policeman

fetched. At this moment a policeman was seen on the pavement. The

conductor stopped the omnibus and hailed the constable, who came, and

having examined the floor of the vehicle without finding the missing

purse, and taken the conductor’s name and number, took my brother into

custody and conducted him and the woman to the police station. Here

the inspector took down from the woman a description of the stolen

purse and its contents, which my brother, to his utter dismay,

recognized as that of the purse which he had picked up and which was

still in his pocket. Immediately, he gave the inspector an account of

the incident and produced the purse; but it is hardly necessary to say

that the inspector refused to take his explanation seriously.

“Then my brother did a thing which was natural enough, but which did

not help him. Seeing that he was practically certain to be

convicted--for there was really no answer to the charge--he gave a

false name and refused his address. He was then locked up in a cell

for the night, and the next morning was brought before the magistrate,

who, having heard the evidence of the woman and the inspector and

having listened without comment to my brother’s story, committed him

for trial at the Central Criminal Court, and refused bail. He was then

removed to Brixton, where he was detained for nearly a month, pending

the opening of the sessions.

“At length the day of his trial drew near. But it was then found that

the woman who had accused him had left her lodgings and could not be

traced. As there was no one to prosecute, and as the disappearance of

the woman put a rather new light upon my brother’s story, the case

against him was allowed to drop, and he was released.

“He went home by train, and at the station he bought a copy of _The

Times_ to read on the way. Before opening it he chanced to run his eye

over the ‘personal’ column, and there his attention was arrested by

his own name in an advertisement----”

“Relating to a box?” said I.

“Precisely. Then you have seen it. Well, considering the value of the

contents of that box, he was naturally rather anxious. At once he sent

off a telegram saying that he would call on the following day before

noon to claim the box and pay what was owing. And he did so. Yesterday

morning he took an early train down to Stoke Varley and went straight

to the ‘Red Lion.’ On his arrival he was asked to step into the

coffee-room, which he did; and there he found three police officers,

who forthwith arrested him on a charge of murder. But before going

into the particulars of that charge, I had better give you an account

of his domestic affairs, on which this incredible and horrible

accusation turns.

“My brother, I am sorry to say, was living with a woman who was not

his wife. He had originally intended to marry her, but his association

with her--which lasted over several years--did not encourage that

intention. She was a terrible woman, and she led him a terrible life.

Her temper was ungovernable; and when she had taken too much to

drink--which was a pretty frequent occurrence--she was not only noisy

and quarrelsome, but physically violent as well. Her antecedents were

disreputable--she had been connected with the seamy side of the

music-hall stage; her associations were disreputable; she brought

questionable women to my brother’s house; she consorted with men of

doubtful character, and her relations with them were equally doubtful.

Indeed, with one of them, a man named Gamble, I should say that her

relations were not doubtful at all, though I understand he was a

married man.

“Well, my brother put up with her for years, living a life that cut

him off from all decent society. But at last his patience gave way

(and I may add that he made the acquaintance of a very desirable lady,

who was willing to condone his past and marry him if he could secure a

possible future). After a particularly outrageous scene, he ordered

the woman--Rebecca Mings was her name--out of the house and declared

their relationship at an end.

“But she refused to be shaken off. She kept possession of the

street-door key, and she returned again and again, and made a public

scandal. The last time she created such an uproar when the door was

bolted against her that a crowd collected in the street and my brother

was forced to let her in. She stayed with him some hours, alone in the

house--for the only servant he had was a ‘daily girl’ who left at

three o’clock--and went away quite quietly about ten at night. But,

although a good many people saw her go into the house, no one but my

brother seems to have seen her leave it; a most disastrous

circumstance, for, from the moment when she left the house, no one

ever saw her again. She did not go to her lodgings that night. She

disappeared utterly--until--but I must go back now to the ‘Red Lion’

at Stoke Varley.

“When my brother was arrested on the charge of having murdered Rebecca

Mings, certain particulars were given to him; and when I went down

there in response to a telegram, I gathered some more. The

circumstances are these: About a fortnight after my brother had left

to come to London, some of the ‘commercials’ who used the luggage-room

complained of an unpleasant odour in it, which was presently traced to

my brother’s box. As that box appeared to have been abandoned, the

landlord became suspicious, and communicated with the police. They

telephoned to the London police, who found my brother’s house shut up

and his whereabouts unknown. Thereupon the local police broke open the

box and found in it a woman’s left arm and a quantity of blood-stained

clothing. On which they caused the advertisement to be put in _The

Times_, and meanwhile they made certain inquiries. It appeared that my

brother had spent part of his time at Stoke Varley fishing in the

little river. On learning this, the police proceeded to dredge the

river, and presently they brought up a right arm--apparently the

fellow of the one found in the box--and a leg divided into three

parts, evidently a woman’s. Now, as to the arm found in the box, there

could be no question about its identity, for it bore a very distinct

tattooed inscription consisting of the initials R.M. above a heart

transfixed by an arrow, with the initials J.B. underneath. A few

inquiries elicited the fact that the woman, Rebecca Mings, who had

disappeared, bore such a tattooed mark on her left arm; and certain

persons who had known her, having been sworn to secrecy, were shown

the arm, and recognized the mark without hesitation. Further inquiries

showed that Rebecca Mings was last seen alive entering my brother’s

house, as I have described; and on this information, the police broke

into the house and searched it.”

“Do you know if they found anything?” Thorndyke asked.

“I don’t,” replied Chapman, “but I infer that they did. The police at

Stoke Varley were very courteous and kind, but they declined to give

any particulars about the visit to the house. However, we shall hear

at the inquest if they made any discoveries.”

“And is that all that you have to tell us?” asked Thorndyke.

“Yes,” was the reply, “and enough, too. I make no comment on my

brother’s story, and I won’t ask whether you believe it. I don’t

expect you to. The question is whether you would undertake the

defence. I suppose it isn’t necessary for a lawyer to be convinced of

his client’s innocence in order to convince the jury.”

“You are thinking of an advocate,” said Thorndyke. “I am not an

advocate, and I should not defend a man whom I believed to be guilty.

The most that I can do is to investigate the case. If the result of

the investigation is to confirm the suspicions against your brother, I

shall go no farther in the case. You will have to get an ordinary

criminal barrister to defend your brother. If, on the other hand, I

find reasonable grounds for believing him innocent, I will undertake

the defence. What do you say to that?”

“I’ve no choice,” replied Chapman; “and I suppose, if you find all the

evidence against him, the defence won’t matter much.”

“I am afraid that is so,” said Thorndyke. “And now there are one or

two questions to be cleared up. First, does your brother offer any

explanation of the presence of these remains in his box?”

“He supposes that somebody at the ‘Red Lion’ must have taken the

jewellery out and put the remains in. Anyone could get access to the

luggage-room by asking for the key at the office.”

“Well,” said Thorndyke, “that is conceivable. Then, as to the person

who might have made this exchange. Is there anyone who had any reason

for wishing to make away with deceased?”

“No,” replied Chapman. “Plenty of people disliked her, but no one but

my brother had any motive for getting rid of her.”

“You spoke of a man with whom she was on somewhat intimate terms.

There had been no quarrel or breach there, I suppose?”

“The man, Gamble, you mean. No, I should say they were the best of

friends. Besides, Gamble had no responsibilities in regard to her. He

could have dropped her whenever he was tired of her.”

“Do you know anything about him?” Thorndyke asked.

“Very little. He has been a rolling stone, and has been in all sorts

of jobs, I believe. He was in the New Zealand trade for some time and

dealt in all sorts of things--among others, in smoked human heads;

sold them to collectors and museums, I understand. So he would have

had some previous experience,” Chapman added with a faint grin.

“Not in dismemberment,” said Thorndyke. “Those will have been ancient

Maori heads--relics of the old head hunters. There are some in the

Hunterian Museum. But, as you say, there seems to be no motive in

Gamble’s case, even if there had been the opportunity; whereas, in

your brother’s case, there seems to have been both the motive and the

opportunity. I suppose your brother never threatened the deceased?”

“I am sorry to say he did,” replied Chapman. “On several occasions,

and before witnesses, too, he threatened to put her out of the way. Of

course he never meant it--he was really the mildest of men. But it was

a foolish thing to do and most unfortunate, as things have turned

out.”

“Well,” said Thorndyke, “I will look into the matter and let you know

what I think of it. It is unnecessary to remark that appearances are

not very encouraging.”

