Superintendent Miller is Puzzled
On arriving at my chambers after my conference with Thorndyke I found
awaiting me a letter from a Maidstone solicitor offering me a brief
for a case of some importance that was to be tried at the forthcoming
assizes. At first, I read it almost impatiently, so preoccupied was my
mind with the tragedy in which I was involved. It seemed inopportune,
almost impertinent. But, in fact it was most opportune, as I presently
realized, in that it recalled me to the realities of normal life. My
duties to my friends I did, indeed, take very seriously. But I was not
an idle man. I had my way to make in my profession and could not
afford to drop out of the race, to sacrifice my ambitions entirely,
even on the altar of friendship.
I sat down and glanced through the instructions. It was a case of
alleged fraud, an intricate case which interested me at once and in
which I thought I could do myself credit; which was also the opinion
of the solicitor, who was evidently anxious for me to undertake it.
Eventually, I decided to accept the brief, and having written a letter
to that effect, I set myself to spend the remainder of the evening in
studying the instructions and mastering the rather involved details.
For time was short, since the case was down for hearing in a couple of
days’ time and the morrow would be taken up by my engagements at
Hilborough Square.
I pass over the incidents of the funeral. It was a dismal and
unpleasant affair, lacking all the dignity and pathos that relieve the
dreariness of an ordinary funeral. None of us could forget, as we sat
back in the mourning coach as far out of sight as possible, that the
corpse in the hearse ahead was the corpse of a murdered man, and that
most of the bystanders knew it. Even in the chapel, the majestic
service was marred and almost vulgarized by the self-consciousness of
the mourners and at the grave-side we found one another peering
furtively around for signs of recognition. To all of us it was a
profound relief, when we were once more gathered together in the
drawing room, to hear the street door close finally and the mourning
carriage rumble away down the square.
I took an early opportunity of mentioning the brief and I could see
that to both the women the prospect of my departure came as a
disagreeable surprise.
“How soon will you have to leave us?” Madeline asked, anxiously.
“I must start for Maidstone to-morrow morning,” I replied.
“Oh, dear!” she exclaimed. “How empty the place will seem and how lost
we shall be without you to advise us.”
“I hope,” said I, “that the occasions for advice are past, and I shall
not be so very far away, if you should want to consult me.”
“No,” said Barbara, “and I suppose you will not be away for very long.
Shall you come back when your case is finished or shall you stay for
the rest of the assizes?”
“I shall probably have some other briefs offered, which will detain me
until the assizes are over. My solicitor hinted at some other cases,
and of course there is the usual casual work that turns up on
circuit.”
“Well,” she rejoined, “we can only wish you good luck and plenty of
work, though we shall be glad when it is time for you to come back;
and we must be thankful that you were here to help us through the
worst of our troubles.”
The general tenor of this conversation, which took place at the lunch
table, was not, apparently, to Wallingford’s taste; for he sat glumly
consuming his food and rather ostentatiously abstaining from taking
any part in the discussion. Nor was I surprised; for the obvious way
in which both women leant on me was a reproach to his capacity, which
ought to have made my advice and guidance unnecessary. But though I
sympathized in a way with his displeasure, it nevertheless made me a
little uneasy. For there was another matter that I wanted to broach;
one in which he might consider himself concerned; namely, my
commission to Thorndyke. I had, indeed, debated with myself whether I
should not be wiser to keep my own counsel on the subject; but I had
decided that they were all interested parties and that it would seem
unfriendly and uncandid to keep them in the dark. But, for obvious
reasons, I did not propose to acquaint them with Thorndyke’s views on
the case.
The announcement, when I made it, was received without enthusiasm, and
Wallingford, as I had feared, was inclined to be resentful.
“Don’t you think, Mayfield,” said he, “that you ought to have
consulted the rest of us before putting this private inquiry agent, or
whatever he is, on the case?”
“Perhaps I ought,” I admitted. “But it is important to us all that the
mystery should be cleared up.”
“That is quite true,” said Barbara, “and for my part, I shall never
rest until the wretch who made away with poor Harold is dragged out
into the light of day—that is, if there is really such a person; I
mean, if Harold’s death was not, after all, the result of some ghastly
accident. But is it wise for us to meddle? The police have the case in
hand. Surely, with all their experience and their machinery of
detection, they are more likely to be successful than a private
individual, no matter how clever he may be.”
