SERGEANT COBBLEDICK TAKES A HAND
Punctually at half-past nine on the following morning I presented
myself at the office, and, if I had indulged in any hopes of
favourable news--which I had not--they would have been dispelled by a
glance at Mr. Japp’s troubled face.
“I suppose you have heard nothing?” I said, when we had exchanged
brief greetings.
He shook his head gloomily as he opened the cupboard and took out his
hat.
“No,” he answered, “and I am afraid we never shall.” He sighed
heavily, and, putting on his hat, walked slowly to the door. “It is a
dreadful affair,” he continued, as we went out together. “How she
would have hated the idea of it, poor girl! All the horrid publicity,
the posters, the sensational newspaper paragraphs, the descriptions of
her person and belongings. And then, at the end of it all, God knows
what horror may come to light. It won’t bear thinking of.”
He trudged along at my side with bent head and eyes cast down, and for
the remainder of the short journey neither of us spoke. On reaching
the police-station we made our way into a small, quiet office, the
only tenant of which was a benevolent-looking, bald-headed sergeant,
who was seated at a high desk, and, who presented that peculiar,
decapitated aspect that appertains to a police officer minus his
helmet. As we entered the sergeant laid down his pen and turned to us
with a benign smile.
“Good morning, Mr. Japp,” said he. “What can I have the pleasure of
doing for you?”
“I am sorry to say, Sergeant,” replied Japp, “that I have come here on
very unpleasant business,” and he proceeded to give the officer a
concise summary of the facts, to which our friend listened with close
attention. When it was finished, the sergeant produced a sheet of blue
foolscap, and, having folded a wide margin on it, dipped his pen in
the ink and began his examination.
“I’d better take the doctor’s statement first,” said he. “The lady’s
name is Angelina Frood, married, living apart from husband--I shall
want his address presently--last seen alive by----”
“John Strangeways, M.D.,” said I, “of Maidstone-road, Rochester.”
The sergeant wrote this down, and continued: “Last seen at about 8.30
P.M. on Saturday, 26th April, proceeding towards Chatham, on unknown
business. Can you give me a description of her?”
I described her person, assisted by Japp, and the sergeant, having
committed the particulars to writing, read them out:
“‘Age 28, height 5 ft. 7 in., complexion medium, hazel eyes, abundant
dark brown hair, strongly marked black eyebrows, nearly meeting over
nose.’
“No special marks that you know of?”
“No.”
“Now, Doctor, can you tell us how she was dressed?”
“She was wearing a snuff-brown coat and skirt,” I replied, “and a
straw hat of the same colour with a broad, dull green band. The hat
was fixed on by two hat-pins with silver heads shaped like
poppy-capsules. The coat had six buttons, smallish, bronze
buttons--about half an inch in diameter--with a Tudor rose embossed on
each. Brown suède gloves with fasteners--no buttons--brown silk
stockings, and brown suède shoes with small, oval bronze buckles. She
had a narrow silk scarf, dull green, with three purple bands at each
end--one broad band and two narrow--and knotted fringe at the ends.
She wore a small circular brooch with a largish opal in the centre and
a border of small pearls, of which one was missing. The missing pearl
was in the position of the figure three on a clock dial. She carried a
small morocco hand-bag with the initials A. F. stamped on it, which
contained a little cardboard box, in which were six white tablets; the
box was labelled with one of Dr. Partridge’s labels, on which her name
was written, and it was wrapped in white paper and sealed with
sealing-wax. That is all I can say for certain. But she always wore a
wedding-ring, and occasionally an African Zodiac ring; but sometimes
she carried this ring in a small purse with metal jaws and a ball
fastening. I believe she always carried the purse.”
As I gave this description, the sergeant wrote furiously, glancing at
me from time to time with an expression of surprise, while Japp sat
and stared at me open-mouthed.
“Well, Doctor,” said the sergeant, when he had taken down my statement
and read it out, “if I find myself ailing I’m going to pop along and
consult you. I reckon there isn’t much that escapes your notice. With
regard to that African ring now, I daresay you can tell us what it is
like.”
