Enlarging Thorndyke’s Knowledge
“I am glad you were able to come,” said Thorndyke, as we took our
places at the table. “Your letter was a shade ambiguous. You spoke of
discussing the D’Arblay case, but I think you had something more than
discussion in your mind.”
“You are quite right,” I replied. “I had in my mind to ask if it would
be possible for me to retain you—I believe that is the correct
expression—to investigate the case, as the police seem to think there
is nothing to go on; and if the costs would be likely to be within my
means.”
“As to the costs,” said he, “we can dismiss them. I see no reason to
suppose that there would be any costs.”
“But your time, Sir——” I began.
He laughed derisively. “Do you propose to pay me for indulging in my
pet hobby? No, my dear fellow, it is I who should pay you for bringing
a most interesting and intriguing case to my notice. So your questions
are answered. I shall be delighted to look into this case, and there
will be no costs unless we have to pay for some special services. If
we do, I will let you know.”
I was about to utter a protest, but he continued:
“And now, having disposed of the preliminaries, let us consider the
case itself. Your very shrewd and capable inspector believes that the
Scotland Yard people will take no active measures unless some new
facts turn up. I have no doubt he is right, and I think they are
right, too. They can’t spend a lot of time—which means public money—on
a case in which hardly any data are available, and which holds out no
promise of any result. But we mustn’t forget that we are in the same
boat. Our chances of success are infinitesimal. This investigation is
a forlorn hope. That, I may say, is what commends it to me; but I want
you to understand clearly that failure is what we have to expect.”
“I understand that,” I answered gloomily, but nevertheless rather
disappointed at this pessimistic view. “There seems to be nothing
whatever to go upon.”
“Oh, it isn’t so bad as that,” he rejoined. “Let us just run over the
data that we have. Our object is to fix the identity of the man who
killed Julius D’Arblay. Let us see what we know about him. We will
begin with the evidence at the inquest. From that we learned: 1. That
he is a man of some education, ingenious, subtle, resourceful. This
murder was planned with extraordinary ingenuity and foresight. The
body was found in the pond with no telltale mark on it but an almost
invisible pinprick in the back. The chances were a thousand to one, or
more, against that tiny puncture ever being observed; and if it had
not been observed, the verdict would have been ‘Found drowned,’ or
‘Found dead,’ and the fact of the murder would never have been
discovered.
“2. We also learn that he has some knowledge of poisons. The common,
vulgar, poisoner is reduced to fly-papers, weed-killer, or
rat-poison—arsenic or strychnine. But this man selects the most
suitable of all poisons for his purpose, and administers it in the
most effective manner; with a hypodermic syringe.
“3. We learned further that he must have had some extraordinarily
strong reason for making away with D’Arblay. He made most elaborate
plans, he took endless trouble—for instance, it must have been no easy
matter to get possession of that quantity of aconitine (unless he were
a doctor, which God forbid!). That strong reason—the motive, in
fact—is the key of the problem. It is the murderer’s one vulnerable
point, for it can hardly be beyond discovery; and its discovery must
be our principal objective.”
I nodded, not without some self-congratulation as I recalled how I had
made this very point in my talk with Miss D’Arblay.
“Those,” Thorndyke continued, “are the data that the inquest
furnished. Now we come to those added by Inspector Follett.”
“I don’t see that they help us at all,” said I. “The ancient coin was
a curious find, but it doesn’t appear to tell us anything new
excepting that this man may have been a collector or a dealer. On the
other hand, he may not. It doesn’t seem to me that the coin has any
significance.”
“Doesn’t it really?” said Thorndyke, as he refilled my glass. “You are
surely overlooking the very curious coincidence that it presents.”
“What coincidence is that?” I asked, in some surprise.
“The coincidence,” he replied, “that both the murderer and the victim
should be, to a certain extent, connected with a particular form of
activity. Here is a man who commits a murder and who, at the time of
committing it appears to have been in possession of a coin, which is
not a current coin, but a collector’s piece; and behold! the murdered
man is a sculptor—a man who, presumably, was capable of making a coin,
or at least the working model.”
“There is no evidence,” I objected, “that D’Arblay was capable of
cutting a die. He was not a die sinker.”
“There was no need for him to be,” Thorndyke rejoined. “Formerly, the
medallist who designed the coin cut the die himself. But that is not
the modern practice. Nowadays, the designer makes the model, first in
wax and then in plaster, on a comparatively large scale. The model of
a shilling may be three inches or more in diameter. The actual
die-sinking is done by a copying machine which produces a die of the
required size by mechanical reduction. I think there could be no doubt
that D’Arblay could have modelled the design for a coin on the usual
scale, say three or four inches in diameter.”
