“Perhaps not,” said he, “though the suggestion is fairly obvious when
considered with the other appearances. Between the roots of the willow
you notice a patch of grass that looks denser than one would expect
from its position. I wonder----”
As he spoke, he reached forward with his stick and prized vigorously
at the edge of the patch, with the result that the clump of grass
lifted bodily; and when I picked it up and tried it on the bald spot,
the nicety with which it fitted left no doubt as to its origin.
“Ha!” I exclaimed, looking at the obviously disturbed earth between
the roots of the willow, which the little patch of turf had covered;
“the plot thickens. Something seems to have been either buried or dug
up there; more probably buried.”
“I hope and believe that my learned friend is correct,” said
Thorndyke, opening his case to abstract a large, powerful spatula.
“What do you expect to find there?” I asked.
“I have a faint hope of finding something wrapped in the half of a
very dirty towel,” was the reply.
“Then you had better find it quickly,” said I, “for there is a man
coming along the path from the Putney direction.”
He looked round at the still distant figure, and driving the spatula
into the loose earth stirred it up vigorously.
“I can feel something,” he said, digging away with powerful thrusts
and scooping the earth out with his hands. Once more he looked round
at the approaching stranger--who seemed now to have quickened his pace
but was still four or five hundred yards distant. Then, thrusting his
hands into the hole, he gave a smart pull. Slowly there came forth a
package, about ten inches by six, enveloped in a portion of a
peculiarly filthy towel and loosely secured with string. Thorndyke
rapidly cast off the string and opened out the towel, disclosing a
handsome morocco case with an engraved gold plate.
I pounced on the case and, pressing the catch, raised the lid; and
though I had expected no less, it was with something like a shock of
surprise that I looked on the glittering row and the dazzling cluster
of steely-blue diamonds.
As I closed the casket and deposited it in the green canvas case,
Thorndyke, after a single glance at the treasure and another along the
path, crammed the towel into the hole and began to sweep the loose
earth in on top of it. The approaching stranger was for the moment
hidden from us by a bend of the path and a near clump of bushes, and
Thorndyke was evidently working to hide all traces before he should
appear. Having filled the hole, he carefully replaced the sod of turf
and then, moving over to the little bare patch from whence the turf
had been removed, he began swiftly to dig it up.
“There,” said he, flinging on the path a worm which he had just
disinterred, “that will explain our activities. You had better
continue the excavation with your pocket-knife, and then proceed to
the capture of the leviathans. I must run up to the police station and
you must keep possession of this pitch. Don’t move away from here on
any account until I come back or send somebody to relieve you. I will
hand you over the float; you’ll want that.” With a malicious smile he
dropped the gaudy monstrosity on the path and having wiped the spatula
and replaced it in the case, picked up the latter and moved away
towards Putney.
At this moment the stranger reappeared, walking as if for a wager, and
I began to peck up the earth with my pocket-knife.
As the man approached he slowed down by degrees until he came up at
something like a saunter. He was followed at a little distance by
Thorndyke, who had turned as if he had changed his mind, and now
passed me with the remark that “Perhaps Hammersmith would be better.”
The stranger cast a suspicious glance at him and then turned his
attention to me.
“Lookin’ for worms?” he inquired, halting and surveying me
inquisitively.
I replied by picking one up (with secret distaste) and holding it
aloft, and he continued, looking wistfully at Thorndyke’s retreating
figure:
“Your pal seems to have had enough.”
“He hadn’t got a rod,” said I; “but he’ll be back presently.”
“Ah!” said he, looking steadily over my shoulder in the direction of
the willow. “Well, you won’t do any good here. The place where they
rises is a quarter of a mile farther down--just round the bend there.
That’s a prime pitch. You just come along with me and I’ll show you.”
“I must stay here until my friend comes back,” said I. “But I’ll tell
him what you say.”
With this I seated myself stolidly on the bank and, having flung the
baited hook into the stream, sat and glared fixedly at the
preposterous float. My acquaintance fidgeted about me uneasily,
endeavouring from time to time to lure me away to the “prime pitch”
round the bend. And so the time dragged on until three-quarters of an
hour had passed.
Suddenly I observed two taxicabs crossing the bridge, followed by
three cyclists. A minute or two later Thorndyke reappeared,
accompanied by two other men, and then the cyclists came into view,
approaching at a rapid pace.
“Seems to be a regular procession,” my friend remarked, viewing the
new arrivals with evident uneasiness. As he spoke, one of the cyclists
halted and dismounted to examine his tyre, while the other two
approached and shot past us. Then they, too, halted and dismounted,
and having deposited their machines in the ditch, came back towards
us. By this time I was able--with a good deal of surprise--to identify
Thorndyke’s two companions as Inspector Badger and Superintendent
Miller. Perhaps my acquaintance also recognized them, or possibly the
proceedings of the third cyclist--who had also laid down his machine
and was approaching on foot--disturbed him. At any rate he glanced
quickly from the one group to the other, and, selecting the smaller
one, sprang suddenly between the two cyclists and sped away along the
path like a hare.
In a moment there was a wild stampede. The three cyclists, remounting
their machines, pedalled furiously after the fugitive, followed by
Badger and Miller on foot. Then the fugitive, the cyclists, and
finally the two officers disappeared round the bend of the path.
“How did you know that he was the man?” I asked, when my colleague and
I were left alone.
“I didn’t, though I had pretty strong grounds for suspicion. But I
merely brought the police to set a watch on the place and arrange an
ambush. Their encircling movement was just an experimental bluff; they
might have been chary of arresting the fellow if he hadn’t taken
fright and bolted. We have been fortunate all round, for, by a lucky
chance, Badger and Miller were at Chiswick making enquiries and I was
able to telephone to them to meet me at the bridge.”
At this moment the procession reappeared, advancing briskly; and my
late adviser marched at the centre securely handcuffed. As he was
conducted past me he glared savagely and made some impolite references
to a “blooming nark.”
“You can take him in one of the taxis,” said Miller, “and put your
bicycles on top.” Then, as the procession moved on towards the bridge
he turned to Thorndyke. “I suppose he’s the right man, Doctor, but he
hasn’t got any of the stuff on him.”
“Of course he hasn’t,” said Thorndyke.
“Well, do you know where it is?”
Thorndyke opened his case and taking out the casket, handed it to the
Superintendent. “I shall want a receipt for it,” said he.