“No, I can see that,” said Chapman, rising and producing his

card-case. “But we must hope for the best.” He laid his card on the

table, and having shaken hands with us gloomily, took his departure.

“It doesn’t do to take things at their face value,” I remarked, when

he had gone; “but I don’t think we have ever had a more

hopeless-looking case. All it wants to complete it is the discovery of

remains in Chapman’s house.”

“In that respect,” said Thorndyke, “it may already be complete. But it

hardly wants that finishing touch. On the evidence that we have, any

jury would find a verdict of ‘guilty’ without leaving the box. The

only question for us is whether the face value of the evidence is its

real value. If it is, the defence will be a mere formality.”

“I suppose,” said I, “you will begin the investigation at Stoke

Varley?”

“Yes,” he replied. “We begin by checking the alleged facts. If they

are really as stated, we shall probably need to go no farther. And we

had better lose no time, as the remains may be moved into the

jurisdiction of a London coroner, and we ought to see everything _in

situ_ as far as possible. I suggest that we postpone the rest of

to-day’s business and start at once, taking Scotland Yard on the way

to get authority to inspect the remains and the premises.”

In a few minutes we were ready for the expedition. While Thorndyke

packed the “research-case” with the necessary instruments, I gave

instructions to our laboratory assistant, Polton, as to what was to be

done in our absence, and then, when we had consulted the time-table,

we set forth by way of the Embankment.

At Scotland Yard, on inquiring for our friend, Superintendent Miller,

we received the slightly unwelcome news that he was at Stoke Varley,

inquiring into the case. However, the authorization was given readily

enough, and, armed with this, we made our way to Charing Cross

Station, arriving there in good time to catch our train.

We had just given up our tickets and turned out into the pleasant

station approach of Stoke Varley when Thorndyke gave a soft chuckle. I

looked at him inquiringly, and he explained: “Miller has had a

telegram, and we are going to have facilities, with a little

supervision.” Following the direction of his glance, I now observed

the superintendent strolling towards us, trying to look surprised, but

achieving only a somewhat sheepish grin.

“Well, I’m sure, gentlemen!” he exclaimed. “This is an unexpected

pleasure. You don’t mean to say you are engaged in this treasure-trove

case?”

“Why not?” asked Thorndyke.

“Well, I’ll tell you why not,” replied Miller. “Because it’s no go.

You’ll only waste your time and injure your reputation. I may as well

let you know, in confidence, that we’ve been through Chapman’s house

in London. It wasn’t very necessary; but still, if there was a vacancy

in his coffin for one or two more nails, we’ve knocked them in.”

“What did you find in his house?” Thorndyke asked.

“We found,” replied Miller, “in a cupboard in his bedroom, a

good-sized bottle of hyoscine tablets, about two-thirds

full--one-third missing. No great harm in that; he might have taken

’em himself. But when we went down into the cellar, we noticed that

the place smelt--well, a bit graveyardy, so to speak. So we had a look

round. It was a stone-floored cellar, not very even, but so far as we

could see, none of the flagstones seemed to have been disturbed. We

didn’t want the job of digging the whole of them up, so I just filled

a bucket with water and poured it over the floor. Then I watched.

“In less than a minute one big flagstone near the middle went nearly

dry, while the water still stood on all the others. ‘What O!’ says I.

‘Loose earth underneath here.’ So we got a crow-bar and prised up that

big flag; and sure enough, underneath it we found a good-sized bundle

done up in a sheet. I won’t go into unpleasant particulars--not that

it would upset you, I suppose--but that bundle contained human

remains.”

“Any bones?” inquired Thorndyke.

“No. Mostly in’ards and some skin from the front of the body. We

handed them over to the Home Office experts, and they examined them

and made an analysis. Their report states that the remains are those

of a woman of about thirty-five--that was about Mings’ age--and that

the various organs contained a large quantity of hyoscine; more than

enough to have caused death. So there you are. If you are going to

conduct the defence, you won’t get much glory from it.”

“It is very good of you, Miller,” said Thorndyke, “to have given us

this private information. It is very helpful, though I have not

undertaken the defence. I have merely come down to check the facts and

see if there is any material for a defence. And I shall go through the

routine, as I am here. Where are the remains?”

“In the mortuary. I’ll show you the way, and as I happen to have the

key in my pocket, I can let you in.”

We passed through the outskirts of the village--gathering a small

train of stealthy followers, who dogged us to the door of the mortuary

and hungrily watched us as the superintendent let us in and locked the

door after us.

“There you are,” said Miller, indicating the slate table on which the

remains lay, covered by a sheet soaked in an antiseptic. “I’ve seen

all I want to see.” And he retired into a corner and lit his pipe.

The remnants of mortality, disclosed by the removal of the sheet, were

dreadfully suggestive of crime in its most brutal and horrible form,

but they offered little information. The dismemberment had been

manifestly rude and unskilful, and the remains were clearly those of a

woman of medium size and apparently in the prime of life. The

principal interest centred in the left arm, the waxen skin of which

bore a very distinct tattoo-mark, consisting of the initials R.M. over

a very symmetrical heart, transfixed by an arrow, beneath which were

the initials J.B. The letters were Roman capitals about half an inch

high, well-formed and finished with serifs, and the heart and arrow

quite well drawn. I looked reflectively at the device, standing out in

dull blue from its ivory-like background, and speculated vaguely as to

whom J.B. might have been and how many predecessors and successors he

had had. And then my interest waned, and I joined the superintendent

in the corner. It was a sordid case, and a conviction being a foregone

conclusion, it did not seem to call for further attention.

Thorndyke, however, seemed to think otherwise. But that was his way.

When he was engaged in an investigation he put out of his mind

everything that he had been told and began from the very beginning.

That was what he was doing now. He was inspecting these remains as if

they had been the remains of some unidentified person. He made, and

noted down, minute measurements of the limbs; he closely examined

every square inch of surface; he scrutinized each finger separately,

and then with the aid of his portable inking-plate and roller, took a

complete set of finger-prints. He measured all the dimensions of the

tattoo-marks with a delicate calliper-gauge, and then examined the

marks themselves, first with a common lens and then with the

high-power Coddington. The principles that he laid down in his

lectures at the hospital were: “Accept no statement without

verification; observe every fact independently for yourselves; and

keep an open mind.” And, certainly, no one ever carried out more

conscientiously his own precepts.

“Do you know, Dr. Jervis,” the superintendent whispered to me as

Thorndyke brought his Coddington to bear on the tattoo-marks, “I

believe this lens business is becoming a habit with the doctor. It’s

my firm conviction that if somebody were to blow up the Houses of

Parliament, he’d go and examine the ruins through a magnifying glass.

Just look at him poring over those tattooed letters that you could

read plainly twenty feet away!”

Meanwhile, Thorndyke, unconscious of these criticisms, placidly

continued his inspection. From the table, with its gruesome burden, he

transferred his attention to the box, which had been placed on a bench

by the window, examining it minutely inside and out; feeling with his

fingers the dark grey paint with which it was coated and the

white-painted initials, “S.C.,” on the lid, which he also measured

carefully. He even copied into his note-book the maker’s name, which

was stamped on a small brass label affixed to the inside of the lid,

and the name of the lock-maker, and inspected the screws which had

drawn from the wood when it was forced open. At length he put away his

note-book, closed the research-case and announced that he had

finished, adding the inquiry: “How do you get to the ‘Red Lion’ from

here?”

“It’s only a few minutes’ walk,” said Miller. “I’ll show you the way.

But you’re wasting your time, doctor, you are indeed. You see,” he

continued, when he had locked up the mortuary and pocketed the key,

“that suggestion of Chapman’s is ridiculous on the face of it. Just

imagine a man bringing a portmanteau full of human remains into the

luggage-room of a commercial hotel, opening it and opening another

man’s box, and swapping the contents of the one for the other with the

chance of one of the commercials coming in at any moment. Supposing

one of ’em had, what would he have had to say? ‘Hallo!’ says the

baggy, ‘you seem to have got somebody’s arm in your box.’ ‘So I have,’

says Chapman. ‘I expect it’s my wife’s. Careless woman! must have

dropped it in when she was packing the box.’ Bah! It’s a fool’s

explanation. Besides, how could he have got Chapman’s box open? We

couldn’t. It was a first-class lock. We had to break it open, but it

hadn’t been broken open before. No, sir, that cat won’t jump. Still,

you needn’t take my word for it. Here is the place, and here is Mr.

Butt, himself, standing at his own front door looking as pleasant as

the flowers in May, like the lump of sugar that you put in a fly-trap

to induce ’em to walk in.”