“Yes,” I agreed, “he certainly could, for I have seen some of his
small relief work; some little plaquettes, not more than two inches
long and most delicately and beautifully modelled. But still, I don’t
see the connexion, otherwise than as a rather odd coincidence.”
“There may be nothing more,” said he. “There may be nothing in it at
all. But odd coincidences should always be noted with very special
attention.”
“Yes, I realize that. But I can’t imagine what significance there
could be in the coincidence.”
“Well,” said Thorndyke, “let us take an imaginary case, just as an
illustration. Suppose this man to have been a fraudulent dealer in
antiquities; and suppose him to have obtained enlarged photographs of
a medal or coin of extreme rarity and of great value, which was in
some museum or private collection. Suppose him to have taken the
photographs to D’Arblay and commissioned him to model from them a pair
of exact replicas in hardened plaster. From those plaster models he
could, with a copying machine, produce a pair of dies with which he
could strike replicas in the proper metal and of the exact size; and
these could be sold for large sums to judiciously chosen collectors.”
“I don’t believe D’Arblay would have accepted such a commission,” I
exclaimed indignantly.
“We may assume that he would not, if the fraudulent intent had been
known to him. But it would not have been; and there is no reason why
he should have refused a commission merely to make a copy. Still, I am
not suggesting that anything of the kind really happened. I am simply
giving you an illustration of one of the innumerable ways in which a
perfectly honest sculptor might be made use of by a fraudulent dealer.
In that case his honesty would be a source of danger to him; for if a
really great fraud were perpetrated by means of his work, it would
clearly be to the interest of the perpetrator to get rid of him. An
honest and unconscious collaborator in a crime is apt to be a
dangerous witness if questions arise.”
I was a good deal impressed by this demonstration. Here, it seemed to
me, was something very like a tangible clue. But at this point
Thorndyke again applied a cold douche.
“Still,” he said, “we are only dealing with generalities, and rather
speculative ones. Our assumptions are subject to all sorts of
qualifications. It is possible, for instance, though very improbable,
that D’Arblay may have been murdered in error by a perfect stranger;
that he may have walked into an ambush prepared for some one else.
Again, the coin may not have belonged to the murderer at all, though
that is also most improbable. But there are numerous possibilities of
error; and we can eliminate them only by following up each suggested
clue and seeking verification or disproof. Every new fact that we
learn is a multiple gain. For as money makes money, so knowledge
begets knowledge.”
“That is very true,” I answered dejectedly—for it sounded rather like
a platitude; “but I don’t see any means of following up any of these
clues.”
“We are going to follow up one of them after lunch, if you have time,”
said he. As he spoke, he took from the table drawer a paper packet and
a jeweller’s leather case. “This,” he said, handing me the packet,
“contains your sealing-wax moulds. You had better take care of them
and keep the box with the marked side up to prevent the wax from
warping. Here are a pair of casts in hardened plaster—‘fictile ivory,’
as it is called—which my assistant, Polton, has made.”
He opened the case and passed it to me, when I saw that it was lined
with purple velvet and contained what looked like two old ivory
replicas of the mysterious coin.
“Mr. Polton is quite an artist,” I said, regarding them admiringly.
“But what are you going to do with these?”
“I had intended to take them round to the British Museum and show them
to the keeper of the coins and medals, or one of his colleagues. But I
think I will just ask a few questions and hear what he says before I
produce the casts. Have you time to come round with me?”
“I shall make time. But what do you want to know about the coin?”
“It is just a matter of verification,” he replied. “My books on the
British coinage describe the Charles the Second guinea as having a
tiny elephant under the bust on the obverse, to show that the gold
from which it was minted came from the Guinea Coast.”
“Yes,” said I. “Well, there is a little elephant under the bust in
this coin.”
“True,” he replied. “But this elephant has a castle on his back, and
would ordinarily be described as an elephant and castle, to
distinguish him from the plain elephant which appeared on some coins.
What I want to ascertain is whether there were two different types of
guinea. The books make no mention of a second variety.”
“Surely they would have referred to it if there had been,” said I.
“So I thought,” he replied; “but it is better to make sure than to
think.”
“I suppose it is,” I agreed without much conviction, “though I don’t
see that, even if there were two varieties, that fact would have any
bearing on what we want to know.”