Miller opened the casket, and at the sight of the glittering jewels
both the detectives uttered an exclamation of amazement, and the
Superintendent demanded: “Where did you get this, sir?”
“I dug it up at the foot of that willow.”
“But how did you know it was there?”
“I didn’t,” replied Thorndyke; “but I thought I might as well look,
you know,” and he bestowed a smile of exasperating blandness on the
astonished officer.
The two detectives gazed at Thorndyke, then they looked at one another
and then they looked at me; and Badger observed, with profound
conviction, that it was a “knock-out.” “I believe the doctor keeps a
tame clairvoyant,” he added.
“And may I take it, sir,” said Miller, “that you can establish a
_prima facie_ case against this man, so that we can get a remand until
Mr. Montague is well enough to identify him?”
“You may,” Thorndyke replied. “Let me know when and where he is to be
charged and I will attend and give evidence.”
On this Miller wrote out a receipt for the jewels and the two officers
hurried off to their taxicab, leaving us, as Badger put it, “to our
fishing.”
As soon as they were out of sight, Thorndyke opened his case and mixed
another bowlful of plaster. “We want two more casts,” said he; “one of
the right foot of the man who buried the jewels and one of the right
foot of the prisoner. They are obviously identical, as you can see by
the arrangement of the nails and the shape of the new patch on the
sole. I shall put the casts in evidence and compare them with the
prisoner’s right boot.”
I understood now why Thorndyke had walked away towards Putney and then
returned in rear of the stranger. He had suspected the man and had
wanted to get a look at his footprints. But there was a good deal in
this case that I did not understand at all.
“There,” said Thorndyke, as he deposited the casts, each with its
pencilled identification, in his canvas case, “that is the end of the
Blue Diamond Mystery.”
“I beg your pardon,” said I, “but it isn’t. I want a full explanation.
It is evident that from the house at Brentford you made a bee line to
that willow. You knew then pretty exactly where the necklace was
hidden. For all I know, you may have had that knowledge when we left
Scotland Yard.”
“As a matter of fact, I had,” he replied. “I went to Brentford
principally to verify the ownership of the wallet and the bag.”
“But what was it that directed you with such certainty to the
Hammersmith towing-path?”
It was then that he made the observation that I have quoted at the
beginning of this narrative.
“In this case,” he continued, “a curious fact, well known to
naturalists, acquired vital evidential importance. It associated a
bag, found in one locality, with another apparently unrelated
locality. It was the link that joined up the two ends of a broken
chain. I offered that fact to Inspector Badger, who, lacking the
knowledge wherewith to interpret it, rejected it with scorn.”
“I remember that you gave him the name of that little shell that
dropped out of the handful of grass.”
“Exactly,” said Thorndyke. “That was the crucial fact. It told us
where the handful of grass had been gathered.”
“I can’t imagine how,” said I. “Surely you find shells all over the
country?”
“That is, in general, quite true,” he replied, “but _Clausilia
biplicata_ is one of the rare exceptions. There are four British
species of these queer little univalves (which are so named from the
little spring door with which the entrance of the shell is furnished);
_Clausilia laminata_, _Rolphii_, _rugosa_ and _biplicata_. The first
three species have what we may call a normal distribution, whereas the
distribution of _biplicata_ is abnormal. This seems to be a dying
species. It is in process of becoming extinct in this island. But when
a species of animal or plant becomes extinct, it does not fade away
evenly over the whole of its _habitat_, but it disappears in patches,
which gradually extend, leaving, as it were, islands of survival. This
is what has happened to _Clausilia biplicata_. It has disappeared from
this country with the exception of two localities; one of these is in
Wiltshire, and the other is the right bank of the Thames at
Hammersmith. And this latter locality is extraordinarily restricted.
Walk down a few hundred yards towards Putney, and you have walked out
of its domain; walk up a few hundred yards towards the bridge, and
again you have walked out of its territory. Yet within that little
area it is fairly plentiful. If you know where to look--it lives on
the bark or at the roots of willow trees--you can usually find one or
two specimens. Thus, you see, the presence of that shell associated
the handful of grass with a certain willow tree, and that willow was
either in Wiltshire or by the Hammersmith towing-path. But there was
nothing otherwise to connect it with Wiltshire, whereas there was
something to connect it with Hammersmith. Let us for a moment dismiss
the shell and consider the other suggestions offered by the bag and
stick.
“The bag, as you saw, contained traces of two very different persons.
One was apparently a middle-class man, probably middle-aged or
elderly, cleanly, careful as to his appearance and of orderly habits;
the other, uncleanly, slovenly and apparently a professional criminal.
The bag itself seemed to appertain to the former person. It was an
expensive bag and showed signs of years of careful use. This, and the
circumstances in which it was found, led us to suspect that it was a
stolen bag. Now, we knew that the contents of a bag had been stolen.
We knew that an empty bag had been picked up on the line between
Barnes and Chiswick, and it was probable that the thief had left the
train at the latter station. The empty bag had been assumed to be Mr.
Montague’s, whereas the probabilities--as, for instance, the fact of
its having been thrown out on the line--suggested that it was the
thief’s bag, and that Mr. Montague’s had been taken away with its
contents.
“The point, then, that we had to settle when we left Scotland Yard,
was whether this apparently stolen bag had any connection with the
train robbery. But as soon as we saw Mr. Montague it was evident that
he corresponded exactly with the owner of the dressing-wallet; and
when we saw the bag that had been found on the line--a shoddy,
imitation leather bag--it was practically certain that it was not his,
while the roughly-stitched leather pockets exactly suited to the
dimensions of house-breaking tools, strongly suggested that it was a
burglar’s bag. But if this were so, then Mr. Montague’s bag had been
stolen, and the robber’s effects stuffed into it.
“With this working hypothesis we were now able to take up the case
from the other end. The Scotland Yard bag was Montague’s bag. It had
been taken from Chiswick to the Hammersmith towpath, where--judging
from the clay smears on the bottom--it had been laid on the ground,
presumably close to a willow tree. The use of the grass as packing
suggested that something had been removed from the bag at this
place--something that had wedged the tools together and prevented them
from rattling; and there appeared to be half a towel missing. Clearly,
the towpath was our next field of exploration.
“But, small as this area was geographically, it would have taken a
long time to examine in detail. Here, however, the stick gave us
invaluable aid. It had a perfectly distinctive tip, and it showed
traces of having been stuck about three inches into earth similar to
that on the bag. What we had thus to look for was a hole in the ground
about three inches deep, and having at the bottom the impression of a
half-worn boot-stud. This hole would probably be close to a willow.
