Inspector Follett’s Discovery
To a man whose mind is working actively, walking is a more acceptable
mode of progression than riding in a vehicle. There is a sort of
reciprocity between the muscles and the brain—possibly due to the
close association of the motor and psychical centres—whereby the
activity of the one appears to act as a stimulus to the other. A sharp
walk sets the mind working, and, conversely, a state of lively
reflection begets an impulse to bodily movement.
Hence, when I had emerged from Market-street and set my face
homewards, I let the omnibuses rumble past unheeded. I knew my way
now. I had but to retrace the route by which I had come, and,
preserving my isolation amidst the changing crowd, let my thoughts
keep pace with my feet. And I had, in fact, a good deal to think
about; a general subject for reflection which arranged itself around
two personalities, Miss D’Arblay and Dr. Thorndyke.
To the former I had written suggesting a call on her, “subject to the
exigencies of the service,” on Sunday afternoon, and had received a
short but cordial note definitely inviting me to tea. So that matter
was settled, and really required no further consideration, though it
did actually occupy my thoughts for an appreciable part of my walk.
But that was mere self-indulgence: the preliminary savouring of an
anticipated pleasure. My cogitations respecting Dr. Thorndyke were, on
the other hand, somewhat troubled. I was eager to invoke his aid in
solving the hideous mystery which his acuteness had (I felt convinced)
brought into view. But it would probably be a costly business, and my
pecuniary resources were not great. To apply to him for services of
which I could not meet the cost was not to be thought of. The
too-common meanness of sponging on a professional man was totally
abhorrent to me.
But what was the alternative? The murder of Julius D’Arblay was one of
those crimes which offer the police no opportunity; at least, so it
seemed to me. Out of the darkness this fiend had stolen to commit this
unspeakable atrocity, and into the darkness he had straightway
vanished, leaving no trace of his identity nor any hint of his
diabolical motive. It might well be that he had vanished for ever;
that the mystery of the crime was beyond solution. But if any solution
was possible, the one man who seemed capable of discovering it was
John Thorndyke.
This conclusion, to which my reflections led again and again,
committed me to the dilemma that either this villain must be allowed
to go his way unmolested, if the police could find no clue to his
identity—a position that I utterly refused to accept; or that the one
supremely skilful investigator should be induced, if possible, to take
up the inquiry. In the end I decided to call on Thorndyke and frankly
lay the facts before him, but to postpone the interview until I had
seen Miss D’Arblay and ascertained what view the police took of the
case, and whether any new facts had transpired.
The train of reflection which brought me to this conclusion had
brought me also, by way of Pentonville, to the more familiar
neighbourhood of Clerkenwell, and I had just turned into a somewhat
squalid by-street, which seemed to bear in the right direction, when
my attention was arrested by a brass plate affixed to the door of one
of those hybrid establishments, intermediate between a shop and a
private house, known by the generic name of “Open Surgery.” The name
upon the plate—“Dr. Solomon Usher”—awakened certain reminiscences. In
my freshman days there had been a student of that name at our
hospital; a middle-aged man (elderly, we considered him, seeing that
he was near upon forty), who, after years of servitude as an
unqualified assistant, had scraped together the means of completing
his curriculum. I remembered him very well: a facetious, seedy,
slightly bibulous but entirely good-natured man, invincibly amiable
(as he had need to be), and always in the best of spirits. I recalled
the quaint figure that furnished such rich material for our schoolboy
wit; the solemn spectacles, the ridiculous side-whiskers, the
chimney-pot hat, the formal frock-coat (too often decorated with a
label secretly pinned to the coat-tail, and bearing some such
inscription as “This style 10/6,” or other scintillations of freshman
humour), and, looking over the establishment, decided that it seemed
to present a complete congruity with that well-remembered personality.
But the identification was not left to mere surmise, for even as my
eye roamed along a range of stoppered bottles that peeped over the
wire blind, the door opened and there he was, spectacles,
side-whiskers, top-hat, and frock-coat, all complete, plus an
œdematous-looking umbrella.
He did not recognize me at first—naturally, for I had changed a good
deal more than he had in the five or six years that had slipped
away—but inquired gravely if I wished to see him. I replied that it
had been the dearest wish of my heart, now at length gratified. Then,
as I grinned in his face, my identity suddenly dawned on him.
“Why, it’s Gray!” he exclaimed, seizing my hand. “God bless me, what a
surprise! I didn’t know you. Getting quite a man. Well, I am delighted
to see you. Come in and have a drink.”
He held the door open invitingly, but I shook my head.
