The inspector drew the letter out of the envelope, and, as he opened it,
his eyebrows went up.
"What do you make of that, Doctor?" he said, handing the sheet to
Thorndyke.
Thorndyke regarded it for a while in silence, with deep attention. Then
he carried it to the window, and, taking his lens from his pocket,
examined the paper closely, first with the low power, and then with the
highly magnifying Coddington attachment.
"I should have thought you could see that with the naked eye," said the
inspector, with a sly grin at me. "It's a pretty bold design."
"Yes," replied Thorndyke; "a very interesting production. What do you
say, Mr. Marchmont?"
The solicitor took the note, and I looked over his shoulder. It was
certainly a curious production. Written in red ink, on the commonest
notepaper, and in the same sprawling hand as the address, was the
following message: "You are given six days to do what is just. By the
sign above, know what to expect if you fail." The sign referred to was a
skull and crossbones, very neatly, but rather unskilfully, drawn at the
top of the paper.
"This," said Mr. Marchmont, handing the document to Mr. Curtis,
"explains the singular letter that he wrote yesterday. You have it with
you, I think?"
"Yes," replied Mr. Curtis; "here it is."
He produced a letter from his pocket, and read aloud:
"'Yes: come if you like, though it is an ungodly hour. Your
threatening letters have caused me great amusement. They are worthy
of Sadler's Wells in its prime.
"'ALFRED HARTRIDGE.'"
"Was Mr. Hartridge ever in Italy?" asked Inspector Badger.
"Oh yes," replied Mr. Curtis. "He stayed at Capri nearly the whole of
last year."
"Why, then, that gives us our clue. Look here. Here are these two other
letters; E.C. postmark--Saffron Hill is E.C. And just look at that!"
He spread out the last of the mysterious letters, and we saw that,
besides the _memento mori_, it contained only three words: "Beware!
Remember Capri!"
"If you have finished, Doctor, I'll be off and have a look round Little
Italy. Those four Italians oughtn't to be difficult to find, and we've
got the porter here to identify them."
"Before you go," said Thorndyke, "there are two little matters that I
should like to settle. One is the dagger: it is in your pocket, I think.
May I have a look at it?"
The inspector rather reluctantly produced the dagger and handed it to my
colleague.
"A very singular weapon, this," said Thorndyke, regarding the dagger
thoughtfully, and turning it about to view its different parts.
"Singular both in shape and material. I have never seen an aluminium
hilt before, and bookbinder's morocco is a little unusual."
"The aluminium was for lightness," explained the inspector, "and it was
made narrow to carry up the sleeve, I expect."
"Perhaps so," said Thorndyke.
He continued his examination, and presently, to the inspector's delight,
brought forth his pocket lens.
"I never saw such a man!" exclaimed the jocose detective. "His motto
ought to be, 'We magnify thee.' I suppose he'll measure it next."
The inspector was not mistaken. Having made a rough sketch of the weapon
on his block, Thorndyke produced from his bag a folding rule and a
delicate calliper-gauge. With these instruments he proceeded, with
extraordinary care and precision, to take the dimensions of the various
parts of the dagger, entering each measurement in its place on the
sketch, with a few brief, descriptive details.
"The other matter," said he at length, handing the dagger back to the
inspector, "refers to the houses opposite."
He walked to the window, and looked out at the backs of a row of tall
buildings similar to the one we were in. They were about thirty yards
distant, and were separated from us by a piece of ground, planted with
shrubs and intersected by gravel paths.
"If any of those rooms were occupied last night," continued Thorndyke,
"we might obtain an actual eyewitness of the crime. This room was
brilliantly lighted, and all the blinds were up, so that an observer at
any of those windows could see right into the room, and very distinctly,
too. It might be worth inquiring into."
"Yes, that's true," said the inspector; "though I expect, if any of them
have seen anything, they will come forward quick enough when they read
the report in the papers. But I must be off now, and I shall have to
lock you out of the rooms."
As we went down the stairs, Mr. Marchmont announced his intention of
calling on us in the evening, "unless," he added, "you want any
information from me now."
"I do," said Thorndyke. "I want to know who is interested in this man's
death."
"That," replied Marchmont, "is rather a queer story. Let us take a turn
in that garden that we saw from the window. We shall be quite private
there."
He beckoned to Mr. Curtis, and, when the inspector had departed with the
police-surgeon, we induced the porter to let us into the garden.