The landlord, who had overheard--without difficulty--the concluding

passage of Miller’s peroration, smiled genially; and when the purpose

of the visit had been explained, suggested a “modest quencher” in the

private parlour as an aid to conversation.

“I wanted,” said Thorndyke, waiving the suggestion of the “quencher,”

“to ascertain whether Chapman’s theory of an exchange of contents

could be seriously entertained.”

“Well, sir,” said the landlord, “the fact is that it couldn’t. That

room is a public room, and people may be popping in there at any time

all day. We don’t usually keep it locked. It isn’t necessary. We know

most of our customers, and the contents of the packages that are

stowed in the room are principally travellers’ samples of no

considerable value. The thing would have been impossible in the

daytime, and we lock the room up at night.”

“Have you had any strangers staying with you in the interval between

Chapman’s going away and the discovery of the remains?”

“Yes. There was a Mr. Doler; he had two cabin trunks and a uniform

case which went to the luggage-room. And then there was a lady, Mrs.

Murchison. She had a lot of stuff in there: a small, flat trunk, a

hat-box, and a big dress-basket--one of these great basket

pantechnicons that ladies take about with them. And there was another

gentleman--I forget his name, but you will see it in the visitors’

book--he had a couple of largish portmanteaux in there. Perhaps you

would like to see the book?”

“I should,” said Thorndyke; and when the book was produced and the

names of the guests pointed out, he copied the entries into his

note-book, adding the particulars of their luggage.

“And now, sir,” said Miller, “I suppose you won’t be happy until

you’ve seen the room itself?”

“Your insight is really remarkable, superintendent,” my colleague

replied. “Yes, I should like to see the room.”

There was little enough to see, however, when we arrived there. The

key was in the door, and the latter was not only unlocked but stood

ajar; and when we pushed it open and entered we saw a small room,

empty save for a collection of portmanteaux, trunks, and Gladstone

bags. The only noteworthy fact was that it was at the end of a

corridor, covered with linoleum, so that anyone inside would have a

few seconds’ notice of another person’s approach. But evidently that

would have been of little use in the alleged circumstances. For the

hypothetical criminal must have emptied Chapman’s box of the jewellery

before he could put the incriminating objects into it; so that, apart

from the latter, the arrival of an inopportune visitor would have

found him apparently in the act of committing a robbery. The

suggestion was obviously absurd.

“By the way,” said Thorndyke, as we descended the stairs, “where is

the central character of this drama--Chapman? He is not here, I

suppose?”

“Yes, he is,” replied Miller. “He is committed for trial, but we are

keeping him here until we know where the inquest is to be held. You

would probably like to have a few words with him? Well, I’ll take you

along to the police station and tell them who you are, and then

perhaps you would like to come back here and have some lunch or dinner

before you return to town.”

I warmly seconded the latter proposal, and the arrangement having been

made, we set forth for the police station, which we gathered from

Miller was incorporated with a small local prison. Here we were shown

into what appeared to be a private office, and presently a sergeant

entered, ushering in a man whom we at once recognized from his

resemblance to our client, Mr. George Chapman, disguised though it was

by his pallor, his unshaven face, and his air of abject misery. The

sergeant, having announced him by name, withdrew with the

superintendent and locked the door on the outside. As soon as we were

alone, Thorndyke rapidly acquainted the prisoner with the

circumstances of his brother’s visit and then continued:

“Now, Mr. Chapman, you want me to undertake your defence. If I do so,

I must have all the facts. If there is anything known to you that your

brother has not told me, I ask you to tell it to me without

reservation.”

Chapman shook his head wearily.

“I know nothing more than you know,” said he. “The whole affair is a

mystery that I can make nothing of. I don’t expect you to believe me.

Who would, with all this evidence against me? But I swear to God that

I know nothing of this abominable crime. When I brought that box down

here, it contained my stock of jewellery and nothing else; and after I

put it in the luggage-room, I never opened it.”

“Do you know of anybody who might have had a motive for getting rid of

Rebecca Mings?”

“Not a soul,” replied Chapman. “She led me the devil’s own life, but

she was popular enough with her own friends. And she was an attractive

woman in her way: a fine, well-built woman, rather big--she stood

five-feet-seven--with a good complexion and very handsome golden hair.

Such as her friends were--they were a shady lot--I think they were

fond of her, and I don’t believe she had any enemies.”

“Some hyoscine was found in your house,” said Thorndyke. “Do you know

anything about it?”

“Yes. I got it when I suffered from neuralgia. But I never took any.

My doctor heard about it and sent me to the dentist. The bottle was

never opened. It contained a hundred tablets.”

“And with regard to the box,” said Thorndyke. “Had you had it long?”

“Not very long. I bought it at Fletchers, in Holborn, about six months

ago.”

“And you have nothing more to tell us?”

“No,” he replied. “I wish I had;” and then, after a pause, he asked

with a wistful look at Thorndyke: “Are you going to undertake my

defence, sir? I can see that there is very little hope, but I should

like to be given just a chance.”

I glanced at Thorndyke, expecting at the most a cautious and

conditional reply. To my astonishment he answered:

“There is no need to take such a gloomy view of the case, Mr. Chapman.

I shall undertake the defence, and I think you have quite a fair

chance of an acquittal.”

On this amazing reply I reflected, not without some self-condemnation,

during our walk to the hotel and the meal that preceded our departure.

For it was evident that I had missed something vital. Thorndyke was a

cautious man and little given to making promises or forecasts of

results. He must have picked up some evidence of a very conclusive

kind; but what that evidence could be, I found it impossible to

imagine. The superintendent, too, was puzzled, I could see, for

Thorndyke made no secret of his intention to go on with the case. But

Miller’s delicate attempts to pump him came to nothing; and when he

had escorted us to the station and our train moved off, I could see

him standing on the platform, gently scratching the back of his head

and gazing speculatively at our retreating carriage.

As soon as we were clear of the station, I opened my attack.

“What on earth,” I demanded, “did you mean by giving that poor devil,

Chapman, hopes of acquittal? I can’t see that he has a dog’s chance.”

Thorndyke looked at me gravely.

“My impression is, Jervis,” he said, “that you have not kept an open

mind in this case. You have allowed yourself to fall under the

suggestive influence of the obvious; whereas the function of the

investigator is to consider the possible alternatives of the obvious

inference. And you have not brought your usual keen attention to bear

on the facts. If you had considered George Chapman’s statement

attentively, you would have noticed that it contained some very

curious and significant suggestions; and if you had examined those

dismembered remains critically, you would have seen that they

confirmed those suggestions in a very remarkable manner.”

“As to George Chapman’s statement,” said I, “the only suggestive point

that I recall is the reference to those Maori heads. But, as you,

yourself, pointed out, the dealers in those heads don’t do the

dismemberment.”

Thorndyke shook his head a little impatiently.

“Tut, tut, Jervis,” said he, “that isn’t the point at all. Any fool

can cut up a dead body as this one has been cut up. The point is that

that statement, carefully considered, yields a definite and consistent

alternative to the theory that Samuel Chapman killed this woman and

dismembered her body; and that alternative theory is supported by the

appearance of these remains. I think you will see the point if you

recall Chapman’s statement, and reflect on the possible bearing of the

various incidents that he described.”

In this, however, Thorndyke was unduly optimistic. I recalled the

statement completely enough, and reflected on it frequently and

profoundly during the next few days; but the more I thought of it the

more conclusive did the case against the accused appear.

Meanwhile, my colleague appeared to be taking no steps in the matter,

and I assumed that he was waiting for the inquest. It is true that,

when, on one occasion, he had accompanied me towards the City, and

leaving me in Queen Victoria Street disappeared into the premises of

Messrs. Burden Brothers, lock manufacturers, I was inclined to

associate his proceedings with his minute examination of the lock at

Stoke Varley. And, again, when our laboratory assistant, Polton, was

seen to issue forth, top-hatted and armed with an umbrella and an

attaché-case, I suspected some sort of “private inquiries,” possibly

connected with the case. But from Thorndyke I could get no information

at all. My tentative “pumpings” elicited one unvarying reply. “You

have the facts, Jervis. You heard George Chapman’s statement, and you

have seen the remains. Give me a reasonable theory and I will discuss

it with pleasure.” And that was how the matter remained. I had no

reasonable theory--other than that of the police--and there was

accordingly no discussion.