“The search turned out even easier than I had hoped. Directly we
reached the towpath I picked up the track of the stick, and not one
track only, but a double track, showing that our friend had returned
to the bridge. All that remained was to follow the track until it came
to an end and there we were pretty certain to find the hole in the
ground, as, in fact, we did.”
“And why,” I asked, “do you suppose he buried the stuff?”
“Probably as a precaution, in case he had been seen and described.
This morning’s papers will have told him that he had not been.
Probably, also, he wanted to make arrangements with a fence and didn’t
want to have the booty about him.”
There is little more to tell. When the case was heard on the following
morning, Thorndyke’s uncannily precise and detailed description of the
course of events, coupled with the production of the stolen property,
so unnerved the prisoner that he pleaded guilty forthwith.
As to Mr. Montague, he recovered completely in a few days, and a
handsome pair of Georgian silver candlesticks may even to this day be
seen on our mantel-piece testifying to his gratitude and appreciation
of Thorndyke’s brilliant conduct of the case.
VI.
THE STOLEN INGOTS
“In medico-legal practice,” Thorndyke remarked, “one must be
constantly on one’s guard against the effects of suggestion, whether
intentional or unconscious. When the facts of a case are set forth by
an informant, they are nearly always presented, consciously or
unconsciously, in terms of inference. Certain facts, which appear to
the narrator to be the leading facts, are given with emphasis and in
detail, while other facts, which appear to be subordinate or trivial,
are partially suppressed. But this assessment of evidential value must
never be accepted. The whole case must be considered and each fact
weighed separately, and then it will commonly happen that the leading
fact turns out to be the one that had been passed over as negligible.”
The remark was made apropos of a case, the facts of which had just
been stated to us by Mr. Halethorpe, of the Sphinx Assurance Company.
I did not quite perceive its bearing at the time, but looking back
when the case was concluded, I realized that I had fallen into the
very error against which Thorndyke’s warning should have guarded me.
“I trust,” said Mr. Halethorpe, “that I have not come at an
inconvenient time. You are so tolerant of unusual hours----”
“My practice,” interrupted Thorndyke, “is my recreation, and I welcome
you as one who comes to furnish entertainment. Draw your chair up to
the fire, light a cigar and tell us your story.”
Mr. Halethorpe laughed, but adopted the procedure suggested, and
having settled his toes upon the kerb and selected a cigar from the
box, he opened the subject of his call.
“I don’t quite know what you can do for us,” he began, “as it is
hardly your business to trace lost property, but I thought I would
come and let you know about our difficulty. The fact is that our
company looks like dropping some four thousand pounds, which the
directors won’t like. What has happened is this:
“About two months ago the London House of the Akropong Gold Fields
Company applied to us to insure a parcel of gold bars that were to be
consigned to Minton and Borwell, the big manufacturing jewellers. The
bars were to be shipped at Accra and landed at Bellhaven, which is the
nearest port to Minton and Borwell’s works. Well, we agreed to
underwrite the risk--we have done business with the Akropong people
before--and the matter was settled. The bars were put on board the
_Labadi_ at Accra, and in due course were landed at Bellhaven, where
they were delivered to Minton’s agents. So far, so good. Then came the
catastrophe. The case of bars was put on the train at Bellhaven,
consigned to Anchester, where Mintons have their factory. But the line
doesn’t go to Anchester direct. The junction is at Garbridge, a small
country station close to the river Crouch, and here the case was put
out and locked up in the station-master’s office to wait for the
Anchester train. It seems that the station-master was called away and
detained longer than he had expected, and when the train was signalled
he hurried back in a mighty twitter. However, the case was there all
right, and he personally superintended its removal to the guard’s van
and put it in the guard’s charge. All went well for the rest of the
journey. A member of the firm was waiting at Anchester station with a
closed van. The case was put into it and taken direct to the factory,
where it was opened in the private office--and found to be full of
lead pipe.”
“I presume,” said Thorndyke, “that it was not the original case.”
“No,” replied Halethorpe, “but it was a very fair imitation. The label
and the marks were correct, but the seals were just plain wax.
Evidently the exchange had been made in the station-master’s office,
and it transpires that although the door was securely locked, there
was an unfastened window which opened on to the garden, and there were
plain marks of feet on the flower-bed outside.”
“What time did this happen?” asked Thorndyke.
“The Anchester train came in at a quarter past seven, by which time,
of course, it was quite dark.”
“And when did it happen?”
“The day before yesterday. We heard of it yesterday morning.”
“Are you contesting the claim?”
“We don’t want to. Of course, we could plead negligence, but in that
case I think we should make a claim on the railway company. But,
naturally, we should much rather recover the property. After all, it
can’t be so very far away.”
“I wouldn’t say that,” said Thorndyke. “This was no impromptu theft.
The dummy case was prepared in advance, and evidently by somebody who
knew what the real case was like, and how and when it was to be
despatched from Bellhaven. We must assume that the disposal of the
stolen case has been provided for with similar completeness. How far
is Garbridge from the river?”
“Less than half a mile across the marshes. The
detective-inspector--Badger, I think you know him--asked the same
question.”
“Naturally,” said Thorndyke. “A heavy object like this case is much
more easily and inconspicuously conveyed by water than on land. And
then, see what facilities for concealment a navigable river offers.
The case could be easily stowed away on a small craft, or even in a
boat; or the bars could be taken out and stowed amongst the ballast,
or even, at a pinch, dropped overboard at a marked spot and left until
the hue and cry was over.”
“You are not very encouraging,” Halethorpe remarked gloomily. “I take
it that you don’t much expect that we shall recover those bars.”
“We needn’t despair,” was the reply, “but I want you to understand the
difficulties. The thieves have got away with the booty, and that booty
is an imperishable material which retains its value even if broken up
into unrecognizable fragments. Melted down into small ingots, it would
be impossible to identify.”
“Well,” said Halethorpe, “the police have the matter in
hand--Inspector Badger, of the C.I.D., is in charge of the case--but
our directors would be more satisfied if you would look into it. Of
course we would give you any help we could. What do you say?”
“I am willing to look into the case,” said Thorndyke, “though I don’t
hold out much hope. Could you give me a note to the shipping company
and another to the consignees, Minton and Borwell?”
“Of course I will. I’ll write them now. I have some of our stationery
in my attaché case. But, if you will pardon my saying so, you seem to
be starting your inquiry just where there is nothing to be learned.
