“The fact that you are asked to ascertain is that these two samples of
blood came from the same person. If there are any means of proving
that, they are unknown to me. I should have said it was an
impossibility.”
“Of course,” he rejoined, “you are quite right, speaking academically
and in general terms. No method of identifying the blood of individual
persons has hitherto been discovered. But yet I can imagine the
possibility, in particular and exceptional cases, of an actual,
personal identification by means of blood. What does my learned friend
think?”
“He thinks that his imagination is not equal to the required effort,”
I answered; and with that I picked up my brief bag and went forth to
my duties at the courts.
That Thorndyke would keep his promise to poor Lilian Markham was a
foregone conclusion, preposterous as the examination seemed. But even
my long experience of my colleague’s scrupulous conscientiousness had
not prepared me for the spectacle which met my eyes when I returned to
our chambers. On the table stood the microscope, flanked by three
slide-boxes. Each box held six trays, and each tray held six slides--a
hundred and eight slides in all!
But why three boxes? I opened one. The slides--carefully mounted
blood-films--were labelled “Joseph Riggs.” Those in the second box
were labelled, “Blood from hall floor.” But when I opened the third
box, I beheld a collection of empty slides labelled “Robert Fletcher”!
I chuckled aloud. Prodigious! Thorndyke was going even one better than
his promise. He was not only going to examine--probably had
examined--the two samples produced; he was actually going to collect a
third sample for himself!
I picked out one of Mr. Riggs’s slides and laid it on the stage of the
microscope. Thorndyke seemed to have been using a low-power
objective--the inch-and-a-half. After a glance through this, I swung
round the nose-piece to the high power. And then I got a further
surprise. The brightly-coloured “white” corpuscles showed that
Thorndyke had actually been to the trouble of staining the films with
eosin! Again I murmured, “Prodigious!” and put the slide back in its
box. For, of course, it showed just what one expected: blood--or
rather, broken-up blood-clot. From its appearance, I could not even
have sworn that it was human blood.
I had just closed the box when Thorndyke entered the room. His quick
eye at once noted the changed objective and he remarked:
“I see you have been having a look at the specimens.”
“A specimen,” I corrected. “Enough is as good as a feast.”
“Blessed are they who are easily satisfied,” he retorted; and then he
added: “I have altered my arrangements, though I needn’t interfere
with yours. I shall go down to Southaven to-night; in fact, I am
starting in a few minutes.”
“Why?” I asked.
“For several reasons. I want to make sure of the post-mortem to-morrow
morning, I want to pick up any further facts that are available, and
finally, I want to prepare a set of blood-films from Robert Fletcher.
We may as well make the series complete,” he added with a smile, to
which I replied by a broad grin.
“Really, Thorndyke,” I protested, “I’m surprised at you, at your age,
too. She is a nice girl, but she isn’t so beautiful as to justify a
hundred and eight blood-films.”
I accompanied him to the taxi, followed by Polton, who carried his
modest luggage, and then returned to speculate on his probable plan of
campaign. For, of course, he had one. His purposive, resolute manner
told me that he had seen farther into this case than I had. I accepted
that as natural and inevitable. Indeed, I may admit that my
disrespectful badinage covered a belief in his powers hardly second
even to old Brodribb’s. I was, in fact, almost prepared to discover
that those preposterous blood-films had, after all, yielded some
“illuminating fact” which had sent him hurrying down to Southaven in
search of corroboration.
When I alighted from the train on the following day at a little past
noon, I found him waiting on the platform, ready to conduct me to his
hotel for an early lunch.
“All goes well, so far,” he reported. “I attended the post-mortem, and
examined the wound thoroughly. The pistol was held in the right hand
not more than two inches from the head; probably quite close, for the
skin is scorched and heavily tattooed with black powder grains. I find
that Riggs was right-handed. So the prima facie probabilities are in
favour of suicide; and the recent loss of money suggests a reasonable
motive.”
“But what about that blood in the hall?”
“Oh, we have disposed of that. I completed the blood-film series last
night.”
I looked at him quickly to see if he was serious or only playing a
facetious return-shot. But his face was as a face of wood.
“You are an exasperating old devil, Thorndyke!” I exclaimed with
conviction. Then, knowing that cross-examination would be futile, I
asked:
“What are we going to do after lunch?”
“The inspector is going to show us over ‘the scene of the tragedy,’ as
the newspapers would express it.”
I noted gratefully that he had reserved this item for me, and
dismissed professional topics for the time being, concentrating my
attention on the old-world, amphibious streets through which we were
walking. There is always something interesting in the aspect of a
sea-port town, even if it is only a small one like Southaven.
The inspector arrived with such punctuality that he found us still at
the table and was easily induced to join us with a cup of coffee and
to accept a cigar--administered by Thorndyke, as I suspected, with the
object of hindering conversation. I could see that his interest in my
colleague was intense and not unmingled with awe, a fact which, in
conjunction with the cigar, restrained him from any undue
manifestations of curiosity, but not from continuous, though furtive,
observation of my friend. Indeed, when we arrived at the late Mr.
Riggs’s house, I was secretly amused by the close watch that he kept
on Thorndyke’s movements, unsensational as the inspection turned out
to be.
The house, itself, presented very little of interest excepting its
picturesque, old-world exterior, which fronted on a quiet by-street
and was furnished with a deep bay-window, which--as Thorndyke
ascertained--commanded a clear view of the street from end to end. It
was a rather shabby, neglected little house, as might have been
expected, and our examination of it yielded, so far as I could see,
only a single fact of any significance: which was that there appeared
to be no connexion whatever between the blood-stain on the study floor
and the train of large spots from the middle of the hall to the street
door. And on this piece of evidence--definitely unfavourable from our
point of view--Thorndyke concentrated his attention when he had made a
preliminary survey.
Closely followed by the watchful inspector, he browsed round the
little room, studying every inch of the floor between the blood-stain
and the door. The latter he examined minutely from top to bottom,
especially as to the handle, the jambs, and the lintel. Then he went
out into the hall, scrutinizing the floor inch by inch, poring over
the walls and even looking behind the framed prints that hung on them.
A reflector lamp suspended by a nail on the wall received minute and
prolonged attention, as did also a massive lamp-hook screwed into one
of the beams of the low ceiling, of which Thorndyke remarked as he
stooped to pass under it, that it must have been fixed there by a
dwarf.
“Yes,” the inspector agreed, “and a fool. A swinging lamp hung on that
hook would have blocked the whole fairway. There isn’t too much room
as it is. What a pity we weren’t a bit more careful about footprints
in this place. There are plenty of tracks of wet feet here on this
oil-cloth; faint, but you could have made them out all right if they
hadn’t been all on top of one another. There’s Mr. Foxley’s, the
girl’s, mine, and the men who carried out the body, but I’m hanged if
I can tell which is which. It’s a regular mix up.”
“Yes,” I agreed, “it is all very confused. But I notice one rather odd
thing. There are several faint traces of a large right foot, but I
can’t see any sign of the corresponding left foot. Can you?”
“Perhaps this is it,” said Thorndyke, pointing to a large, vague oval
mark. “I have noticed that it seems to occur in some sort of connexion
with the big right foot; but I must admit that it is not a very
obvious footprint.”
“I shouldn’t have taken it for a footprint at all, or at any rate, not
a human footprint. It is more like the spoor of some big animal.”
“It is,” Thorndyke agreed; “but whatever it is, it seems to have been
here before any of the others arrived. You notice that wherever it
occurs, it seems to have been trodden on by some of the others.”
“Yes, I had noticed that, and the same is true of the big right foot,
so it seems probable that they are connected, as you say. But I am
hanged if I can make anything of it. Can you, inspector?”
