The Flash Note Factory
To the lover of quiet and the admirer of urban comeliness, the
ever-increasing noise and turmoil of London and its ever-decreasing
architectural interest and charm give daily an added value to the Inns
of Court, in whose peaceful precincts quiet and comeliness yet
survive. And of the Inns of Court, if we except Old Buildings,
Lincoln’s Inn, The Temple with its cloisters, its fountain and its
ancient church, makes the strongest appeal to the affections of that
almost extinct creature, the Londoner; of which class the last
surviving genuine specimens are to be found in its obsolete chambers,
living on amidst the amenities of a bygone age.
But it was neither the quiet nor the architectural charm of the old
domestic buildings that had caused Mr. Superintendent Miller of the
Criminal Investigation Department to take the Temple on his way from
Scotland Yard to Fleet Street (though it was as short a way as any),
nor was it a desire to contemplate the houses attributed to Wren that
made him slow down when he reached King’s Bench Walk and glance
hesitatingly up and down that pleasant thoroughfare—if a thoroughfare
it can be called. The fact is that Mr. Miller was engaged in certain
investigations, which had led him, as investigations sometimes do,
into a blind alley; and it was in his mind to see if the keen vision
of Dr. John Thorndyke could detect a way out. But he did not want a
formal consultation. Rather, he desired to let the matter arise, as it
were, by chance, and he did not quite see how to manage it.
Here, as he stood hesitating opposite Thorndyke’s chambers, Providence
came to his aid; for, at this moment, a tall figure emerged from the
shadow of the covered passage from Mitre Court and came with an easy,
long-legged swing down to tree-shaded foot-way. Instantly, the
Superintendent strode forward to intercept the newcomer and the two
met halfway up the Walk.
“You were not coming to see me, by any chance?” Thorndyke asked when
the preliminary greetings had been exchanged.
“No,” replied Miller, “though I had half a mind to look in on you,
just to pass the time of day. I am on my way to Clifford’s Inn to look
into a rather queer discovery that has been made there.”
Here the Superintendent paused with an attentive eye on Thorndyke’s
face, though experience should have told him that he might as well
study the expression of a wig-maker’s block. As Thorndyke showed no
sign of rising to the bait, he continued: “A remarkably queer affair.
Mysterious, in fact. Our people are rather stuck, so I am going to
have a look round the chambers to see if I can pick up any traces.”
“That is always a useful thing to do,” said Thorndyke. “Rooms, like
clothes, tend to take certain impressions from those who live in them.
Careful inspection, eked out by some imagination, will usually yield
something of interest.”
“Precisely,” agreed Miller. “I realized that long ago from watching
your own methods. You were always rather fond of poking about in empty
houses and abandoned premises. By the way,” he added, forced into the
open by Thorndyke’s impassiveness, “I wonder if you would care to
stroll up with me and have a look at these chambers?”
“Are the facts of the case available?” asked Thorndyke.
“Certainly,” replied Miller, “to you—so far as they are known. If you
care to walk up with me, I’ll tell you about the case as we go along.”
Thereupon Thorndyke (to whom the insoluble mystery and especially the
untenanted chambers were as a hot scent to an eager fox-hound) turned
and retraced his steps in company with the Superintendent.
“The history of the affair,” the latter began, “is this: At No. 92
Clifford’s Inn, a man named Bromeswell had chambers on the second
floor. He had been there several years and was an excellent tenant,
paying his rent and other liabilities with clockwork regularity on, or
immediately after quarter day. He had never been known to be even a
week in arrear with rent, gas or anything else. But at Midsummer he
failed to pay up in his usual prompt manner, and after a fortnight had
passed a polite reminder was dropped into his letter-box. But still he
made no sign. However, as he was an old tenant and his character was
so excellent, nothing was done beyond dropping in another reminder.
Once or twice the porter went to the door of the chambers, but he
always found the ‘oak’ shut and when he hammered on it with a stick,
he got no answer.
“Well, the time ran on and the porter began to think that things
looked a bit queer, but still nothing was done. Then, one day the
postman brought a batch of letters—or rather circulars—to the Lodge,
addressed to Bromeswell. He had tried to drop them into Bromeswell’s
letter-box but couldn’t get them in as the box was choke-full. Now
this made it pretty clear that Bromeswell had not been in his chambers
for some considerable time, unless he was dead and his body shut up in
them, so the porter acquainted the Treasurer with the state of affairs
and consulted with him as to what was to be done. There were no means
of getting into the chambers without breaking in, for the tenant had
at some time fixed a new patent lock on the outer door and the porter
had no duplicate key. But the chambers couldn’t be left indefinitely,
especially as there was possibly a dead man inside, so the Treasurer
decided to send a man up a ladder to break a window and let himself
in. As a matter of fact, the porter went up, himself; and as soon as
he got into the chambers and had a look round, he began to smell a
rat.