The case was stolen after it left the ship and before it reached the
consignees--although their agent had received it from the ship.”
“The point is,” said Thorndyke, “that this was a preconcerted robbery,
and that the thieves possessed special information. That information
must have come either from the ship or from the factory. So, while we
must try to pick up the track of the case itself, we must seek the
beginning of the clue at the two ends--the ship and the factory--from
one of which it must have started.”
“Yes, that’s true,” said Halethorpe. “Well, I’ll write those two notes
and then I must run away; and we’ll hope for the best.”
He wrote the two letters, asking for facilities from the respective
parties, and then took his departure in a somewhat chastened frame of
mind.
“Quite an interesting little problem,” Thorndyke remarked, as
Halethorpe’s footsteps died away on the stairs, “but not much in our
line. It is really a police case--a case for patient and intelligent
inquiry. And that is what we shall have to do--make some careful
inquiries on the spot.”
“Where do you propose to begin?” I asked.
“At the beginning,” he replied. “Bellhaven. I propose that we go down
there to-morrow morning and pick up the thread at that end.”
“What thread?” I demanded. “We know that the package started from
there. What else do you expect to learn?”
“There are several curious possibilities in this case, as you must
have noticed,” he replied. “The question is, whether any of them are
probabilities. That is what I want to settle before we begin a
detailed investigation.”
“For my part,” said I, “I should have supposed that the investigation
would start from the scene of the robbery. But I presume that you have
seen some possibilities that I have overlooked.”
Which eventually turned out to be the case.
“I think,” said Thorndyke as we alighted at Bellhaven on the following
morning, “we had better go first to the Customs and make quite
certain, if we can, that the bars were really in the case when it was
delivered to the consignees’ agents. It won’t do to take it for
granted that the substitution took place at Garbridge, although that
is by far the most probable theory.” Accordingly we made our way to
the harbour, where an obliging mariner directed us to our destination.
At the Custom House we were received by a genial officer, who, when
Thorndyke had explained his connection with the robbery, entered into
the matter with complete sympathy and a quick grasp of the situation.
“I see,” said he. “You want clear evidence that the bars were in the
case when it left here. Well, I think we can satisfy you on that
point. Bullion is not a customable commodity, but it has to be
examined and reported. If it is consigned to the Bank of England or
the Mint, the case is passed through with the seals unbroken, but as
this was a private consignment, the seals will have been broken and
the contents of the case examined. Jeffson, show these gentlemen the
report on the case of gold bars from the _Labadi_.”
“Would it be possible,” Thorndyke asked, “for us to have a few words
with the officer who opened the case? You know the legal partiality
for personal testimony.”
“Of course it would. Jeffson, when these gentlemen have seen the
report, find the officer who signed it and let them have a talk with
him.”
We followed Mr. Jeffson into an adjoining office where he produced the
report and handed it to Thorndyke. The particulars that it gave were
in effect those that would be furnished by the ship’s manifest and the
bill of lading. The case was thirteen inches long by twelve wide and
nine inches deep, outside measurement; and its gross weight was one
hundred and seventeen pounds three ounces, and it contained four bars
of the aggregate weight of one hundred and thirteen pounds two ounces.
“Thank you,” said Thorndyke, handing back the report. “And now can we
see the officer--Mr. Byrne, I think--just to fill in the details?”
“If you will come with me,” replied Mr. Jeffson, “I’ll find him for
you. I expect he is on the wharf.”
We followed our conductor out on to the quay among a litter of cases,
crates and barrels, and eventually, amidst a battalion of Madeira wine
casks, found the officer deep in problems of “content and ullage,” and
other customs mysteries. As Jeffson introduced us, and then discreetly
retired, Mr. Byrne confronted us with a mahogany face and a truculent
blue eye.
“With reference to this bullion,” said Thorndyke, “I understand that
you weighed the bars separately from the case?”
“Oi did,” replied Mr. Byrne.
“Did you weigh each bar separately?”
“Oi did not,” was the concise reply.
“What was the appearance of the bars--I mean as to shape and size?
Were they of the usual type?”
“Oi’ve not had a great deal to do with bullion,” said Mr. Byrne, “but
Oi should say that they were just ordinary gold bars, about nine
inches long by four wide and about two inches deep.”
“Was there much packing material in the case?”
“Very little. The bars were wrapped in thick canvas and jammed into
the case. There wouldn’t be more than about half an inch clearance all
round to allow for the canvas. The case was inch and a half stuff
strengthened with iron bands.”
“Did you seal the case after you had closed it up?”
“Oi did. ’Twas all shipshape when it was passed back to the mate. And
Oi saw him hand it over to the consignees’ agents; so ’twas all in
order when it left the wharf.”
“That was what I wanted to make sure of,” said Thorndyke; and, having
pocketed his notebook and thanked the officer, he turned away among
the wilderness of merchandise.
“So much for the Customs,” said he. “I am glad we went there first. As
you have no doubt observed, we have picked up some useful
information.”
“We have ascertained,” I replied, “that the case was intact when it
was handed over to the consignees’ agents, so that our investigations
at Garbridge will start from a solid basis. And that, I take it, is
all you wanted to know.”
“Not quite all,” he rejoined. “There are one or two little details
that I should like to fill in. I think we will look in on the shipping
agents and present Halethorpe’s note. We may as well learn all we can
before we make our start from the scene of the robbery.”
“Well,” I said. “I don’t see what more there is to learn here. But
apparently you do. That seems to be the office, past those sheds.”
The manager of the shipping agent’s office looked us up and down as he
sat at his littered desk with Halethorpe’s letter in his hand.
“You’ve come about that bullion that was stolen,” he said brusquely.
“Well, it wasn’t stolen here. Hadn’t you better inquire at Garbridge,
where it was?”
“Undoubtedly,” replied Thorndyke. “But I am making certain preliminary
inquiries. Now, first, as to the bill of lading. Who has that--the
original, I mean?”
“The captain has it at present, but I have a copy.”
“Could I see it?” Thorndyke asked.
The manager raised his eyebrows protestingly, but produced the
document from a file and handed it to Thorndyke, watching him
inquisitively as he copied the particulars of the package into his
notebook.
“I suppose,” said Thorndyke as he returned the document, “you have a
copy of the ship’s manifest?”
“Yes,” replied the manager, “but the entry in the manifest is merely a
copy of the particulars given in the bill of lading.”
