I
In some of the cases which we now know to have been connected with the
Red Triangle, there was nothing, in the first place, to show any such
association. In some of these cases the connection has become apparent
only since the final clearing up of the whole mystery, and with these
cases we have no present concern; but in others it revealed itself
during the investigation of the case. It was to this second category
that the next case belonged--the next at all connectible, that is, after
that of the mysterious death of Mr. Jacob Mason and the flight of
Everard Myatt.
The case was remarkable in other respects also; first, because in one of
its features it had a resemblance to the case of Samuel's diamonds,
which first brought the Red Triangle to Hewitt's notice; next, because
in its course Hewitt encountered what he declared to be the most
ingenious and baffling cryptogram that he had ever seen in the length of
his strange experience; and thirdly, because I was the means of placing
that cryptogram in his hands, owing to one of those odd chances that
arise again and again in real life--are, indeed, so common as to pass
almost unregarded--and yet might be thought improbable if offered in the
guise of a mere story. Hewitt has often alluded to the curious
persistence of such chances in his experience. I think I have elsewhere
mentioned a certain police officer's prolonged search after a criminal
for whose arrest he held a warrant, ending in the discovery--because of
a misdirected call--that the man had been living all the time next door
to himself; and I have also told of the other detective inspector, who,
being sent in search of a criminal of whom he had but the meagrest and
most unsatisfactory particulars, and whom he scarcely hoped ever to run
down, actually _fell over_ the man as he was leaving the office where he
had received his information, in the doorway of which the fellow had
stooped to tie his shoe-lace! But, as Hewitt would say, nothing but the
exceptional nature of the surrounding circumstances makes these things
seem extraordinary. What more ordinary experience, for example, than to
meet a friend in some London street--perhaps one friend of the only
dozen or so you have among the four millions of people about you? The
odds against you two, of all the millions, choosing the one street of
the thousands in London to walk down at the same minute of time, would
seem incalculable; and yet the chance comes off so often as to be a
matter of the most ordinary experience.
On this occasion I was expecting orders from my editor to produce
certain articles on the subject of the London hospitals. It will be
remembered that the matter was very much in the air a few years ago, and
as nothing is professionally more uncomfortable than to be called on
suddenly for an accurate and reasonable leading article on a subject one
knows nothing about, I wrote to my friend, Barton McCarthy, who is
house-surgeon at St. Augustine's, and he replied by an offer to tell me
anything I cared to ask if I would call at the hospital.
I set out accordingly some little time after a breakfast even later than
ordinary, and called in at Hewitt's office on my way downstairs, to say
that I should not be lunching at our usual place that day.
"No," Hewitt answered, "nor shall I, I expect. I'm off to the City, at
once. I have an urgent message to go immediately to Kingsley, Bell and
Dalton's, in Broad Street, where a big bond robbery has just been
discovered. Perhaps I can give you a lift in my cab?"
We hurried off together accordingly. Hewitt knew nothing of the case he
had to examine, and so could tell me nothing, beyond the short urgent
request that he would come at once, and that the matter involved the
loss of bonds to a very large amount; and he dropped me at a convenient
spot, whence my walk to the hospital was but a short one.
I saw my friend McCarthy, and bothered him very successfully for nearly
an hour, getting all the information I had expected, and more, during a
very interesting walk through the great hospital.
"You get some idea in a place like this," said McCarthy, as we came at
last into the receiving room for accident cases, "you get some idea,
Brett, of the size of this great London machine working about us. You
might walk about the streets for a week and never see a serious
accident, or even an accident at all, and yet, you see, here they come
all day long--a stream of people damaged or killed in the machine."
A decent workman was having a gashed hand dressed and strapped, and a
navvy with bandages about his head was being led away by a friend.
Nurses and dressers were waiting ready to take their orderly turns at
the incoming casualties, and as we looked a more serious case was
brought in on an ambulance by two policemen. The patient was a ragged,
disreputable-looking fellow of middle age, in grimy and tattered
clothes, whose head had been roughly bandaged by the policemen who
brought him. He had been knocked down and kicked on the head by a
butcher's cart-horse, it seemed, in Moorgate Street, and he was quite
insensible. A very short examination showed that the case was nothing
trivial, and McCarthy sent me to sit in his private room to wait lunch,
while he gave the matter his personal attention.
When he returned he brought a small crumpled envelope in his hand. "That
case is put to bed," he said, "still insensible."
"Is it very bad?" I asked.
"Slight fracture of the occipital, and, of course, concussion of the
brain--probably contusion, too, I expect we shall find presently. Not so
over serious for a healthy man, but I'm afraid he's an old soaker--the
sort that crumple up at a touch. Nobody knows him, and there's nothing
to identify him in the pockets--a few coppers, an old knife, and so on.
So we can't send to tell his friends--unless we bring in your friend
Martin Hewitt to trace 'em out, which would come too expensive.
Besides," McCarthy added, dropping into a seat before his desk, "if he's
got any friends they'll come, sooner or later, when they miss him. This
is the only thing he'd got beside what's in the pockets--he'd been sent
on a message, probably."
My friend held up the crumpled envelope and took from it a small key.