“That,” I replied, “is, in fact, Dr. Thorndyke’s own view. He wished
to leave the inquiry to the police; and I may say that he will not
come into the case unless it should turn out that the police are
unable to solve the mystery.”
“In which case,” said Wallingford, “it is extremely unlikely that an
outsider, without their special opportunities, will be able to solve
it. And if he should happen to find a mare’s nest, we shall share the
glory and the publicity of his discovery.”
“I don’t think,” said I, “that you need have any anxiety on that
score. Dr. Thorndyke is not at all addicted to finding mare’s nests
and still less to publicity. If he makes any discovery he will
probably keep it to himself until he has the whole case cut and dried.
Then he will communicate the facts to the police; and the first news
we shall have on the subject will be the announcement that an arrest
has been made. And when the police make an arrest on Thorndyke’s
information, you can take it that a conviction will follow
inevitably.”
“I don’t think I quite understand Dr. Thorndyke’s position,” said
Madeline. “What is he? You seem to refer to him as a sort of superior
private detective.”
“Thorndyke,” I replied, “is a unique figure in the legal world. He is
a barrister and a doctor of medicine. In the one capacity he is
probably the greatest criminal lawyer of our time. In the other he is,
among other things, the leading authority on poisons and on crimes
connected with them; and so far as I know, he has never made a
mistake.”
“He must be a very remarkable man,” Wallingford remarked, drily.
“He is,” I replied; and in justification of my statement, I gave a
sketch of one or two of the cases in which Thorndyke had cleared up
what had seemed to be a completely and helplessly insoluble mystery.
They all listened with keen interest and were evidently so far
impressed that any doubts as to Thorndyke’s capacity were set at rest.
But yet I was conscious, in all three, of a certain distrust and
uneasiness. The truth was, as it seemed to me, that none of them had
yet recovered from the ordeal of the inquest. In their secret hearts,
what they all wanted—even Barbara, as I suspected—was to bury the
whole dreadful episode in oblivion. And seeing this, I had not the
courage to remind them of their—of our position as the actual
suspected parties whose innocence it was Thorndyke’s function to make
clear.
In view of my impending departure from London, I stayed until the
evening was well advanced, though sensible of a certain impatience to
be gone; and when, at length, I took my leave and set forth homeward,
I was conscious of the same sense of relief that I had felt on the
previous day. Now, for a time, I could dismiss this horror from my
mind and let my thoughts occupy themselves with the activities that
awaited me at Maidstone; which they did so effectually that by the
time I reached my chambers, I felt that I had my case at my fingers’
ends.
I had just set to work making my preparations for the morrow when my
glance happened to light on the glazed bookcase in which the long
series of my diaries was kept; and then I suddenly bethought me of the
abstract which I had promised to make for Thorndyke. There would be no
time for that now; and yet, since he had seemed to attach some
importance to it, I could not leave my promise unfulfilled. The only
thing to be done was to let him have the diary, itself. I was a little
reluctant to do this for I had never yet allowed any one to read it.
But there seemed to be no alternative; and, after all, Thorndyke was a
responsible person; and if the diary did contain a certain amount of
confidential matter, there was nothing in it that was really secret or
that I need object to any one reading. Accordingly, I took out the
current volume, and, dropping it into my pocket, made my way round to
King’s Bench Walk.
My knock at the door was answered by Thorndyke, himself, and as I
entered the room, I was a little disconcerted at finding a large man
seated in an easy chair by the fire with his back to me; and still
more so when, on hearing me enter, he rose and turned to confront me.
For the stranger was none other than Mr. Superintendent Miller.
His gratification at the meeting seemed to be no greater than mine,
though he greeted me quite courteously and even cordially. I had the
uncomfortable feeling that I had broken in on a conference and began
to make polite preparations for a strategic retreat. But Thorndyke
would have none of it.
“Not at all, Mayfield,” said he. “The superintendent is here on the
same business as you are, and when I tell him that you have
commissioned me to investigate this case, he will realize that we are
colleagues.”
I am not sure that the superintendent realized this so very vividly,
but it was evident that Thorndyke’s information interested him.