“I should like to see the manifest, if it is not troubling you too
much.”
“But,” the other protested impatiently, “the manifest contains no
information respecting this parcel of bullion excepting the one entry,
which, as I have told you, has been copied from the bill of lading.”
“I realize that,” said Thorndyke; “but I should like to look over it,
all the same.”
Our friend bounced into an inner office and presently returned with a
voluminous document, which he slapped down on a side-table.
“There, sir,” he said. “That is the manifest. This is the entry
relating to the bullion that you are enquiring about. The rest of the
document is concerned with the cargo, in which I presume you are not
interested.”
In this, however, he was mistaken; for Thorndyke, having verified the
bullion entry, turned the leaves over and began systematically, though
rapidly, to run his eye over the long list from the beginning, a
proceeding that the manager viewed with frenzied impatience.
“If you are going to read it right through, sir,” the latter observed,
“I shall ask you to excuse me. Art is long but life is short,” he
added with a sour smile.
Nevertheless he hovered about uneasily, and when Thorndyke proceeded
to copy some of the entries into his notebook, he craned over and read
them without the least disguise, though not without comment.
“Good God, sir!” he exclaimed. “What possible bearing on this robbery
can that parcel of scrivelloes have? And do you realize that they are
still in the ship’s hold?”
“I inferred that they were, as they are consigned to London,”
Thorndyke replied, drawing his finger down the “description” column
and rapidly scanning the entries in it. The manager watched that
finger, and as it stopped successively at a bag of gum copal, a case
of quartz specimens, a case of six-inch brass screw-bolts, a bag of
beni-seed and a package of kola nuts, he breathed hard and muttered
like an angry parrot. But Thorndyke was quite unmoved. With calm
deliberation he copied out each entry, conscientiously noting the
marks, descriptions of packages and contents, gross and net weight,
dimensions, names of consignors and consignees, ports of shipment and
discharge, and, in fact, the entire particulars. It was certainly an
amazing proceeding, and I could make no more of it than could our
impatient friend.
At last Thorndyke closed and pocketed his note-book, and the manager
heaved a slightly obtrusive sigh. “Is there nothing more, sir?” he
asked. “You don’t want to examine the ship, for instance?” The next
moment, I think, he regretted his sarcasm, for Thorndyke inquired with
evident interest: “Is the ship still here?”
“Yes,” was the unwilling admission. “She finishes unloading here at
midday to-day and will probably haul into the London Docks to-morrow
morning.”
“I don’t think I need go on board,” said Thorndyke, “but you might
give me a card in case I find that I want to.”
The card was somewhat grudgingly produced, and when Thorndyke had
thanked our entertainer for his help, we took our leave and made our
way towards the station.
“Well,” I said, “you have collected a vast amount of curious
information, but I am hanged if I can see that any of it has the
slightest bearing on our inquiry.”
Thorndyke cast on me a look of deep reproach. “Jervis!” he exclaimed,
“you astonish me; you do, indeed. Why, my dear fellow, it stares you
in the face!”
“When you say ‘it,’” I said a little irritably, “you mean----?”
“I mean the leading fact from which we may deduce the _modus operandi_
of this robbery. You shall look over my notes in the train and sort
out the data that we have collected. I think you will find them
extremely illuminating.”
“I doubt it,” said I. “But, meanwhile, aren’t we wasting a good deal
of time? Halethorpe wants to get the gold back; he doesn’t want to
know how the thieves contrived to steal it.”
“That is a very just remark,” answered Thorndyke. “My learned friend
displays his customary robust common sense. Nevertheless, I think that
a clear understanding of the mechanism of this robbery will prove very
helpful to us, though I agree with you that we have spent enough time
on securing our preliminary data. The important thing now is to pick
up a trail from Garbridge. But I see our train is signalled. We had
better hurry.”
As the train rumbled into the station, we looked out for an empty
smoking compartment, and having been fortunate enough to secure one,
we settled ourselves in opposite corners and lighted our pipes. Then
Thorndyke handed me his notebook and as I studied, with wrinkled
brows, the apparently disconnected entries, he sat and observed me
thoughtfully and with the faintest suspicion of a smile. Again and
again I read through those notes with ever-dwindling hopes of
extracting the meaning that “stared me in the face.” Vainly did I
endeavour to connect gum copal, scrivelloes or beni-seed with the
methods of the unknown robbers. The entries in the notebook persisted
obstinately in remaining totally disconnected and hopelessly
irrelevant. At last I shut the book with a savage snap and handed it
back to its owner.
“It’s no use, Thorndyke,” I said. “I can’t see the faintest glimmer of
light.”
“Well,” said he, “it isn’t of much consequence. The practical part of
our task is before us, and it may turn out a pretty difficult part.
But we have got to recover those bars if it is humanly possible. And
here we are at our jumping-off place. This is Garbridge Station--and
I see an old acquaintance of ours on the platform.”
I looked out, as the train slowed down, and there, sure enough, was no
less a person than Inspector Badger of the Criminal Investigation
Department.
“We could have done very well without Badger,” I remarked.
“Yes,” Thorndyke agreed, “but we shall have to take him into
partnership, I expect. After all, we are on his territory and on the
same errand. How do you do, Inspector?” he continued, as the officer,
having observed our descent from the carriage, hurried forward with
unwonted cordiality.
“I rather expected to see you here, sir,” said he. “We heard that Mr.
Halethorpe had consulted you. But this isn’t the London train.”
“No,” said Thorndyke. “We’ve been to Bellhaven, just to make sure that
the bullion was in the case when it started.”
“I could have told you that two days ago,” said Badger. “We got on to
the Customs people at once. That was all plain sailing; but the rest
of it isn’t.”
“No clue as to how the case was taken away?”
“Oh, yes; that is pretty clear. It was hoisted out, and the dummy
hoisted in, through the window of the station-master’s office. And the
same night, two men were seen carrying a heavy package, about the size
of the bullion-case, towards the marshes. But there the clue ends. The
stuff seems to have vanished into thin air. Of course our people are
on the look-out for it in various likely directions, but I am staying
here with a couple of plain-clothes men. I’ve a conviction that it is
still somewhere in this neighbourhood, and I mean to stick here in the
hope that I may spot somebody trying to move it.”
As the inspector was speaking we had been walking slowly from the
station towards the village, which was on the opposite side of the
river. On the bridge Thorndyke halted and looked down the river and
over the wide expanse of marshy country.
