"Well, the consequence of this fall in temperature is that the
convalescent's mind turns toward thoughts of suicide. Then is the time
he should be watched by his friends. Then was the time Mr. Barrie
Kipson's friends did _not_ watch him. You remember the 21st, of
course. No? It was a most depressing day. Fog all around and mud under
foot. Very good. He resolves on suicide. He wishes to be unidentified,
if possible but forgets his season ticket. My experience is that a man
about to commit a crime always forgets something."
"But how do you account for the disappearance of the money?"
"The money has nothing to do with the matter. If he was a deep man, and
knew the stupidness of Scotland Yard, he probably sent the notes to an
enemy. If not, they may have been given to a friend. Nothing is more
calculated to prepare the mind for self-destruction than the prospect
of a night ride on the Scotch Express, and the view from the windows of
the train as it passes through the northern part of London is
particularly conducive to thoughts of annihilation."
"What became of the weapon?"
"That is just the point on which I wish to satisfy myself. Excuse me
for a moment."
Mr. Sherlaw Kombs drew down the window on the right hand side, and
examined the top of the casing minutely with a magnifying glass.
Presently he heaved a sigh of relief, and drew up the sash.
"Just as I expected," he remarked, speaking more to himself than to me.
"There is a slight dent on the top of the window-frame. It is of such a
nature as to be made only by the trigger of a pistol falling from the
nerveless hand of a suicide. He intended to throw the weapon far out of
the window, but had not the strength. It might have fallen into the
carriage. As a matter of fact, it bounced away from the line and lies
among the grass about ten feet six inches from the outside rail. The
only question that now remains is where the deed was committed, and the
exact present position of the pistol reckoned in miles from London, but
that, fortunately, is too simple to even need explanation."
"Great heavens, Sherlaw!" I cried. "How can you call that simple? It
seems to me impossible to compute."
We were now flying over Northern London, and the great detective leaned
back with every sign of _ennui_, closing his eyes. At last he
spoke wearily:
"It is really too elementary, Whatson, but I am always willing to
oblige a friend. I shall be relieved, however, when you are able to
work out the A B C of detection for yourself, although I shall never
object to helping you with the words of more than three syllables.
Having made up his mind to commit suicide, Kipson naturally intended to
do it before he reached Brewster, because tickets are again examined at
that point. When the train began to stop at the signal near Pegram, he
came to the false conclusion that it was stopping at Brewster. The fact
that the shot was not heard is accounted for by the screech of the air-
brake, added to the noise of the train. Probably the whistle was also
sounding at the same moment. The train being a fast express would stop
as near the signal as possible. The air-brake will stop a train in
twice its own length. Call it three times in this case. Very well. At
three times the length of this train from the signalpost towards
London, deducting half the length of the train, as this carriage is in
the middle, you will find the pistol."
"Wonderful!" I exclaimed.
"Commonplace," he murmured.
At this moment the whistle sounded shrilly, and we felt the grind of
the air-brakes.
"The Pegram signal again," cried Kombs, with something almost like
enthusiasm. "This is indeed luck. We will get out here, Whatson, and
test the matter."
As the train stopped, we got out on the right-hand side of the line.
The engine stood panting impatiently under the red light, which changed
to green as I looked at it. As the train moved on with increasing
speed, the detective counted the carriages, and noted down the number.
It was now dark, with the thin crescent of the moon hanging in the
western sky throwing a weird half-light on the shining metals. The rear
lamps of the train disappeared around a curve, and the signal stood at
baleful red again. The black magic of the lonesome night in that
strange place impressed me, but the detective was a most practical man.
He placed his back against the signal-post, and paced up the line with
even strides, counting his steps. I walked along the permanent way
beside him silently. At last he stopped, and took a tapeline from his
pocket. He ran it out until the ten feet six inches were unrolled,
scanning the figures in the wan light of the new moon. Giving me the
end, he placed his knuckles on the metals, motioning me to proceed down
the embankment. I stretched out the line, and then sank my hand in the
damp grass to mark the spot.
"Good God!" I cried, aghast, "what is this?"
"It is the pistol," said Kombs quietly.
It was!!
* * * * *
Journalistic London will not soon forget the sensation that was caused
by the record of the investigations of Sherlaw Kombs, as printed at
length in the next day's _Evening Blade_. Would that my story
ended here. Alas! Kombs contemptuously turned over the pistol to
Scotland Yard. The meddlesome officials, actuated, as I always hold, by
jealousy, found the name of the seller upon it. They investigated. The
seller testified that it had never been in the possession of Mr.
Kipson, as far as he knew. It was sold to a man whose description
tallied with that of a criminal long watched by the police. He was
arrested, and turned Queen's evidence in the hope of hanging his pal.
It seemed that Mr. Kipson, who was a gloomy, taciturn man, and usually
came home in a compartment by himself, thus escaping observation, had
been murdered in the lane leading to his house. After robbing him, the
miscreants turned their thoughts towards the disposal of the body--a
subject that always occupies a first-class criminal mind before the
deed is done. They agreed to place it on the line, and have it mangled
by the Scotch Express, then nearly due. Before they got the body half-
way up the embankment the express came along and stopped. The guard got
out and walked along the other side to speak with the engineer. The
thought of putting the body into an empty first-class carriage
instantly occurred to the murderers. They opened the door with the
deceased's key. It is supposed that the pistol dropped when they were
hoisting the body in the carriage.
The Queen's evidence dodge didn't work, and Scotland Yard ignobly
insulted my friend Sherlaw Kombs by sending him a pass to see the
villains hanged.