“The appearance of the place, and especially the even coating of dust
that covered everything, showed that no one had been in those rooms
for two or three months at least; but what particularly attracted the
attention of the porter—who is a retired police sergeant—was a rather
queer-looking set of apparatus that suggested to him the outfit of a
maker of flash notes. On this he began to make some inquiries; and
then it transpired that nobody knew anything about Bromeswell. Mr.
Duskin, the late porter, must have known him, since he must have let
him the chambers; but Duskin left the Inn some years ago, and the
present porter has never met this tenant. It seems an incredible thing
but it appears to be a fact that no one even knows Bromeswell by
sight.”
“That does really seem incredible,” said Thorndyke, “in the case of a
man living in a place like Clifford’s Inn.”
“Ah, but he wasn’t living there. That was known, because no milk or
bread was ever left there and no laundress ever called for washing.
There are no resident chambers in Number 92. The porter had an idea
that Bromeswell was a press artist or something of that kind and used
the premises to work in. But of course it wasn’t any concern of his.”
“How was the rent paid?”
“By post, in treasury notes. And the gas was paid in the same way;
never by cheque. But, to go on with the history: the porter’s
suspicions were aroused, and he communicated them to the Treasurer,
who agreed with him that the police ought to be informed. Accordingly
they sent us a note and we instructed Inspector Monk, who is a
first-class expert on flash notes, to go to Clifford’s Inn and
investigate, but to leave things undisturbed as far as possible. So
Monk went to the chambers and had a look at the apparatus; and what he
saw made him pretty certain that the porter was right. The apparatus
was a complete paper-maker’s plant in miniature, all except the
moulds. There were no moulds to be seen, and until they were found it
was impossible to say that the paper was not being made for some
lawful purpose, though the size of the pressing plates—eighteen inches
by seven—gave a pretty broad hint. However, there was an iron safe in
the room—one of Wilkins’ make—and Monk decided that the moulds were
probably locked up in it. He also guessed what the moulds were like.
You may have heard of a long series of most excellent forgeries of
Bank of England notes.”
“I have,” said Thorndyke. “They were five-pound and twenty-pound
notes, mostly passed in France, Belgium, Switzerland and Holland.”
“That’s the lot,” said Miller, “and first-class forgeries they were;
and for a very good reason. They were made with the genuine moulds.
Some six years ago, two moulds were lost or stolen from the works at
Maidstone where the Bank of England makes its paper. They were the
moulds for five- and twenty-pound notes, respectively, and each mould
would make a sheet that would cut into two notes—a long, narrow sheet
sixteen and three-quarter inches by five and five thirty-seconds in
the case of a five-pound note. Well, we have been on the lookout for
those forgers for years, but, naturally, they were difficult to trace,
for the forgeries were so good that no one could tell them from the
real thing but the experts at the Bank. You see, it is the paper that
the forger usually comes a cropper over. The engraving is much easier
to imitate. But this paper was not only made in the proper moulds with
all the proper water-marks, but it seemed to be made by a man who knew
his job. So you can reckon that Monk was as keen as mustard on getting
those moulds.
“And get them he did. On our authority, Wilkins made him a duplicate
key—we didn’t want to blow the safe open—and sure enough, as soon as
he opened the door, there were the two moulds. So that’s that. There
is an end of those forgeries. But the question is, Who and where the
devil is this fellow Bromeswell? And there is another question. This
only accounts for the paper. The engraving and printing were done
somewhere else and by some other artist. We should like to find out
who he is. But, for the present, he is a bird in the bush. Bromeswell
is our immediate quarry.”
“He seems to be pretty much in the bush, too,” remarked Thorndyke. “Is
there no trace of him at all? What about his agreement and his
references?”
“Gone,” replied Miller. “When the Inn was sold most of the old papers
were destroyed. They were of no use.”
“It is astonishing,” said Thorndyke, “that a man should have been in
occupation of those chambers for years and remain completely unknown.
And yet one sees how it can have happened with the change of porters.
Duskin was the only link that we have with Bromeswell and Duskin is
gone. As to his not being known by sight, he probably came to the
chambers only occasionally, to make a batch of paper; and if there
were no residents in his block no one would be likely to notice him.”
“No,” Miller agreed; “Londoners are not inquisitive about their
neighbours, especially in a business quarter. This is the place, and
those are his rooms on the second floor.”