“This is an ideal place for a bullion robbery,” he remarked. “A tidal
river near to the sea and a network of creeks, in any one of which one
could hide a boat or sink the booty below tide-marks. Have you heard
of any strange craft having put in here?”
“Yes. There’s a little ramshackle bawley from Leigh--but her crew of
two ragamuffins are not Leigh men. And they’ve made a mess of their
visit--got their craft on the mud on the top of the spring tide. There
she is, on that spit; and there she’ll be till next spring tide. But
I’ve been over her carefully and I’ll swear the stuff isn’t aboard
her. I had all the ballast out and emptied the lazarette and the chain
locker.”
“And what about the barge?”
“She’s a regular trader here. Her crew--the skipper and his son--are
quite respectable men and they belong here. There they go in that
boat; I expect they are off on this tide. But they seem to be making
for the bawley.”
As he spoke the inspector produced a pair of glasses, through which he
watched the movements of the barge’s jolly-boat, and a couple of
elderly fishermen, who were crossing the bridge, halted to look on.
The barge’s boat ran alongside the stranded bawley, and one of the
rowers hailed; whereupon two men tumbled up from the cabin and dropped
into the boat, which immediately pushed off and headed for the barge.
“Them bawley blokes seems to be taking a passage along of old Bill
Somers,” one of the fishermen remarked, levelling a small telescope at
the barge as the boat drew alongside and the four men climbed on
board. “Going to work their passage, too,” he added as the two
passengers proceeded immediately to man the windlass while the crew
let go the brails and hooked the main-sheet block to the traveller.
“Rum go,” commented Badger, glaring at the barge through his glasses;
“but they haven’t taken anything aboard with them. I could see that.”
“You have overhauled the barge, I suppose?” said Thorndyke.
“Yes. Went right through her. Nothing there. She’s light. There was no
place aboard her where you could hide a split-pea.”
“Did you get her anchor up?”
“No,” replied Badger. “I didn’t. I suppose I ought to have done so.
However, they’re getting it up themselves now.” As he spoke, the rapid
clink of a windlass-pawl was borne across the water, and through my
prismatic glasses I could see the two passengers working for all they
were worth at the cranks. Presently the clink of the pawl began to
slow down somewhat and the two bargemen, having got the sails set,
joined the toilers at the windlass, but even then there was no great
increase of speed.
“Anchor seems to come up uncommon heavy,” one of the fishermen
remarked.
“Aye,” the other agreed. “Got foul of an old mooring maybe.”
“Look out for the anchor, Badger,” Thorndyke said in a low voice,
gazing steadily through his binocular. “It is out of the ground. The
cable is up and down and the barge is drifting off on the tide.”
Even as he spoke the ring and stock of the anchor rose slowly out of
the water, and now I could see that a second chain was shackled
loosely to the cable, down which it had slid until it was stopped by
the ring of the anchor. Badger had evidently seen it too, for he
ejaculated, “Hallo!” and added a few verbal flourishes which I need
not repeat. A few more turns of the windlass brought the flukes of the
anchor clear of the water, and dangling against them was an undeniable
wooden case, securely slung with lashings of stout chain. Badger
cursed volubly, and, turning to the fishermen, exclaimed in a rather
offensively peremptory tone:
“I want a boat. Now. This instant.”
The elder piscator regarded him doggedly and replied: “All right. I
ain’t got no objection.”
“Where can I get a boat?” the inspector demanded, nearly purple with
excitement and anxiety.
“Where do you think?” the mariner responded, evidently nettled by the
inspector’s masterful tone. “Pastrycook’s? Or livery stables?”
“Look here,” said Badger. “I’m a police officer and I want to board
that barge, and I am prepared to pay handsomely. Now where can I get a
boat?”
“We’ll put you aboard of her,” replied the fisherman, “that is, if we
can catch her. But I doubt it. She’s off, that’s what she is. And
there’s something queer a-going on aboard of her,” he added in a
somewhat different tone.
There was. I had been observing it. The case had been, with some
difficulty, hoisted on board, and then suddenly there had broken out
an altercation between the two bargees and their passengers, and this
had now developed into what looked like a free fight. It was difficult
to see exactly what was happening, for the barge was drifting rapidly
down the river, and her sails, blowing out first on one side and then
on the other, rather obscured the view. Presently, however, the sails
filled and a man appeared at the wheel; then the barge jibed round,
and with a strong ebb tide and a fresh breeze, very soon began to grow
small in the distance.
Meanwhile the fishermen had bustled off in search of a boat, and the
inspector had raced to the bridgehead, where he stood gesticulating
frantically and blowing his whistle, while Thorndyke continued
placidly to watch the receding barge through his binocular.
“What are we going to do?” I asked, a little surprised at my
colleague’s inaction.
“What can we do?” he asked in reply. “Badger will follow the barge. He
probably won’t overtake her, but he will prevent her from making a
landing until they get out into the estuary, and then he may possibly
get assistance. The chase is in his hands.”
“Are we going with him?”
“I am not. This looks like being an all-night expedition, and I must
be at our chambers to-morrow morning. Besides, the chase is not our
affair. But if you would like to join Badger there is no reason why
you shouldn’t. I can look after the practice.”
“Well,” I said, “I think I should rather like to be in at the death,
if it won’t inconvenience you. But it is possible that they may get
away with the booty.”
“Quite,” he agreed; “and then it would be useful to know exactly how
and where it disappears. Yes, go with them, by all means, and keep a
sharp look-out.”
At this moment Badger returned with the two plain-clothes men whom his
whistle had called from their posts, and simultaneously a boat was
seen approaching the steps by the bridge, rowed by the two fishermen.
The inspector looked at us inquiringly. “Are you coming to see the
sport?” he asked.
“Doctor Jervis would like to come with you,” Thorndyke replied. “I
have to get back to London. But you will be a fair boat-load without
me.”
This appeared to be also the view of the two fishermen, as they
brought up at the steps and observed the four passengers; but they
made no demur beyond inquiring if there were not any more; and when we
had taken our places in the stern sheets, they pushed off and pulled
through the bridge and away down stream. Gradually, the village
receded and the houses and the bridge grew small and more distant,
though they remained visible for a long time over the marshy levels;
and still, as I looked back through my glasses, I could see Thorndyke
on the bridge, watching the pursuit with his binocular to his eyes.