“No, thanks,” I replied. “Not at this time in the day.”
“Nonsense,” he urged. “Do you good. I’ve just had one myself. Can’t
say more than that, excepting that I am ready to have another. Won’t
you really? Pity. Should never waste an opportunity. Which way are you
going?”
It seemed that we were going the same way for some distance and we
accordingly set off together.
“So you’ve flopped out of the nest,” he remarked, looking me over, “at
least so I judge by the adult clothes that you are wearing. Are you in
practice in these parts?”
“No,” I replied, “I am doing a locum. Only just qualified, you know.”
“Good,” said he. “A locum’s the way to begin. Try your ’prentice hand
on somebody else’s patients and pick up the art of general practice,
which they don’t teach you at the hospital.”
“You mean bookkeeping and dispensing and the general routine of the
day’s work?” I suggested.
“No, I don’t,” he replied. “I mean practice; the art of pleasing your
patients and keeping your end up. You’ve got a lot to learn, my boy.
Experientia does it. Scientific stuff is all very well at the
hospital, but in practice it is experience, gumption, tact, knowledge
of human nature, that counts.”
“I suppose a little knowledge of diagnosis and treatment is useful?” I
suggested.
“For your own satisfaction, yes,” he admitted, “but for practical
purposes a little knowledge of men and women is a good deal better. It
isn’t your scientific learning that brings you kudos, nor is it
out-of-the-way cases. It is just common sense brought to bear on
common ailments. Take the case of an aurist. You think that he lives
by dealing with obscure and difficult middle and internal ear cases.
Nothing of the kind. He lives on wax. Wax is the foundation of his
practice. Patient comes to him as deaf as a post. He does all the
proper jugglery—tuning-fork, otoscope, speculum, and so on, for the
moral effect. Then he hikes out a good old plug of cerumen, and the
patient hears perfectly. Of course, he is delighted. Thinks a miracle
has been performed. Goes away convinced that the aurist is a genius;
and so he is if he has managed the case properly. I made my reputation
here on a fish-bone.”
“Well, a fish-bone isn’t always so very easy to extract,” said I.
“It isn’t,” he agreed. “Especially if it isn’t there.”
“What do you mean?” I asked.
“I’ll tell you about it,” he replied. “A chappie here got a fish-bone
stuck in his throat. Of course, it didn’t stay there. They never do.
But the prick in his soft palate did, and he was convinced that the
bone was still there. So he sent for a doctor. Doctor came, looked in
his throat. Couldn’t see any fish-bone, and, like a fool, said so.
Tried to persuade the patient that there was no bone there. But the
chappie said it was his throat and he knew better. He could feel it
there. So he sent for another doctor and the same thing happened. No
go. He had four different doctors and they hadn’t the sense of an
infant among them. Then he sent for me.
“Now, as soon as I heard how the land lay, I nipped into the surgery
and got a fish-bone that I keep there in a pill-box for emergencies,
stuck it into the jaws of a pair of throat forceps, and off I went.
‘Show me whereabouts it is,’ says I, handing him a probe to point
with. He showed me the spot and nearly swallowed the probe. ‘All
right,’ said I. ‘I can see it. Just shut your eyes and open your mouth
wide and I will have it out in a jiffy.’ I popped the forceps into his
mouth, gave a gentle prod with the point on the soft palate; patient
hollered out, ‘Hoo!’ I whisked out the forceps and held them up before
his eyes with the fish-bone grasped in their jaws.
“‘Ha!’ says he. ‘Thank Gawd! What a relief! I can swallow quite well
now.’ And so he could. It was a case of suggestion and
counter-suggestion. Imaginary fish-bone cured by imaginary extraction.
And it made my local reputation. Well, good-bye, old chap. I’ve got a
visit to make here. Come in one evening and smoke a pipe with me. You
know where to find me. And take my advice to heart. Never go to
extract a fish-bone without one in your pocket; and it isn’t a bad
thing to keep a dried earwig by you. I do. People will persist in
thinking they’ve got one in their ears. So long. Look me up soon,” and
with a farewell flourish of the umbrella, he turned to a shabby street
door and began to work the top bell-pull as if it were the handle of
an air-pump.
I went on my way, not a little amused by my friend’s genial cynicism,
nor entirely uninstructed. For “there is a soul of truth in things
erroneous,” as the philosopher reminds us; and if the precepts of
Solomon Usher did not sound the highest note of professional ethics,
they were based on a very solid foundation of worldly wisdom.
