In Which Thorndyke Makes a Few Inquiries
If Mr. Penfield had been reluctant to arrange an interview with
Margaret Purcell he was yet more unwilling to accept one with Dr. John
Thorndyke. It is true that, as a lawyer of the old school, he regarded
Thorndyke with a certain indulgent contempt, as a dabbler in law, an
amateur, a mere doctor masquerading as a lawyer. But coupled with this
contempt was an acknowledged fear. For it was not unknown to him that
this medico-legal hermaphrodite had strange and disconcerting methods;
that he had a habit of driving his chariot through well-established
legal conventions and of using his eyes and ears in a fashion not
recognized by orthodox legal precedent.
Accordingly, when he received a note from Thorndyke announcing the
intention of the writer to call on him, he would have liked to decline
the encounter. A less courageous man would have absented himself. But
Mr. Penfield was a sportsman to the backbone, and, having got himself
into difficulties by that very quality, elected to “face the music”
like a man; and so it happened that when Thorndyke arrived in the
clerk’s office, he was informed that Mr. Penfield was at liberty and
was duly announced and ushered into the sanctum.
The old solicitor received him with a sort of stiff cordiality, helped
himself to a pinch of snuff and awaited the opening of the offensive.
“You have heard from Mrs. Purcell, I presume?” said Thorndyke.
“Yes. I understand that you are commissioned by her to ascertain the
whereabouts of her husband; a very desirable thing to do, and I wish
you every success.”
“I am sure you do,” said Thorndyke, “and it is with that conviction
that I have called on you to enable you to give effect to your good
wishes.”
Mr. Penfield paused, with his snuff-box open and an infinitesimal
particle between his finger and thumb, to steal a quick glance at
Thorndyke.
“In what way?” he asked.
“You received a certain communication concerning which you wrote to
Mrs. Purcell at—”
“I beg your pardon,” interrupted Penfield, “but I received no
communication. A communication was no doubt dispatched by Mr. Purcell,
but it never reached me.”
“I am referring to a letter which did reach you; a letter with certain
enclosures, apparently put into the wrong envelope.”
“And which,” said Penfield, “is consequently no concern of mine, or,
if you will pardon my saying so, of yours.”
“Of that,” said Thorndyke, “you are doubtless a better judge than I
am, since you have read the letter and I have not. But I am instructed
to investigate the disappearance of Mr. Purcell, and as this letter
appears to be connected with this disappearance, it naturally becomes
an object of interest to me.”
“Why do you assume that it is connected with the disappearance?”
Penfield demanded.
“Because of the striking coincidence of the time of its arrival and
the time of the disappearance,” replied Thorndyke.
“That seems a very insufficient reason,” said Penfield.
“Not, I think,” rejoined Thorndyke, “if taken in conjunction with the
terms of your own letter to Mrs. Purcell. But, do I understand you to
say that there was no connection?”
“I did not say that. What I say is that I have inadvertently seen a
letter which was not addressed to me and which I was not intended to
see. You will agree with me that it would be entirely inadmissible for
me to divulge or discuss its contents.”
“I am not sure that I do agree with you, seeing that the writer of the
letter is the husband of our client and the consignee is a person
unknown to us both. But you will naturally act on your own
convictions. Would it be admissible for you to indicate the nature of
the enclosures?”
“It would be entirely inadmissible,” replied Mr. Penfield.
There was a short silence, during which Mr. Penfield refreshed himself
with a pinch of snuff and Thorndyke rapidly turned over the situation.
Obviously the old solicitor did not intend to give any information
whatever—possibly for very good reasons. At any rate his decision had
to be accepted, and this Thorndyke proceeded to acknowledge.
“Well, Mr. Penfield,” he said, “I mustn’t urge you to act against your
professional conscience. I am sure you would help me if you could. By
the way, I assume that there would be no objection to my inspecting
the envelope in which that letter was contained?”
“The envelope!” exclaimed Penfield, considerably startled. “Why, what
information could you possibly gather from the envelope?”
“That is impossible to say until I have seen it,” was the reply.
“However,” said Penfield, “I am afraid that the same objection
applies, sorry as I am to refuse.”
“But,” persisted Thorndyke, “why should you refuse? The letter, as you
say, was not addressed to you; but the envelope was. It is your own
envelope and is entirely at your disposal.”
Mr. Penfield was cornered and he had the wisdom to recognize the fact.
Reluctant as he was to let Thorndyke examine even the envelope in
which those incriminating blanks were enclosed, he saw that a refusal
might arouse suspicion; and suspicion was what he must avoid at all
costs. Nevertheless, he made a last effort to temporize.