The inspector shook his head. He could not recognize the mark as a
footprint, but he could see very plainly that he had been a fool not
to have taken more care to protect the floor.
When the examination of the hall was finished, Thorndyke opened the
door and looked at the big, flat doorstep.
“What was the weather like, here, on Wednesday evening?” he asked.
“Showery,” the inspector replied; “and there were one or two heavy
showers during the night. You were noticing that there are no
blood-tracks on the doorstep. But there wouldn’t be in any case; for
if a man had come out of this door dropping blood, the blood would
have dropped on wet stone and got washed away at once.”
Thorndyke admitted the truth of this; and so another item of
favourable evidence was extinguished. The overwhelming probability
that the blood in the hall was that of some person other than the
deceased remained undisturbed; and I could not see that a single fact
had been elicited by our inspection of the house that was in any way
helpful to our client. Indeed, it appeared to me that there was
absolutely no case for the defence, and I even asked myself whether we
were not, in fact, merely trying to fudge up a defence for an
obviously guilty man. It was not like Thorndyke to do that. But how
did the case stand? There was a suggestion of suicide, but a clear
possibility of homicide. There was strong evidence that a second
person had been in the house, and that person appeared to have
received a wound. But a wound suggested a struggle; and the servant’s
evidence was to the effect that when she left the house a violent
altercation was in progress. The deceased was never again seen alive;
and the other party to the quarrel had been found with property of the
dead man in his possession. Moreover, there was a clear motive for the
crime, stupid as that crime was. For the dead man had threatened to
revoke his will; but as he had presumably not done so, his death left
the will still operative. In short, everything pointed to the guilt of
our client, Robert Fletcher.
I had just reached this not very gratifying conclusion when a
statement of Thorndyke’s shattered my elaborate summing up into
impalpable fragments.
“I suppose, sir,” said the inspector, “there isn’t anything that you
would care to tell us, as you are for the defence. But we are not
hostile to Fletcher. In fact, he hasn’t been charged. He is only being
detained in custody until we have heard what turns up at the inquest.
I know you have examined that blood that Mr. Foxley took, and
Fletcher’s blood, too, and you’ve seen the premises. We have given all
the facilities that we could, and if you could give us any sort of
hint that might be useful--well, I should be very much obliged.”
Thorndyke reflected for a few moments. Then he replied:
“There is no reason for secrecy in regard to you, inspector, who have
been so helpful and friendly, so I will be quite frank. I have
examined both samples of blood and Fletcher’s, and I have inspected
the premises, and what I am able to say definitely is this: the blood
in the hall is not the blood of the deceased----”
“Ah!” exclaimed the inspector, “I was afraid it wasn’t.”
“And it is not the blood of Robert Fletcher.”
“Isn’t it now! Well, I am glad to hear that.”
“Moreover,” continued Thorndyke, “it was shed well after nine o’clock
at night, probably not earlier than midnight.”
“There, now!” the inspector exclaimed, with an admiring glance at
Thorndyke, “just think of that. See what it is to be a man of science!
I suppose, sir, you couldn’t give us any sort of description of the
person who dropped that blood in the hall?”
Staggered as I had been by Thorndyke’s astonishing statements, I could
not repress a grin at the inspector’s artless question. But the grin
faded rather abruptly as Thorndyke replied in matter-of-fact tones:
“A detailed description is, of course, impossible. I can only sketch
out the probabilities. But if you should happen to meet with a
negro--a tall negro with a bandaged head or a contused wound of the
scalp and a swollen leg--you had better keep your eye on him. The leg
which is swollen is probably the left.”
The inspector was thrilled; and so was I, for that matter. The thing
was incredible; but yet I knew that Thorndyke’s amazing deductions
were the products of perfectly orthodox scientific methods. Only I
could form no sort of guess as to how they had been arrived at. A
negro’s blood is no different from any other person’s, and certainly
affords no clue to his height or the condition of his legs. I could
make nothing of it; and as the dialogue and the inspector’s
note-takings brought us to the little town hall in which the inquest
was to be held, I dismissed the puzzle until such time as Thorndyke
chose to solve it.
When we entered the town hall we found everything in readiness for the
opening of the proceedings. The jury were already in their places and
the coroner was just about to take his seat at the head of the long
table. We accordingly slipped on to the two chairs that were found for
us by the inspector, and the latter took his place behind the jury and
facing us. Near to him Mr. Foxley and Miss Markham were seated, and
evidently hailed our arrival with profound relief, each of them
smiling us a silent greeting. A professional-looking man sitting next
to Thorndyke I assumed to be the medical witness, and a rather
good-looking young man who sat apart with a police constable I
identified as Robert Fletcher.
The evidence of the “common” witnesses who deposed to the general
facts, told us nothing that we did not already know, excepting that it
was made clear that Fletcher had left his uncle’s house not later than
seven o’clock and that thereafter until the following morning his
whereabouts were known. The medical witness was cautious, and kept an
uneasy eye on Thorndyke. The wound which caused the death of deceased
might have been inflicted by himself or by some other person. He had
originally given the probable time of death as six or seven o’clock on
Wednesday evening. He now admitted--in reply to a question from
Thorndyke--that he had not taken the temperature of the body, and that
the rigidity and other conditions were not absolutely inconsistent
with a considerably later time of death. Death might even have
occurred after midnight.
In spite of this admission, however, the sum of the evidence tended
strongly to implicate Fletcher, and one or two questions from jurymen
suggested a growing belief in his guilt. I had no doubt whatever that
if the case had been put to the jury at this stage, a unanimous
verdict of “wilful murder” would have been the result. But, as the
medical witness returned to his seat, the coroner fixed an inquisitive
eye on Thorndyke.
“You have not been summoned as a witness, Dr. Thorndyke,” said he,
“but I understand that you have made certain investigations in this
case. Are you able to throw any fresh light on the circumstances of
the death of the deceased, Joseph Riggs?”
“Yes,” Thorndyke replied. “I am in a position to give important and
material evidence.”
Thereupon he was sworn, and the coroner, still watching him curiously,
said:
“I am informed that you have examined samples of the blood of deceased
and the blood which was found in the hall of deceased’s house. Did you
examine them, and if so, what was the object of the examination?”
“I examined both samples and also samples of the blood of Robert
Fletcher. The object was to ascertain whether the blood on the hall
floor was the blood of the deceased or of Robert Fletcher.”
The coroner glanced at the medical witness, and a faint smile appeared
on the face of each.
“And did you,” the former asked in a slightly ironical tone, “form any
opinion on the subject?”
“I ascertained definitely that the blood in the hall was neither that
of the deceased nor that of Robert Fletcher.”
The coroner’s eyebrows went up, and once more he glanced significantly
at the doctor.
“But,” he demanded incredulously, “is it possible to distinguish the
blood of one person from that of another?”
“Usually it is not, but in certain exceptional cases it is. This
happened to be an exceptional case.”
“In what respect?”
“It happened,” Thorndyke replied, “that the person whose blood was
found in the hall suffered from the parasitic disease known as
filariasis. His blood was infested with swarms of a minute worm named
_Filaria nocturna_. I have here,” he continued, taking out of his
research-case the two bottles and the three boxes, “thirty-six mounted
specimens of this blood, and in every one of them one or more of the
parasites is to be seen. I have also thirty-six mounted specimens each
of the blood of the deceased and the blood of Robert Fletcher. In not
one of these specimens is a single parasite to be found. Moreover, I
have examined Robert Fletcher and the body of the deceased, and can
testify that no sign of filarial disease was to be discovered in
either. Hence it is certain that the blood found in the hall was not
the blood of either of these two persons.”
The ironic smile had faded from the coroner’s face. He was evidently
deeply impressed, and his manner was quite deferential as he asked:
“Do these very remarkable observations of yours lead to any further
inferences?”