Meanwhile the fugitive barge, having got some two miles start, seemed
to be drawing ahead. But it was only at intervals that we could see
her, for the tide was falling fast and we were mostly hemmed in by the
high, muddy banks. Only when we entered a straight reach of the river
could we see her sails over the land; and every time that she came
into view, she appeared perceptibly smaller.
When the river grew wider, the mast was stepped and a good-sized
lug-sail hoisted, though one of the fishermen continued to ply his oar
on the weather side, while the other took the tiller. This improved
our pace appreciably; but still, whenever we caught a glimpse of the
barge, it was evident that she was still gaining.
On one of these occasions the man at the tiller, standing up to get a
better view, surveyed our quarry intently for nearly a minute and then
addressed the inspector.
“She’s a-going to give us the go-by, mister,” he observed with
conviction.
“Still gaining?” asked Badger.
“Aye. She’s a-going to slip across the tail of Foulness Sand into the
deep channel. And that’s the last we shall see of her.”
“But can’t we get into the channel the same way?” demanded Badger.
“Well, d’ye see,” replied the fisherman, “’tis like this. Tide’s
a-running out, but there’ll be enough for her. It’ll just carry her
out through the Whitaker Channel and across the spit. Then it’ll turn,
and up she’ll go, London way, on the flood. But we shall catch the
flood-tide in the Whitaker Channel, and a rare old job we’ll have to
get out; and when we do get out, that barge’ll be miles away.”
The inspector swore long and earnestly. He even alluded to himself as
a “blithering idiot.” But that helped matters not at all. The
fisherman’s dismal prophecy was fulfilled in every horrid detail. When
we were approaching the Whitaker Channel the barge was just crossing
the spit, and the last of the ebb-tide was trickling out. By the time
we were fairly in the Channel the tide had turned and was already
flowing in with a speed that increased every minute; while over the
sand we could see the barge, already out in the open estuary, heading
to the west on the flood-tide at a good six knots.
Poor Badger was frantic. With yearning eyes fixed on the dwindling
barge, he cursed, entreated, encouraged and made extravagant offers.
He even took an oar and pulled with such desperate energy that he
caught a crab and turned a neat back somersault into the fisherman’s
lap. The two mariners pulled until their oars bent like canes; but
still the sandy banks crept by, inch by inch, and ever the turbid
water seemed to pour up the channel more and yet more swiftly. It was
a fearful struggle and seemed to last for hours; and when, at last,
the boat crawled out across the spit and the exhausted rowers rested
on their oars, the sun was just setting and the barge had disappeared
into the west.
I was really sorry for Badger. His oversight in respect of the anchor
was a very natural one for a landsman, and he had evidently taken
infinite pains over the case and shown excellent judgment in keeping
a close watch on the neighbourhood of Garbridge; and now, after all
his care, it looked as if both the robbers and their booty had slipped
through his fingers. It was desperately bad luck.
“Well,” said the elder fisherman, “they’ve give us a run for our
money; but they’ve got clear away. What’s to be done now, mister?”
Badger had nothing to suggest excepting that we should pull or sail up
the river in the hope of getting some assistance on the way. He was in
the lowest depths of despair and dejection. But now, when Fortune
seemed to have deserted us utterly, and failure appeared to be an
accomplished fact, Providence intervened.
A small steam vessel that had been approaching from the direction of
the East Swin suddenly altered her course and bore down as if to speak
us. The fisherman who had last spoken looked at her attentively for a
few moments and then slapped his thigh. “Saved, by gum!” he exclaimed.
“This’ll do your trick, mister. Here comes a Customs cruiser.”
Instantly the two fishermen bent to their oars to meet the oncoming
craft, and in a few minutes we were alongside, Badger hailing like a
bull of Bashan. A brief explanation to the officer in charge secured a
highly sympathetic promise of help. We all scrambled up on deck; the
boat was dropped astern at the scope of her painter; the engine-room
bell jangled merrily, and the smart, yacht-like vessel began to forge
ahead.
“Now then,” said the officer, as his craft gathered way, “give us a
description of this barge. What is she like?”
“She’s a small stumpy,” the senior fisherman explained, “flying light;
wants paint badly; steers with a wheel; green transom with _Bluebell,
Maldon_, cut in and gilded. Seemed to be keeping along the north
shore.”
With these particulars in his mind, the officer explored the western
horizon with a pair of night-glasses, although it was still broad
daylight. Presently he reported: “There’s a stumpy in a line with the
Blacktail Spit buoy. Just take a look at her.” He handed his glasses
to the fisherman, who, after a careful inspection of the stranger,
gave it as his opinion that she was our quarry. “Probably makin’ for
Southend or Leigh,” said he, and added: “I’ll bet she’s bound for
Benfleet Creek. Nice quiet place, that, to land the stuff.”
Our recent painful experience was now reversed, for as our swift
little vessel devoured the miles of water, the barge, which we were
all watching eagerly, loomed up larger every minute. By the time we
were abreast of the Mouse Lightship, she was but a few hundred yards
ahead, and even through my glasses, the name _Bluebell_ was clearly
legible. Badger nearly wept with delight; the officer in charge smiled
an anticipatory smile; the deck-hands girded up their loins for the
coming capture and the plain-clothes men each furtively polished a
pair of handcuffs.
At length the little cruiser came fairly abreast of the barge--not
unobserved by the two men on her deck. Then she sheered in suddenly
and swept alongside. One hand neatly hooked a shroud with a grappling
iron and made fast while a couple of preventive officers, the
plain-clothes men and the inspector jumped down simultaneously on to
the barge’s deck. For a moment, the two bawley men were inclined to
show fight; but the odds were too great. After a perfunctory scuffle
they both submitted to be handcuffed and were at once hauled up on
board the cruiser and lodged in the fore-peak under guard. Then the
chief officer, the two fishermen and I jumped on board the barge and
followed Badger down the companion hatch to the cabin.
It was a curious scene that was revealed in that little cupboard-like
apartment by the light of Badger’s electric torch. On each of the two
lockers was stretched a man, securely lashed with lead-line and having
drawn over his face a knitted stocking cap, while on the little
triangular fixed table rested an iron-bound box which I instantly
identified by my recollection of the description of the bullion case
in the ship’s manifest. It was but the work of a minute to liberate
the skipper and his son and send them up, wrathful but substantially
uninjured, to refresh on the cruiser; and then the ponderous
treasure-chest was borne in triumph by two muscular deck-hands, up the
narrow steps, to be hoisted to the Government vessel.