"The question that you asked," Mr. Marchmont began, looking up curiously
at the tall houses opposite, "is very simply answered. The only person
immediately interested in the death of Alfred Hartridge is his executor
and sole legatee, a man named Leonard Wolfe. He is no relation of the
deceased, merely a friend, but he inherits the entire estate--about
twenty thousand pounds. The circumstances are these: Alfred Hartridge
was the elder of two brothers, of whom the younger, Charles, died before
his father, leaving a widow and three children. Fifteen years ago the
father died, leaving the whole of his property to Alfred, with the
understanding that he should support his brother's family and make the
children his heirs."
"Was there no will?" asked Thorndyke.
"Under great pressure from the friends of his son's widow, the old man
made a will shortly before he died; but he was then very old and rather
childish, so the will was contested by Alfred, on the grounds of undue
influence, and was ultimately set aside. Since then Alfred Hartridge has
not paid a penny towards the support of his brother's family. If it had
not been for my client, Mr. Curtis, they might have starved; the whole
burden of the support of the widow and the education of the children has
fallen upon him.
"Well, just lately the matter has assumed an acute form, for two
reasons. The first is that Charles's eldest son, Edmund, has come of
age. Mr. Curtis had him articled to a solicitor, and, as he is now fully
qualified, and a most advantageous proposal for a partnership has been
made, we have been putting pressure on Alfred to supply the necessary
capital in accordance with his father's wishes. This he had refused to
do, and it was with reference to this matter that we were calling on him
this morning. The second reason involves a curious and disgraceful
story. There is a certain Leonard Wolfe, who has been an intimate friend
of the deceased. He is, I may say, a man of bad character, and their
association has been of a kind creditable to neither. There is also a
certain woman named Hester Greene, who had certain claims upon the
deceased, which we need not go into at present. Now, Leonard Wolfe and
the deceased, Alfred Hartridge, entered into an agreement, the terms of
which were these: (1) Wolfe was to marry Hester Greene, and in
consideration of this service (2) Alfred Hartridge was to assign to
Wolfe the whole of his property, absolutely, the actual transfer to take
place on the death of Hartridge."
"And has this transaction been completed?" asked Thorndyke.
"Yes, it has, unfortunately. But we wished to see if anything could be
done for the widow and the children during Hartridge's lifetime. No
doubt, my client's daughter, Miss Curtis, called last night on a similar
mission--very indiscreetly, since the matter was in our hands; but, you
know, she is engaged to Edmund Hartridge--and I expect the interview was
a pretty stormy one."
Thorndyke remained silent for a while, pacing slowly along the gravel
path, with his eyes bent on the ground: not abstractedly, however, but
with a searching, attentive glance that roved amongst the shrubs and
bushes, as though he were looking for something.
"What sort of man," he asked presently, "is this Leonard Wolfe?
Obviously he is a low scoundrel, but what is he like in other respects?
Is he a fool, for instance?"
"Not at all, I should say," said Mr. Curtis. "He was formerly an
engineer, and, I believe, a very capable mechanician. Latterly he has
lived on some property that came to him, and has spent both his time and
his money in gambling and dissipation. Consequently, I expect he is
pretty short of funds at present."
"And in appearance?"
"I only saw him once," replied Mr. Curtis, "and all I can remember of
him is that he is rather short, fair, thin, and clean-shaven, and that
he has lost the middle finger of his left hand."
"And he lives at?"
"Eltham, in Kent. Morton Grange, Eltham," said Mr. Marchmont. "And now,
if you have all the information that you require, I must really be off,
and so must Mr. Curtis."
The two men shook our hands and hurried away, leaving Thorndyke gazing
meditatively at the dingy flower-beds.
"A strange and interesting case, this, Jervis," said he, stooping to
peer under a laurel-bush. "The inspector is on a hot scent--a most
palpable red herring on a most obvious string; but that is his business.
Ah, here comes the porter, intent, no doubt, on pumping us, whereas--"
He smiled genially at the approaching custodian, and asked: "Where did
you say those houses fronted?"
"Cotman Street, sir," answered the porter. "They are nearly all
offices."
"And the numbers? That open second-floor window, for instance?"
"That is number six; but the house opposite Mr. Hartridge's rooms is
number eight."
"Thank you."