“Neither do I,” he admitted. “But then you can never tell what a fact
will prove until you are in possession of the fact. And now, as we
seem to have finished, perhaps we had better make our way to the
Museum.”
The department of coins and medals is associated in my mind with an
impassive-looking Chinese person in bronze who presides over the upper
landing of the main staircase. In fact, we halted for a moment before
him to exchange a final word.
“It will probably be best,” said Thorndyke, “to say nothing about this
coin, or, indeed, about anything else. We don’t want to enter into any
explanations.”
“No,” I agreed. “It is best to keep one’s own counsel;” and with this
we entered the hall, where Thorndyke led the way to a small door and
pressed the electric bell-push. An attendant admitted us, and when we
had signed our names in the visitors’ book, he ushered us into the
keeper’s room. As we entered, a keen-faced, middle-aged man who was
seated at a table inspected us over his spectacles, and, apparently
recognizing Thorndyke, rose and held out his hand.
“Quite a long time since I have seen you,” he remarked after the
preliminary greetings. “I wonder what your quest is this time.”
“It is a very simple one,” said Thorndyke. “I am going to ask if you
can let me look at a Charles the Second guinea dated 1663.”
“Certainly I can,” was the reply, accompanied by an inquisitive glance
at my friend. “It is not a rarity, you know.”
He crossed the room to a large cabinet, and having run his eye over
the multitudinous labels, drew out a small, very shallow drawer. With
this in his hand he returned, and picking a coin out of its circular
pit, held it out to Thorndyke, who took it from him, holding it
delicately by the edge. He looked at it attentively for a few moments,
and then silently presented the obverse for my inspection. Naturally
my eye at once sought the little elephant under the bust, and there it
was; but there was no castle on its back.
“Is this the only type of guinea issued at that date?” Thorndyke
asked.
“The only type,” was the reply. “This is the first issue of the
guinea.”
“There was no variation or alternative form?”
“There was a form which had no elephant under the bust. Only those
which were minted from African gold bore the elephant.”
“I notice that this coin has a plain elephant under the bust; but I
seem to have heard of a guinea, bearing this date, which had an
elephant and castle under the bust. You are sure there was no such
guinea?”
Our official friend shook his head as he took the coin from Thorndyke
and replaced it in its cell. “As sure,” he replied, “as one can be of
a universal negative. The elephant and castle did not appear until
1685.” He picked up the drawer and was just moving away towards the
cabinet when there came a sudden change in his manner.
“Wait!” he exclaimed, stopping and putting down the drawer. “You are
quite right. Only it was not an issue; it was a trial piece, and only
a single coin was struck. I will tell you about it. There is a rather
curious story hanging to that piece.
“This guinea, as you probably know, was struck from dies cut by John
Roettier, and was one of the first coined by the mill-and-screw
process in place of the old hammer-and-pile method. Now when Roettier
had finished the dies, a trial piece was struck; and in striking that
piece the obverse die cracked right across, but apparently only at the
last turn of the screw, for the trial piece was quite perfect. Of
course, Roettier had to cut a new die; and for some reason he made a
slight alteration. The first die had an elephant and castle under the
bust. In the second one he changed this to a plain elephant. So your
impression was, so far, correct; but the coin, if it still exists, is
absolutely unique.”
“Is it not known, then, what became of that trial piece?”
“Oh, yes—up to a point. That is the queerest part of the story. For a
time it remained in the possession of the Slingsby family—Slingsby was
the Master of the Mint when it was struck. Then it passed through the
hands of various collectors, and finally was bought by an American
collector named Van Zellen. Now Van Zellen was a millionaire, and his
collection was a typical millionaire’s collection. It consisted
entirely of things of enormous value which no ordinary man could
afford, or of unique things of which nobody could possibly have a
duplicate. It seems that he was a rather solitary man, and that he
spent most of his evenings alone in his museum, gloating over his
possessions.
“One morning Van Zellen was found dead in the little study attached to
the museum. That was about eighteen months ago. There was an empty
champagne bottle on the table and a half-emptied glass, which smelt of
bitter almonds, and in his pocket was an empty phial labelled
‘Hydrocyanic Acid.’ At first it was assumed that he had committed
suicide, but when, later, the collection was examined, it was found
that a considerable part of it was missing. A clean sweep had been
made of the gems, jewels, and other portable objects of value, and,
among other things, this unique trial guinea had vanished. Surely you
remember the case?”
“Yes,” replied Thorndyke. “I do, now you mention it, but I never heard
what was stolen. Do you happen to know what the later developments
were?”