I was, of course, able to describe it in detail, including the
initials A. C. inside, and even to give a rough sketch of some of the
signs embossed on it, upon which the sergeant chuckled admiringly and
wagged his head as he wrote down the description and pinned the sketch
on the margin of his paper. The rest of my statement dealt with the
last interview and the incidents connected with Nicholas Frood’s
visits to Rochester, all of which the sergeant listened to with deep
interest and committed to writing.
Finally, I recounted the sinister incident--now more sinister than
ever--of the murderous assault in the house near Regent’s Park,
whereat the sergeant looked uncommonly serious and took down the
statement verbatim.
“Did you know about this, Mr. Japp?” he asked.
“I knew that something unpleasant had happened,” was the reply, “but I
didn’t know that it was as bad as this.”
“Well,” said the sergeant, “it gives the present affair rather an ugly
look. We shall have to make some inquiries about that gentleman.”
Having squeezed me dry, he turned his attention to Japp, from whom he
extracted a variety of information, including the address of the
banker who paid the allowance to Nicholas Frood, and that of a lady
who had formerly been a theatrical colleague of Mrs. Frood’s, and with
whom Mr. Japp believed the latter had kept up a correspondence.
“You haven’t a photograph of the missing lady, I suppose?” said the
sergeant.
With evident reluctance Japp drew from his pocket an envelope and
produced from it a cabinet photograph, which he looked at sadly for a
few moments and then handed to me.
“I brought this photograph with me,” he said, “as I knew you would
want it, but I rather hope that you won’t want to publish it.”
“Now, why do you hope that?” the sergeant asked in a soothing and
persuasive tone. “You want this lady found--or, at any rate, traced.
But what better means can you suggest than publishing her portrait?”
“I suppose you are right,” said Japp; “but it is a horrible thing to
think of the poor girl’s face looking out from posters and newspaper
pages.”
“It is,” the sergeant agreed. “But, you see, if she is alive it is her
own doing, and if she is dead it won’t affect her.”
While they were talking I had been looking earnestly at the beloved
face, which I now felt I should never look upon again. It was an
excellent likeness, showing her just as I had known her, excepting
that it was free from the cloud of trouble that had saddened her
expression in these latter days. As the sergeant held out his hand for
it, I turned it over and read the photographer’s name and address and
the register number, and, having made a mental note of them, I
surrendered it with a sigh.
Our business was now practically concluded. When we had each read over
the statements and added our respective signatures, the sergeant
attested them and, having added the date, placed the documents in his
desk and rose.
“I am much obliged to you, gentlemen,” said he as he escorted us to
the door. “If I hear anything that will interest you I will let you
know, and if I should want any further information I shall take the
liberty of calling on you.”
“Well,” said Japp, as we turned to walk back, “the fat’s in the fire
now. I mean to say,” he added quickly, “that we’ve fairly committed
ourselves. I hope we haven’t been too precipitate. We should catch it
if she came back and found that we had raised the hue and cry and set
the whole town agog.”
“I am afraid there is no hope of that,” said I. “At any rate, we had
no choice or discretion in the matter. A suspected crime is the
business of the police.”
Mr. Japp agreed that this was so; and having by this time arrived at
the office, we separated, he to enter his premises and I to betake
myself to Chatham with no very defined purpose, but lured thither by a
vague attraction.