On a certain evening, a couple of days before the inquest--which had

been postponed in the hope that some further remains might be

discovered--I observed signs of an expected visitor: a small table

placed by the supernumerary arm-chair and furnished with a tray

bearing a siphon, a whisky-decanter and a box of cigars. Thorndyke

caught my inquiring glance at these luxuries, for which neither of us

had any use, and proceeded to explain.

“I have asked Miller to look in this evening--he is due now. I have

been working at this Chapman case, and as it is now complete, I

propose to lay my cards on the table.”

“Is that safe?” said I. “Supposing the police still go for a

conviction and try to forestall your evidence?”

“They won’t,” he replied. “They couldn’t. And it would be most

improper to let the case go for trial on a false theory. But here is

Miller; and a mighty twitter he is in, I have no doubt.”

He was. Without even waiting for the customary cigar, he plumped down

into the chair, and dragging a letter from his pocket, fixed a glare

of astonishment on my placid colleague.

“This letter of yours, sir,” said he, “is perfectly incomprehensible

to me. You say that you are prepared to put us in possession of the

facts of this Chapman case. But we are in possession of the facts

already. We are absolutely certain of a conviction. Let me remind you,

sir, of what those facts are. We have got a dead body which has been

identified beyond all doubt. Part of that body was found in a box

which is the property of Samuel Chapman, which was brought by him and

deposited by him at the ‘Red Lion’ Hotel. Another part of that body

was found in his dwelling-house. A supply of poison--an uncommon

poison, too--similar to that which killed the dead person, has also

been found in his house; and the dead body is that of a woman with

whom Chapman was known to be on terms of enmity and whom he has

threatened, in the presence of witnesses, to kill. Now, sir, what have

you got to say to those facts?”

Thorndyke regarded the agitated detective with a quiet smile. “My

comments, Miller,” said he, “can be put in a nut-shell. You have got

the wrong man, you have got the wrong box, and you have got the wrong

body.”

The superintendent was thunderstruck, and no wonder. So was I. As to

Miller, he drew himself forward until he was sitting on the extreme

edge of the chair, and for some moments stared at my impassive

colleague in speechless amazement. At length he burst out:

“But, my dear sir! This is sheer nonsense--at least, that’s what it

sounds like, though I know it can’t be. Let’s begin with the body. You

say it’s the wrong one.”

“Yes. Rebecca Mings was a biggish woman. Her height was

five-feet-seven. This woman was not more than five-feet-four.”

“Bah!” exclaimed Miller. “You can’t judge to an inch or two from parts

of a dismembered body. You are forgetting the tattoo-mark. That

clenches the identity beyond any possible doubt.”

“It does, indeed,” said Thorndyke. “That is the crucial evidence.

Rebecca Mings had a certain tattoo-mark on her left forearm. This

woman had not.”

“Had not!” shrieked Miller, coming yet farther forward on his chair.

(I expected, every moment, to see him sitting on the floor.) “Why, I

saw it; and so did you.”

“I am speaking of the woman, not of the body,” said Thorndyke. “The

mark that you saw was a post-mortem tattoo-mark. It was made after

death. But the fact that it was made after death is good evidence that

it was not there during life.”

“Moses!” exclaimed the superintendent. “This is a facer. Are you

perfectly sure it was done after death?”

“Quite sure. The appearance, through a powerful lens, is unmistakable.

Tattoo-marks are made, as you know, of course, by painting Indian ink

on the skin and pricking it in with fine needles. In the living skin

the needle wounds heal up at once and disappear, but in the dead skin

the needle-holes remain unclosed and can be easily seen with a lens.

In this case the skin had been well washed and the surface pressed

with some smooth object; but the holes were plainly visible and the

ink was still in them.”

“Well, I’m sure!” said Miller. “I never heard of tattooing a dead body

before.”

“Very few people have, I expect,” said Thorndyke. “But there is one

class of persons who know all about it: the persons who deal in Maori

heads.”

“Indeed?” queried Miller. “How does it concern them?”

“Those heads are usually elaborately tattooed, and the value of a head

depends on the quality of the tattooing. Now, when those heads became

objects of trade, the dealers conceived the idea of touching up

defective specimens by additional tattooing on the dead head, and from

this they proceeded to obtain heads which had no tattoo-marks, and

turn them into tattooed heads.”

“Well, to be sure,” said the superintendent, with a grin, “what wicked

men there are in the world, aren’t there, Dr. Jervis?”

I murmured a vague assent, but I was principally conscious of a desire

to kick myself for having failed to pick this invaluable clue out of

George Chapman’s statement.

“And now,” said Miller, “we come to the box. How do you know it is the

wrong one?”

“That,” replied Thorndyke, “is proved even more conclusively. The

original box was made by Fletchers, in Holborn. It was sold to

Chapman, and his initials painted on it, on the 9th of last April. I

have seen the entry in the day-book. The locks of these boxes are made

by Burden Brothers of Queen Victoria Street, and as they are quite

high-class locks each is given a registered number, which is stamped

on the lock. The number on the lock of the box that you have is 5007,

and Burden’s books show that it was made and sold to Fletchers about

the middle of July--the sale was dated the 13th. Therefore this cannot

be Chapman’s box.”

“Apparently not,” Miller agreed. “But whose box is it? And what has

become of Chapman’s box?”

“That,” replied Thorndyke, “was presumably taken away in Mrs.

Murchison’s dress-basket.”

“Then who the deuce is Mrs. Murchison?” demanded the superintendent.

“I should say,” replied Thorndyke, “that she was formerly known as

Rebecca Mings.”

“The deceased!” exclaimed Miller, falling back in his chair with a

guffaw. “My eye! What a lark it is! But she must have some sauce, to

walk off with the jewellery and leave her own dismembered remains in

exchange! By the way, whose remains are they?”

“We shall come to that presently,” Thorndyke answered. “Now we have to

consider the man you have in custody.”

“Yes,” agreed Miller, “we must settle about him. Of course if it isn’t

his box, and the body isn’t Mings’ body, that puts him out of it so

far. But there are those remains that we dug up in his cellar. What

about them?”

“That question,” replied Thorndyke, “will, I think, be answered by a

general review of the case. But I must remind you that if the box is

not Chapman’s, it is some other person’s; that is to say, that if

Chapman goes out of the case, as to the Stoke Varley incidents,

someone else comes in. So, if the body is not Mings’ body, it is some

other woman’s, and that other woman must have disappeared. And now let

us review the case as a whole.

“You know about the pocket-picking charge. It was obviously a false

charge, deliberately prepared by ‘planting’ the purse; that is, it was

a conspiracy. Now what was the object of this conspiracy? Clearly it

was to get Chapman out of the way while the boxes were exchanged at

Stoke Varley, and the remains deposited in the river and elsewhere.

Then who were the conspirators--other than the agent who planted the

purse?

“They--if there were more than one--must have had access to Mings,

dead or alive, in order to make the exact copy, or tracing, of her

tattoo-mark. They must have had some knowledge of the process of

post-mortem tattooing. They must have had access to Chapman’s house.

And, since they had in their possession the dead body of a woman, they

must have been associated with some woman who has disappeared.

“Who is there who answers this description? Well, of course, Mings had

access to herself, though she could hardly have taken a tracing from

her own arm, and she had access to Chapman’s house, since she had

possession of the latch-key. Then there is a man named Gamble, with

whom Mings was on terms of great intimacy. Now Gamble was formerly a

dealer in tattoed Maori heads, so he may be assumed to know something

about post-mortem tattooing. And I have ascertained that Gamble’s wife

has disappeared from her usual places of resort. So here are two

persons who, together, agree with the description of the conspirators.

And now let us consider the train of events in connexion with the

dates.

“On July the 29th Chapman came to town from Stoke Varley. On the 30th

he was arrested as a pickpocket. On the 31st he was committed for

trial. On the 2nd of August Mrs. Gamble went away to the country. No

one seems to have seen her go, but that is the date on which she is

reported to have gone. On August the 5th Mrs. Murchison deposited at

Stoke Varley a box which must have been purchased between the 13th of

July and the 4th of August, and which contained a woman’s arm. On the

14th of August that box was opened by the police. On the 18th human

remains were discovered in Chapman’s house. On the 27th Chapman was

released from Brixton. On the 28th he was arrested for murder at Stoke

Varley. I think, Miller, you will agree that that is a very striking

succession of dates.”

“Yes,” Miller agreed. “It looks like a true bill. If you will give me

Mr. Gamble’s address, I’ll call on him.”

“I’m afraid you won’t find him at home,” said Thorndyke. “He has gone

into the country, too; and I gather from his landlord, who holds a

returned cheque, that Mr. Gamble’s banking account has gone into the

country with him.”