“There were none. The identity of the murderer was never even guessed
at, and not a single item of the stolen property has ever been traced.
To this day the crime remains an impenetrable mystery—unless you know
something about it,” and again our friend cast an inquisitive glance
at Thorndyke.
“My practice,” the latter replied, “does not extend to the United
States. Their own very efficient investigators seem to be able to do
all that is necessary. But I am very much obliged to you for having
given us so much of your time, to say nothing of this extremely
interesting information. I shall make a note of it, for American crime
occasionally has its repercussions on this side.”
I secretly admired the adroit way in which Thorndyke had evaded the
rather pointed question without making any actual mis-statement. But
the motive for the evasion was not very obvious to me. I was about to
put a question on the subject, but he anticipated it, for, as soon as
we were outside, he remarked with a chuckle: “It is just as well that
we didn’t begin by exhibiting the casts. We could hardly have sworn
our friend to secrecy, seeing that the original is undoubtedly stolen
property.”
“But aren’t you going to draw the attention of the police to the
fact?”
“I think not,” he replied. “They have got the original, and no doubt
they have a list of the stolen property. We must assume that they will
make use of their knowledge; but if they don’t, it may be all the
better for us. The police are very discreet; but they do sometimes
give the Press more information than I should. And what is told to the
Press is told to the criminal.”
“And why not?” I asked. “What is the harm of his knowing?”
“My dear Gray!” exclaimed Thorndyke. “You surprise me. Just consider
the position. This man aimed at being entirely unsuspected. That
failed. But still his identity is unknown, and he is probably
confident that it will never be ascertained. Then he is, so far, off
his guard. There is no need for him to disappear or go into hiding.
But let him know that he is being tracked and he will almost certainly
take fresh precautions against discovery. Probably he will slip away
beyond our reach. Our aim must be to encourage in him a feeling of
perfect security; and that aim commits us to the strictest secrecy. No
one must know what cards we hold or that we hold any; or even that we
are taking a hand.”
“What about Miss D’Arblay?” I asked anxiously. “May I not tell her
that you are working on her behalf?”
He looked at me somewhat dubiously. “It would obviously be better not
to,” he said, “but that might seem a little unfriendly and
unsympathetic.”
“It would be an immense relief to her to know that you are trying to
help her, and I think you could trust her to keep your secrets.”
“Very well,” he conceded. “But warn her very thoroughly. Remember that
our antagonist is hidden from us. Let us remain hidden from him, so
far as our activities are concerned.”
“I will make her promise absolute secrecy,” I agreed: and then, with a
slight sense of anti-climax, I added: “But we don’t seem to have so
very much to conceal. This curious story of the stolen coin is
interesting, but it doesn’t appear to get us any more forward.”
“Doesn’t it?” he asked. “Now I was just congratulating myself on the
progress that we had made; on the way in which we are narrowing down
the field of inquiry. Let us trace our progress. When you found the
body there was no evidence as to the cause of death; no suspicion of
any agent whatever. Then came the inquest, demonstrating the cause of
death and bringing into view a person of unknown identity, but having
certain distinguishing characteristics. Then Follett’s discovery added
some further characteristics and suggested certain possible motives
for the crime. But still there was no hint as to the person’s identity
or position in life. Now we have good evidence that he is a
professional criminal of a dangerous type, that he is connected with
another crime and with a quantity of easily identified stolen
property. We also know that he was in America about eighteen months
ago, and we can easily get exact information as to dates and locality.
This man is no longer a mere formless shadow. He is in a definite
category of possible persons.”
“But,” I objected, “the fact that he had the coin in his possession
does not prove that he is the man who stole it.”
“Not by itself,” Thorndyke agreed. “But taken in conjunction with the
crime, it is almost conclusive. You appear to be overlooking the
striking similarity of the two crimes. Each was a violent murder
committed by means of poison; and in each case, the poison selected
was the most suitable one for the purpose. The one, aconitine, was
calculated to escape detection; the other, hydrocyanic acid—the most
rapidly acting of all poisons—was calculated to produce almost instant
death in a man who was probably struggling and might have raised an
alarm. I think we are fairly justified in assuming that the murderer
of Van Zellen was the murderer of D’Arblay. If that is so, we have two
groups of circumstances to investigate, two tracks by which to follow
him; and, sooner or later, I feel confident, we shall be able to give
him a name. Then if we have kept our own counsel, and he is
unconscious of the pursuit, we shall be able to lay our hands on him.
But here we are at the Foundling Hospital. It is time for each of us
to get back to the routine of duty.”