“Was there any point on which I could enlighten you—in respect of the
envelope? Can I give you any information?” he asked.
“I am afraid not,” replied Thorndyke. “My experience has taught me
always to examine the exteriors of letters closely. By doing so one
often picks up unexpected crumbs of evidence; but, naturally, one
cannot tell in advance what there may be to observe.”
“No,” agreed Penfield. “Quite so. It is like cross-examination. Well,
I am afraid you won’t pick up much this time, but if you really wish
to inspect the envelope, I suppose, as you say, I need not scruple to
place it in your hands.”
With this he rose and walked over to the safe, and opened it, opened
an inner drawer, and, keeping his back towards Thorndyke, took out the
envelope, which he carefully emptied of its contents. Thorndyke sat
motionless, not looking at the lawyer’s back but listening intently.
Not a sound, however, reached his ears until the iron drawer slid back
into its case, when Penfield turned and, without a word, laid the
empty envelope on the table before him.
For a few moments Thorndyke looked at the envelope as it lay, noting
that, although empty, it retained the bulge caused by its late
contents, and that those contents must have been somewhat bulky. Then
he picked it up and inspected it methodically, committing his
observations to memory, since written notes seemed unadvisable under
the circumstances. It was an oblong, “commercial” envelope about six
inches long by three and three quarters wide. The address was written
with a pen of medium width and unusually black ink in a rather small,
fluent, legible hand with elegant capitals of a distinctly uncial
type. The postmark was that of Penzance, dated the 23rd of June, 8.30
p.m. But of more interest to Thorndyke than the date, which he already
knew, was an impression which the postmark stamp had made by striking
the corner of the enclosure and thus defining its position in the
envelope. From this he was able to judge that the object enclosed was
oblong in shape, about five inches long or a little more and somewhat
less than three inches wide, and that it consisted of some soft
material—presumably folded paper—since the blow of the metal stamp had
left but a blunt impression of the corner. He next examined the edge
of the flap, first with the naked eye and then with his pocket lens,
and finally, turning back the flap from the place where the envelope
had been neatly cut open, he closely scrutinized its inner surface.
“Have you examined this envelope, Mr. Penfield?” he asked.
“Not in that exhaustive and minute manner,” replied the solicitor, who
had been watching the process with profound disfavour. “Why do you
ask?”
“Because there appears to me a suggestion of its having been opened by
moistening the flap and then reclosed, Just look at it through the
glass, especially at the inside, where the gum seems to have spread
more than one would expect from a single closing and where there is a
slight cockling of the paper.” He handed the envelope and the lens to
Penfield, who seemed to find some difficulty in managing the latter
and after a brief inspection returned both the articles to Thorndyke.
“I have not your experience and skill,” he said. “You may be right,
but all the probabilities are against your suggestion. If Purcell had
reopened the letter, it would surely have been to correct an error
rather than to make one. And the letter certainly belonged to the
enclosures.”
“On the other hand,” said Thorndyke, “when an envelope has been
steamed or damped open, it will be laid down flap uppermost, with the
addressed side hidden and a mistake might occur in that way. However,
there is probably nothing in it. That, I gather, is your opinion?”
Unfortunately it was. Very glad would Penfield have been to believe
that the envelope had been opened and the blanks put in by another
hand. But he had read Purcell’s letter and knew its connection with
the enclosures.
“May I ask if you were expecting a letter from Purcell?” Thorndyke
asked.
“Yes. I had written to him and was expecting a reply.”
“And would that letter have contained enclosures of about the same
size as those which were sent?”
“I have no reason to suppose that it would have contained any
enclosures.” Penfield replied. “None were asked for.”
Thorndyke made a mental note of this reply and of the fact that
Penfield did not seem to perceive its bearing, and rose to depart.
“I am sorry to have had to be so reticent,” said Penfield as they
shook hands, “but I hope your visit has not been entirely unfruitful,
and I speed you on your quest with hearty good wishes.”
Thorndyke replied in similarly polite terms and went on his way,
leaving Mr. Penfield in a state of profound relief at having got rid
of him, not entirely unmingled with twinges of apprehension lest some
incriminating fact should have leaked out unnoticed by him. Meanwhile
Thorndyke, as soon as he emerged into Lombard Street, halted and made
a detailed memorandum in his pocketbook of the few facts that he had
gleaned.
Having thus disposed of Mr. Penfield, he turned his steps in the
direction of Coleman Street with the purpose of calling on Mr. Levy;
not, indeed, with the expectation of extracting much information from
him, but rather to ascertain, if possible, how Purcell got his living.