As he paused by an ancient lamp-post near the postern gate that opens
on Fetter Lane, the Superintendent indicated a small, dark entry and
then nodded at a range of dull windows at the top of the old house.
Then he crossed a tiny courtyard, plunged into the dark entry and led
the way up the narrow stair, groping with his hand along the unseen
hand-rail, and closely followed by Thorndyke.
At the first floor they emerged for a moment into modified daylight
and then ascended another flight of dark and narrow stairs, which
opened on a grimy landing whose only ornaments were an iron dust-bin
and a gas meter, and which displayed a single iron-bound door above
which appeared in faded white lettering the inscription “Mr.
Bromeswell.”
The Superintendent unlocked the massive outer door, which opened with
a rusty creak, revealing an inner door fitted with a knocker. This
Miller pushed open and the two men entered the outer room of the “set”
of chambers, halting just inside the door to make a general survey of
the room, of which the most striking feature was its bareness. And
this was really a remarkable feature when the duration of the tenancy
was considered. In the course of some years of occupation the
mysterious tenant had accumulated no more furniture than a small
kitchen table, a Windsor chair, a canvas-seated camp armchair, a
military camp bedstead with a sleeping-bag and a couple of rugs and a
small iron safe.
“It is obvious,” said Thorndyke, “that Bromeswell never lived here.
Apparently he visited the place only at intervals, but when he came,
he stayed until he had finished what he had come to do. Probably, he
brought a supply of food and never went out between his arrival and
departure.”
He strolled into the tiny kitchen, where a gas-ring, a teapot, a cup
and saucer, one or two plates, a tin of milk-powder, one of sugar,
another of tea and a biscuit tin containing an unrecognizable mildewy
mass, bore out his suggestion. With a glance at the loaded letter-box,
he crossed the room and, opening a door, entered what was intended to
be the bedroom but had been made into a workshop. And very complete it
was, being fitted with a roomy sink and tap, a small boiler—apparently
a dentist’s vulcanizer—and a mixer or beater worked by a little
electric motor, driven by a bichromate battery, there being no
electric light in the premises. By the window was a strong bench on
which was a powerful office press, a stack of long, narrow copper
plates and a pile of pieces of felt of a similar shape but somewhat
larger. Close to the bench was a trough made from a stout wooden box,
lined with zinc and mounted on four legs, in which was folded
newspaper containing a number of neat coils of cow-hair cord, each
coil having an eye-splice at either end, evidently to fit on the hooks
which had been fixed in the walls.
“Those cords,” Miller explained, as Thorndyke took them from the paper
to examine them, “were used as drying lines to hang the damp sheets of
paper on. They are always made of cow-hair because that is the only
material that doesn’t mark the paper. But I expect you know all about
that. Is there anything that catches your eye in particular? You seem
interested in those cords.”
“I was looking at these two,” said Thorndyke, holding out two cords
which he had uncoiled. “This one, you see, was too long, it had been
cut the wrong length, or more probably was the remainder of a long
piece. But, instead of cutting off the excess, our friend has
thriftily shortened this rather expensive cord by working a sheepshank
on it. Now it isn’t every one who knows how to make a sheepshank and
the persons who do are not usually paper-makers.”
“That’s perfectly true, Doctor,” assented Miller. “I’m one of the
people who don’t know how to make that particular kind of knot. What
is the other point?”
“This other cord,” replied Thorndyke, “which looks new, has an
eye-splice at one end only, but it is, as you see, about five inches
longer than the other; just about the amount that would be taken up by
working the eye-splice. That looks as if Bromeswell had worked the
splices himself and if you consider the matter you will see that is
probably the case. The length of these cords is roughly the width of
this room. They have been cut to a particular measure; but the cord
was most probably bought in a single length, as this extra long piece
suggests.”
“Yes,” agreed Miller. “They wouldn’t have been sold with the
eye-splices worked on them, and in fact, I don’t see what he wanted
with the eye-splices at all. A simple knotted loop would have answered
the purpose quite as well.”
“Exactly,” said Thorndyke. “They were not necessary. They were a
luxury, a refinement; and that emphasizes the point that they suggest,
which is that Bromeswell is a man who has some technical knowledge of
cordage, is probably a sailor, or in some way connected with the sea.
As you say, a common knotted loop, such as a bowline knot, would have
answered the purpose perfectly. But that is true of most of the cases
in which a sailor uses an eye-splice. Then why does he take the
trouble to work the splice? Principally for the sake of neatness of
appearance, because, to an expert eye, a tied loop with its projecting
end looks slovenly.