“Yes,” replied Thorndyke. “They render it certain that this blood was
shed not earlier than nine o’clock and probably nearer midnight.”
“Really!” the astonished coroner exclaimed. “Now, how is it possible
to fix the time in that exact manner?”
“By inference from the habits of the parasite,” Thorndyke explained.
“This particular filaria is distributed by the mosquito, and its
habits are adapted to the habits of the mosquito. During the day, the
worms are not found in the blood; they remain hidden in the tissues of
the body. But about nine o’clock at night they begin to migrate from
the tissues into the blood, and remain in the blood during the hours
when the mosquitoes are active. Then, about six o’clock in the
morning, they leave the blood and migrate back into the tissues.
“There is another very similar species--_Filaria diurna_--which has
exactly opposite habits, adapted to day-flying suctorial insects. It
appears in the blood about eleven in the forenoon and goes back into
the tissues about six o’clock in the evening.”
“Astonishing!” exclaimed the coroner. “Wonderful! By the way, the
parasites that you found could not, I suppose, have been _Filaria
diurna_?”
“No,” Thorndyke replied. “The time excludes that possibility. The
blood was certainly shed after six. They were undoubtedly _nocturna_,
and the large numbers found suggest a late hour. The parasites come
out of the tissues very gradually, and it is only about midnight that
they appear in the blood in really large numbers.”
“That is very important,” said the coroner. “But does this disease
affect any particular class of persons?”
“Yes,” Thorndyke replied. “As the disease is confined to tropical
countries, the sufferers are naturally residents of the tropics, and
nearly always natives. In West Africa, for instance, it is common
among the negroes but practically unknown among the white residents.”
“Should you say that there is a distinct probability that this unknown
person was a negro?”
“Yes. But apart from the filariæ, there is direct evidence that he
was. Searching for some cause of the bleeding, I noticed a lamp-hook
screwed into the ceiling and low enough to strike a tall man’s head. I
examined it closely, and observed on it a dark, shiny mark, like a
blood-smear, and one or two short coiled hairs which I recognized as
the scalp-hairs of a negro. I have no doubt that the unknown man is a
negro, and that he has a wound of the scalp.”
“Does filarial disease produce any effects that can be recognized?”
“Frequently it does. One of the commonest effects produced by _Filaria
nocturna_, especially among negroes, is the condition known as
elephantiasis. This consists of an enormous swelling of the
extremities, most usually of one leg, including the foot; whence the
name. The leg and foot look like those of an elephant. As a matter of
fact, the negro who was in the hall suffered from elephantiasis of the
left leg. I observed prints of the characteristically deformed foot on
the oil-cloth covering the floor.”
Thorndyke’s evidence was listened to with intense interest by everyone
present, including myself. Indeed, so spell-bound was his audience
that one could have heard a pin drop; and the breathless silence
continued for some seconds after he had ceased speaking. Then, in the
midst of the stillness, I heard the door creak softly behind me.
There was nothing particularly significant in the sound. But its
effects were amazing. Glancing at the inspector, who faced the door, I
saw his eyes open and his jaw drop until his face was a very mask of
astonishment. And as this expression was reflected on the faces of the
jurymen, the coroner and everyone present, excepting Thorndyke, whose
back was towards the door, I turned to see what had happened. And then
I was as astonished as the others.
The door had been pushed open a few inches and a head thrust in--a
negro’s head, covered with a soiled and blood-stained rag forming a
rough bandage. As I gazed at the black, shiny, inquisitive face, the
man pushed the door farther open and shuffled into the room; and
instantly there arose on all sides a soft rustle and an inarticulate
murmur followed by breathless silence, while every eye was riveted on
the man’s left leg.
It certainly was a strange, repulsive-looking member, its monstrous
bulk exposed to view through the slit trouser and its great shapeless
foot--shoeless, since no shoe could have contained it--rough and horny
like the foot of an elephant. But it was tragic and pitiable, too; for
the man, apart from this horrible excrescence, was a fine, big,
athletic-looking fellow.
The coroner was the first to recover. Addressing Thorndyke, but
keeping an eye on the negro, he said:
“Your evidence, then, amounts to this: On the night of Joseph Riggs’s
death, there was a stranger in the house. That stranger was a negro,
who seems to have wounded his head and who, you say, had a swelled
left leg.”
“Yes,” Thorndyke admitted, “that is the substance of my evidence.”
Once more a hush fell on the room. The negro stood near the door,
rolling his eyes to and fro over the assembly as if uneasily conscious
that everyone was looking at him. Suddenly, he shuffled up to the foot
of the table and addressed the coroner in deep, buzzing, resonant
tones.
“You tink I kill dat ole man! I no kill um. He kill himself. I look
um.”
Having made this statement, he rolled his eyes defiantly round the
court, and then turned his face expectantly towards the coroner, who
said:
“You say you know that Mr. Riggs killed himself?”
“Yas. I look um. He shoot himself. You tink I shoot um. I tell you I
no shoot um. Why I fit kill this man? I no sabby um.”
“Then,” said the coroner, “if you know that he killed himself, you
must tell us all that you know; and you must swear to tell us the
truth.”
“Yas,” the negro agreed, “I tell you eberyting one time. I tell you de
troof. Dat ole man kill himself.”
When the coroner had explained to him that he was not bound to make
any statement that would incriminate him, as he still elected to give
evidence, he was sworn and proceeded to make his statement with
curious fluency and self-possession.
“My name Robert Bruce. Dat my English name. My country name Kwaku
Mensah. I live for Winnebah on de Gold Coast. Dis time I cook’s mate
for dat steamer _Leckie_. On Wednesday night I lay in my bunk. I no
fit sleep. My leg he chook me. I look out of de porthole. Plenty moon
live. In my country when de moon big, peoples walk about. So I get up.
I go ashore to walk about de town. Den de rain come. Plenty rain. Rain
no good for my sickness. So I try for open house doors. No fit. All
doors locked. Den I come to dis ole man’s house. I turn de handle. De
door open. I go in. I look in one room. All dark. Nobody live. Den I
look annudder room. De door open a little. Light live inside. I no
like dat. I tink, spose somebody come out and see me, he tink I come
for teef someting. So I tink I go away.
“Den someting make ‘Ping!’ same like gun. I hear someting fall down in
dat room. I go to de door and I sing out, ‘Who live in dere?’ Nobody
say nutting. So I open de door and look in. De room full ob smoke. I
look dat ole man on de floor. I look dat pistol. I sabby dat ole man
kill himself. Den I frighten too much. I run out. De place all dark.
Someting knock my head. He make blood come plenty. I go back for ship.
I no say nutting to nobody. Dis day I hear peoples talk ’bout dis
inquess to find out who kill dat ole man. So I come to hear what
peoples say. I hear dat gentleman say I kill dat ole man. So I tell
you eberyting. I tell you de troof. Finish.”
“Do you know what time it was when you came ashore?” the coroner
asked.
“Yas. When I come down de ladder I hear eight bells ring. I get back
to de ship jus’ before dey ring two bells in de middle watch.”
“Then you came ashore at midnight and got back just before one
o’clock?”
“Yas. Dat is what I say.”
A few more questions put by the coroner having elicited nothing fresh,
the case was put briefly to the jury.
“You have heard the evidence, gentlemen, and most remarkable evidence
it was. Like myself, you must have been deeply impressed by the
amazing skill with which Dr. Thorndyke reconstructed the personality
of the unknown visitor to that house, and even indicated correctly the
very time of the visit, from an examination of a mere chance
blood-stain. As to the statement of Kwaku Mensah, I can only say that
I see no reason to doubt its truth. You will note that it is in
complete agreement with Dr. Thorndyke’s evidence, and it presents no
inconsistencies or improbabilities. Possibly the police may wish to
make some further inquiries, but for our purposes it is the evidence
of an eyewitness, and as such must be given full weight. With these
remarks, I leave you to consider your verdict.”