As I walked along the High-street, making occasional digressions into
narrow alleys to explore wharves and water-side premises, I turned
over the statements that had been given to the police and wondered
what they conveyed to our friend, the sergeant, with his presumably
extensive experience of obscure crime. To me they seemed to furnish no
means whatever of starting an investigation, excepting by inquiring as
to the movements of Nicholas Frood, by communicating with Angelina’s
late colleague or by publishing the photograph. And here I halted to
write down in my note-book before I should forget them the name and
address of that lady--Miss Cumbers--and of the photographers, together
with the number of the photograph; for I had decided to obtain a copy
of the latter for myself, and it now occurred to me that I had better
get one also for Thorndyke. And this latter reflection reminded me
that I had to prepare my précis of the facts for him, and that I
should do well to get this done at once while the matter of the two
statements was fresh in my mind. Accordingly, as I paced the deck of
the Sun Pier, looking up and down the busy river, with its endless
procession of barges, bawleys, tugs, and cargo boats, striving
ineffectually to banish the dreadful thought that, perchance,
somewhere, at this very moment there was floating on its turbid waters
the corpse of my dear, lost friend: I tried to recall and write down
the substance of Japp’s statement, as I had heard it made and had
afterwards read it. At length, finding the neighbourhood of the river
too disturbing, I left the pier and took my way homewards, calling in
at a stationer’s on the way to provide myself with a packet of sermon
paper on which to write out my summary.
When Thorndyke had given me my instructions, they had appeared to me a
little pedantic. The full narrative which he asked for of all the
events, without selection as to relevancy, and the account of what I
knew of all the persons concerned in the case, seemed an excessive
formality. But when I came to write the case out the excellence of his
method became apparent in two respects. In the first place, the
ordered narrative put the events in their proper sequence and
exhibited their connexions; and in the second, the endeavour to state
all that I knew, particularly of the persons, showed me how very
little that was. Of the persons in any way concerned in the case there
were but five: Angelina herself, her husband, Mrs. Gillow, Mr. Japp,
and Bundy. Of the first two I knew no more than what I had observed
myself and what Angelina had told me; of the last three I knew
practically nothing. Not that this appeared to me of the slightest
importance, but I had my instructions, and in compliance with them I
determined to make such cautious inquiries as would enable me to give
Thorndyke at least a few particulars of them. And this during the next
few days I did; and I may as well set down here the scanty and rather
trivial information that my inquiries elicited, and which I duly sent
on to Thorndyke in a supplementary report.
Mrs. Gillow was the wife of a mariner who was the second mate of a
sailing ship that plied to Australia, who had now been away about four
months and was expected home shortly. She was a native of the locality
and had known Mr. Japp for several years. She occupied the part of the
house above the ground floor and kept no servant or dependent, living
quite alone when her husband was at sea. She had no children. Her
acquaintance with Angelina began when the latter became the tenant of
the ground floor and basement; it was but a slight acquaintance, and
she knew nothing of Angelina’s antecedents or affairs excepting that
she had left her husband.
Mr. Japp was a native of Rochester and had lived in the town all his
life, having taken over his business establishment from his late
partner, a Mr. Borden. He was a bachelor and was related to Angelina
by marriage, his brother--now deceased--having married Angelina’s
aunt.
As to Bundy, he was hardly connected with the case at all, since he
had seen Angelina only once or twice and had scarcely exchanged a
dozen words with her. Moreover, he had but recently come to
Rochester--about six weeks ago, I gathered--having answered an
advertisement of Japp’s for an assistant with a view to partnership;
and the actual deed had not yet been executed, though the two partners
were evidently quite well satisfied with one another.
That was all the information that I had to give Thorndyke; and with
the exception of the London incident it amounted to nothing.
Nevertheless, it was as well to have established the fact that if
anyone were concerned in Angelina’s disappearance, that person would
have to be sought elsewhere than in Rochester.
Having sent off my summary and read over again and again the copy
which I had kept, I began to realize the justice of Thorndyke’s
observation that the inquiry was essentially a matter for the police,
who had both the experience and the necessary facilities; for whenever
I tried to think of some plan for tracing my lost friend, I was
brought up against the facts that I had nothing whatever to go on and
no idea how to make a start. As to Thorndyke, he had no data but those
that I had given him, and I realized clearly that these were utterly
insufficient to form the basis of any investigation; and I found
myself looking expectantly to the police to produce some new facts
that might throw at least a glimmer of light on this dreadful and
baffling mystery.
I had not very long to wait. On the Friday after our call on the
sergeant, I was sitting after lunch in my dining-room with a book in
my hand, while my thoughts strayed back to those memorable evenings of
pleasant converse with the sweet friend who, I felt, had gone from me
for ever, when the door bell rang, and Mrs. Dunk presently announced:
“Sergeant Cobbledick.”