Thorndyke was moving away, but suddenly turned again to the porter.
"By the way," said he, "I dropped something out of the window just
now--a small flat piece of metal, like this." He made on the back of his
visiting card a neat sketch of a circular disc, with a hexagonal hole
through it, and handed the card to the porter. "I can't say where it
fell," he continued; "these flat things scale about so; but you might
ask the gardener to look for it. I will give him a sovereign if he
brings it to my chambers, for, although it is of no value to anyone
else, it is of considerable value to me."
The porter touched his hat briskly, and as we turned out at the gate, I
looked back and saw him already wading among the shrubs.
The object of the porter's quest gave me considerable mental occupation.
I had not seen Thorndyke drop any thing, and it was not his way to
finger carelessly any object of value. I was about to question him on
the subject, when, turning sharply round into Cotman Street, he drew up
at the doorway of number six, and began attentively to read the names of
the occupants.
"'Third-floor,'" he read out, "'Mr. Thomas Barlow, Commission Agent.'
Hum! I think we will look in on Mr. Barlow."
He stepped quickly up the stone stairs, and I followed, until we
arrived, somewhat out of breath, on the third-floor. Outside the
Commission Agent's door he paused for a moment, and we both listened
curiously to an irregular sound of shuffling feet from within. Then he
softly opened the door and looked into the room. After remaining thus
for nearly a minute, he looked round at me with a broad smile, and
noiselessly set the door wide open. Inside, a lanky youth of fourteen
was practising, with no mean skill, the manipulation of an appliance
known by the appropriate name of diabolo; and so absorbed was he in his
occupation that we entered and shut the door without being observed. At
length the shuttle missed the string and flew into a large waste-paper
basket; the boy turned and confronted us, and was instantly covered
with confusion.
"Allow me," said Thorndyke, rooting rather unnecessarily in the
waste-paper basket, and handing the toy to its owner. "I need not ask if
Mr. Barlow is in," he added, "nor if he is likely to return shortly."
"He won't be back to-day," said the boy, perspiring with embarrassment;
"he left before I came. I was rather late."
"I see," said Thorndyke. "The early bird catches the worm, but the late
bird catches the diabolo. How did you know he would not be back?"
"He left a note. Here it is."
He exhibited the document, which was neatly written in red ink.
Thorndyke examined it attentively, and then asked:
"Did you break the inkstand yesterday?"
The boy stared at him in amazement. "Yes, I did," he answered. "How did
you know?"
"I didn't, or I should not have asked. But I see that he has used his
stylo to write this note."
The boy regarded Thorndyke distrustfully, as he continued:
"I really called to see if your Mr. Barlow was a gentleman whom I used
to know; but I expect you can tell me. My friend was tall and thin,
dark, and clean-shaved."
"This ain't him, then," said the boy. "He's thin, but he ain't tall or
dark. He's got a sandy beard, and he wears spectacles and a wig. I know
a wig when I see one," he added cunningly, "'cause my father wears one.
He puts it on a peg to comb it, and he swears at me when I larf."
"My friend had injured his left hand," pursued Thorndyke.
"I dunno about that," said the youth. "Mr. Barlow nearly always wears
gloves; he always wears one on his left hand, anyhow."
"Ah well! I'll just write him a note on the chance, if you will give me
a piece of notepaper. Have you any ink?"
"There's some in the bottle. I'll dip the pen in for you."
He produced, from the cupboard, an opened packet of cheap notepaper and
a packet of similar envelopes, and, having dipped the pen to the bottom
of the ink-bottle, handed it to Thorndyke, who sat down and hastily
scribbled a short note. He had folded the paper, and was about to
address the envelope, when he appeared suddenly to alter his mind.
"I don't think I will leave it, after all," he said, slipping the folded
paper into his pocket. "No. Tell him I called--Mr. Horace Budge--and say
I will look in again in a day or two."
The youth watched our exit with an air of perplexity, and he even came
out on to the landing, the better to observe us over the balusters;
until, unexpectedly catching Thorndyke's eye, he withdrew his head with
remarkable suddenness, and retired in disorder.
To tell the truth, I was now little less perplexed than the office-boy
by Thorndyke's proceedings; in which I could discover no relevancy to
the investigation that I presumed he was engaged upon: and the last
straw was laid upon the burden of my curiosity when he stopped at a
staircase window, drew the note out of his pocket, examined it with his
lens, held it up to the light, and chuckled aloud.