The jury took but a minute or two to deliberate. Indeed, only one
verdict was possible if the evidence was to be accepted, and that was
agreed on unanimously--suicide whilst temporarily insane. As soon as
it was announced, the inspector, formally and with congratulations,
released Fletcher from custody, and presently retired in company with
the negro to make a few inquiries on board the ship.
The rising of the court was the signal for a wild demonstration of
enthusiasm and gratitude to Thorndyke. To play his part efficiently in
that scene he would have needed to be furnished, like certain
repulsive Indian deities, with an unlimited outfit of arms. For
everyone wanted to shake his hand, and two of them--Mr. Foxley and
Miss Markham--did so with such pertinacity as entirely to exclude the
other candidates.
“I can never thank you enough,” Miss Markham exclaimed, with swimming
eyes, “if I should live to be a hundred. But I shall think of you with
gratitude every day of my life. Whenever I look at Robert, I shall
remember that his liberty, and even his life, are your gifts.”
Here she was so overcome by grateful emotion that she again seized and
pressed his hand. I think she was within an ace of kissing him; but
being, perhaps, doubtful how he would take it, compromised by kissing
Robert instead. And, no doubt, it was just as well.
IX.
GLEANINGS FROM THE WRECKAGE
There was a time, and not so very long ago, when even the main
streets of London, after midnight, were as silent as--not the grave;
that is an unpleasant simile. Besides, who has any experience of
conditions in the grave? But they were nearly as silent as the streets
of a village. Then the nocturnal pedestrian could go his way
encompassed and soothed by quiet, which was hardly disturbed by the
rumble of a country wagon wending to market or the musical tinkle of
the little bells on the collar of the hansom-cab horse sedately
drawing some late reveller homeward.
Very different is the state of those streets nowadays. Long after the
hour when the electric trams have ceased from troubling and the motor
omnibuses are at rest, the heavy road transport from the country
thunders through the streets; the air is rent by the howls of the
electric hooter, and belated motor-cyclists fly past, stuttering
explosively like perambulant Lewis guns with an inexhaustible charge.
“Let us get into the by-streets,” said Thorndyke, as a car sped past
us uttering sounds suggestive of a dyspeptic dinosaur. “We don’t want
our conversation seasoned with mechanical objurgations. In the
back-streets it is still possible to hear oneself speak and forget the
march of progress.”
We turned into a narrow by-way with the confidence of the born and
bred Londoner in the impossibility of losing our direction, and began
to thread the intricate web of streets in the neighbourhood of a
canal.
“It is a remarkable thing,” Thorndyke resumed anon, “that every new
application of science seems to be designed to render the environment
of civilized man more and more disagreeable. If the process goes much
farther, as it undoubtedly will, we shall presently find ourselves
looking back wistfully at the Stone-age as the golden age of human
comfort.”
At this point his moralizing was cut short by a loud, sharp explosion.
We both stopped and looked about from the parapet of the bridge that
we were crossing.
“Quite like old times,” Thorndyke remarked. “Carries one back to 1915,
when friend Fritz used to call on us. Ah! There is the place; the top
story of that tall building across the canal.” He pointed as he spoke
to a factory-like structure, from the upper windows of which a lurid
light shone and rapidly grew brighter.
“It must be down the next turning,” said I, quickening my pace. But he
restrained me, remarking: “There is no hurry. That was the sound of
high explosive, and those flames suggest nitro compounds burning.
_Festina lente._ There may be some other packets of high explosives.”
He had hardly finished speaking when a flash of dazzling violet light
burst from the burning building. The windows flew out bodily, the roof
opened in places, and almost at the same moment the clang of a violent
explosion shook the ground under our feet, a puff of wind stirred our
hair, and then came a clatter of falling glass and slates.
We made our way at a leisurely pace towards the scene of the
explosion, through streets lighted up by the ruddy glare from the
burning factory. But others were less cautious. In a few minutes the
street was filled by one of those crowds which, in London, seem
mysteriously to spring up in an instant where but a moment before not
a person was to be seen. Before we had reached the building, a
fire-engine had rumbled past us, and already a sprinkling of policemen
had appeared as if, like the traditional frogs, they had dropped from
the clouds.
In spite of the ferocity of its outbreak, the fire seemed to be no
great matter, for even as we looked and before the fire-hose was fully
run out, the flames began to die down. Evidently, they had been dealt
with by means of extinguishers within the building, and the services
of the engine would not be required after all. Noting this flat ending
to what had seemed so promising a start, we were about to move off and
resume our homeward journey when I observed a uniformed inspector who
was known to us, and who, observing us at the same instant, made his
way towards us through the crowd.
“You remind me, sir,” said he, when he had wished us good evening, “of
the stories of the vultures that make their appearance in the sky from
nowhere when a camel drops dead in the desert. I don’t mean anything
uncomplimentary,” he hastened to add. “I was only thinking of the
wonderful instinct that has brought you to this very spot at this
identical moment, as if you had smelt a case afar off.”
“Then your imagination has misled you,” said Thorndyke, “for I haven’t
smelt a case, and I don’t smell one now. Fires are not in my
province.”
“No, sir,” replied the inspector, “but bodies are, and the fireman
tells me that there is a dead man up there--or at least the remains of
one. I am going up to inspect. Do you care to come up with me?”
Thorndyke considered for a moment, but I knew what his answer would
be, and I was not mistaken.
“As a matter of professional interest, I should,” he replied, “but I
don’t want to be summoned as a witness at the inquest.”
“Of course you don’t, sir,” the inspector agreed, “and I will see that
you are not summoned, unless an expert witness is wanted. I need not
mention that you have been here; but I should be glad of your opinion
for my own guidance in investigating the case.”
He led us through the crowd to the door of the building, where we were
joined by a fireman--whose helmet I should have liked to borrow--by
whom we were piloted up the stairs. Half-way up we met the
night-watchman, carrying an exhausted extinguisher and a big electric
lantern, and he joined our procession, giving us the news as we
ascended.
“It’s all safe up above,” said he, “excepting the roof; and that isn’t
so very much damaged. The big windows saved it. They blew out and let
off the force of the explosion. The floor isn’t damaged at all. It’s
girder and concrete. But poor Mr. Manford caught it properly. He was
fairly blown to bits.”
“Do you know how it happened?” the inspector asked.
“I don’t,” was the reply. “When I came on duty Mr. Manford was up
there in his private laboratory. Soon afterwards a friend of his--a
foreign gentleman of the name of Bilsky--came to see him. I took him
up, and then Mr. Manford said he had some business to do, and after
that he had got a longish job to do and would be working late. So he
said I might turn in and he would let me know when he had finished.
And he did let me know with a vengeance, poor chap! I lay down in my
clothes, and I hadn’t been asleep above a couple of hours when some
noise woke me up. Then there came a most almighty bang. I rushed for
an extinguisher and ran upstairs, and there I found the big laboratory
all ablaze, the windows blown out and the ceiling down. But it wasn’t
so bad as it looked. There wasn’t very much stuff up there; only the
experimental stuff, and that burned out almost at once. I got the rest
of the fire out in a few minutes.”
“What stuff is it that you are speaking of?” the inspector asked.
“Celluloid, mostly, I think,” replied the watchman. “They make films
and other celluloid goods in the works. But Mr. Manford used to do
experiments in the material up in his laboratory. This time he was
working with alloys, melting them on the gas furnace. Dangerous thing
to do with all that inflammable stuff about. I don’t know what there
was up there, exactly. Some of it was celluloid, I could see by the
way it burned, but the Lord knows what it was that exploded. Some of
the raw stuff, perhaps.”