Nevertheless he waited for me and Thorndyke to make the opening moves
and only relaxed his caution by slow degrees.
“We were remarking when you came in,” he said, at length, “what a
curiously baffling case this is, and how very disappointing. At first
it looked all plain sailing. There was the lady who used to prepare
the special diet for the unfortunate man and actually take it up to
him and watch him eat it. It seemed as if we had her in the hollow of
our hand. And then she slipped out. The arsenic that was found in the
stomach seemed to connect the death with the food; but then there was
that confounded bottle of medicine that seemed to put the food outside
the case. And when we came to reckon up the evidence furnished by the
medicine, it proved nothing. Somebody put the poison in. All of them
had the opportunity, more or less, and all about equally. Nothing
pointed to one more than another. And that is how it is all through.
There is any amount of suspicion; but the suspicion falls on a group
of people, not on any one in particular.”
“Yes,” said Thorndyke, “the issues are most strangely confused.”
“Extraordinarily,” said Miller. “This queer confusion runs all through
the case. You are constantly thinking that you have got the solution,
and just as you are perfectly sure, it slips through your fingers.
There are lots of clues—fine ones; but as soon as you follow one up it
breaks off in the middle and leaves you gaping. You saw what happened
at the search, Mr. Mayfield.”
“I saw the beginning—the actual search; but I don’t know what came of
it.”
“Then I can tell you in one word. Nothing. And yet we seemed to be
right on the track every time. There was that secret drawer of Mr.
Wallingford’s. When I saw that packet of white powder in it, I thought
it was going to be a walk-over. I didn’t believe for a moment that the
stuff was cocaine. But it was. I went straight to our analyst to have
it tested.”
As the superintendent was speaking I caught Thorndyke’s eye, fixed on
me with an expression of reproachful inquiry. But he made no remark
and Miller continued: “Then there were those two empty bottles. The
one that I found in the library yielded definite traces of arsenic.
But then, whose bottle was it? The place was accessible to the entire
household. It was impossible to connect it with any one person. On the
other hand, the bottle that I found in Miss Norris’s cupboard, and
that was presumably hers—though she didn’t admit it—contained no
arsenic; at least the analyst said it didn’t, though as it smelt of
lavender and had a red stain at the bottom, I feel convinced that it
had had Fowler’s Solution in it. What do you think, Doctor? Don’t you
think the analyst may have been mistaken?”
“No,” Thorndyke replied, decidedly. “If the red stain had been due to
Fowler’s Solution there would have been an appreciable quantity of
arsenic present; probably a fiftieth of a grain at least. But Marsh’s
test would detect a much smaller quantity than that. If no arsenic was
found by a competent chemist who was expressly testing for it, you can
take it that no arsenic was there.”
“Well,” Miller rejoined, “you know best. But you must admit that it is
a most remarkable thing that one bottle which smelt of lavender and
had a red stain at the bottom, should contain arsenic, and that
another bottle, exactly similar in appearance and smelling of lavender
and having a red stain at the bottom, should contain no arsenic.”
“I am entirely with you, Miller,” Thorndyke agreed. “It is a most
remarkable circumstance.”
“And you see my point,” said Miller. “Every discovery turns out a
sell. I find a concealed packet of powder—with the owner lying like
Ananias—but the powder turns out not to be arsenic. I find a bottle
that did contain arsenic, and there is no owner. I find another,
similar bottle, which has an owner, and there is no arsenic in it.
Rum, isn’t it? I feel like the donkey with the bunch of carrots tied
to his nose. The carrots are there all right, but he can never get a
bite at ’em.”
Thorndyke had listened with the closest attention to the
superintendent’s observations and he now began a cautious
cross-examination—cautious because Miller was taking it for granted
that I had told him all about the search; and I could not but admire
his discretion in suppressing the fact that I had not. For, while
Thorndyke, himself, would not suspect me of any intentional
concealment, Miller undoubtedly would, and what little confidence he
had in me would have been destroyed. Accordingly, he managed the
superintendent so adroitly that the latter described, piecemeal, all
the incidents of the search.
“Did Wallingford say how he came to be in possession of all this
cocaine and morphine?” he asked.
“No,” replied Miller. “I asked him, but he refused to say where he had
got it.”