"He'd got this envelope gripped tightly in his hand," he said, "but
there was no address on it, so we tore it open in the hope of finding
one inside. But there was nothing there but the key. If you were a very
promising pupil of your friend Hewitt, I should expect you to take a
glance at it and tell us the man's address at once, together with his
age, birthplace, when vaccinated, and the residence of his maternal
grandmother. But you're not, so I'll let you off."
McCarthy turned the key idly about in his hand and tried it on a lock in
his desk. "Stopped up," he remarked, withdrawing it, and peeping into
the barrel; "not dirt, either--stopped up with paper! What's that for?"
He took a pin to clear the barrel, and the paper came away quite
readily. It was a tight little roll, which the surgeon pulled out into a
small strip rather less than three inches long and about half-an-inch
broad.
"Hullo!" he exclaimed. "Look here! Here's a job for Martin Hewitt, after
all! Figures! What does that mean? And what an amazing place to put
them in! A key barrel! By Jove, Brett, this looks like one of your
favourite adventures. Somebody sends a key in an envelope, and a row of
incomprehensible figures rolled up inside the key. Look at it!"
I took the key and the paper. The key was of a good sort; small,
inscribed "Tripp's Patent" on the bow, and it evidently belonged to a
superior lever lock. The paper which had come from the barrel was very
thin and tough--a kind I have seen used in typewriters. It had been very
carefully and closely rolled, and then pushed into the key so that its
natural tendency to open out held it tightly within. Written upon it
with a fine pen appeared a series of very minute figures, thus:--
9, 8, 14, 4, 20, 18, 5, 9; 15, 19, 20,
0, 3, 9, 8, 5; 3, 23, 0, 0, 5, 13, 14,
19; 19, 20, 0, 0, 0, 0, 6, 1; 5, 20, 0,
0, 0, 0, 3, 22; 1, 15, 0, 0, 0, 0, 18,
5; 1, 8, 20, 11, 18, 9, 5, 20; 12, 5,
23, 14, 14, 1, 1, 20.
"Well," inquired McCarthy, "what do you make of it?"
"Not much as yet," I admitted. "But it's pretty certain it must be a
cryptogram or code-writing of some sort; and if that's the case, I
_think_ I might back myself to read it--with a little time." For I well
remembered the case of the "Flitterbat Lancers," and the lesson in
cypher-reading which Hewitt then gave me.
"Come," my friend replied, much interested, "let's see how you do it.
Meantime we'll get on with our lunch."
I took a pencil and a spare sheet of paper, and I studied those figures
all through lunch and for some little time after. It soon became plain
that the problem was much more difficult than it looked, and I said so.
"At the first glance," I said, "it looked a fairly easy cypher; but as a
matter of fact, I don't think it's easy at all. One assumes, of course,
that the figures stand for letters, and on that assumption two or three
peculiarities are noticeable. First, the highest number written here is
23, so that all the letters indicated, in whatever order they may come,
are within the compass of the twenty-six letters of the alphabet. Next,
the numbers most frequently repeated, if we except the noughts, are 5
and 20, which occur seven times each. Now, the vowel most frequently
occurring in average English writing is e, and you will at once perceive
that e is number five in the alphabet, counting from the beginning.
More, if we go on counting so, we shall find that 20 is _t_, which is
one of the most frequently occurring consonants. This would seem to hint
that the cypher is of the very simplest description, consisting of the
mere substitution of figures for letters in the exact order of the
alphabet. But what, then, of the noughts? What can they mean? More
especially when we consider that in three places there are actually four
noughts in succession; for, of course, no letter is repeated four times
successively in any English word, nor in any foreign word that I can
imagine. But let us put down the letters in substitution for the
figures, on the supposition that the figures stand for letters in their
alphabetical order, leaving the noughts as they are. Then we get this."
I rapidly pencilled the letters on the spare paper, thus:--_i, h, n, d,
t, r, e, i; o, s, t, 0, c, i, h, e; c, w, 0, 0, e, m, n, s; s, t, 0, 0,
0, 0, f, a; e, t, 0, 0, 0, 0, c, v; a, o, 0, 0, 0, 0, r, e; a, h, t, k,
r, i, e, t; l, e, w, n, n, a, a, t_.
"See there," I said. "Now, I can make nothing of that. When I come to
examine the comparative frequency of the different letters, I find them
much as they might be expected to be in a sentence of normal English,
and any change would destroy the proportion. _E_ and _t_ are the most
frequent, and then come _a, n, i, r, s,_ and _c_. But as they stand
they all mean nothing. It is possible that this may be one of the
difficult variable letter cyphers, which Hewitt might read, but I can't.
But even then, if the values of the letters change as they would do,
they would get out of their normal proportions of frequency; so that a
variable letter cypher seems unlikely. And there is another oddity.
Look, and you will see that, counting the noughts in, the letters go in
groups of eight, with a semi-colon at the end of each group. Now, it is
impossible that the message can be a sentence in which every word has
exactly eight letters--or, at least, I should think so. It can scarcely
be that the semi-colon itself means a letter--it would be singular for
one letter to occur with such curious regularity as that. There is no
other visible division between the words, nor any single one of the
usual aids by which the reader of secret cypher is able to take a hold
of his work. No, I'm afraid I must give it up; for the present, at any
rate. But I really think it is a thing that would vastly interest
Hewitt, if I might show it to him. I suppose I mustn't?"