At this point we reached the top floor, where a door blown off its
hinges and a litter of charred wood fragments filled the landing.
Passing through the yawning doorway, we entered the laboratory and
looked on a hideous scene of devastation. The windows were mere holes,
the ceiling a gaping space fringed with black and ragged lathing,
through which the damaged roof was visible by the light of the
watchman’s powerful lantern. The floor was covered with the fallen
plaster and fragments of blackened woodwork, but its own boards were
only slightly burnt in places, owing, no doubt, to their being
fastened directly to the concrete which formed the actual floor.
“You spoke of some human remains,” said the inspector.
“Ah!” said the watchman, “you may well say ‘remains.’ Just come here.”
He led the way over the rubbish to a corner of the laboratory, where
he halted and threw the light of his lantern down on a brownish,
dusty, globular object that lay on the floor half buried in plaster.
“That’s all that’s left of poor Mr. Manford; that and a few other odd
pieces. I saw a hand over the other side.”
Thorndyke picked up the head and placed it on the blackened remnant of
a bench, where, with the aid of the watchman’s lantern and the
inspection lamp which I produced from our research-case, he examined
it curiously. It was extremely, but unequally, scorched. One ear was
completely shrivelled, and most of the face was charred to the bone.
But the other ear was almost intact; and though most of the hair was
burned away to the scalp, a tuft above the less-damaged ear was only
singed, so that it was possible to see that the hair had been black,
with here and there a stray white hair.
Thorndyke made no comments, but I noticed that he examined the
gruesome object minutely, taking nothing for granted. The inspector
noticed this, too; and when the examination was finished, looked at
him inquiringly.
“Anything abnormal, sir?” he asked.
“No,” replied Thorndyke; “nothing that is not accounted for by fire
and the explosion. I see he had no natural teeth, so he must have worn
a complete set of false teeth. That should help in the formal
identification, if the plates are not completely destroyed.”
“There isn’t much need for identification,” said the watchman, “seeing
that there was nobody in the building but him and me. His friend went
away about half-past twelve. I heard Mr. Manford let him out.”
“The doctor means at the inquest,” the inspector explained. “Somebody
has got to recognize the body if possible.”
He took the watchman’s lantern, and throwing its light on the floor,
began to search among the rubbish. Very soon he disinterred from under
a heap of plaster the headless trunk. Both legs were attached, though
the right was charred below the knee and the foot blown off, and one
complete arm. The other arm--the right--was intact only to the elbow.
Here, again, the burning was very unequal. In some parts the clothing
had been burnt off or blown away completely; in others, enough was
left to enable the watchman to recognize it with certainty. One leg
was much more burnt than the other; and whereas the complete arm was
only scorched, the dismembered one was charred almost to the bone.
When the trunk had been carried to the bench and laid there beside the
head, the lights were turned on it for Thorndyke to make his
inspection.
“It almost seems,” said the police officer, as the hand was being
examined, “as if one could guess how he was standing when the
explosion occurred. I think I can make out finger-marks--pretty dirty
ones, too--on the back of the hand, as if he had been standing with
his hands clasped together behind him while he watched something that
he was experimenting with.” The inspector glanced for confirmation at
Thorndyke, who nodded approvingly.
“Yes,” he said, “I think you are right. They are very indistinct, but
the marks are grouped like fingers. The small mark near the wrist
suggests a little finger, and the separate one near the knuckle looks
like a fore-finger, while the remaining two marks are close together.”
He turned the hand over and continued: “And there, in the palm, just
between the roots of the third and fourth fingers, seems to be the
trace of a thumb. But they are all very faint. You have a quick eye,
inspector.”
The gratified officer, thus encouraged, resumed his explorations among
the debris in company with the watchman--the fireman had retired after
a professional look round--leaving Thorndyke to continue his
examination of the mutilated corpse, at which I looked on
unsympathetically. For we had had a long day and I was tired and
longing to get home. At length I drew out my watch, and with a
portentous yawn, entered a mild protest.
“It is nearly two o’clock,” said I. “Don’t you think we had better be
getting on? This really isn’t any concern of ours, and there doesn’t
seem to be anything in it, from our point of view.”
“Only that we are keeping our intellectual joints supple,” Thorndyke
replied with a smile. “But it _is_ getting late. Perhaps we had better
adjourn the inquiry.”
At this moment, however, the inspector discovered the missing
forearm--completely charred--with the fingerless remains of the hand,
and almost immediately afterwards the watchman picked up a dental
plate of some white metal, which seemed to be practically uninjured.
But our brief inspection of these objects elicited nothing of
interest, and having glanced at them, we took our departure, avoiding
on the stairs an eager reporter, all agog for “copy.”
A few days later we received a visit, by appointment from a Mr.
Herdman, a solicitor who was unknown to us and who was accompanied by
the widow of Mr. James Manford, the victim of the explosion. In the
interval the inquest had been opened but had been adjourned for
further examination of the premises and the remains. No mention had
been made of our visit to the building, and so far as I knew nothing
had been said to anybody on the subject.
Mr. Herdman came to the point with business-like directness.
“I have called,” he said, “to secure your services, if possible, in
regard to the matter of which I spoke in my letter. You have probably
seen an account of the disaster in the papers?”
“Yes,” replied Thorndyke. “I read the report of the inquest.”
“Then you know the principal facts. The inquest, as you know, was
adjourned for three weeks. When it is resumed, I should like to retain
you to attend on behalf of Mrs. Manford.”
“To watch the case on her behalf?” Thorndyke suggested.
“Well, not exactly,” replied Herdman. “I should ask you to inspect the
premises and the remains of poor Mr. Manford, so that, at the
adjourned inquest, you could give evidence to the effect that the
explosion and the death of Mr. Manford were entirely due to accident.”
“Does anyone say that they were not?” Thorndyke asked.
“No, certainly not,” Mr. Herdman replied hastily. “Not at all. But I
happened, quite by chance, to see the manager of the ‘Pilot’ Insurance
Society, on another matter, and I mentioned the case of Mr. Manford.
He then let drop a remark which made me slightly uneasy. He observed
that there was a suicide clause in the policy, and that the
possibility of suicide would have to be ruled out before the claim
could be settled. Which suggested a possible intention to contest the
claim.”
“But,” said Thorndyke, “I need not point out to you that if he sets up
the theory of suicide, it is for him to prove it, not for you to
disprove it. Has anything transpired that would lend colour to such a
suggestion?”
“Nothing material,” was the reply. “But we should feel more happy if
you could be present and give positive evidence that the death was
accidental.”
“That,” said Thorndyke, “would be hardly possible. But my feeling is
that the suicide question is negligible. There is nothing to suggest
it, so far as I know. Is there anything known to you?”
The solicitor glanced at his client and replied somewhat evasively:
“We are anxious to secure ourselves. Mrs. Manford is left very badly
off, unless there is some personal property that we don’t know about.
If the insurance is not paid, she will be absolutely ruined. There
isn’t enough to pay the debts. And I think the suicide question might
be raised--even successfully--on several points. Manford had been
rather queer lately: jumpy and rather worried. Then, he was under
notice to terminate his engagement at the works. His finances were in
a confused state; goodness knows why, for he had a liberal salary. And
then there was some domestic trouble. Mrs. Manford had actually
consulted me about getting a separation. Some other woman, you know.”
“I should like to forget that,” said Mrs. Manford; “and it wasn’t that
which worried him. Quite the contrary. Since it began he had been
quite changed. So smart in his dress and so particular in his
appearance. He even took to dyeing his hair. I remember that he opened
a fresh bottle of dye the very morning before his death and took no
end of trouble putting it on. It wasn’t that entanglement that made
him jumpy. It was his money affairs. He had too many irons in the
fire.”