When, having finished my short round of visits, I arrived at my
temporary home, I was informed by the housemaid in a mysterious
whisper that a police officer was waiting to see me. “Name of
Follett,” she added. “He’s waiting in the consulting-room.”
Proceeding thither, I found my friend, the Highgate inspector, with
one eye closed, standing before a card of test-types that hung on the
wall. We greeted one another cordially and then, as I looked at him
inquiringly, he produced from his pocket without remark an official
envelope from which he extracted a coin, a silver pencil-case and a
button. These objects he laid on the writing-table and silently
directed my attention to them. A little puzzled by his manner I picked
up the coin and examined it attentively. It was a Charles the Second
guinea dated 1663, very clean and bright and in remarkably perfect
preservation. But I could not see that it was any concern of mine.
“It is a beautiful coin,” I remarked; “but what about it?”
“It doesn’t belong to you, then?” he asked.
“No. I wish it did.”
“Have you ever seen it before?”
“Never, to my knowledge.”
“What about the pencil-case?”
I picked it up and turned it over in my fingers. “No,” I said; “it is
not mine and I have no recollection of ever having seen it before.”
“And the button?”
“It is apparently a waistcoat button,” I said after having inspected
it, “apparently belonging to a tweed waistcoat; and judging by the
appearance of the thread and the wisp of cloth that it still holds, it
must have been pulled off with some violence. But it isn’t off my
waist-coat, if that is what you want to know.”
“I didn’t much think it was,” he replied, “but I thought it best to
make sure. And it didn’t come from poor Mr. D’Arblay’s waistcoat,
because I have examined that and there is no button missing. I showed
these things to Miss D’Arblay, and she is sure that none of them
belonged to her father. He never used a pencil-case—artists don’t, as
a rule—and as to the guinea, she knew nothing about it. If it was her
father’s, he must have come by it immediately before his death;
otherwise she felt sure he would have shown it to her, seeing that
they were both interested in anything in the nature of sculpture.”
“Where did you get these things?” I asked.
“From the pond in the wood,” he replied. “I will tell you how I came
to find them—that is, if I am not taking up too much of your time.”
“Not at all,” I assured him; and even as I spoke I thought of Solomon
Usher. He wouldn’t have said that. He would have anxiously consulted
his engagement-book to see how many minutes he could spare. However,
Inspector Follett was not a patient, and I wanted to hear his story.
So having established him in the easy-chair, I sat down to listen.
“The morning after the inquest,” he began, “an officer of the C.I.D.
came up to get particulars of the case and see what was to be done.
Well, as soon as I had told him all I knew and shown him our copy of
the depositions, it was pretty clear to me that he didn’t think there
was anything to be done but wait for some fresh evidence. Mind you,
Doctor, this is in strict confidence.”
“I understand that. But if the Criminal Investigation Department
doesn’t investigate crime, what the deuce is the good of it?”
“That is hardly a fair way of putting it,” he protested. “The people
at Scotland Yard have got their hands pretty full, and they can’t
spend their time in speculating about cases in which there is no
evidence. They can’t create evidence; and you can see for yourself
that there isn’t the ghost of a clue to the identity of the man who
committed this murder. But they are keeping the case in mind, and
meanwhile we have got to report any new facts that may turn up. Those
were our instructions, and when I heard them I decided to do a bit of
investigating on my own, with the Superintendent’s permission, of
course.
“Well, I began by searching the wood thoroughly, but I got nothing out
of that excepting Mr. D’Arblay’s hat, which I found in the undergrowth
not far from the main path.
“Then I thought of dragging the pond; but I decided that, as it was
only a small pond and shallow, it would be best to empty it and expose
the bottom completely. So I dammed up the little stream that feeds it,
and deepened the outflow, and very soon I had it quite empty excepting
a few small puddles. And I think it was well worth the trouble. These
things don’t tell us much, but they may be useful one day for
identification. And they do tell us something. They suggest that this
man was a collector of coins; and they make it fairly clear that there
was a struggle in the pond before Mr. D’Arblay fell down.”
“That is, assuming that the things belonged to the murderer,” I
interposed. “There is no evidence that they did.”
“No, there isn’t,” he admitted; “but if you consider the three things
together they suggest a very strong probability. Here is a waistcoat
button violently pulled off, and here are two things such as would be
carried in a waistcoat pocket and might fall out if the waistcoat were
dragged at violently when the wearer was stooping over a fallen man
and struggling to avoid being pulled down with him. And then there is
this coin. Its face value is a guinea, but it must be worth a good
deal more than that. Do you suppose anybody would leave a thing of
that kind in a shallow pond, from which it could be easily recovered
with a common landing-net? Why, it would have paid to have had the
pond dragged or even emptied. But, as I say, that wouldn’t have been
necessary.”