“Then,” said the superintendent, “I suppose I must take a trip into

the country, too.”

“Well, Thorndyke,” I said, as I laid down the paper containing the

report of the trial of Gamble and Mings for the murder of Theresa

Gamble, one morning about four months later, “you ought to be very

highly gratified. After sentencing Gamble to death and Mings to

fifteen years’ penal servitude, the judge took the opportunity to

compliment the police on their ingenuity in unravelling this crime,

and the Home Office experts on their skill in detecting the

counterfeit tattoo-marks. What do you think of that?”

“I think,” replied Thorndyke, “that his lordship showed a very proper

and appreciative spirit.”

VII.

THE TRAIL OF BEHEMOTH

Of all the minor dissipations in which temperate men indulge there

is none, I think, more alluring than the after-breakfast pipe. I had

just lit mine and was standing before the fire with the unopened paper

in my hand when my ear caught the sound of hurried footsteps ascending

the stair. Now experience has made me somewhat of a connoisseur in

footsteps. A good many are heard on our stair, heralding the advent of

a great variety of clients, and I have learned to distinguish those

which are premonitory of urgent cases. Such I judged the present ones

to be, and my judgment was confirmed by a hasty, importunate tattoo on

our small brass knocker. Regretfully taking the much-appreciated pipe

from my mouth, I crossed the room and threw the door open.

“Good morning, Dr. Jervis,” said our visitor, a barrister whom I knew

slightly. “Is your colleague at home?”

“No, Mr. Bidwell,” I replied. “I am sorry to say he is out of town. He

won’t be back until the day after to-morrow.”

Mr. Bidwell was visibly disappointed.

“Ha! Pity!” he exclaimed; and then with quick tact he added: “But

still, you are here. It comes to the same thing.”

“I don’t know about that,” said I. “But, at any rate, I am at your

service.”

“Thank you,” said he. “And in that case I will ask you to come round

with me at once to Tanfield Court. A most shocking thing has happened.

My old friend and neighbour, Giles Herrington, has been--well, he is

dead--died suddenly, and I think there can be no doubt that he was

killed. Can you come now? I will give you the particulars as we go.”

I scribbled a hasty note to say where I had gone, and having laid it

on the table, got my hat and set forth with Mr. Bidwell.

“It has only just been discovered,” said he, as we crossed King’s

Bench Walk. “The laundress who does his chambers and mine was

battering at my door when I arrived--I don’t live in the Temple, you

know. She was as pale as a ghost and in an awful state of alarm and

agitation. It seems that she had gone up to Herrington’s chambers to

get his breakfast ready as usual; but when she went into the

sitting-room she found him lying dead on the floor. Thereupon she

rushed down to my chambers--I am usually an early bird--and there I

found her, as I said, battering at my door, although she has a key.

“Well, I went up with her to my friend’s chambers--they are on the

first floor, just over mine--and there, sure enough, was poor old

Giles lying on the floor, cold and stiff. Evidently he had been lying

there all night.”

“Were there any marks of violence on the body?” I asked.

“I didn’t notice any,” he replied, “but I didn’t look very closely.

What I did notice was that the place was all in disorder--a chair

overturned and things knocked off the table. It was pretty evident

that there had been a struggle and that he had not met his death by

fair means.”

“And what do you want us to do?” I asked.

“Well,” he replied, “I was Herrington’s friend; about the only friend

he had, for he was not an amiable or a sociable man; and I am the

executor of his will.

“Appearances suggest very strongly that he has been murdered, and I

take it upon myself to see that his murderer is brought to account.

Our friendship seems to demand that. Of course, the police will go

into the affair, and if it turns out to be all plain sailing, there

will be nothing for you to do. But the murderer, if there is one, has

got to be secured and convicted, and if the police can’t manage it, I

want you and Thorndyke to see the case through. This is the place.”

He hurried in through the entry and up the stairs to the first-floor

landing, where he rapped loudly at the closed “oak” of a set of

chambers above which was painted the name of “Mr. Giles Herrington.”

After an interval, during which Mr. Bidwell repeated the summons, the

massive door opened and a familiar face looked out: the face of

Inspector Badger of the Criminal Investigation Department. The

expression that it bore was not one of welcome, and my experience of

the inspector caused me to brace myself up for the inevitable contest.

“What is your business?” he inquired forbiddingly.

Mr. Bidwell took the question to himself and replied:

“I am Mr. Herrington’s executor, and in that capacity I have

instructed Dr. Jervis and his colleague, Dr. Thorndyke, to watch the

case on my behalf. I take it that you are a police officer?”

“I am,” replied Badger, “and I can’t admit any unauthorized persons to

these chambers.”

“We are not unauthorized persons,” said Mr. Bidwell. “We are here on

legitimate business. Do I understand that you refuse admission to the

legal representatives of the deceased man?”

In the face of Mr. Bidwell’s firm and masterful attitude, Badger

began, as usual, to weaken. Eventually, having warned us to convey no

information to anybody, he grudgingly opened the door and admitted us.

“I have only just arrived, myself,” he said. “I happened to be in the

porter’s lodge on other business when the laundress came and gave the

alarm.”

As I stepped into the room and looked round, I saw at a glance the

clear indications of a crime. The place was in the utmost disorder.

The cloth had been dragged from the table, littering the floor with

broken glass, books, a tobacco jar, and various other objects. A chair

sprawled on its back, the fender was dislodged from its position, the

hearth-rug was all awry; and in the midst of the wreckage, on the

space of floor between the table and the fireplace, the body of a man

was stretched in a not uneasy posture.

I stooped over him and looked him over searchingly; an elderly man,

clean-shaved and slightly bald, with a grim, rather forbidding

countenance, which was not, however, distorted or apparently unusual

in expression. There were no obvious injuries, but the crumpled state

of the collar caused me to look more closely at the throat and neck,

and I then saw pretty plainly a number of slightly discoloured marks,

such as would be made by fingers tightly grasping the throat.

Evidently Badger had already observed them, for he remarked:

“There’s no need to ask you what he died of, doctor; I can see that

for myself.”

“The actual cause of death,” said I, “is not quite evident. He doesn’t

appear to have died from suffocation, but those are very unmistakable

marks on the throat.”

“Uncommonly,” agreed Badger; “and they are enough for my purpose

without any medical hair-splittings. How long do you think he has been

dead?”

“From nine to twelve hours,” I replied, “but nearer nine, I should

think.”

The inspector looked at his watch.

“That makes it between nine o’clock and midnight, but nearer

midnight,” said he. “Well, we shall hear if the night porter has

anything to tell us. I’ve sent word for him to come over, and the

laundress, too. And here is one of ’em.”

It was, in fact, both of them, for when the inspector opened the door,

they were discovered conversing eagerly in whispers.

“One at a time,” said Badger. “I’ll have the porter in first;” and

having admitted the man, he unceremoniously shut the door on the

woman. The night porter saluted me as he came in--we were old

acquaintances--and then halted near the door, where he stood stiffly,

with his eyes riveted on the corpse.

“Now,” said Badger, “I want you to try to remember if you let in any

strangers last night, and if so, what their business was.”

“I remember quite well,” the porter replied. “I let in three strangers

while I was on duty. One was going to Mr. Bolter in Fig Tree Court,

one was going to Sir Alfred Blain’s chambers, and the third said he

had an appointment with Mr. Herrington.”

“Ha!” exclaimed Badger, rubbing his hands. “Now, what time did you let

him in?”

“It was just after ten-fifteen.”

“Can you tell us what he was like and how he was dressed?”

“Yes,” was the reply. “He didn’t know where Tanfield Court was, and I

had to walk down and show him, so I was able to have a good look at

him. He was a middle-sized man, rather thin, dark hair, small

moustache, no beard, and he had a long, sharp nose with a bump on the

bridge. He wore a soft felt hat, a loose light overcoat, and he

carried a thickish rough stick.”

“What class of man was he? Seem to be a gentleman?”

“He was quite a gentlemanly kind of man, so far as I could judge, but

he looked a bit shabby as to his clothes.”

“Did you let him out?”

“Yes. He came to the gate a few minutes before eleven.”

“And did you notice anything unusual about him then?”

“I did,” the porter replied impressively. “I noticed that his collar

was all crumpled and his hat was dusty and dented. His face was a bit

red, and he looked rather upset, as if he had been having a tussle

with somebody. I looked at him particularly and wondered what had been

happening, seeing that Mr. Herrington was a quiet, elderly gentleman,

though he was certainly a bit peppery at times.”