“Now this man will have had quite a lot of time on his hands. He will
have had to wait about for hours while the pulp was boiling and while
it was being beaten up. A sailor would very naturally spend a part of
his idle time in tidying up the cordage.”
The Superintendent nodded reflectively. “Yes,” he said, “I think you
are right, Doctor; and it is an important point. This fellow was a
fairly expert paper-maker. He wasn’t a mere amateur like most of the
note-forgers. If he was some kind of sailor man as well, that would
make him a lot easier to identify if we should get on his track. But
that’s just what we can’t do. There is nothing to start from. He is a
mere name, and pretty certainly a false name at that.”
As he spoke, Miller looked about him discontentedly, running his eye
over the bench and its contents. Suddenly he stepped over to the press
and diving into the shadowed space between it and the wall, brought up
his hand grasping a silver-mounted briar pipe.
“Now, Doctor,” he said with a grin, handing it to Thorndyke when he
had inspected it, “here is something in your line. Just run your eye
over that pipe and tell me what the man is like.”
Thorndyke laughed as he took the pipe in his hand. “You are thinking
of the mythical anatomist and the fossil bone,” said he. “I am afraid
this relic will not tell us much. It is a good pipe; it must have cost
half a guinea, which would have meant more if its owner had been
honest. The maker’s name tells us that it was bought in Cheapside near
the Bank, its weight and the marks on the mouthpiece tell us that the
owner has a strong jaw and a good set of teeth, its good condition
suggests a careful, orderly man and its presence here makes it likely
that the owner was Mr. Bromeswell. That isn’t much but it confirms the
other appearances.”
“What other appearances?” demanded Miller.
“Those of the bed, the chair, the bench, the hooks and the trough.
They all point to a big, heavy man. The bedstead is about six feet,
six inches long but the heel-marks are near the foot and the pillow is
right at the head, This bench and the trough have been put up for this
man’s use—they were apparently knocked up by himself; and they are
both of a suitable height for you or me. A short man couldn’t work at
either. The hooks are over seven feet from the floor. The canvas seat
of the chair is deeply sagged although the woodwork looks in nearly
new condition, and the canvas of the bed is in the same condition. Add
this massive, hard-bitten pipe to those indications and you have the
picture of a tall, burly, powerful man. We must have a look at his
pillow and rugs to see if we can pick up a stray hair or two, and get
an idea of his complexion. What did he make the pulp from? I don’t see
any traces of rags.”
“He didn’t use rags. He used Whatman’s water-colour paper, which is a
pure linen paper. Apparently he tore it up into tiny fragments and
boiled it in soda lye until it was ready to go into the beater. Monk
found a supply of the paper in a cupboard and some half-cooked stuff
in the boiler.” As he spoke, Miller unscrewed and raised the lid of
the boiler, which was then seen to be half-filled with a clear liquid
at the bottom of which was a mass of sodden fragments of shredded
paper. From the boiler he turned to a small cupboard and opened the
door. “That seems to be his stock of material,” he said, indicating a
large roll of thick white paper. He took out a sheet and handed it to
Thorndyke, who held it up to the light and read the name “Whatman”
which formed the water-mark.
“Yes,” said Thorndyke, as he returned the sheet. “His method of work
seems clear enough, but that is not of much interest as you have the
moulds. What we want is the man himself. You have no description of
him, I suppose?”
“Not if your description of him is correct,” replied Miller. “The
suspected person, according to the Belgian police, is a smallish,
slight, dark man. They may be on the wrong track, or their man may be
a confederate. There must have been a confederate, perhaps more than
one. But Bromeswell only made the paper. Some one else must have done
the engraving and the printing. As to planting the notes, that may
have been done by some other parties, or by either or both of these
two artists. I should think they probably kept the game to themselves,
judging by what we have seen here. This seems to be a one man show,
and it looks as if even the engraver didn’t know where the paper was
made, or the moulds wouldn’t have been left in this way. Shall we go
and look for those hairs that you spoke of?”
They returned to the outer room, where they both subjected the little
pillow of the camp bed to a searching scrutiny. But though they
examined both sides and even took off the dusty pillow-case, not a
single hair was to be found. Then they turned their attention to the
rugs, which had been folded neatly and placed on the canvas—there was
no mattress—unfolding them carefully and going over them inch by inch.
Here, too, they seemed to have drawn a blank, for they had almost
completed their examination when the Superintendent uttered an
exclamation and delicately picked a small object from near the edge of
the rug.
“This seems to be a hair, Doctor,” said he, holding it up between his
finger and thumb. “Looks like a moustache hair, but it’s a mighty
short one.”
