Arms and the Man
The fog had thinned to a mere haze when the porter admitted me at the
Inner Temple Gate, so that, as I passed the Cloisters and looked
through into Pump-court I could see the lighted windows of the
residents’ chambers at the far end. The sight of them encouraged me to
hope that the chambers in King’s Bench-walk might throw out a similar
hopeful gleam. Nor was I disappointed; and the warm glow from the
windows of No. 5a sent me tripping up the stairs profoundly relieved,
though a trifle abashed at the untimely hour of my visit.
The door was opened by Thorndyke himself, who instantly cut short my
apologies.
“Nonsense, Gray!” he exclaimed, shaking my hand. “It is no
interruption at all. On the contrary, how beautiful upon the staircase
are the feet of him that bringeth—well, what sort of tidings?”
“Not good, I am afraid, sir.”
“Well, let us have them. Come and sit by the fire.” He drew up an easy
chair, and, having installed me in it and taken a critical look at me,
invited me to proceed. I accordingly proceeded bluntly to inform him
that an attempt had been made to murder Miss D’Arblay.
“Ha!” he exclaimed. “These are bad tidings indeed! I hope she is not
injured in any way.”
I reassured him on this point, and gave him the details as to the
patient’s condition, and he then asked:
“When did the attempt occur, and how did you hear of it?”
“It happened this evening, and I was present.”
“You were present!” he repeated, gazing at me in the utmost
astonishment. “And what became of the assailant?”
“He vanished into the fog,” I replied.
“Ah, yes. The fog. I had forgotten that. But now let us drop this
question and answer method. Give me a narrative from the beginning,
with the events in their proper sequence. And omit nothing, no matter
how trivial.”
I took him at his word—up to a certain point. I described my arrival
at the studio, the search in the cupboard, the sinister interruption,
the attack, and the unavailing attempt at pursuit. As to what befell
thereafter I gave him a substantially complete account—with certain
reservations—up to my departure from Ivy Cottage.
“Then you never saw the man at all?”
“No, but Miss D’Arblay did;” and here I gave him such details of the
man’s appearance as I had been able to gather from Marion.
“It is quite a vivid description,” he said, as he wrote down the
details; “and now shall we have a look at that piece of the mould?”
I disinterred it from my tobacco-pouch and handed it to him. He
glanced at it and then went to a cabinet, from a drawer in which he
produced the little case containing Polton’s casts of the guinea and a
box, which he placed on the table and opened. From it he took a lump
of moulding-wax and a bottle of powdered French chalk. Pinching off a
piece of the wax, he rolled it into a ball, dusted it lightly with the
chalk powder, and pressed it with his thumb into the mould. It came
away on his thumb, bearing a perfect impression of the inside of the
mould.
“That settles it,” said he, taking the obverse cast from the case and
laying it on the table beside the wax “squeeze.” “The squeeze and the
cast are identical. There is now no possible doubt that the
electrotype guinea that was found in the pond was made by Julius
D’Arblay. Probably it had been delivered by him to the murderer on the
very evening of his death. So we are undoubtedly dealing with that
same man. It is a most alarming situation.”
“It would be alarming if it were any other man,” I remarked.
“No doubt,” he agreed. “But there is something very special about this
man. He is a criminal of a type that is almost unknown here, but is
not uncommon in South European and Slav countries. You find him, too,
in the United States, principally among the foreign-born or alien
population. He is not a normal human being. He is an inveterate
murderer, to whom a human life does not count at all. And this type of
man continually grows more and more dangerous for two reasons: first,
the murder habit becomes more confirmed with each crime; second, there
is virtually no penalty for the succeeding murders, for the first one
entails the death sentence, and fifty murders can involve no more.
This man killed Van Zellen as a mere incident of a robbery. Then he
appears to have killed D’Arblay to secure his own safety, and he is
now attempting to kill Miss D’Arblay, apparently for the same reason.
And he will kill you and he will kill me if our existence is
inconvenient or dangerous to him. We must bear that in mind, and take
the necessary measures.”
“I can’t imagine,” said I, “what motive he can have for wanting to
kill Miss D’Arblay.”
“Probably he believes that she knows something that would be dangerous
to him; something connected with those moulds, or perhaps something
else. We are rather in the dark. We don’t know for certain what it was
he came to look for when he entered the studio, or whether or not he
found what he wanted. But to return to the danger. It is obvious that
he knows the Abbey-road district well, for he found his way to the
studio in the fog. He may be living close by. There is no reason why
he should not be. His identity is quite unknown.”