“But he could be made to answer,” said Thorndyke. “Both of these drugs
are poisons. He could be made to account for having them in his
possession and could be called upon to show that he came by them
lawfully. They are not ordinarily purchasable by the public.”
“No, that’s true,” Miller admitted. “But is there any object in going
into the question? You see, the cocaine isn’t really any affair of
ours.”
“It doesn’t seem to be,” Thorndyke agreed, “at least, not directly;
but indirectly it may be of considerable importance. I think you ought
to find out where he got that cocaine and morphine, Miller.”
The superintendent reflected with the air of having seen a new light.
“I see what you mean, Doctor,” said he. “You mean that if he got the
stuff from some Chinaman or common dope merchant, there wouldn’t be
much in it; whereas, if he got it from some one who had a general
stock of drugs, there might be a good deal in it. Is that the point?”
“Yes. He was able to obtain poisons from somebody, and we ought to
know exactly what facilities he had for obtaining poisons and what
poisons he obtained.”
“Yes, that is so,” said Miller. “Well, I will see about it at once.
Fortunately he is a pretty easy chappie to frighten. I expect, if I
give him a bit of a shake-up, he will give himself away; and if he
won’t, we must try other means. And now, as I think we have said all
that we have to say at present, I will wish you two gentlemen good
night.”
He rose and took up his hat, and having shaken our hands, was duly
escorted to the door by Thorndyke; who, when he had seen his visitor
safely on to the stairs, returned and confronted me with a look of
deep significance.
“You never told me about that cocaine,” said he.
“No,” I admitted. “It was stupid of me, but the fact is that I was so
engrossed by your rather startling observations on the case that this
detail slipped my memory.
“And it really had not impressed me as being of any importance. I
accepted Wallingford’s statement that the stuff was cocaine and that,
consequently, it was no concern of ours.”
“I don’t find myself able to agree to that ‘consequently,’ Mayfield.
How did you know that the cocaine was no concern of ours?”
“Well, I didn’t see that it was, and I don’t now. Do you?”
“No; I know very little about the case at present. But it seems to me
that the fact that a person in this house had a considerable quantity
of a highly poisonous substance in his possession is one that at least
requires to be noted. The point is, Mayfield, that until we know all
the facts of this case we cannot tell which of them is or is not
relevant. Try to bear that in mind. Do not select particular facts as
important and worthy of notice. Note everything in any way connected
with our problem that comes under your observation and pass it on to
me without sifting or selection.”
“I ought not to need these exhortations,” said I. “However, I will
bear them in mind should I ever have anything more to communicate.
Probably I never shall. But I will say that I think Miller is wasting
his energies over Wallingford. The man is no favourite of mine. He is
a neurotic ass. But I certainly do not think he has the makings of a
murderer.”
Thorndyke smiled a little drily. “If you are able,” said he, “to
diagnose at sight a potential murderer, your powers are a good deal
beyond mine. I should have said that every man has the makings of a
murderer, given the appropriate conditions.”
“Should you really?” I exclaimed. “Can you, for instance, imagine
either of us committing a murder?”
“I think I can,” he replied. “Of course, the probabilities are very
unequal in different cases. There are some men who may be said to be
prone to murder. A man of low intelligence, of violent temper,
deficient in ordinary self-control, may commit a murder in
circumstances that would leave a man of a superior type unmoved. But
still, the determining factors are motive and opportunity. Given a
sufficient motive and a real opportunity, I can think of no kind of
man who might not commit a homicide which would, in a legal sense, be
murder.”
“But is there such a thing as a sufficient motive for murder?”
“That question can be answered only by the individual affected. If it
seems to him sufficient, it is sufficient in practice.”
“Can you mention a motive that would seem to you sufficient?”
“Yes, I can. Blackmail. Let us take an imaginary case. Suppose a man
to be convicted of a crime of which he is innocent. As he has been
convicted, the evidence, though fallacious, is overwhelming. He is
sentenced to a term of imprisonment—say penal servitude. He serves his
sentence and is in due course discharged. He is now free; but the
conviction stands against him. He is a discharged convict. His name is
in the prison books, his photograph and his finger-prints are in the
Habitual Criminals’ Register. He is a marked man for life.