"Luck," he observed, "though no substitute for care and intelligence, is
a very pleasant addition. Really, my learned brother, we are doing
uncommonly well."
When we reached the hall, Thorndyke stopped at the housekeeper's box,
and looked in with a genial nod.
"I have just been up to see Mr. Barlow," said he. "He seems to have left
quite early."
"Yes, sir," the man replied. "He went away about half-past eight."
"That was very early; and presumably he came earlier still?"
"I suppose so," the man assented, with a grin; "but I had only just come
on when he left."
"Had he any luggage with him?"
"Yes, sir. There was two cases, a square one and a long, narrow one,
about five foot long. I helped him to carry them down to the cab."
"Which was a four-wheeler, I suppose?"
"Yes, sir."
"Mr. Barlow hasn't been here very long, has he?" Thorndyke inquired.
"No. He only came in last quarter-day--about six weeks ago."
"Ah well! I must call another day. Good-morning;" and Thorndyke strode
out of the building, and made directly for the cab-rank in the adjoining
street. Here he stopped for a minute or two to parley with the driver of
a four-wheeled cab, whom he finally commissioned to convey us to a shop
in New Oxford Street. Having dismissed the cabman with his blessing and
a half-sovereign, he vanished into the shop, leaving me to gaze at the
lathes, drills, and bars of metal displayed in the window. Presently he
emerged with a small parcel, and explained, in answer to my inquiring
look: "A strip of tool steel and a block of metal for Polton."
His next purchase was rather more eccentric. We were proceeding along
Holborn when his attention was suddenly arrested by the window of a
furniture shop, in which was displayed a collection of obsolete French
small-arms--relics of the tragedy of 1870--which were being sold for
decorative purposes. After a brief inspection, he entered the shop, and
shortly reappeared carrying a long sword-bayonet and an old Chassepôt
rifle.
"What may be the meaning of this martial display?" I asked, as we turned
down Fetter Lane.
"House protection," he replied promptly. "You will agree that a
discharge of musketry, followed by a bayonet charge, would disconcert
the boldest of burglars."
I laughed at the absurd picture thus drawn of the strenuous
house-protector, but nevertheless continued to speculate on the meaning
of my friend's eccentric proceedings, which I felt sure were in some way
related to the murder in Brackenhurst Chambers, though I could not trace
the connection.
After a late lunch, I hurried out to transact such of my business as had
been interrupted by the stirring events of the morning, leaving
Thorndyke busy with a drawing-board, squares, scale, and compasses,
making accurate, scaled drawings from his rough sketches; while Polton,
with the brown-paper parcel in his hand, looked on at him with an air of
anxious expectation.
As I was returning homeward in the evening by way of Mitre Court, I
overtook Mr. Marchmont, who was also bound for our chambers, and we
walked on together.
"I had a note from Thorndyke," he explained, "asking for a specimen of
handwriting, so I thought I would bring it along myself, and hear if he
has any news."
When we entered the chambers, we found Thorndyke in earnest consultation
with Polton, and on the table before them I observed, to my great
surprise, the dagger with which the murder had been committed.
[Illustration: THE ALUMINIUM DAGGER.]
"I have got you the specimen that you asked for," said Marchmont. "I
didn't think I should be able to, but, by a lucky chance, Curtis kept
the only letter he ever received from the party in question."
He drew the letter from his wallet, and handed it to Thorndyke, who
looked at it attentively and with evident satisfaction.
"By the way," said Marchmont, taking up the dagger, "I thought the
inspector took this away with him."
"He took the original," replied Thorndyke. "This is a duplicate, which
Polton has made, for experimental purposes, from my drawings."
"Really!" exclaimed Marchmont, with a glance of respectful admiration at
Polton; "it is a perfect replica--and you have made it so quickly, too."
"It was quite easy to make," said Polton, "to a man accustomed to work
in metal."
"Which," added Thorndyke, "is a fact of some evidential value."
At this moment a hansom drew up outside. A moment later flying footsteps
were heard on the stairs. There was a furious battering at the door,
and, as Polton threw it open, Mr. Curtis burst wildly into the room.
"Here is a frightful thing, Marchmont!" he gasped. "Edith--my
daughter--arrested for the murder. Inspector Badger came to our house
and took her. My God! I shall go mad!"