Thorndyke listened with patient attention to these rather irrelevant
details and inquired: “What sort of irons?”
“I will tell you,” said Herdman. “About three months ago he had need
for two thousand pounds; for what purpose, I can’t say, but Mrs.
Manford thinks it was to invest in certain valuables that he used to
purchase from time to time from a Russian dealer named Bilsky. At any
rate, he got this sum on short loan from a Mr. Clines, but meanwhile
arranged for a longer loan with a Mr. Elliott on a note of hand and an
agreement to insure his life for the amount.
“As a matter of fact, the policy was made out in Elliott’s name, he
having proved an insurable interest. So if the insurance is paid,
Elliott is settled with. Otherwise the debt falls on the estate, which
would be disastrous; and to make it worse, the day before his death,
he drew out five hundred pounds--nearly the whole balance--as he was
expecting to see Mr. Bilsky, who liked to be paid in bank-notes. He
did see him, in fact, at the laboratory, but they couldn’t have done
any business, as no jewels were found.”
“And the bank-notes?”
“Burned with the body, presumably. He must have had them with him.”
“You mentioned,” said Thorndyke, “that he occasionally bought jewels
from this Russian. What became of them?”
“Ah!” replied Herdman, “there is a gleam of hope there. He had a safe
deposit somewhere. We haven’t located it yet, but we shall. There may
be quite a nice little nest-egg in it. But meanwhile there is the debt
to Elliott. He wrote to Manford about it a day or two ago. You have
the letter, I think,” he added, addressing Mrs. Manford, who thereupon
produced two envelopes from her handbag and laid them on the table.
“This is Mr. Elliott’s letter,” she said. “Merely a friendly reminder,
you see, telling him that he is just off to the continent and that he
has given his wife a power of attorney to act in his absence.”
Thorndyke glanced through the letter and made a few notes of its
contents. Then he looked inquiringly at the other envelope.
“That,” said Mrs. Manford, “is a photograph of my husband. I thought
it might help you if you were going to examine the body.”
As Thorndyke drew the portrait out and regarded it thoughtfully, I
recalled the shapeless, blackened fragments of its subject; and when
he passed it to me I inspected it with a certain grim interest, and
mentally compared it with those grisly remains. It was a commonplace
face, rather unsymmetrical--the nose was deflected markedly to the
left, and the left eye had a pronounced divergent squint. The bald
head, with an abundant black fringe and an irregular scar on the right
side of the forehead, sought compensation in a full beard and
moustache, both apparently jet-black. It was not an attractive
countenance, and it was not improved by a rather odd-shaped ear--long,
lobeless, and pointed above, like the ear of a satyr.
“I realize your position,” said Thorndyke, “but I don’t quite see what
you want of me. If,” he continued, addressing the solicitor, “you had
thought of my giving _ex parte_ evidence, dismiss the idea. I am not a
witness-advocate. All I can undertake to do is to investigate the case
and try to discover what really happened. But in that case, whatever I
may discover I shall disclose to the coroner. Would that suit you?”
The lawyer looked doubtful and rather glum, but Mrs. Manford
interposed, firmly:
“Why not? We are not proposing any deception, but I am certain that he
did not commit suicide. Yes, I agree unreservedly to what you
propose.”
With this understanding--which the lawyer was disposed to boggle
at--our visitors took their leave. As soon as they were gone, I gave
utterance to the surprise with which I had listened to Thorndyke’s
proposal.
“I am astonished at your undertaking this case. Of course, you have
given them fair warning, but still, it will be unpleasant if you have
to give evidence unfavourable to your client.”
“Very,” he agreed. “But what makes you think I may have to?”
“Well, you seem to reject the probability of suicide, but have you
forgotten the evidence at the inquest?”
“Perhaps I have,” he replied blandly. “Let us go over it again.”
I fetched the report from the office, and spreading it out on the
table began to read it aloud. Passing over the evidence of the
inspector and the fireman, I came to that of the night-watchman.
“Shortly after I came on duty at ten o’clock, a foreign gentleman
named Bilsky called to see Mr. Manford. I knew him by sight, because
he had called once or twice before at about the same time. I took him
up to the laboratory, where Mr. Manford was doing something with a big
crucible on the gas furnace. He told me that he had some business to
transact with Mr. Bilsky and when he had finished he would let him
out. Then he was going to do some experiments in making alloys, and as
they would probably take up most of the night he said I might as well
turn in. He said he would call me when he was ready to go. So I told
him to be careful with the furnace and not set the place on fire and
burn me in my bed, and then I went downstairs. I had a look round to
see that everything was in order, and then I took off my boots and
laid down. About half-past twelve I heard Mr. Manford and Bilsky come
down. I recognized Mr. Bilsky by a peculiar cough that he had and by
the sound of his stick and his limping tread--he had something the
matter with his right foot and walked quite lame.”
“You say that the deceased came down with him,” said the coroner. “Are
you quite sure of that?”
“Well, I suppose Mr. Manford came down with him, but I can’t say I
actually heard him.”
“You did not hear him go up again?”
“No, I didn’t. But I was rather sleepy and I wasn’t listening very
particular. Well, then I went to sleep and slept till about half-past
one, when some noise woke me. I was just getting up to see what it was
when I heard a tremendous bang, right overhead. I ran down and turned
the gas off at the main and then I got a fire extinguisher and ran up
to the laboratory. The place seemed to be all in a blaze, but it
wasn’t much of a fire after all, for by the time the fire engines
arrived I had got it practically out.”
The witness then described the state of the laboratory and the finding
of the body, but as this was already known to us, I passed on to the
evidence of the next witness, the superintendent of the fire brigade,
who had made a preliminary inspection of the premises. It was a
cautious statement and subject to the results of a further
examination; but clearly the officer was not satisfied as to the cause
of the outbreak. There seemed to have been two separate explosions,
one near a cupboard and another--apparently the second--in the
cupboard itself; and there seemed to be a burned track connecting the
two spots. This might have been accidental or it might have been
arranged. Witness did not think that the explosive was celluloid. It
seemed to be a high explosive of some kind. But further investigations
were being made.
The superintendent was followed by Mrs. Manford, whose evidence was
substantially similar to what she and Mr. Herdman had told us, and by
the police surgeon, whose description of the remains conveyed nothing
new to us. Finally, the inquest was adjourned for three weeks to allow
of further examination of the premises and the remains.
“Now,” I said, as I folded up the report, “I don’t see how you are
able to exclude suicide. If the explosion was arranged to occur when
Manford was in the laboratory, what object, other than suicide, can be
imagined?”
Thorndyke looked at me with an expression that I knew only too well.
“Is it impossible,” he asked, “to imagine that the object might have
been homicide?”
“But,” I objected, “there was no one there but Manford--after Bilsky
left.”
“Exactly,” he agreed, dryly; “after Bilsky left. But up to that time
there were two persons there.”
I must confess that I was startled, but as I rapidly reviewed the
circumstances I perceived the cogency of Thorndyke’s suggestion.
Bilsky had been present when Manford dismissed the night-watchman. He
knew that there would be no interruption. The inflammable and
explosive materials were there, ready to his hand. Then Bilsky had
gone down to the door alone instead of being conducted down and let
out; a very striking circumstance, this. Again, no jewels had been
found, though the meeting had been ostensibly for the purpose of a
deal; and the bank-notes had vanished utterly. This was very
remarkable. In view of the large sum, it was nearly certain that the
notes would be in a close bundle, and we all know how difficult it is
to burn tightly-folded paper. Yet they had vanished without leaving a
trace. Finally, there was Bilsky himself. Who was he? Apparently a
dealer in stolen property--a hawker of the products of robbery and
murder committed during the revolution.