The inspector took down these particulars gleefully in a large

note-book and asked:

“Is that all you know of the affair?” And when the porter replied that

it was, he said: “Then I will ask you to read this statement and sign

your name below it.”

The porter read through his statement and carefully signed his name at

the foot. He was about to depart when Badger said:

“Before you go, perhaps you had better help us to move the body into

the bedroom. It isn’t decent to leave it lying there.”

Accordingly the four of us lifted the dead man and carried him into

the bedroom, where we laid him on the undisturbed bed and covered him

with a rug. Then the porter was dismissed, with instructions to send

in Mrs. Runt.

The laundress’s statement was substantially a repetition of what Mr.

Bidwell had told me. She had let herself into the chambers in the

usual way, had come suddenly on the dead body of the tenant, and had

forthwith rushed downstairs to give the alarm. When she had concluded,

the inspector stood for a few moments looking thoughtfully at his

notes.

“I suppose,” he said presently, “you haven’t looked round these

chambers this morning? Can’t say if there is anything unusual about

them, or anything missing?”

The laundress shook her head.

“I was too upset,” she said, with another furtive glance at the place

where the corpse had lain; “but,” she added, letting her eyes roam

vaguely round the room, “there doesn’t seem to be anything missing, so

far as I can see--wait! Yes, there is. There’s something gone from

that nail on the wall; and it was there yesterday morning, because I

remember dusting it.”

“Ha!” exclaimed Badger. “Now what was it that was hanging on that

nail?”

“Well,” Mrs. Runt replied hesitatingly, “I really don’t know what it

was. Seemed like a sort of sword or dagger, but I never looked at it

particularly, and I never took it off its nail. I used to dust it as

it hung.”

“Still,” said Badger, “you can give us some sort of description of it,

I suppose?”

“I don’t know that I can,” she replied. “It had a leather case, and

the handle was covered with leather, I think, and it had a sort of

loop, and it used to hang on that nail.”

“Yes, you said that before,” Badger commented sourly. “When you say it

had a case, do you mean a sheath?”

“You can call it a sheath if you like,” she retorted, evidently

ruffled by the inspector’s manner, “I call it a case.”

“And how big was it? How long, for instance?”

Mrs. Runt held out her hands about a yard apart, looked at them

critically, shortened the interval to a foot, extended it to two, and

still varying the distance, looked vaguely at the inspector.

“I should say it was about that,” she said.

“About what?” snorted Badger. “Do you mean a foot or two feet or a

yard? Can’t you give us some idea?”

“I can’t say no clearer than what I have,” she snapped. “I don’t go

round gentlemen’s chambers measuring the things.”

It seemed to me that Badger’s questions were rather unnecessary, for

the wall-paper below the nail gave the required information. A

coloured patch on the faded ground furnished a pretty clear silhouette

of a broad-bladed sword or large dagger, about two feet six inches

long, which had apparently hung from the nail by a loop or ring at the

end of the handle. But it was not my business to point this out. I

turned to Bidwell and asked:

“Can you tell us what the thing was?”

“I am afraid I can’t,” he replied. “I have very seldom been in these

chambers. Herrington and I usually met in mine and went to the club.

I have a dim recollection of something hanging on that nail, but I

have not the least idea what it was or what it was like. But do you

think it really matters? The thing was almost certainly a curio of

some kind. It couldn’t have been of any appreciable value. It is

absurd, on the face of it, to suppose that this man came to

Herrington’s chambers, apparently by appointment, and murdered him for

the sake of getting possession of an antique sword or dagger. Don’t

you think so?”

I did, and so, apparently, did the inspector, with the qualification

that “the thing seemed to have disappeared, and its disappearance

ought to be accounted for”; which was perfectly true, though I did not

quite see how the “accounting for” was to be effected. However, as the

laundress had told all that she knew, Badger gave her her dismissal

and she retired to the landing, where I noticed that the night porter

was still lurking. Mr. Bidwell also took his departure, and happening,

a few moments later, to glance out of the window, I saw him walking

slowly across the court, apparently conferring with the laundress and

the porter.

As soon as we were alone, Badger assumed a friendly and confidential

manner and proceeded to give advice.

“I gather that Mr. Bidwell wants you to investigate this case, but I

don’t fancy it is in your line at all. It is just a matter of tracing

that stranger and getting hold of him. Then we shall have to find out

what property there was on these premises. The laundress says that

there is nothing missing, but of course no one supposes that the man

came here to take the furniture. It is most probable that the motive

was robbery of some kind. There’s no sign of anything broken open; but

then, there wouldn’t be, as the keys were available.”

Nevertheless he prowled round the room, examining every receptacle

that had a lock and trying the drawers of the writing table and of

what looked like a file cabinet.

“You will have your work cut out,” I remarked, “to trace that man. The

porter’s description was pretty vague.”

“Yes,” he replied; “there isn’t much to go on. That’s where you come

in,” he added with a grin, “with your microscopes and air-pumps and

things. Now if Dr. Thorndyke was here he would just sweep a bit of

dust from the floor and collect any stray oddments and have a good

look at them through his magnifier, and then we should know all about

it. Can’t you do a bit in that line? There’s plenty of dust on the

floor. And here’s a pin. Wonderful significant thing is a pin. And

here’s a wax vesta; now, that ought to tell you quite a lot. And here

is the end of a leather boot-lace--at least, that is what it looks

like. That must have come out of somebody’s boot. Have a look at it,

doctor, and see if you can tell me what kind of boot it came out of

and whose boot it was.”

He laid the fragment, and the match, and the pin, on the table and

grinned at me somewhat offensively. Inwardly I resented his

impertinence--perhaps the more so since I realized that Thorndyke

would probably not have been so completely gravelled as I undoubtedly

was. But I considered it politic to take his clumsy irony in good

part, and even to carry on his elephantine joke. Accordingly, I picked

up the three “clues,” one after the other, and examined them gravely,

noting that the supposed boot-lace appeared to be composed of

whalebone or vulcanite.

“Well, inspector,” I said, “I can’t give you the answer off-hand.

There’s no microscope here. But I will examine these objects at my

leisure and let you have the information in due course.”

With that I wrapped them with ostentatious care in a piece of

note-paper and bestowed them in my pocket, a proceeding which the

inspector watched with a sour smile.

“I’m afraid you’ll be too late,” said he. “Our men will probably pick

up the tracks while you are doing the microscope stunt. However, I

mustn’t stay here any longer. We can’t do anything until we know what

valuables there were on the premises; and I must have the body removed

and examined by the police surgeon.”

He moved towards the door, and as I had no further business in the

rooms, I followed, and leaving him to lock up, I took my way back to

our chambers.

When Thorndyke returned to town a couple of days later, I mentioned

the case to him. But what Badger had said appeared to be true. It was

a case of ascertaining the identity of the stranger who had visited

the dead man on that fatal night, and this seemed to be a matter for

the police rather than for us. So the case remained in abeyance until

the evening following the inquest, when Mr. Bidwell called on us,

accompanied by a Mr. Carston, whom he introduced as an old friend of

his and of Herrington’s family.

“I have called,” he said, “to bring you a full report of the evidence

at the inquest. I had a shorthand writer there, and this is a typed

transcript of his notes. Nothing fresh transpired beyond what Dr.

Jervis knows and has probably told you, but I thought you had better

have all the information in writing.”

“There is no clue as to who the suspicious visitor was, I suppose?”

said Thorndyke.

“Not the slightest,” replied Bidwell. “The porter’s description is all

they have to go on, and of course it would apply to hundreds of

persons. But, in connexion with that, there is a question on which I

should like to take your opinion. Poor Herrington once mentioned to me

that he was subjected to a good deal of annoyance by a certain person

who from time to time applied to him for financial help. I gathered

that some sort of claim was advanced, and that the demands for money

were more or less of the nature of blackmail. Giles didn’t say who the

person was, but I got the impression that he was a relative. Now, my

friend Carston, who attended the inquest with me, noticed that the

porter’s description of the stranger would apply fairly well to a

nephew of Giles’s, whom he knows slightly and who is a somewhat shady

character; and the question that Carston and I have been debating is

whether these facts ought to be communicated to the police. It is a

serious matter to put a man under suspicion on such very slender data;

and yet----”

“And yet,” said Carston, “the facts certainly fit the circumstances.