Thorndyke laid his hand on the excited man's shoulder. "Don't distress
yourself, Mr. Curtis," said he. "There is no occasion, I assure you. I
suppose," he added, "your daughter is left-handed?"
"Yes, she is, by a most disastrous coincidence. But what are we to do?
Good God! Dr. Thorndyke, they have taken her to prison--to prison--think
of it! My poor Edith!"
"We'll soon have her out," said Thorndyke. "But listen; there is someone
at the door."
A brisk rat-tat confirmed his statement; and when I rose to open the
door, I found myself confronted by Inspector Badger. There was a moment
of extreme awkwardness, and then both the detective and Mr. Curtis
proposed to retire in favour of the other.
"Don't go, inspector," said Thorndyke; "I want to have a word with you.
Perhaps Mr. Curtis would look in again, say, in an hour. Will you? We
shall have news for you by then, I hope."
Mr. Curtis agreed hastily, and dashed out of the room with his
characteristic impetuosity. When he had gone, Thorndyke turned to the
detective, and remarked dryly:
"You seem to have been busy, inspector?"
"Yes," replied Badger; "I haven't let the grass grow under my feet; and
I've got a pretty strong case against Miss Curtis already. You see, she
was the last person seen in the company of the deceased; she had a
grievance against him; she is left-handed, and you remember that the
murder was committed by a left-handed person."
"Anything else?"
"Yes. I have seen those Italians, and the whole thing was a put-up job.
A woman, in a widow's dress and veil, paid them to go and play the fool
outside the building, and she gave them the letter that was left with
the porter. They haven't identified her yet, but she seems to agree in
size with Miss Curtis."
"And how did she get out of the chambers, with the door bolted on the
inside?"
"Ah, there you are! That's a mystery at present--unless you can give us
an explanation." The inspector made this qualification with a faint
grin, and added: "As there was no one in the place when we broke into
it, the murderer must have got out somehow. You can't deny that."
"I do deny it, nevertheless," said Thorndyke. "You look surprised," he
continued (which was undoubtedly true), "but yet the whole thing is
exceedingly obvious. The explanation struck me directly I looked at the
body. There was evidently no practicable exit from the flat, and there
was certainly no one in it when you entered. Clearly, then, _the
murderer had never been in the place at all_."
"I don't follow you in the least," said the inspector.
"Well," said Thorndyke, "as I have finished with the case, and am
handing it over to you, I will put the evidence before you _seriatim_.
Now, I think we are agreed that, at the moment when the blow was struck,
the deceased was standing before the fireplace, winding the clock. The
dagger entered obliquely from the left, and, if you recall its position,
you will remember that its hilt pointed directly towards an open
window."
"Which was forty feet from the ground."
"Yes. And now we will consider the very peculiar character of the weapon
with which the crime was committed."
He had placed his hand upon the knob of a drawer, when we were
interrupted by a knock at the door. I sprang up, and, opening it,
admitted no less a person than the porter of Brackenhurst Chambers. The
man looked somewhat surprised on recognizing our visitors, but advanced
to Thorndyke, drawing a folded paper from his pocket.
"I've found the article you were looking for, sir," said he, "and a rare
hunt I had for it. It had stuck in the leaves of one of them shrubs."
Thorndyke opened the packet, and, having glanced inside, laid it on the
table.
"Thank you," said he, pushing a sovereign across to the gratified
official. "The inspector has your name, I think?"
"He have, sir," replied the porter; and, pocketing his fee, he departed,
beaming.
"To return to the dagger," said Thorndyke, opening the drawer. "It was a
very peculiar one, as I have said, and as you will see from this model,
which is an exact duplicate." Here he exhibited Polton's production to
the astonished detective. "You see that it is extraordinarily slender,
and free from projections, and of unusual materials. You also see that
it was obviously not made by an ordinary dagger-maker; that, in spite of
the Italian word scrawled on it, there is plainly written all over it
'British mechanic.' The blade is made from a strip of common
three-quarter-inch tool steel; the hilt is turned from an aluminium rod;
and there is not a line of engraving on it that could not be produced in
a lathe by any engineer's apprentice. Even the boss at the top is
mechanical, for it is just like an ordinary hexagon nut. Then, notice
the dimensions, as shown on my drawing. The parts A and B, which just
project beyond the blade, are exactly similar in diameter--and such
exactness could hardly be accidental. They are each parts of a circle
having a diameter of 10.9 millimetres--a dimension which happens, by a
singular coincidence, to be exactly the calibre of the old Chassepôt
rifle, specimens of which are now on sale at several shops in London.