“That is a horrid thought!” I exclaimed.
“It is,” he agreed; “but it is the assumption that we have to act
upon. We must not leave a loop-hole unwatched. He mustn’t get another
chance.”
“No,” I concurred warmly; “he certainly must not—if we can help it.
But it is an awful position. We carry that poor girl’s life in our
hands, and there is always the possibility that we may be caught off
our guard, just for a moment.”
He nodded gravely. “You are quite right, Gray. An awful responsibility
rests on us. I am very unhappy about this poor young lady. Of course,
there is the other side—but at present we are concerned with Miss
D’Arblay’s safety.”
“What other side is there?” I demanded.
“I mean,” he replied, “that if we can hold out, this man is going to
deliver himself into our hands.”
“What makes you think that?” I asked eagerly.
“I recognize a familiar phenomenon,” he replied. “My large experience
and extensive study of crimes against the person have shown me that in
the overwhelming majority of cases of obscure crimes the discovery has
been brought about by the criminal’s own efforts to make himself safe.
He is constantly trying to hide his tracks—and making fresh ones. Now
this man is one of those criminals who won’t let well alone. He kills
Van Zellen and disappears, leaving no trace. He seems to be quite
safe. But he is not satisfied. He can’t keep quiet. He kills D’Arblay,
he enters the studio, he tries to kill Miss D’Arblay; all to make
himself more safe. And every time he moves he tells us something fresh
about himself. If we can only wait and watch, we shall have him.”
“What has he told us about himself this time?” I asked.
“We won’t go into that now, Gray. We have other business on hand. But
you know all that I know as to the facts. If you will turn over those
facts at your leisure, you will find that they yield some very curious
and striking inferences.”
I was about to press the question when the door opened and Mr. Polton
appeared on the threshold. Observing me, he crinkled benevolently, and
then, in answer to Thorndyke’s inquiring glance, said: “I thought I
had better remind you, sir, that you have not had any supper.”
“Dear me, Polton!” Thorndyke exclaimed, “now you mention it, I believe
you are right. And I suspect that Dr. Gray is in the same case. So we
place ourselves in your hands. Supper and pistols are what we want.”
“Pistols, sir!” exclaimed Polton, opening his eyes to an unusual
extent and looking at us suspiciously.
“Don’t be alarmed, Polton,” Thorndyke chuckled. “It isn’t a duel. I
just want to go over our stock of pistols and ammunition.”
At this I thought I detected a belligerent gleam in Polton’s eye, but
even as I looked, he was gone. Not for long, however. In a couple of
minutes he was back with a large hand-bag which he placed on the table
and again retired. Thorndyke opened the bag and took out quite a
considerable assortment of weapons—single pistols, revolvers, and
automatics—which he laid out on the table, each with its box of
appropriate cartridges.
“I hate fire-arms!” he exclaimed as he viewed the collection
distastefully. “They are dangerous things, and when it comes to
business they are scurvy weapons. Any poltroon can pull a trigger. But
we must put ourselves on equal terms with our opponent, who is certain
to be provided. Which will you have? I recommend this Baby Browning
for portability. Have you had any practice?”
“Only target practice. But I am a fair shot with a revolver. I have
never used an automatic.”
“We will go over the mechanism after supper,” said he. “Meanwhile, I
hear the approach of Polton and am conscious of a voracious interest
in what he is bringing. When did you feed last?”
“I had tea at the studio about half-past four.”
“My poor Gray!” he exclaimed, “you must be starving. I ought to have
asked you sooner. However, here comes relief.” He opened a folding
table by the fire just as Polton entered with the tray, on which I was
gratified to observe a good-sized dish-cover and a claret-jug. Polton
rapidly laid the little table and then, whisking off the cover,
retired with a triumphant crinkle.
“You have a regular kitchen upstairs, I presume,” said I, as we took
our seats at the table, “as well as a laboratory? And a pretty good
cook, too, to judge by the results.”
Thorndyke chuckled. “The kitchen and the laboratory are one,” he
replied, “and Polton is the cook. An uncommonly good cook, as you
suggest, but his methods are weird. These cutlets were probably
grilled in the cupel furnace, but I have known him to do a steak with
the brazing-jet. There is nothing conventional about Polton. But
whatever he does, he does to a finish; which is fortunate, because I
thought of calling in his aid in our present difficulty.”