“Yes,” I admitted, “the theory of homicide is certainly tenable. But
unless some new facts can be produced, it must remain a matter of
speculation.”
“I think, Jervis,” he rejoined, “you must be overlooking the facts
that are known to us. We were there. We saw the place within a few
minutes of the explosion and we examined the body. What we saw
established a clear presumption of homicide, and what we have heard
this morning confirms it. I may say that I communicated my suspicions
the very next day to the coroner and to Superintendent Miller.”
“Then you must have seen more than I did,” I began. But he shook his
head and cut short my protestations.
“You saw what I saw, Jervis, but you did not interpret its meaning.
However, it is not too late. Try to recall the details of our
adventure and what our visitors have told us. I don’t think you will
then entertain the idea of suicide.”
I was about to put one or two leading questions, but at this moment
footsteps became audible ascending our stairs. The knock which
followed informed me that our visitor was Superintendent Miller, and I
rose to admit him.
“Just looked in to report progress,” he announced as he subsided into
an arm-chair. “Not much to report, but what there is supports your
view of the case. Bilsky has made a clean bolt. Never went home to his
hotel. Evidently meant to skedaddle, as he has left nothing of any
value behind. But it was a stupid move, for it would have raised
suspicion in any case. The notes were a consecutive batch. All the
numbers are known, but, of course, none of them have turned up yet. We
have made inquiries about Bilsky, and gather that he is a shady
character; practically a fence who deals in the jewellery stolen from
those unfortunate Russian aristocrats. But we shall have him all
right. His description has been circulated at all the seaports, and he
is an easy man to spot with his lame foot and his stick and a finger
missing from his right hand.”
Thorndyke nodded, and seemed to reflect for a moment. Then he asked:
“Have you made any other inquiries?”
“No; there is nothing more to find out until we get hold of our man,
and when we do, we shall look to you to secure the conviction. I
suppose you are quite certain as to your facts?”
Thorndyke shook his head with a smile.
“I am never certain until after the event. We can only act on
probabilities.”
“I understand,” said the superintendent, casting a sly look at me;
“but your probabilities are good enough for me.”
With this, he picked up his hat and departed, leaving us to return to
the occupations that our visitors had interrupted.
I heard no more of the Manford case for about a week, and assumed that
Thorndyke’s interest in it had ceased. But I was mistaken, as I
discovered when he remarked casually one evening:
“No news of Bilsky, so far; and time is running on. I am proposing to
make a tentative move in a new direction.” I looked at him
inquiringly, and he continued: “It appears, ‘from information
received,’ that Elliott had some dealings with him, so I propose to
call at his house to-morrow and see if we can glean any news of the
lost sheep.”
“But Elliott is abroad,” I objected.
“True; but his wife isn’t; and she evidently knows all about his
affairs. I have invited Miller to come with me in case he would like
to put any questions; and you may as well come, too, if you are free.”
It did not sound like a very thrilling adventure, but one never knew
with Thorndyke. I decided to go with him, and at that the matter
dropped, though I speculated a little curiously on the source of the
information. So, apparently, had the superintendent, for when he
arrived on the following morning he proceeded to throw out a few
cautious feelers, but got nothing for his pains beyond vague
generalities.
“It is a purely tentative proceeding,” said Thorndyke, “and you
mustn’t be disappointed if nothing comes of it.”
“I shall be, all the same,” replied Miller, with a sly glance at my
senior, and with this we set forth on our quest.
The Elliotts’ house was, as I knew, in some part of Wimbledon, and
thither we made our way by train. From the station we started along a
wide, straight main street from which numbers of smaller streets
branched off. At the corner of one of these I noticed a man standing,
apparently watching our approach; and something in his appearance
seemed to me familiar. Suddenly he took off his hat, looked curiously
into its interior, and put it on again. Then he turned about and
walked quickly down the side street. I looked at his retreating figure
as we crossed the street, wondering who he could be. And then it
flashed upon me that the resemblance was to a certain ex-sergeant
Barber whom Thorndyke occasionally employed for observation duties.
Just as I reached this conclusion, Thorndyke halted and looked about
him doubtfully.
“I am afraid we have come too far,” said he. “I fancy we ought to have
gone down that last turning.”
We accordingly faced about and walked back to the corner, where
Thorndyke read out the name, Mendoza Avenue.
“Yes,” he said, “this is the way,” and we thereupon turned down the
Avenue, following it to the bottom, where it ended in a cross-road,
the name of which, Berners Park, I recognized as that which I had seen
on Elliott’s letter.
“Sixty-four is the number,” said Thorndyke, “so as this corner house
is forty-six and the next is forty-eight, it will be a little way
along on this side, just about where you can see that smoke--which, by
the way, seems to be coming out of a window.”
“Yes, by Jove!” I exclaimed. “The staircase window, apparently. Not
our house, I hope!”
But it was. We read the number and the name, “Green Bushes,” on the
gate as we came up to it, and we hurried up the short path to the
door. There was no knocker, but when Miller fixed his thumb on the
bell-push, we heard a loud ringing within. But there was no response;
and meanwhile the smoke poured more and more densely out of the open
window above.
“Rum!” exclaimed Miller, sticking to the bell-push like a limpet.
“House seems to be empty.”
“I don’t think it is,” Thorndyke replied calmly.
The superintendent looked at him with quick suspicion, and then
glanced at the ground-floor window.
“That window is unfastened,” said he, “and here comes a constable.”
Sure enough, a policeman was approaching quickly, looking up at the
houses. Suddenly he perceived the smoke and quickened his pace,
arriving just as Thorndyke had pulled down the upper window-sash and
was preparing to climb over into the room. The constable hailed him
sternly, but a brief explanation from Miller reduced the officer to a
state of respectful subservience, and we all followed Thorndyke
through the open window, from which smoke now began to filter.
“Send the constable upstairs to give the alarm,” Thorndyke instructed
Miller in a low tone. The order was given without question, and the
next moment the officer was bounding up the stairs, roaring like a
whole fire brigade. Meanwhile, the superintendent browsed along the
hall through the dense smoke, sniffing inquisitively, and at length
approached the street door. Suddenly, from the heart of the reek, his
voice issued in tones of amazement.
“Well, I’m hanged! It’s a plumber’s smoke-rocket. Some fool has stuck
it through into the letter-cage!”
In the silence which followed this announcement I heard an angry voice
from above demand:
“What is all this infernal row about? And what are you doing here?”
“Can’t you see that the house is on fire?” was the constable’s stern
rejoinder. “You’d better come down and help to put it out.”
The command was followed by the sound of descending footsteps, on
which Thorndyke ran quickly up the stairs, followed by the
superintendent and me. We met the descending party on the landing,
opposite a window, and here we all stopped, gazing at one another with
mutual curiosity. The man who accompanied the constable looked
distinctly alarmed--as well he might--and somewhat hostile.
“Who put that smoke-rocket in the hall?” Miller demanded fiercely.
“And why didn’t you come down when you heard us ringing the bell?”
“I don’t know what you are talking about,” the man replied sulkily,
“or what business this is of yours. Who are you? And what are you
doing in my house?”
“In your house?” repeated Thorndyke. “Then you will be Mr. Elliott?”
The man turned a startled glance on him and replied angrily:
“Never you mind who I am. Get out of this house.”
“But I do mind who you are,” Thorndyke rejoined mildly. “I came here
to see Mr. Elliott. Are you Mr. Elliott?”
“No, I’m not. Mr. Elliott is abroad. If you like to send a letter here
for him, I will forward it when I get his address.”