Here is one, for instance."
He fetched the rifle that he had bought, from the corner in which it was
standing, and, lifting the dagger by its point, slipped the hilt into
the muzzle. When he let go, the dagger slid quietly down the barrel,
until its hilt appeared in the open breech.
"Good God!" exclaimed Marchmont. "You don't suggest that the dagger was
shot from a gun?"
"I do, indeed; and you now see the reason for the aluminium hilt--to
diminish the weight of the already heavy projectile--and also for this
hexagonal boss on the end?"
"No, I do not," said the inspector; "but I say that you are suggesting
an impossibility."
"Then," replied Thorndyke, "I must explain and demonstrate. To begin
with, this projectile had to travel point foremost; therefore it had to
be made to spin--and it certainly was spinning when it entered the body,
as the clothing and the wound showed us. Now, to make it spin, it had to
be fired from a rifled barrel; but as the hilt would not engage in the
rifling, it had to be fitted with something that would. That something
was evidently a soft metal washer, which fitted on to this hexagon, and
which would be pressed into the grooves of the rifling, and so spin the
dagger, but would drop off as soon as the weapon left the barrel. Here
is such a washer, which Polton has made for us."
He laid on the table a metal disc, with a hexagonal hole through it.
"This is all very ingenious," said the inspector, "but I say it is
impossible and fantastic."
"It certainly sounds rather improbable," Marchmont agreed.
"We will see," said Thorndyke. "Here is a makeshift cartridge of
Polton's manufacture, containing an eighth charge of smokeless powder
for a 20-bore gun."
He fitted the washer on to the boss of the dagger in the open breech of
the rifle, pushed it into the barrel, inserted the cartridge, and closed
the breech. Then, opening the office-door, he displayed a target of
padded strawboard against the wall.
"The length of the two rooms," said he, "gives us a distance of
thirty-two feet. Will you shut the windows, Jervis?"
I complied, and he then pointed the rifle at the target. There was a
dull report--much less loud than I had expected--and when we looked at
the target, we saw the dagger driven in up to its hilt at the margin of
the bull's-eye.
"You see," said Thorndyke, laying down the rifle, "that the thing is
practicable. Now for the evidence as to the actual occurrence. First, on
the original dagger there are linear scratches which exactly correspond
with the grooves of the rifling. Then there is the fact that the dagger
was certainly spinning from left to right--in the direction of the
rifling, that is--when it entered the body. And then there is this,
which, as you heard, the porter found in the garden."
He opened the paper packet. In it lay a metal disc, perforated by a
hexagonal hole. Stepping into the office, he picked up from the floor
the washer that he had put on the dagger, and laid it on the paper
beside the other. The two discs were identical in size, and the margin
of each was indented with identical markings, corresponding to the
rifling of the barrel.
The inspector gazed at the two discs in silence for a while; then,
looking up at Thorndyke, he said:
"I give in, Doctor. You're right, beyond all doubt; but how you came to
think of it beats me into fits. The only question now is, Who fired the
gun, and why wasn't the report heard?"
"As to the latter," said Thorndyke, "it is probable that he used a
compressed-air attachment, not only to diminish the noise, but also to
prevent any traces of the explosive from being left on the dagger. As to
the former, I think I can give you the murderer's name; but we had
better take the evidence in order. You may remember," he continued,
"that when Dr. Jervis stood as if winding the clock, I chalked a mark on
the floor where he stood. Now, standing on that marked spot, and looking
out of the open window, I could see two of the windows of a house nearly
opposite. They were the second- and third-floor windows of No. 6,
Cotman Street. The second-floor is occupied by a firm of architects; the
third-floor by a commission agent named Thomas Barlow. I called on Mr.
Barlow, but before describing my visit, I will refer to another matter.
You haven't those threatening letters about you, I suppose?"
"Yes, I have," said the inspector; and he drew forth a wallet from his
breast-pocket.