“Now suppose that he manages to shed his identity and in some place
where he is unknown begins life afresh. He acquires the excellent
character and reputation to which he is, in fact, entitled. He marries
and has a family; and he and his family prosper and enjoy the
advantages that follow deservedly from his industry and excellent
moral qualities.
“And now suppose that at this point his identity is discovered by a
blackmailer who forthwith fastens on him, who determines to live on
him in perpetuity, to devour the products of his industry, to
impoverish his wife and children and to destroy his peace and security
by holding over his head the constant menace of exposure. What is such
a man to do? The law will help him so far as it can; but it cannot
save him from exposure. He can obtain the protection of the law only
on condition that he discloses the facts. But that disclosure is
precisely the evil that he seeks to avoid. He is an innocent man, but
his innocence is known only to himself. The fact, which must transpire
if he prosecutes, is that he is a convicted criminal.
“I say, Mayfield, what can he do? What is his remedy? He has but one;
and since the law cannot really help him, he is entitled to help
himself. If I were in that man’s position and the opportunity
presented itself, I would put away that blackmailer with no more
qualms than I should have in killing a wasp.”
“Then I am not going to blackmail you, Thorndyke, for I have a strong
conviction that an opportunity would present itself.”
“I think it very probable,” he replied with a smile. “At any rate, I
know a good many methods that I should not adopt, and I think arsenic
poisoning is one of them. But don’t you agree with me?”
“I suppose I do, at least in the very extreme case that you have put.
But it is the only case of justifiable premeditated homicide that I
can imagine; and it obviously doesn’t apply to Wallingford.”
“My dear Mayfield,” he exclaimed. “How do we know what does or does
not apply to Wallingford? How do we know what he would regard as an
adequate motive? We know virtually nothing about him or his affairs or
about the crime itself. What we do know is that a man has apparently
been murdered, and that, of the various persons who had the
opportunity to commit the murder (of whom he is one) none had any
intelligible motive at all. It is futile for us to argue back and
forth on the insufficient knowledge that we possess. We can only
docket and classify all the facts that we have and follow up each of
them impartially with a perfectly open mind. But, above all, we must
try to increase our stock of facts. I suppose you haven’t had time to
consider that abstract of which we spoke?”
“That is really what brought me round here this evening. I haven’t had
time, and I shan’t have just at present as I am starting to-morrow to
take up work on the Southeastern Circuit. But I have brought the
current volume of the diary, itself, if you would care to wade through
it.”
“I should, certainly. The complete document is much preferable to an
abstract which might leave me in the dark as to the context. But won’t
you want to have your diary with you?”
“No, I shall take a short-hand note-book to use while I am away. That
is, in fact, what I usually do.”
“And you don’t mind putting this very confidential document into the
hands of a stranger?”
“You are not a stranger, Thorndyke. I don’t mind you, though I don’t
think I would hand it to anybody else. Not that it contains anything
that the whole world might not see, for I am a fairly discreet
diarist. But there are references to third parties with reflections
and comments that I shouldn’t care to have read by Thomas, Richard and
Henry. My only fear is that you will find it rather garrulous and
diffuse.”
“Better that than overcondensed and sketchy,” said he, as he took the
volume from me. He turned the leaves over, and having glanced at one
or two pages exclaimed: “This is something like a diary, Mayfield!
Quite in the classical manner. The common, daily jottings such as most
of us make, are invaluable if they are kept up regularly, but this of
yours is immeasurably superior. In a hundred years’ time it will be a
priceless historical work. How many volumes of it have you got?”
“About twenty: and I must say that I find the older ones quite
interesting reading. You may perhaps like to look at one or two of the
more recent volumes.”
“I should like to see those recording the events of the last three
years.”
“Well, they are all at your service. I have brought you my duplicate
latchkey and you will find the volumes of the diary in the glazed
book-case. It is usually kept locked, but as nobody but you will have
access to the chambers while I am away, I shall leave the key in the
lock.”
“This is really very good of you, Mayfield,” he said, as I rose to
take my departure. “Let me have your address, wherever you may be for
the time being, and I will keep you posted in any developments that
may occur. And now, good-bye and good luck!” He shook my hand
cordially and I betook myself to my chambers to complete my
preparations for my start on the morrow.