This fellow--his name is Godfrey Herrington--is a typical

ne’er-do-weel. Nobody knows how he lives. He doesn’t appear to do any

work. And then there is the personality of the deceased. I didn’t know

Giles Herrington very well, but I knew his brother, Sir Gilbert,

pretty intimately, and if Giles was at all like him, a catastrophe

might easily have occurred.”

“What was Sir Gilbert’s special characteristic?” Thorndyke asked.

“Unamiability,” was the reply. “He was a most cantankerous,

overbearing man, and violent at times. I knew him when I was at the

Colonial Office with him, and one of his official acts will show the

sort of man he was. You may remember it, Bidwell--the Bekwè affair.

There was some trouble in Bekwè, which is one of the minor kingdoms

bordering on Ashanti, and Sir Gilbert was sent out as a special

commissioner to settle it. And settle it he did with a vengeance. He

took up an armed force, deposed the king of Bekwè, seized the royal

stool, message stick, state sword, drums, and the other insignia of

royalty, and brought them away with him. And what made it worse was

that he treated these important things as mere loot: kept some of them

himself and gave away others as presents to his friends.

“It was an intolerably high-handed proceeding, and it caused a rare

outcry. Even the Colonial Governor protested, and in the end the

Secretary of State directed the Governor to reinstate the king and

restore the stolen insignia, as these things went with the royal title

and were necessary for the ceremonies of re-instatement or the

accession of a new king.”

“And were they restored?” asked Bidwell.

“Most of them were. But just about this time Gilbert died, and as the

whereabouts of one or two of them were unknown, it was impossible to

collect them then. I don’t know if they have been found since.”

Here Thorndyke led Mr. Carston back to the point from which he had

digressed.

“You are suggesting that certain peculiarities of temper and

temperament on the part of the deceased might have some bearing on the

circumstances of his death.”

“Yes,” said Carston. “If Giles Herrington was at all like his

brother--I don’t know whether he was----” here he looked inquiringly

at Bidwell, who nodded emphatically.

“I should say he was, undoubtedly,” said he. “He was my friend, and I

was greatly attached to him; but to others, I must admit, he must have

appeared a decidedly morose, cantankerous, and irascible man.”

“Very well,” resumed Carston. “If you imagine this cadging,

blackmailing wastrel calling on him and trying to squeeze him, and

then you imagine Herrington refusing to be squeezed and becoming

abusive and even violent, you have a fair set of antecedents for--for

what, in fact, did happen.”

“By the way,” said Thorndyke, “what exactly did happen, according to

the evidence?”

“The medical evidence,” replied Bidwell, “showed that the immediate

cause of death was heart failure. There were marks of fingers on the

throat, as you know, and various other bruises. It was evident that

deceased had been violently assaulted, but death was not directly due

to the injuries.”

“And the finding of the jury?” asked Thorndyke.

“Wilful murder, committed by some person unknown.”

“It doesn’t appear to me,” said I, “that Mr. Carston’s suggestion has

much present bearing on the case. It is really a point for the

defence. But we are concerned with the identity of the unknown man.”

“I am inclined to agree with Dr. Jervis,” said Bidwell. “We have got

to catch the hare before we go into culinary details.”

“My point is,” said Carston, “that Herrington’s peculiar temper

suggests a set of circumstances that would render it probable that his

visitor was his nephew Godfrey.”

“There is some truth in that,” Thorndyke agreed. “It is highly

speculative, but a reasonable speculation cannot be disregarded when

the known facts are so few. My feeling is that the police ought to be

informed of the existence of this man and his possible relations with

the deceased. As to whether he is or is not the suspected stranger,

that could be settled at once if he were confronted with the night

porter.”

“Yes, that is true,” said Bidwell. “I think Carston and I had better

call at Scotland Yard and give the Assistant Commissioner a hint on

the subject. It will have to be a very guarded hint, of course.”

“Was the question of motive raised?” Thorndyke asked. “As to robbery,

for instance.”

“There is no evidence of robbery,” replied Bidwell. “I have been

through all the receptacles in the chambers, and everything seems

intact. The keys were in poor Giles’s pocket and nothing seems to have

been disturbed; indeed, it doesn’t appear that there was any portable

property of value on the premises.”

“Well,” said Thorndyke, “the first thing that has to be done is to

establish the identity of the nocturnal visitor. That is the business

of the police. And if you call and tell them what you have told us,

they will, at least, have something to investigate. They should have

no difficulty in proving either that he is or is not the man whom the

porter let in at the gate; and until they have settled that question,

there is no need for us to take any action.”

“Exactly,” said Bidwell, rising and taking up his hat. “If the police

can complete the case, there is nothing for us to do. However, I will

leave you the report of the inquest to look over at your leisure, and

will keep you informed as to how the case progresses.”

When our two friends had gone, Thorndyke sat for some time turning

over the sheets of the report and glancing through the depositions of

the witnesses. Presently he remarked:

“If it turns out that this man, Godfrey Herrington, is not the man

whom the porter let in, the police will be left in the air. Apart from

Bidwell’s purely speculative suggestion, there seems to be no clue

whatever to the visitor’s identity.”

“Badger would like to hear you say that,” said I. “He was very

sarcastic respecting our methods of research,” and here I gave him an

account of my interview with the inspector, including the “clues” with

which he had presented me.

“It was like his impudence,” Thorndyke commented smilingly, “to pull

the leg of my learned junior. Still, there was a germ of sense in what

he said. A collection of dust from the floor of that room, in which

two men had engaged in a violent struggle, would certainly yield

traces of both of them.”

“Mixed up with the traces of a good many others,” I remarked.

“True,” he admitted. “But that would not affect the value of a

positive trace of a particular individual. Supposing, for instance,

that Godfrey Herrington were known to have dyed hair; and suppose that

one or more dyed male hairs were found in the dust from the floor of

the room. That would establish a probability that he had been in that

room, and also that he was the person who had struggled with the

deceased.”

“Yes, I see that,” said I. “Perhaps I ought to have collected some of

the dust. But it isn’t too late now, as Bidwell has locked up the

chambers. Meanwhile, let me present you with Badger’s clues. They came

off the floor.”

I searched in my pocket and produced the paper packet, the existence

of which I had forgotten, and having opened it, offered it to him with

an ironical bow. He looked gravely at the little collection, and,

disregarding the pin and the match, picked out the third object and

examined it curiously.

“That is the alleged boot-lace end,” he remarked. “It doesn’t do much

credit to Badger’s powers of observation. It is as unlike leather as

it could well be.”

“Yes,” I agreed, “it is obviously whalebone or vulcanite.”

“It isn’t vulcanite,” said he, looking closely at the broken end and

getting out his pocket lens for a more minute inspection.

“What do you suppose it is?” I asked, my curiosity stimulated by the

evident interest with which he was examining the object.

“We needn’t suppose,” he replied. “I fancy that if we get Polton to

make a cross section of it, the microscope will tell us what it is. I

will take it up to him now.”

As he went out and I heard him ascending to the laboratory where our

assistant, Polton, was at work, I was conscious of a feeling of

vexation and a sense of failure. It was always thus. I had treated

this fragment with the same levity as had the inspector, just dropping

it into my pocket and forgetting it. Probably the thing was of no

interest or importance; but whether it was or not, Thorndyke would not

be satisfied until he knew for certain what it was. And that habit of

examining everything, of letting nothing pass without the closest

scrutiny, was one of the great secrets of his success as an

investigator.

When he came down again I re-opened the subject.

“It has occurred to me,” I said, “that it might be as well for us to

have a look at that room. My inspection was rather perfunctory, as

Badger was there.”

“I have just been thinking the same,” he replied. “If Godfrey is not

the man, and the police are left stranded, Bidwell will look to us to

take up the inquiry, and by that time the room may have been

disturbed. I think we will get the key from Bidwell to-morrow morning

and make a thorough examination. And we may as well adopt Badger’s

excellent suggestion respecting the dust. I will instruct Polton to

come over with us and bring a full-sized vacuum-cleaner, and we can go

over what he collects at our leisure.”

Agreeably to this arrangement, we presented ourselves on the following

morning at Mr. Bidwell’s chambers, accompanied by Polton, who,

however, being acutely conscious of the vacuum-cleaner which was

thinly disguised in brown paper, sneaked up the stairs and got out of

sight. Bidwell opened the door himself, and Thorndyke explained our

intentions to him.

“Of course you can have the key,” he said, “but I don’t know that it

is worth your while to go into the matter. There have been

developments since I saw you last night. When Carston and I called at

Scotland Yard we found that we were too late. Godfrey Herrington had

come forward and made a voluntary statement.”