While this conversation had been going on, I had been examining the
stranger, not without curiosity. For his appearance was somewhat
unusual. In the first place, he wore an unmistakable wig, and his
shaven face bore an abundance of cuts and scratches, suggesting a
recently and unskilfully mown beard. His spectacles did not disguise a
pronounced divergent squint of the left eye; but what specially caught
my attention was the ear--a large ear, lobeless and pointed at the tip
like the ear of a satyr. As I looked at this, and at the scraped face,
the squint and the wig, a strange suspicion flashed into my mind; and
then, as I noted that the nose was markedly deflected to the left, I
turned to glance at Thorndyke.
“Would you mind telling us your name?” the latter asked blandly.
“My name is--is--Johnson; Frederick Johnson.”
“Ah,” said Thorndyke. “I thought it was Manford--James Manford, and I
think so still. I suggest that you have a scar on the right side of
your forehead, just under the wig. May we see?”
As Thorndyke spoke the name, the man turned a horrible livid grey and
started back as if to retreat up the stairs. But the constable blocked
the way; and as the man was struggling to push past, Miller adroitly
snatched off the wig; and there, on the forehead, was the tell-tale
scar.
For an appreciable time we all stood stock-still like the figures of a
tableau. Then Thorndyke turned to the superintendent.
“I charge this man, James Manford, with the murder of Stephan Bilsky.”
Again there was a brief interval of intolerable silence. In the midst
of it, we heard the street door open and shut, and a woman’s voice
called up the stairs: “Whatever is all this smoke? Are you up there,
Jim?”
I pass over the harrowing details of the double arrest. I am not a
policeman, and to me such scenes are intensely repugnant. But we must
needs stay until two taxis and four constables had conveyed the
prisoners away from the still reeking house to the caravanserai of the
law. Then, at last, we went forth with relief into the fresh air and
bent our steps towards the station.
“I take it,” Miller said reflectively, “that you never suspected
Bilsky?”
“I did at first. But when Mrs. Manford and the solicitor told their
tale I realized that he was the victim and that Manford must be the
murderer.”
“Let us have the argument,” said I. “It is obvious that I have been a
blockhead, but I don’t mind our old friend here knowing it.”
“Not a blockhead, Jervis,” he corrected. “You were half asleep that
night and wholly uninterested. If you had been attending to the
matter, you would have observed several curious and anomalous
appearances. For instance, you would have noticed that the body was,
in parts, completely charred and brittle. Now we saw the outbreak of
the fire and we found it extinguished when we reached the building.
Its duration was a matter of minutes; quite insufficient to reduce a
body to that state. For, as you know, a human body is an extremely
incombustible thing. The appearance suggested the destruction of a
body which had been already burnt; and this suggestion was emphasized
by the curiously unequal distribution of the charring. The right hand
was burnt to a cinder and blown to pieces. The left hand was only
scorched. The right foot was utterly destroyed, but the left foot was
nearly intact. The face was burned away completely, and yet there were
parts of the head where the hair was only singed.
“Naturally, with these facts in mind, I scrutinized those remains
narrowly. And presently something much more definite and sinister came
to light. On the left hand, there was a faint impression of another
hand--very indistinct and blurred, but still unmistakably a hand.”
“I remember,” said I, “the inspector pointed it out as evidence that
the deceased had been standing with his hands clasped before or behind
him; and I must admit that it seemed a reasonable inference.”
“So it did--because you were both assuming that the man had been alone
and that it must therefore have been the impression of his own hand.
For that reason, neither of you looked at it critically. If you had,
you would have seen at once that it was the impression of a left
hand.”
“You are quite right,” I confessed ruefully. “As the man was stated to
have been alone, the hand impression did not interest me. And it was
a mere group of smudges, after all. You are sure that it was a left
hand?”
“Quite,” he replied. “Blurred as the smudges were, one could make out
the relative lengths of the fingers. And there was the thumb mark at
the distal end of the palm, but pointing to the outer side of the
hand. Try how you may, you can’t get a right hand into that position.
“Well, then, here was a crucial fact. The mark of a left hand on a
left hand proved the presence of a second person, and at once raised a
strong presumption of homicide, especially when considered in
conjunction with the unaccountable state of the body. During the
evening, a visitor had come and gone, and on him--Bilsky--the
suspicion naturally fell. But Mrs. Manford unwittingly threw an
entirely new light on the case. You remember she told us that her
husband had opened a new bottle of hair dye on the very morning before
the explosion and had applied it with unusual care. Then his hair was
dyed. But the hair of the corpse was not dyed. Therefore the corpse
was not the corpse of Manford. Further, the presumption of murder
applied now to Manford, and the body almost certainly was that of
Bilsky.”
“How did you deduce that the hair of the corpse was not dyed?” I
asked.
“I didn’t deduce it at all. I observed it. You remember a little patch
of hair above the right ear, very much singed but still recognizable
as hair? Well, in that patch I made out distinctly two or three white
hairs. Naturally, when Mrs. Manford spoke of the dye, I recalled those
white hairs, for though you may find silver hairs among the gold, you
don’t find them among the dyed. So the corpse could not be Manford’s
and was presumably that of Bilsky.
“But the instant that this presumption was made, a quantity of fresh
evidence arose to support it. The destruction of the body was now
understandable. Its purpose was to prevent identification. The parts
destroyed were the parts that had to be destroyed for that purpose:
the face was totally unrecognizable, and the right hand and right foot
were burnt and shattered to fragments. But these were Bilsky’s
personal marks. His right hand was mutilated and his right foot
deformed. And the fact that the false teeth found were undoubtedly
Manford’s was conclusive evidence of the intended deception.
“Then there were those very queer financial transactions, of which my
interpretation was this: Manford borrowed two thousand pounds from
Clines. With this he opened an account in the name of Elliott. As
Elliott, he lent himself two thousand pounds--with which he repaid
Clines--subject to an insurance of his life for that amount, taken out
in Elliott’s name.”
“Then he would have gained nothing,” I objected.
“On the contrary, he would have stood to gain two thousand pounds on
proof of his own death. That, I assumed, was his scheme: to murder
Bilsky, to arrange for Bilsky’s corpse to personate his own, and then,
when the insurance was paid, to abscond--in the company of some
woman--with this sum, with the valuables that he had taken from
Bilsky, and the five hundred pounds that he had withdrawn from the
bank.
“But this was only theory. It had to be tested; and as we had
Elliott’s address, I did the only thing that was possible. I employed
our friend, ex-sergeant Barber, to watch the house. He took lodgings
in a house nearly opposite and kept up continuous observation, which
soon convinced him that there was someone on the premises besides Mrs.
Elliott. Then, late one night, he saw a man come out and walk away
quickly. He followed the man for some distance, until the stranger
turned back and began to retrace his steps. Then Barber accosted him,
asking for a direction, and carefully inspecting him. The man’s
appearance tallied exactly with the description that I had given--I
had assumed that he would probably shave off his beard--and with the
photograph; so Barber, having seen him home, reported to me. And that
is the whole story.”
“Not quite the whole,” said Miller, with a sly grin. “There is that
smoke-rocket. If it hadn’t been for the practical joker who slipped
that through the letter-slit, we could never have got into that house.
I call it a most remarkable coincidence.”
“So do I,” Thorndyke agreed, without moving a muscle; “but there is a
special providence that watches over medical jurists.”
We were silent for a few moments. Then I remarked:
“This will come as a terrible shock to Mrs. Manford.”
“I am afraid it will,” Thorndyke agreed. “But it will be better for
her than if Manford had absconded with this woman, taking practically
every penny that he possessed with him. She stood to lose a worthless
husband in either event. At least we have saved her from poverty. And,
knowing the facts, we were morally and legally bound to further the
execution of justice.”
“A very proper sentiment,” said the superintendent, “though I am not
quite clear as to the legal aspects of that smoke-rocket.”