Thorndyke produced his pocket lens and a sheet of note-paper; and
holding the latter while Miller cautiously dropped the hair on it, he
inspected the find through his lens.
“Yes,” he said, “it is a moustache hair, about half an inch long,
decidedly thick, cleanly cut and of a lightish red-brown colour.
Somehow it seems to fit the other characters. A close-cropped,
bristly, sandy moustache appears to go appropriately with the stature
and weight of the man and that massive pipe. There is a tendency for
racial characters to go together, and the blond races run to height
and weight. Well, we have a fairly complete picture of the man, unless
we have made some erroneous inferences, and we seem to have finished
our inspection. Have you been through the stuff in the letter-box?”
“Monk went through it, but we may as well have a look at it to make
sure that he hasn’t missed anything. I’ll hand the things out if you
will put them on the table and check them.”
As Miller took out the letters in handfuls Thorndyke received them
from him and laid them out on the table. Then he and Miller examined
the collection systematically.
“You see, Doctor,” said the latter, “they are all circulars; not a
private letter among them excepting the two notes from the Treasurer
about the rent. And they are quite a miscellaneous lot. None of these
people knew anything about Bromeswell, apparently, they just copied
the address out of the directory. Here’s one from a money-lender.
Bromeswell could have given him a tip or two. The earliest post-mark
is the eleventh of June, so we may take it that he wasn’t here after
the tenth, or the morning of the eleventh.”
“There is a slight suggestion that he left at night,” said Thorndyke,
as he made a note of the date. “The place where you found the pipe
would be in deep shadow by gaslight, but not by daylight. Certainly
the blind was up, but he would probably have drawn it up after he
turned the gas out, as its being down during the day might attract
attention.”
“Yes,” said Miller, “you are probably right about the time; and that
reminds me that Monk found a small piece of paper under the bench—I’ve
got it in my pocket—which seems to bear out your suggestion.” He took
from his pocket a bulky letter-case, from an inner recess of which he
extracted a little scrap of Whatman paper.
“Here it is,” he said, handing it to Thorndyke. “He seems to have just
jotted down the times of two trains; and, as you say, they were
probably night trains.”
Thorndyke looked with deep attention at the fragment, on which was
written, hastily but legibly in very black ink, “8:15 and 11:1. P,”
and remarked:
“Quite a valuable find in its way. The writing is very characteristic,
and so is the ink. Probably it would be more so when seen through the
microscope. Magnification brings out shades of colour that are
invisible to the naked eye.”
“Well, Doctor,” said Miller, “if you can spare the time to have a look
at it through the microscope, I wish you would, and let us know if you
discover anything worth noting. And perhaps you wouldn’t mind taking a
glance at the hair, too, to settle the colour more exactly.”
He transferred the latter, which he had carefully folded in paper and
put in his pocketbook, to Thorndyke, who deposited it, with the scrap
of paper, in his letter-case, after pencilling on the wrapper a note
of the nature and source of the object.
“And that,” said the Superintendent, “seems to be the lot. We haven’t
done so badly, after all. If you are right—as I expect you are—we have
got quite a serviceable description of the man Bromeswell. But it is a
most mysterious affair. I can’t imagine what the deuce can have
happened. It is pretty clear that he came here about the tenth of June
and probably made a batch of paper which we shall hear of later. But
what can have happened to the man? Something out of the common,
evidently. He would never have stayed away voluntarily with the
certainty that the premises would be entered, his precious moulds
found and the whole thing blown upon. If he had intended to clear out
he would certainly have taken the moulds with him, or at least
destroyed them if he thought that the game was up. What do you think,
Doctor?”
“It seems to me,” replied Thorndyke, “that there are three
possibilities. He may be dead, and if so he probably died suddenly,
before he was able to make any arrangements; he may be in prison on
some other charge; or he may have got a scare that we know nothing of
and had to keep out of sight. You said that the Belgian police were
taking some action.”
“Yes, they have got an officer over here, by agreement with us, who is
making inquiries about the man who planted the notes in Belgium. But
he isn’t after Bromeswell. He is looking for quite a different man, as
I told you. But he doesn’t pretend that he could recognize him.”
“It doesn’t follow that Bromeswell knows that. If the confederate has
discovered that inquiries are being made, he may have given his friend
a hint, and the pair of them may have absconded. But that is mere
speculation. As you say, something extraordinary must have happened,
and it must have been something sudden and unforeseen. And that is all
that we can say at present.”
By the time that this conclusion was reached, they had emerged from
Clifford’s Inn Passage into Fleet Street; and here they parted, the
Superintendent setting a course westward and Thorndyke crossing the
road to the gateway of Middle Temple Lane.