“That was wise of him,” said Thorndyke, “but he would have been wiser

still to have notified the porter of what had happened and sent for a

doctor. He claims that the death was a misadventure, of course?”

“Not at all,” replied Bidwell. “He states that when he left, Giles was

perfectly well; so well that he was able to kick him--Godfrey--down

the stairs and pitch him out on to the pavement. It seems, according

to his account, that he called to try to get some financial help from

his uncle. He admits that he was rather importunate and persisted

after Giles had definitely refused. Then Giles got suddenly into a

rage, thrust him out of the chambers, ran him down the stairs, and

threw him out into Tanfield Court. It is a perfectly coherent story,

and quite probable up to a certain point, but it doesn’t account for

the bruises on Giles’s body or the finger-marks on his throat.”

“No,” agreed Thorndyke; “either he is lying, or he is the victim of

some very inexplicable circumstances. But I gather that you have no

further interest in the case?”

Bidwell reflected.

“Well,” he said, “I don’t know about that. Of course I don’t believe

him, but it is just possible that he is telling the truth. My feeling

is that, if he is guilty I want him convicted; but if by any chance he

is innocent--well, he is Giles’s nephew, and I suppose it is my duty

to see that he has a fair chance. Yes, I think I would like you to

watch the case independently--with a perfectly open mind, neither for

nor against. But I don’t see that there is much that you can do.”

“Neither do I,” said Thorndyke. “But one can observe and note the

visible facts, if there are any. Has anything been done to the rooms?”

“Nothing whatever,” was the reply. “They are just as Dr. Jervis and I

found them the morning after the catastrophe.”

With this he handed Thorndyke the key and we ascended to the landing,

where we found Polton on guard with the vacuum-cleaner, like a sentry

armed with some new and unorthodox weapon.

The appearance of the room was unchanged. The half-dislodged

table-cloth, the litter of broken glass on the floor, even the

displaced fender and hearth-rug, were just as I had last seen them.

Thorndyke looked about him critically and remarked:

“The appearances hardly support Godfrey’s statement. There was clearly

a prolonged and violent struggle, not a mere ejectment. And look at

the table-cloth. The uncovered part of the table is that nearest the

door, and most of the things have fallen off at the end nearest the

fireplace. Obviously, the body that dislodged the cloth was moving

away from the door, not towards it, which again suggests something

more than an unresisted ejectment.”

He again looked round, and his glance fell on the nail and the

coloured silhouette on the wall-paper.

“That, I presume,” said he, “is where the mysterious sword or dagger

hung. It is rather large for a dagger and somewhat wide for a sword,

though barbaric swords are of all shapes and sizes.”

He produced his spring tape and carefully measured the phantom shape

on the wall. “Thirty-one inches long,” he reported, “including the

loop at the end of the handle, by which it hung; seven and a half

inches at the top of the scabbard, tapering rather irregularly to

three inches at the tip. A curious shape. I don’t remember ever having

seen a sword quite like it.”

Meanwhile Polton, having picked up the broken glass and other objects,

had uncovered the vacuum-cleaner and now started the motor--which was

driven by an attached dry battery--and proceeded very systematically

to trundle the machine along the floor. At every two or three sweeps

he paused to empty the receiver, placing the grey, felt-like mass on a

sheet of paper, with a pencilled note of the part of the room from

whence it came. The size of these masses of felted dust and the

astonishing change in the colour of the carpet that marked the trail

of the cleaner, suggested that Mrs. Runt’s activities had been of a

somewhat perfunctory character. Polton’s dredgings apparently

represented the accumulations of years.

“Wonderful lot of hairs in this old dust,” Polton remarked as he

deposited a fresh consignment on the paper, “especially in this lot.

It came from under that looking-glass on the wall. Perhaps that

clothes brush that hangs under the glass accounts for it.”

“Yes,” I agreed, “they will be hairs brushed off Mr. Herrington’s

collar and shoulders. But,” I added, taking the brush from its nail

and examining it, “Mrs. Runt seems to have used the glass, too. There

are three long hairs still sticking to the brush.”

As Thorndyke was still occupied in browsing inquisitively round the

room, I proceeded to make a preliminary inspection of the heaps of

dust, picking out the hairs and other recognizable objects with my

pocket forceps, and putting them on a separate sheet of paper. Of the

former, the bulk were pretty obviously those of the late tenant--white

or dull black male hairs--but Mrs. Runt had contributed quite

liberally, for I picked out of the various heaps over a dozen long

hairs, the mousy brown colour of which seemed to identify them as

hers. The remainder were mostly ordinary male hairs of various

colours, eyebrow hairs and eyelashes, of no special interest, with one

exception. This was a black hair which lay flat on the paper in a

close coil, like a tiny watch-spring.

“I wonder who this negro was,” said I, inspecting it through my lens.

“Probably some African or West Indian Law student,” Thorndyke

suggested. “There are always a good many about the Inns of Court.”

He came round to examine my collection, and while he was viewing the

negro hair with the aid of my lens, I renewed my investigations of the

little dust-heaps. Presently I made a new discovery.

“Why,” I exclaimed, “here is another of Badger’s boot-laces--another

piece of the same one, I think. By the way, did you ascertain what

that boot-lace really was?”

“Yes,” he replied. “Polton made a section of it and mounted it; and

furthermore, he made a magnified photograph of it. I have the

photograph in my pocket, so you can answer your own question.”

He produced from his letter-case a half-plate print which he handed to

me and which I examined curiously.

“It is a singular object,” said I, “but I don’t quite make it out. It

looks rather like a bundle of hairs embedded in some transparent

substance.”

“That, in effect,” he replied, “is what it is. It is an elephant’s

hair, probably from the tail. But, as you see, it is a compound hair;

virtually a group of hairs agglutinated into a single stem. Most very

large hairs are compound. A tiger’s whiskers, for instance, are large,

stiff hairs which, if cut across, are seen to be formed of several

largish hairs fused together; and the colossal hair which grows on the

nose of the rhinoceros--the so-called nasal horn--is made up of

thousands of subordinate hairs.”

“It is a remarkable-looking thing,” I said, handing back the

photograph; “very distinctive--if you happen to know what it is. But

the mystery is how on earth it came here. There are no elephants in

the Temple.”

“I certainly haven’t noticed any,” he replied; “and, as you say, the

presence of an elephant’s hair in a room in the middle of London is a

rather remarkable circumstance. And yet, perhaps, if we consider all

the other circumstances, it may not be impossible to form a conjecture

as to how it came here. I recommend the problem to my learned friend

for consideration at his leisure; and now, as we have seen all that

there is to see--which is mighty little--we may as well leave Polton

to finish the collection of data from the floor. We can take your

little selection with us.”

He folded the paper containing the hairs that I had picked out into a

neat packet, which he slipped into his pocket; then, having handed the

key of the outer door to Polton, for return to Mr. Bidwell, he went

out and I followed. We descended the stairs slowly, both of us deeply

reflective. As to the subject of his meditations I could form no

opinion, but my own were occupied by the problem which he had

suggested; and the more I reflected on it, the less capable of

solution did it appear.

We had nearly reached the ground floor when I became aware of quick

footsteps descending the stairs behind us. Near the entry our follower

overtook us, and as we stood aside to let him pass, I had a brief

vision of a shortish, dapper, smartly-dressed coloured man--apparently

an African or West Indian--who carried a small suit-case and a set of

golf-clubs.

“Now,” said I, in a low tone, “I wonder if that gentleman is the late

owner of that negro hair that I picked up. It seems intrinsically

probable as he appears to live in this building, and would be a near

neighbour of Herrington’s.” I halted at the entry and read out the

only name painted on the door-post as appertaining to the second

floor--Mr. Kwaku Essien, which, I decided, seemed to fit a gentleman

of colour.

But Thorndyke was not listening. His long legs were already carrying

him, with a deceptively leisurely air, across Tanfield Court in the

wake of Mr. Essien, and at about the same pace. I put on a spurt and

overtook him, a little mystified by his sudden air of purpose and by

the fact that he was not walking in the direction of our chambers.

Still more mystified was I when it became clear that Thorndyke was

following the African and keeping at a constant distance in rear of

him; but I made no comment until, having pursued our quarry to the top

of Middle Temple Lane, we saw him hail a taxi and drive off. Then I

demanded an explanation.

“I wanted to see him fairly out of the precincts,” was the reply,

“because I have a particular desire to see what his chambers are like.

I only hope his door has a practicable latch.”