“I am inclined to think you are right, Inspector,” said I, rather
impressed by the way in which he had reasoned the matter out; “but
even so, it doesn’t seem to me that we are much more forward. The
things don’t point to any particular person.”
“Not at present,” he rejoined. “But a fact is a fact, and you can
never tell in advance what you may get out of it. If we should get a
hint of any other kind pointing to some particular person, these
things might furnish invaluable evidence connecting that person with
the crime. They may even give a clue now to the people at the C.I.D.,
though that isn’t very likely.”
“Then you are going to hand them over to the Scotland Yard people?”
“Certainly. The C.I.D. are the lions, you know. I’m only a jackal.”
I was rather sorry to hear this, for the idea had floated into my mind
that I should have liked Thorndyke to see these waifs, which, could
they have spoken, would have had so much to tell. To me they conveyed
nothing that threw any light on the ghastly events of that night of
horror. But to my teacher, with his vast experience and his wonderful
power of analyzing evidence they might convey some quite important
significance.
I reflected rapidly on the matter. It would not be wise to say
anything to the inspector about Thorndyke, and it was quite certain
that a loan of the articles would not be entertained. Probably a
description of them would be enough for the purpose; but still I had a
feeling that an inspection of them would be better. Suddenly I had a
bright idea, and proceeded cautiously to broach it.
“I should rather like to have a record of these things,” said I;
“particularly of the coin. Would you object to my taking an impression
of it in sealing-wax?”
Inspector Follett looked doubtful. “It would be a bit irregular,” he
said. “It is a bit irregular for me to have shown it to you, but you
are interested in the case, and you are a responsible person. What did
you want the impression for?”
“Well,” I said, “we don’t know much about that coin. I thought I might
be able to pick up some further information. Of course, I understand
that what you have told me is strictly confidential. I shouldn’t go
showing the thing about, or talking. But I should like to have the
impression to refer to if necessary.”
“Very well,” said he. “On that understanding, I have no objection. But
see that you don’t leave any wax on the coin, or the C.I.D. people
will be asking questions.”
With this permission, I set about the business gleefully, determined
to get as good an impression as possible. From the surgery I fetched
an ointment slab, a spirit lamp, a stick of sealing-wax, a teaspoon,
some powder-papers, a bowl of water, and a jar of vaseline. Laying a
paper on the slab, I put the coin on it and traced its outline with a
pencil. Then I broke off a piece of sealing-wax, melted it in the
teaspoon, and poured it out carefully into the marked circle so that
it formed a round, convex button of the right size. While the wax was
cooling to the proper consistency, I smeared the coin with vaseline,
and wiped the excess off with my handkerchief. Then I carefully laid
it on the stiffening wax and made steady pressure. After a few moments
I cautiously lifted the paper and dropped it into the water, leaving
it to cool completely. When, finally, I turned it over under water,
the coin dropped away by its own weight.
“It is a beautiful impression,” the inspector remarked, as he examined
it with the aid of my pocket lens, while I prepared to operate on the
reverse of the coin. “As good as the original. You seem rather a dab
at this sort of thing, Doctor. I wonder if you would mind doing
another pair for me?”
Of course, I complied gladly; and when the inspector departed a few
minutes later he took with him a couple of excellent wax impressions
to console him for the necessity of parting with the original.
As soon as he was gone I proceeded to execute a plan that had already
formed in my mind. First I packed the two wax impressions very
carefully in lint and bestowed them in a tin tobacco-box, which I made
up into a neat parcel and addressed it to Dr. Thorndyke. Then I wrote
him a short letter giving him the substance of my talk with Inspector
Follett and asking for an appointment early in the following week to
discuss the situation with him. I did not suppose that the wax
impressions would convey, even to him, anything that would throw fresh
light on this extraordinarily obscure crime. But one never knew. And
the mere finding of the coin might suggest to him some significance
that I had overlooked. In any case, the new incident gave me an excuse
for reopening the matter with him.
I did not trust the precious missives to the maid, but as soon as the
letter was written I took it and the parcel in my own hands to the
post, dropping the letter into the box but giving the parcel the added
security of registration. This business being thus despatched, my mind
was free to occupy itself with pleasurable anticipations of the
projected visit to Highgate on the morrow and to deal with whatever
exigencies might arise in the course of the Saturday evening
consultations.