"Yes," agreed Thorndyke. "But there isn’t much in it, for he certainly did not step out. And a man who falls out by the unexpected opening of the door may fall in almost any position. Have you had any detailed report from the driver of the down train?"
"Yes. I had a talk with him when he brought the train back from New Brompton. But he had very little to tell. He never saw the body at all, and he wouldn’t have known of the accident if it hadn’t been for the chance that the fireman happened to look over the near side of the foot-plate and caught just a passing glimpse of a pair of feet sticking out from under the engine. He shouted out as soon as he saw them, but of course there was nothing to be done. It was a fast train, and it couldn’t have been pulled up in its own length, even if that would have been any good."
"And where did he pass the up train?"
"He was just passing the rear of it when the fireman shouted."
"Did he notice any open door?"
"No. But that is not to say that there was not an open door. He didn’t really see the other train at all. They had just opened the furnace door and the light from that must have dazzled him. It was the light from the furnace reflected from the roof and walls of the tunnel that enabled the fireman to see the body."
"It is unnecessary to ask in what part of the train Badger was travelling," said Thorndyke. "He must have been near the front unless it was a very long train."
"It was rather a long train," said the Sergeant. "The station-master at Strood told us that, though he couldn’t say exactly how many coaches there were. Of course, we can easily find out, and we shall have to. But he was able to tell us where Inspector Badger’s compartment was. It was right up in front, in the second coach—rather an unusual position for a first class compartment."
While this interrogation was proceeding, we had been walking on slowly towards the east end of the tunnel, scrutinizing the ground as we went but without any further result. We now came out into the open in a cutting, and, on the station-master’s advice, continued our examination of the permanent way as far as Swanscombe Halt; but nothing came into view that threw any light on the tragedy. At the halt we waited a few minutes for an up train that was then due, in which we travelled back to Greenhithe; an arrangement that not only saved time and effort, but gave Thorndyke the opportunity of observing, with his head out of the window, the conditions of light prevailing in the tunnel and the visibility of one part of the train from the others.
As we came out on to the platform at Greenhithe, Miller looked wistfully at my colleague.
"Did you think of having a look at the body, Doctor?" he asked, adding: "I should feel more satisfied if you would. A local doctor hasn’t had the experience of criminal cases that you and Dr. Jervis have."
"I don’t suppose that the local doctor would have missed any signs that bore on the cause of death," said Thorndyke. "But still, an additional examination is at least an extra precaution. Perhaps the station-master will direct someone to show us the way."
The station-master elected to show us the way himself, and preceded us down the stairs. Reluctantly, I followed Thorndyke, leaving the others on the platform and, as I descended the stairs, I was, for the first time in my professional life, conscious of a shrinking repugnance to the atmosphere of tragedy and death. After all, a doctor has his human feelings. It is impossible to look on the mutilated corpse of an old acquaintance as the mere "subject" of an investigation. But, as a matter of fact, I took no part in the actual examination. I saw that the body still lay on the tarpaulin-covered stretcher and that part of the clothing had been removed, but I stood aloof by the door, leaving the inspection to Thorndyke; who evidently realized my state of mind, for he made his examination in silence and with no suggestion that I should join him.
One thing, however, I did observe, and with considerable surprise. When he had completed his examination of the body, he opened his research case and took from it the portable finger-print outfit that formed part of its permanent equipment. Taking out the ready-inked copper plate and a couple of cards, he proceeded, in his neat, methodical way, to make a set of ten prints, one of each digit.
"Why are you taking his finger-prints?" I asked. "Does anything hinge on them?"
"Not at present," he replied. "But it is possible that some finger-prints may be found; and, if they may be, it might be very important to be able to say if they were or were not Badger’s. So I am securing the means of comparison while they are available."
Thus stated, the motive for the proceeding seemed reasonable enough; but yet the explanation left me wondering if there was not something more definite in Thorndyke’s mind. And this vague suspicion was strengthened when, as I helped him to repack the research case, I saw him deposit in it, and pack with extreme care, the derelict cigar which be had picked up in the tunnel. But I made no comment, and as the gruesome business was now completed, I took up the research case and led the way out of the store.
"Apparently," he said as we ascended the stairs, "the local practitioner was right. There are no signs of any injuries that might have been inflicted before he fell on the line. But one thing is clear. He was certainly alive when the train ran over him and for at least a few seconds after."
"Then," said I, "it might really have been an accident."
"So far as the appearances and condition of the body are concerned, it might. But if there was another person in the compartment and that person has not reported an accident, the probabilities are overwhelmingly in favour of either a crime or what we may call an incriminating misadventure."
"What do you mean by an incriminating misadventure?" I asked.
"I mean a misadventure which would probably not have been accepted as such. Miller believes that the other passenger was the escaped prisoner, Frederick Smith. Suppose that Miller is right. Suppose that Badger recognized the man and tried to arrest him. That the man resisted and a struggle occurred. I don’t see why it should unless Badger had handcuffs with him and tried to put them on. But suppose a struggle to have occurred, in the course of which the door became unfastened and Badger fell out. That would have been a pure misadventure. But it is not likely that the man would have reported it, for he would realize the improbability of his statement being believed. He would trust rather to the probability of his presence in the carriage being unknown."