“Show him in here, Mrs. Dunk,” said I, laying aside my book, and
rising to receive my visitor; who proved to be, as I had expected, the
officer who had taken our statements. He entered with his helmet in
his hand, and greeted me with a smile of concentrated benevolence.
“Sit down, Sergeant,” said I, offering him an easy-chair. “I hope you
have some news for us.”
“Yes,” he replied, beaming on me. “I am glad to say we are getting on
as well as we can expect. We have made quite a nice little start.”
He spoke as if he had something particularly gratifying to
communicate, and, having carefully placed his helmet on the table, he
drew from his pocket a small paper packet, which he opened with great
deliberation, extracting from it a small object, which he held out in
the palm of his hand.
“There, Doctor,” said he, complacently; “what do you say to that?”
I looked at the object, and my heart seemed to stand still. It was
Angelina’s brooch! I stared at it in speechless dismay for some
moments. At length I asked, huskily: “Where did you get it?”
“I found it,” said the sergeant, gazing fondly at the little trinket,
“where I hardly hoped to find it--in a pawnbroker’s shop in Chatham.”
“Did you discover who pawned it?” I asked.
“In a sense, yes,” the sergeant replied with a bland smile.
“How do you mean--in a sense?” I inquired.
“I mean that his name was John Smith--only, of course, it wasn’t; and
that his address was 26, Swoffer’s-alley, Chatham--only he didn’t live
there, because there is no such number. You see, Doctor, John Smith is
the name of nearly every man who gives a false description of himself;
and I went straight off to Swoffer’s-alley--it was close by--and found
that there wasn’t any number 26.”
“Then you really don’t know who pawned it?”
“We won’t exactly say that,” he replied. “I got a fair description of
the man from the pawnbroker’s wife, who made out the ticket and says
she could swear to the man if she saw him. He was a seafaring man,
dressed in sailor’s clothes--a peaked cap and pea-jacket--a shortish
fellow, rather sunburnt, with a small, stubby, dark moustache and dark
hair, and a mole or wart on the left side of his nose, near the tip.
She asked him where he had got the brooch, and he said it had belonged
to his old woman. I should say he probably picked it up.”
“Why do you think so?” I asked.
“Well, if he had--er--got it in any other way, he would hardly have
popped it in Chatham forty-eight hours after the--after it was lost,
with the chance that the pawnbrokers had already been notified--he
pawned it on Monday night.”
“Then,” said I, “if he picked it up, he isn’t of much importance; and
in any case you don’t know who he is.”
“Oh, but he is of a good deal of importance,” said the sergeant. “I’ve
no doubt he picked it up, but that is only a guess. He may have got it
the other way. But at any rate, he had it in his possession and he
will have to give an account of how he obtained it. The importance of
it is this: taken with the disappearance, the finding of this brooch
raises a strong suspicion that a crime has been committed, and if we
could find out where it was picked up, we should have a clue to the
place where the affair took place. I want that man very badly, and I’m
going to have a good try to get him.”
“I don’t quite see how,” said I. “You haven’t much to go on.”
“I’ve got his nose to go on,” replied the sergeant.
“But there must be plenty of other men with moles on their noses.”
“That’s their look-out,” he retorted. “If I come across a man who
answers the description, I shall hang on to him until Mrs. Pawnbroker
has had a look at him. Of course, if she says he’s not the man, he’ll
be released.”
“But she won’t,” said I. “If he has a mole on his nose, she will be
perfectly certain that he is the man.”
The sergeant smiled benignly. “There’s something in that,” he
admitted. “Ladies are a bit cock-sure when it comes to identification.
But you can generally check ’em by other evidence. And if this chap
picked the brooch up, he would be pretty certain to tell us all about
it when he heard where it came from. Still, we haven’t got him yet.”
For a while we sat without speaking, each pursuing his own thoughts.