"Lot us take the first one, then," said Thorndyke. "You see that the
paper and envelope are of the very commonest, and the writing
illiterate. But the ink does not agree with this. Illiterate people
usually buy their ink in penny bottles. Now, this envelope is addressed
with Draper's dichroic ink--a superior office ink, sold only in large
bottles--and the red ink in which the note is written is an unfixed,
scarlet ink, such as is used by draughtsmen, and has been used, as you
can see, in a stylographic pen. But the most interesting thing about
this letter is the design drawn at the top. In an artistic sense, the
man could not draw, and the anatomical details of the skull are
ridiculous. Yet the drawing is very neat. It has the clean, wiry line of
a machine drawing, and is done with a steady, practised hand. It is also
perfectly symmetrical; the skull, for instance, is exactly in the
centre, and, when we examine it through a lens, we see why it is so, for
we discover traces of a pencilled centre-line and ruled cross-lines.
Moreover, the lens reveals a tiny particle of draughtsman's soft, red,
rubber, with which the pencil lines were taken out; and all these facts,
taken together, suggest that the drawing was made by someone accustomed
to making accurate mechanical drawings. And now we will return to Mr.
Barlow. He was out when I called, but I took the liberty of glancing
round the office, and this is what I saw. On the mantelshelf was a
twelve-inch flat boxwood rule, such as engineers use, a piece of soft,
red rubber, and a stone bottle of Draper's dichroic ink. I obtained, by
a simple ruse, a specimen of the office notepaper and the ink. We will
examine it presently. I found that Mr. Barlow is a new tenant, that he
is rather short, wears a wig and spectacles, and always wears a glove on
his left hand. He left the office at 8.30 this morning, and no one saw
him arrive. He had with him a square case, and a narrow, oblong one
about five feet in length; and he took a cab to Victoria, and apparently
caught the 8.51 train to Chatham."
"Ah!" exclaimed the inspector.
"But," continued Thorndyke, "now examine those three letters, and
compare them with this note that I wrote in Mr. Barlow's office. You see
that the paper is of the same make, with the same water-mark, but that
is of no great significance. What is of crucial importance is this: You
see, in each of these letters, two tiny indentations near the bottom
corner. Somebody has used compasses or drawing-pins over the packet of
notepaper, and the points have made little indentations, which have
marked several of the sheets. Now, notepaper is cut to its size after it
is folded, and if you stick a pin into the top sheet of a section, the
indentations on all the underlying sheets will be at exactly similar
distances from the edges and corners of the sheet. But you see that
these little dents are all at the same distance from the edges and the
corner." He demonstrated the fact with a pair of compasses. "And now
look at this sheet, which I obtained at Mr. Barlow's office. There are
two little indentations--rather faint, but quite visible--near the
bottom corner, and when we measure them with the compasses, we find that
they are exactly the same distance apart as the others, and the same
distance from the edges and the bottom corner. The irresistible
conclusion is that these four sheets came from the same packet."
The inspector started up from his chair, and faced Thorndyke. "Who is
this Mr. Barlow?" he asked.
"That," replied Thorndyke, "is for you to determine; but I can give you
a useful hint. There is only one person who benefits by the death of
Alfred Hartridge, but he benefits to the extent of twenty thousand
pounds. His name is Leonard Wolfe, and I learn from Mr. Marchmont that
he is a man of indifferent character--a gambler and a spendthrift. By
profession he is an engineer, and he is a capable mechanician. In
appearance he is thin, short, fair, and clean-shaven, and he has lost
the middle finger of his left hand. Mr. Barlow is also short, thin, and
fair, but wears a wig, a beard, and spectacles, and always wears a glove
on his left hand. I have seen the handwriting of both these gentlemen,
and should say that it would be difficult to distinguish one from the
other."
"That's good enough for me," said the inspector. "Give me his address,
and I'll have Miss Curtis released at once."
* * * * *
The same night Leonard Wolfe was arrested at Eltham, in the very act of
burying in his garden a large and powerful compressed-air rifle. He was
never brought to trial, however, for he had in his pocket a more
portable weapon--a large-bore Derringer pistol--with which he managed
to terminate an exceedingly ill-spent life.
"And, after all," was Thorndyke's comment, when he heard of the event,
"he had his uses. He has relieved society of two very bad men, and he
has given us a most instructive case. He has shown us how a clever and
ingenious criminal may take endless pains to mislead and delude the
police, and yet, by inattention to trivial details, may scatter clues
broadcast. We can only say to the criminal class generally, in both
respects, 'Go thou and do likewise.'"