Arrived at the number that Margaret had given him, he read through the
list of occupants in the hall but without finding among them the name
of Purcell. There was, however, on the second floor a firm entitled
Honeyball Brothers, who were described as “financial agents,” and as
this description was the only one that seemed to meet the case he
ascended the stairs and entered a small, well-furnished office bearing
on its door the Honeyball superscription. The only occupant was a
spectacled youth who was busily directing envelopes.
“Is Mr. Levy in?” Thorndyke enquired.
“I’ll see,” was the cautious reply. “What name?”
Thorndyke gave his name and the youth crossed to a door marked
“Private” which he opened and, having passed through, closed it behind
him. His investigations in the sanctum resulted in the discovery that
Mr. Levy was there, a fact which he announced when he reappeared,
holding the door open and inviting Thorndyke to enter. The latter
accordingly walked through into the private office, when the door
immediately closed behind him and a smartly-dressed, middle-aged man
rose from a writing-chair and received him with an outstretched hand.
“You are Mr. Levy?” enquired Thorndyke.
“I am Mr. Levy,” was the answer, accompanied by an almost affectionate
handshake and a smile of the most intense benevolence; “at your entire
service, Dr. Thorndyke. Won’t you sit down? This is the more
comfortable chair and is nearer to my desk and so more convenient for
conversation. Ahem. We are always delighted to meet members of your
profession, Doctor. We do business with quite a number of them and I
may say that we find them peculiarly appreciative of the delicacy with
which our transactions are conducted. Ahem. Now, in what way can I
have the pleasure of being of service to you?”
“The fact is,” replied Thorndyke, “I have just called to make one or
two inquiries—”
“Quite so,” interrupted Mr. Levy. “You are perfectly right. The wisdom
of our ancestors, Dr. Thorndyke, expresses itself admirably in the old
adage, ‘Look before you leap.’ Don’t be diffident, sir. The more
inquiries you make the better we shall be pleased. Now, what is the
first point?”
“Well,” Thorndyke replied, “I suppose the first point to dispose of is
whether I have or have not come to the right office. My business is
concerned with Mr. Daniel Purcell.”
“Then,” said Mr. Levy, “I should say that you have come to the right
office. Mr. Purcell is not here at the moment, but that is of no
consequence. I am his authorized deputy. What is the nature of your
business, Doctor?”
“I am acting for Mrs. Purcell, who has asked me to ascertain her
husband’s whereabouts, if possible.”
“I see,” said Levy. “Family doctor, hey? Well, I hope you’ll find out
where he is, because then you can tell me. But isn’t Mr. Penfield
looking into the matter?”
“Possibly. But Mr. Penfield is not very communicative and it is not
clear that he is taking any steps to locate Purcell. May I take it
that you are willing to help us, so far as you can?”
“Certainly,” replied Levy; “I’m willing enough. But if you want
information you are in the same position as myself. All I know is that
I haven’t got his present address, but I have no doubt I shall hear
from him in due course. He is away on holiday, you must remember.”
“You know of no reason for supposing that he has gone away for good?”
“Lord bless you, no,” replied Levy. “The first I heard of anything
unusual was when old Penfield came round to ask if he had been to the
office. Of course he hadn’t, but I gave Penfield his address at Oulton
and I wrote to Oulton myself. Then it turned out that he hadn’t gone
to Oulton after all. I admit that it is queer he hasn’t written,
seeing how methodical he usually is; but there is nothing to make a
fuss about. Purcell isn’t the sort of man to go off on a jaunt that
would involve his dropping money; I can tell you that.”
“And meanwhile his absence is not causing any embarrassment in a
business sense?”
Mr. Levy rose with a somewhat foxy smile. “Do I look embarrassed?” he
asked. “Try me. I should like to do a bit of business with you. No?
Well, then, I will wish you good morning and good luck; and don’t
worry too much about the lost sheep. He is very well able to take care
of himself.” He shook hands once more with undiminished cordiality and
personally escorted Thorndyke out on to the landing.
There was one other matter that had to be looked into. Mr. Varney’s
rather vague report of the voyage from Falmouth to Ipswich required to
be brought into the region of ascertained fact. Accordingly, from
Purcell’s office Thorndyke took his way to Lloyd’s, where a brief
investigation put him in possession of the name and address of the
owner of the steamship _Hedwig_ of Hernosand. With this in his
note-book he turned homeward to the Temple with the immediate purpose
of writing to the owner and the captain of the ship asking for a list
of the passengers from Falmouth and of those who disembarked at
Ipswich and further giving a description of Purcell in case he should
have travelled, as was highly probable, under an assumed name.
With these particulars it would be possible at least to attempt to
trace the missing man, while, if it should turn out that Varney had
been misinformed, the trouble and expense of a search in the wrong
place would be avoided.