To me, this dreadful discovery, though it did but materialize the
vague fears that had been surging through my mind, had fallen like a
thunderbolt. For, behind those fears, I now realized that there had
lurked a hope that the mystery might presently be resolved by the
return of the lost one. Now that hope had suddenly become extinct. I
knew that she had gone out of my life for ever. She was dead. This
poor little waif that had drifted back into our hands brought the
unmistakable message of her death, with horrible suggestions of
hideous and sordid tragedy. I shuddered at the thought; and in that
moment, from the grief and horror that possessed my soul, there was
born a passion of hatred for the wretch who had done this thing and a
craving for revenge.
“There’s another queer thing that has come to light,” the sergeant
resumed at length. “There may be nothing in it, but it’s a little
queer. About the husband, Nicholas Frood.”
“What about him?” I asked, eagerly.
“Why, he seems to have disappeared, too. Of course, you understand,
Doctor, that what I’m telling you is confidential. We are not talking
about this affair outside, and we aren’t telling the Press much, at
present.”
“Naturally,” said I. “You can trust me to keep my own counsel, and
yours, too.”
“I’m sure I can. Well, about this man, Frood. It seems that last
Friday he went away from his lodgings for a couple of days; but he
hasn’t come back, and nobody knows what has become of him. He was
supposed to be going to Brighton, where he has some relatives from
whom he gets a little assistance occasionally, but they have seen or
heard nothing of him. Quaint, isn’t it? You said you saw him here on
the Monday.”
“Yes, and I haven’t seen him since, though I have kept a look-out for
him. But he may have been here, all the same. It looks decidedly
suspicious.”
“It is queer,” the sergeant agreed, “but we’ve no evidence that he has
been in this neighbourhood.”
“Have you made any other inquiries?” I asked.
“We looked up that lady, Miss Cumbers, but we got nothing out of her.
She had had a letter from Mrs. Frood on the 24th--yesterday
week--quite an ordinary letter, giving no hint of any intention to go
away from Rochester. So there you are. The mystery seems to be
concerned entirely with this neighbourhood, and I expect we shall have
to solve it on the spot.”
This last observation impressed me strongly. The sergeant’s view of
the case was the same as Thorndyke’s, and expressed in almost the same
words.
“Have you any theory as to what has actually happened?” I asked.
The sergeant smiled in his benignant fashion. “It isn’t much use
inventing theories,” said he. “We’ve got to get the facts before we
can do anything. Still, looking at the case as we find it, there are
two or three things that hit us in the face. There is a strong
suspicion of murder, there is no trace of the body, and there is a big
tidal river close at hand. On Saturday night it was high water at
half-past eleven, so there wouldn’t have been much of the shore
uncovered at, say, half-past nine, and there would have been plenty of
water at any of the piers or causeways.”
“Then you think it probable that she was murdered and her body flung
into the river?”
“It is the likeliest thing, so far as we can judge. There is the
river, and there is no sign of the body on shore. But, as I say, it is
no use guessing. We’ve got people watching the river from Allington
Lock to Sheerness, and that’s all we can do in that line. The body is
pretty certain to turn up, sooner or later. Of course, until it does,
there is no real criminal case; and even when we’ve got the body, we
may not be much nearer getting the murderer. Excepting the man Frood,
there is no one who seems to have had any motive for making away with
her; and if it was just a casual robbery with murder it is unlikely
that we shall ever spot the man at all.”
Having given expression to this rather pessimistic view, the sergeant
rose, and, picking up his helmet, took his departure, after promising
to let me know of any further developments.
As soon as he was gone, I wrote down the substance of what he had
said, and then embodied it in a report for Thorndyke. While I was thus
occupied, the afternoon post was delivered, and included a packet from
the London photographer, to whom I had written, enclosing two copies
of the photograph of Angelina that Mr. Japp had handed to the
sergeant. Of these, I enclosed one copy in my communication to
Thorndyke, on the bare chance that it might be of some assistance to
him, and, having closed up the large envelope and stamped it, I went
forth to drop it into the post-box.