"I have no doubt that he would," I agreed, "and wisely, too. For no one would believe his statement. He would be charged with murder and most probably convicted. But you don’t entertain the possibility of a misadventure, do you?"
"As a bare possibility, yes. But it is wildly improbable; and still more so if those documents were really in Badger’s pocket and have really disappeared. That is a crucial point. For, if it is certain that they were removed from the wallet, that is not only evidence of a conflict having taken place, but suggests in the strongest possible way that Badger had been rendered unconscious or helpless. But that suggestion at once raises the question, How was he rendered unconscious or helpless? The state of the body seems to exclude physical violence such as throttling or a knock on the head. Yet it is difficult to think of any other means."
"Very difficult," I agreed, "particularly in the alleged circumstances—the casual and unexpected meeting of two men in a railway carriage; and if one of those men was, as the theft of the documents seems to imply, a man just escaped from prison, the difficulty is still greater Such a man would presumably, be unprovided with anything but his fists, indeed the mystery is how he could have procured his ticket."
"Yes," Thorndyke assented, "that calls for explanation. But we must not mix up hypothesis and fact. Miller assumes that the man was the prisoner, Smith, and it is possible that he was. But we must not let that possibility influence us. We have to approach the inquiry with a perfectly open mind."
As he concluded, we came out on to the platform, where we found our friends awaiting us. In a few words Thorndyke communicated to them the results of his inspection, at which Miller was vis
ibly disappointed.
"It is an extraordinary thing," said he. "Badger was a pretty hefty fellow and a skilled wrestler and boxer. I can’t imagine even a strong man putting him out through the door unless he had disabled him first. And, in any case, you would expect to find some signs of a scrap. Did you propose to make any further examination?"
"It doesn’t seem very necessary," Thorndyke replied. "But perhaps you might like me to be present when the local doctor does the post-mortem. There are other possibilities besides gross physical injury."
"That is what I was thinking," said Miller; "and I should be glad if you could be present at the post mortem. Then I could feel satisfied that nothing had been overlooked. I understand that the inquest is to be held to-morrow afternoon at four o’clock and the post-mortem at two. Can you manage that?"
"I shall have to, if you think it important," was the reply.
As Miller was making grateful acknowledgments, the station-master approached to convey to us the welcome tidings that a fast train to London was due in a few minutes.
"Are you coming back with us, Superintent?" Thorndyke asked.
"I may as well," Miller replied. "The Sergeant will carry on with the case, and I must set some inquiries going at the London end. And, by the way, Cummings, are you returning to Maidstone to-day?"
"Yes, sir," answered the Chief Officer. "I shall take the next train back."
"Then," said Miller, "you had better have those finger-prints of Smith’s photographed and send either the photographs or the original up to Headquarters with the portrait photographs and the personal description. See to it at once, for we may want the information at any moment. In fact we want it now."
"Very well, sir," replied Cummings. "I expect the photographs have been done already, but in any case, I will see that you get them some time to-morrow."
The short remaining interval was occupied by Miller in the delivery of detailed instructions to the Sergeant. Then the train came hissing into the station, and Thorndyke, Miller, and I took our places in a compartment to which we were escorted by our three coadjutors.
VI. THORNDYKE EXAMINES HIS MATERIAL
On the way up to Town little was said on the subject of our investigation and that little was mainly contributed by Miller. Thorndyke, unwilling as he always was to go far beyond the ascertained facts, maintained a tactful reticence tempered by a sympathetic interest in the Superintendent’s comments and suggestions.
"What I can’t understand," said Miller, "is how that fellow managed to get Badger out of the door. It wouldn’t be easy in the case of an ordinary man, but in the case of a man like Badger—a trained police officer and a pretty hefty one at that—it seems incredible."
"It would seem," I suggested, with little conviction, "that he must have been taken unawares."
"But how could he?" retorted Miller. "He knew that he was shut in with an escaped prisoner and that the other man probably knew that he knew it. You can take it that Badger would have watched him like a cat with a mouse. And the other fellow would have had to get the door open. That’s rather a noticeable proceeding. No; when you think of the circumstances, it seems impossible that Badger could have been caught off his guard, and in a tunnel, too, of all places. What do you say, Doctor?"
"I agree with you," replied Thorndyke, "that it seems impossible that Badger could have been put out by mere physical violence."
"Are you quite sure that there were no signs of any injury? No bullet wound or marks of a life-preserver or sand-bag, or anything of that sort?"
"I think I can say positively," Thorndyke answered, "that there was no bullet wound and no bruises on the head, though I shall examine the body more minutely to-morrow when I attend at the post-mortem. As to a sand-bag, that would probably leave no external marks. But it is an infinitely unlikely weapon to be used in a railway carriage, even in a tunnel. The carriage was presumably lighted like this one; and although that lamp gives a mere glimmer, hardly visible in daylight, the carriage would not be dark enough to make the use of a sand-bag practicable."