"Well," McCarthy answered, "perhaps it isn't strictly according to rule,
but I think I might venture to lend it to you till to-morrow, if that
will do. Indeed, I think, on second thoughts, that I may consider
myself quite justified, since it may lead to the man's identification,
and it will be a sufficient answer to any inquiry to say that I have
shown it to Mr. Martin Hewitt for that purpose. But you'll be careful of
it, won't you? Do you want the key, too?"
"I think, if I may, I will take the key and the envelope all together.
You can never tell what may or what may not help him, and the three
things may hang together, and perhaps explain each other in some
mysterious way."
"Very good--here's the whole bag of tricks. It's a queer business
altogether, and I must say I feel inquisitive; certainly, if Hewitt can
get anything out of those figures I shall be mighty curious to know how
he does it. You'll come in again to-morrow, then?"
I promised I would, and walked off with the crumpled envelope, the
little key, and the puzzling strip of figures. Since the lesson from
Hewitt which I have alluded to, I had often amused myself with
cryptogram reading, and I had never found a cypher message in a
newspaper "agony-column" the meaning of which I could not get at with a
little trouble. But this was something altogether beyond me; and if I
have any reader who prides himself on his ability to read secret cypher,
I recommend him to try his skill on this one before he reads further.
The circumstances, too, seemed as puzzling as the writing itself. Why,
if any person wished to send a note and a key in a closed envelope,
should he take the trouble to pack the note inside the key? Why,
especially when the note was already written in so baffling a cypher?
Whither had this ragged messenger been going with the mysterious
package, and who had sent him, and why?
Guessing and musing, I reached home, and found that Hewitt had returned
before me. I made my way into his office, and came on him sitting at his
desk with a large lens, attentively examining a broken brass padlock.
"Am I bothering you?" I asked. "Are you on the bond robbery, now?"
Martin Hewitt nodded, with a jerk of the hand toward the padlock. "It's
a tough job," he said, "and I shall shut myself up presently and think
hard over it; just now I can't see my way into it at all. But what have
you got there?"
"Never mind," I said, "you're too busy now. I came across something very
odd at the hospital, which I thought would interest you--that's all."
"Very well, let me see it. I haven't begun my bout of cogitation yet.
Show me."
I put the envelope, the key and the paper on the table before him.
Hewitt, with a glance of surprise, picked up the key and examined it.
"That's curious," he said, and straightway began fitting the key to the
broken padlock on the desk.
"Why, man alive!" he cried, with a sudden burst of excitement, "where
did you get this? This--this is the article--the key--the very thing I
want!" He sprang to his feet and stared in my face in sheer amazement.
"Heavens, Brett, the thing's almost supernatural! I've a broken lever
padlock here, and of all things in the world I wanted to find the one
key that fitted it; and you calmly walk in and clap down the very thing
under my nose! Where did you get it?"
I told him the tale of the man who had been knocked down in Moorgate
Street, and I explained exactly how the paper, the key and the envelope
were found in relation to each other, and why I had brought them.
"And when was the man knocked over?" Hewitt asked.
"Some time between one and two o'clock, I should say," I replied. "They
brought him in well before two, at any rate."
Hewitt stared into vacancy for a moment, thinking hard. Then he said,
"Brett, I believe you've saved my reputation--not that it could have
suffered much, perhaps, in such a desperate case. But as a fact I had
already advised the calling in of the police, and should, perhaps, even
have given up the part of the case still left me. But this ought to put
me on the proper track. You see, every one of these patent lever locks
differs in some slight degree from all the rest, and only its own key
will fit it; and here, by this amazing piece of good luck, is the one
key for this very lock, and the man who had it is detained in hospital.
Come, I'm off to see him. Insensible, you say, when you left?"
"Yes," I answered, "and likely to be so for some time, McCarthy thinks;
so you probably won't get much information out of him just yet. But the
cypher----"
"I'll examine the cypher as I go along, I think. But I should like to
take a look at the man, at any rate, even if he can't tell me anything.
Will you give me a note to your friend McCarthy?"
"Of course," I answered, readily, and sat down to scribble the few lines
necessary to introduce Hewitt.
When I had finished, Hewitt, who had been examining the cryptogram
meanwhile, remarked: "This cypher is something out of the common,
Brett. I certainly don't expect to be able to read it in the
cab-journey--perhaps not in a week of study. The man who devised this is
a man of abilities altogether beyond the average."
"I have had my best try at it," I said, "but it beats me wholly. I
brought it purely as a matter of curiosity, to show you; it was the
merest chance that I brought the key as well."
"And if you hadn't I should probably have put the cypher aside until the
case was over, and so have missed the whole thing. Another lesson never
to despise what seem like trifles. If you have studied the cypher you
have no doubt observed--but there, we'll talk that over afterwards, and
the whole case if you like. I'll go now, and I'll tell you all about the
business when time permits."