I looked at him inquiringly, and he continued: “If Miss D’Arblay is to
go on with her work, which she ought to, as it is her livelihood, she
must be guarded constantly. I had considered applying to Inspector
Follett, and we may have to later; but for the present it will be
better for us to keep our own counsel and play our own hand. We have
two objects in view. First—and paramount—is the necessity of securing
Miss D’Arblay’s safety. But, second, we want to lay our hands on this
man, not to frighten him away, as we might do if we put the police on
his track. When once we have him, her safety is secured for ever,
whereas if he were merely scared away he would be an abiding menace.
We have got to catch him, and at present he is catchable. Secure in
his unknown identity, he is lurking within reach, ready to strike, but
also ready to be pounced upon when we are ready to pounce. Let us keep
him confident of his safety while we are gathering up the clues.”
“H’m—yes,” I assented, without much enthusiasm. “What is it that you
propose to do?”
“Somebody,” he replied, “must keep watch over Miss D’Arblay from the
moment when she leaves her house until she returns to it. How much
time—if any—can you give up to this duty?”
“My whole time,” I answered promptly. “I shall let everything else
go.”
“Then,” said he, “I propose that you and Polton relieve one another on
duty. It will be better than for you to be there all the time.”
I saw what he meant, and agreed at once. The conventions must be
respected as far as possible.
“But,” I suggested, “isn’t Polton rather a light-weight—if it should
come to a scrap, I mean?”
“Don’t undervalue small men, even physically,” he replied. “They are
commonly better built than big men and more enduring and energetic.
Polton is remarkably strong, and he has the pluck of a bulldog. But we
must see how he is placed as regards work.”
The question was put to him and the position of affairs explained when
he came down to clear the table; whereupon it appeared (from his own
account) that he was absolutely without occupation of any kind and
pining for something to do. Thorndyke laughed incredulously but did
not contest this outrageous and barefaced untruth, merely remarking:
“I am afraid it will be rather an idle time for you.”
“Oh, no, it won’t, sir,” Polton assured him emphatically. “I’ve always
wanted to learn something about sculptor’s moulding and wax-casting,
but I’ve never had a chance. Now I shall have. And that opportunity
isn’t going to be wasted.”
Thorndyke regarded his assistant with a twinkling eye. “So it was mere
self-seeking that made you so enthusiastic,” he said. “But you are
quite a good moulder already.”
“Not a sculptor’s moulder, sir,” replied Polton; “and I know nothing
about wax-work. But I shall, before I have been there many days.”
“I am sure you will,” said Thorndyke. “Miss D’Arblay will have an
apprentice and journeyman in one. You will be able to give her quite a
lot of help; which will be valuable just now while her hand is
disabled. When do you think she will be able to go back to work,
Gray?”
“I can’t say. Not to-morrow certainly. Shall I send you a report when
I have seen her?”
“Do,” he replied; “or, better still, come in to-morrow evening and
give me the news. So, Polton, we sha’n’t want you for another day or
so.”
“Ah!” said Polton, “then I shall be able to finish that
recording-clock before I go;” upon which Thorndyke and I laughed aloud
and Polton, his mendacity thus unmasked, retired with the tray,
crinkling but unabashed.
The short remainder of the evening—or rather, of the night—was spent
in the study of the mechanism and mode of use of automatic pistols.
When I finally bestowed the “Baby,” fully loaded, in my hip-pocket,
and rose to go, Thorndyke sped me on my way with a few words of
warning and advice.
“Be constantly on your guard, Gray. You are going to make a bitter
enemy of a man who knows no scruples; indeed, you have done so
already, and something tells me that he is aware of it. Avoid all
solitary or unfrequented places. Keep to main thoroughfares and
well-lighted streets, and maintain a diligent look-out for any
suspicious appearances. You have said truly that we carry Miss
D’Arblay’s life in our hands. But to preserve her life we must
preserve our own; which we should probably prefer to do in any case.
Don’t get jumpy—I don’t much think you will; but keep your attention
alert and your weather eye-lid lifting.”
With these encouraging words and a hearty hand-shake, he let me out
and stood watching me as I descended the stairs.