"No," Miller agreed, "it wouldn’t. I was just feeling around for some sort of explanation. What about chloroform? Have you considered that?"
"Yes," replied Thorndyke, "and I think we can exclude it. At any rate I could discover no trace of it. But, as a matter of fact, it is really not practicable to administer chloroform forcibly to a strong man. The whiff from a handkerchief, producing instant unconsciousness, appertains to fiction. In practice the forcible use of chloroform involves a rather prolonged struggle, and results in very characteristic marks on the skin around the mouth and nose. There were no such marks in this case, nor any other signs what ever."
"Then," Miller rejoined disconsolately, "I’m done. There must be some sort of explanation, but I’m hanged if I can think of one. Does anything occur to either of you gentlemen?"
For my part, I was as much in the dark as the Superintendent and had to admit it; and Thorndyke, as I expected, refused to commit himself to any speculative opinions.
"There isn’t much use in theorizing at this stage," said he. "We want more facts, and we want confirmation of the assumptions that we have been treating as facts. For instance, the identity of the man who was seen to get into the carriage at Strood."
"M’yes" Miller agreed reluctantly. "I don’t think there’s much doubt, but, as you say, a little direct proof would be more satisfactory. Probably we shall get some more details in the course of a day or two. Meanwhile, I’m afraid I’ve taken up a lot of your time to very little purpose. We don’t know much more than we did when we started."
"Apparently we do not," Thorndyke admitted. "But I don’t regret the expedition. It was desirable for our own satisfaction to go over the ground at once and make sure that we had not missed anything."
"I’m glad you take that view, Doctor," said Miller, "but, all the same, you’ve got mighty little for your pains; nothing, in fact, excepting what you have gleaned from your examination of the body, and that doesn’t seem to help us much."
"It doesn’t," Thorndyke agreed. "But we must not forget that negative evidence has its value. The exclusion of one possibility after another leaves us eventually with the one that has to be accepted."
Miller received this rather academic observation without enthusiasm, remarking, truly enough, that the early stages of that sort of investigation were apt to be a little discouraging. "Possibly," he added, "something new may come out at the inquest, though it isn’t likely. And it is just possible that, when we get those finger-prints from Maidstone, we may find that we are dealing with a known criminal. But even that would not prove the fact of the murder."
"As to that," said I, "if it can be proved, as apparently it can, that this man was alone with Badger in the compartment when the disaster occurred, that will create a pretty strong presumption of murder."
"No doubt," agreed Miller. "But presumption is a different thing from proof. If he should give a plausible account of an accident—such as leaning out of the window of an unfastened door—we shouldn’t believe him, but we couldn’t disprove his statement, and you might find it hard to get a jury to convict. If there is any doubt, the accused is entitled to the benefit of it. What we want is something in the way of positive evidence; and all that we have got is that certain documents have apparently been taken from the person of the deceased."
"I should call that pretty weighty positive evidence," said I, "especially as the documents included the suspect’s finger-prints and description. What do you think, Thorndyke?"
"I think," he replied, "that we shall be in a better position to form opinions after the inquest, when we shall know what facts are really available. And, speaking of the inquest, Miller, what is to be done with regard to notes of the evidence? Are you employing a shorthand reporter, or shall I bring or send my own man?"
"I don’t see that either is necessary," replied Miller. "We can get a copy of the depositions if we want one."
"That may meet
your requirements," said Thorndyke, "but it may not suit me so well. I think I will send a reporter of my own, and you can have a copy of the notes if you have any use for them."
The Superintendent accepted this offer with suitable acknowledgments, and the subject dropped for the time. As the train moved out of London Bridge Station, however, I ventured to raise another subject of more immediate interest, at least to me.
"What are we going to do in the matter of food, Thorndyke?" I asked. "Does Polton know when to expect us?"
"Obviously not," was the reply, "as we did not know ourselves. I told him that we should get some food on the way, and I suggest that the Coffee Room at the Charing Cross Hotel will be the best place to stoke up. Perhaps the Superintendent will join us."
"Very good of you, Doctor," said Miller, "but I think I must get on to my office to finish up one or two odds and ends. Possibly we shall travel down together to-morrow, but, if not, we shall meet at the inquest. By that time I shall probably have seen those finger-prints from Maidstone."
Accordingly, we separated at Charing Cross, Miller striding away towards the entrance while Thorndyke and I made our way to the Hotel Coffee Room, where, with one accord, we demanded whatever might be ready at the moment. The long fast that our various activities had entailed had disposed us both to find a better use for our jaws than conversation. But as the entrée dish emptied and the level in the claret bottle sank, my interest in our quest revived and I began cautiously to put out feelers. It had been evident to me that Thorndyke was not prepared to accept Miller’s interpretation of the facts, and the question that I asked myself—and by implication put to him—was, Had he any alternative theory? But my feelers felt nothing but a steady, passive resistance to discussion, which, however, was not entirely unilluminating; for long experience of Thorndyke had taught me that when he was more than usually uncommunicative, he had something up his sleeve.
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