“Well, well,” said the inspector, mopping his face with his
handkerchief, “all’s well that ends well; but I thought I had lost the
men and the stuff that time. What are you going to do? I shall stay on
board as this boat is going right up to the Custom House in London;
but if you want to get home sooner, I dare say the chief officer will
put you ashore at Southend.”
I decided to adopt this course, and I was accordingly landed at
Southend Pier with a telegram from Badger to his head-quarters; and at
Southend I was fortunate enough to catch an express train which
brought me to Fenchurch Street while the night was still young.
When I reached our chambers, I found Thorndyke seated by the fire,
serenely studying a brief. He stood up as I entered and, laying aside
the brief, remarked:
“You are back sooner than I expected. How sped the chase? Did you
catch the barge?”
“Yes. We’ve got the men and we’ve got the bullion. But we very nearly
lost both;” and here I gave him an account of the pursuit and the
capture, to which he listened with the liveliest interest. “That
Customs cruiser was a piece of sheer luck,” said he, when I had
concluded. “I am delighted. This capture simplifies the case for us
enormously.”
“It seems to me to dispose of the case altogether,” said I. “The
property is recovered and the thieves are in custody. But I think most
of the credit belongs to Badger.”
Thorndyke smiled enigmatically. “I should let him have it all,
Jervis,” he said; and then, after a reflective pause, he continued:
“We will go round to Scotland Yard in the morning to verify the
capture. If the package agrees with the description in the bill of
lading, the case, as you say, is disposed of.”
“It is hardly necessary,” said I. “The marks were all correct and the
Customs seals were unbroken--but still, I know you won’t be satisfied
until you have verified everything for yourself. And I suppose you are
right.”
It was past eleven in the following forenoon when we invaded
Superintendent Miller’s office at Scotland Yard. That genial officer
looked up from his desk as we entered and laughed joyously. “I told
you so, Badger,” he chuckled, turning to the inspector, who had also
looked up and was regarding us with a foxy smile. “I knew the doctor
wouldn’t be satisfied until he had seen it with his own eyes. I
suppose that is what you have come for, sir?”
“Yes,” was the reply. “It is a mere formality, of course, but, if you
don’t mind----”
“Not in the least,” replied Miller. “Come along, Badger, and show the
doctor your prize.”
The two officers conducted us to a room, which the superintendent
unlocked, and which contained a small table, a measuring standard, a
weighing machine, a set of Snellen’s test-types, and the now historic
case of bullion. The latter Thorndyke inspected closely, checking the
marks and dimensions by his notes.
“I see you haven’t opened it,” he remarked.
“No,” replied Miller. “Why should we? The Customs seals are intact.”
“I thought you might like to know what was inside,” Thorndyke
explained.
The two officers looked at him quickly and the inspector exclaimed:
“But we do know. It was opened and checked at the Customs.”
“What do you suppose is inside?” Thorndyke asked.
“I don’t suppose,” Badger replied testily. “I know. There are four
bars of gold inside.”
“Well,” said Thorndyke, “as the representative of the Assurance
Company, I should like to see the contents of that case.”
The two officers stared at him in amazement, as also, I must admit,
did I. The implied doubt seemed utterly contrary to reason.
“This is scepticism with a vengeance!” said Miller. “How on earth is
it possible--but there, I suppose if you are not satisfied, we should
be justified----”
He glanced at his subordinate, who snorted impatiently: “Oh, open it
and let him see the bars. And then, I suppose, he will want us to make
an assay of the metal.”
The superintendent retired with wrinkled brows and presently returned
with a screwdriver, a hammer and a case-opener. Very deftly he broke
the seals, extracted the screws and prized up the lid of the case,
inside which were one or two folds of thick canvas. Lifting these with
something of a flourish, he displayed the upper pair of dull, yellow
bars.
“Are you satisfied now, sir?” demanded Badger. “Or do you want to see
the other two?”
Thorndyke looked reflectively at the two bars, and the two officers
looked inquiringly at him (but one might as profitably have watched
the expression on the face of a ship’s figurehead). Then he took from
his pocket a folding foot-rule and quickly measured the three
dimensions of one of the bars.
“Is that weighing machine reliable?” he asked.
“It is correct to an ounce,” the superintendent replied, gazing at my
colleague with a slightly uneasy expression. “Why?”
By way of reply Thorndyke lifted out the bar that he had measured and
carrying it across to the machine, laid it on the platform and
carefully adjusted the weights.
“Well?” the superintendent queried anxiously, as Thorndyke took the
reading from the scale.
“Twenty-nine pounds, three ounces,” replied Thorndyke.
“Well?” repeated the superintendent. “What about it?”
Thorndyke looked at him impassively for a moment, and then, in the
same quiet tone, answered: “Lead.”
“What!” the two officers shrieked in unison, darting across to the
scale and glaring at the bar of metal. Then Badger recovered himself
and expostulated, not without temper, “Nonsense, sir. Look at it.
Can’t you see that it is gold?”
“I can see that it is gilded,” replied Thorndyke.
“But,” protested Miller, “the thing is impossible! What makes you
think it is lead?”
“It is just a question of specific gravity,” was the reply. “This bar
contains seventy-two cubic inches of metal and it weighs twenty-nine
pounds three ounces. Therefore it is a bar of lead. But if you are
still doubtful, it is quite easy to settle the matter. May I cut a
small piece off the bar?”
The superintendent gasped and looked at his subordinate. “I suppose,”
said he, “under the circumstances--eh, Badger? Yes. Very well,
Doctor.”
Thorndyke produced a strong pocket-knife, and, having lifted the bar
to the table, applied the knife to one corner and tapped it smartly
with the hammer. The blade passed easily through the soft metal, and
as the detached piece fell to the floor, the two officers and I craned
forward eagerly. And then all possible doubts were set at rest. There
was no mistaking the white, silvery lustre of the freshly-cut surface.
“Snakes!” exclaimed the superintendent. “This is a fair knock-out!
Why, the blighters have got away with the stuff, after all! Unless,”
he added, with a quizzical look at Thorndyke, “you know where it is,
Doctor. I expect you do.”
“I believe I do,” said Thorndyke, “and if you care to come down with
me to the London Docks, I think I can hand it over to you.”
The superintendent’s face brightened appreciably. Not so Badger’s.
That afflicted officer flung down the chip of metal that he had been
examining, and, turning to Thorndyke, demanded sourly: “Why didn’t you
tell us this before, sir? You let me go off chivvying that damn barge,
and you knew all the time that the stuff wasn’t on board.”