by John Rhode
‘But surely, Daddy dear, that seems hardly likely,’ said April. ‘You said yourself that it was very well written and well reasoned, you know you did at the time. I can hardly believe that the nephew of old Samuels, a second-hand dealer in the slums, would be capable of writing such a thing.’
‘Ah!’ replied the Professor gravely. ‘That leads us to a closer examination of the true identity of Isidore Samuels. You will remember that, according to the evidence we have obtained, Isidore was absent from his uncle’s shop all day, and only appeared there at intervals, usually in the evenings. Now, we do not know the exact nature of Mr Samuels’ true business, for which I fancy the second-hand furniture trade was little more than a mask. But, whatever it was, it did not involve any considerable number of customers visiting his shop. The fact that the latter was closed all day for some time, on the plea of Mr Samuels’ illness, does not appear to have occasioned any surprise or inconvenience in the neighbourhood.
‘Again, the shop had a back entrance in Balaclava Street, a point that we must bear in mind. I think that it is highly probable that Isidore Samuels made use of this back entrance for his comings and goings to his uncle’s shop, and that, although it was generally assumed that he spent the night there, he only visited it for a short time in the evening, probably to avert any suspicion which might be caused by its remaining continually locked up. If this were the case, Isidore Samuels had the remainder of the twenty-four hours at his disposal, in which to assume an altogether different rôle from that of the nephew of Mr Samuels.
‘As to what that rôle may have been, we can only speculate. But the theory throws a new light upon his actions on the evening of the fire. He was anxious, now that his uncle’s body had been safely disposed of, and he had had time to reap whatever advantage he could expect from his death, to destroy completely all traces of the past. From that moment he could assume for good the second rôle which he had been intermittently playing already, and cut himself entirely free from all association with Samuels and Inkerman Street. No doubt it is in this rôle that he exists now, and, should we desire to trace the author of the whole of the mystery, we should be compelled to search for an individual as unlike Isidore Samuels as our imagination would allow. Remember, he changed the appearance of his uncle’s body in such a way that it seemed at first sight absurd that it should be that of Mr Samuels. We may be sure that he is more than capable of changing his own appearance, a very much easier task, so that very few even of those with whom he was intimate would recognise him.’
‘Then it seems pretty hopeless,’ suggested April. ‘After all, why should we worry? Harold is cleared, and that is the only thing that matters.’
‘My dear, although Harold may be cleared in our own eyes, we can scarcely expect others to concur in our opinion, un-less we can produce facts,’ replied the Professor. ‘Although, I confess, were I confronted with the man, I should be content with hearing his own account of the matter. My interest in the case is more logical than judicial, I fear.’
He paused for a moment as though collecting his thoughts, and then proceeded:
‘Now, what have we to guide us toward the present identity of this Isidore Samuels? Not much, I fear. We have seen him to be a man of considerable resource, as revealed by the ingenuity he displayed at every turn, and of considerable education, as revealed by the article in The Weekly Record, if we allow that he was the author. But, apart from this, and to my mind of far greater importance, is the fact that he was acquainted with certain incidents in Harold’s life, and had, I believe, an interest in blackening his character, over and above the interest of diverting attention from his own participation in the matter. The author of the article in The Weekly Record knew every detail of the crime as it appeared to have been committed, and, in addition, he knew certain facts of Harold’s life. He contrived to weave the two into a web of falsehood extremely difficult to disentangle. I refuse to believe that this could have been done by anybody to whom Harold was personally unacquainted.
‘Now, I have evidence that, although Harold was unaware of the existence of Isidore Samuels, Isidore was aware of Harold’s. Into that evidence I do not propose to enter; it is immaterial at the moment. It was not in his capacity as Isidore Samuels that the unknown was interested in Harold, but in his second, unknown capacity. For some reason, which can only be guessed at, it was in his interest to blacken Harold’s character, to exhibit him in exactly the same light as the author of the article endeavoured to do.’
‘But what a rotten shame, Daddy!’ burst out April. ‘What was his object? The man must be a howling cad, whoever he is.’
‘I agree with you entirely, my dear,’ replied the Professor. ‘A howling cad, perhaps, even something worse. Old Samuels may have died a natural death, but, if so, it was remarkably well-timed from his nephew’s point of view. Remember, he had already telephoned for George, the carter, to come and remove his body. And further, if he were ever to be traced, question would be sure to arise concerning the cash-box which Mr Samuels is alleged to have kept in his house. Did that perish in the fire? Knowing Isidore’s resource, as we have reason to know it, I very much doubt it. No, were he to fall into the hands of the police, I am afraid that he would find it very difficult to extricate himself.
‘But to return to the question of the identification of this man in his present guise. I have put before you the general characteristics by which he may be narrowed down to a comparatively small circle, that of Harold’s acquaintances. But I have been informed that there is a further distinguishing mark, a most unusual one, by which this individual might be distinguished from his fellow men.’
The Professor leant back in his chair and fixed his gaze upon the lamp standing on his desk. The tension in the room was very near breaking point. Since the entry of the unknown woman neither Harold nor Denbigh had spoken; each had sat motionless, listening in silence to the Professor’s inexorable logic, hypnotised by his development of the drama. For a moment the stillness was profound, and then April, with a restless movement of impatience, broke the spell.
‘What is this distinguishing mark, Daddy?’ she enquired.
‘Isidore Samuels had a birthmark in the form of a cross upon his left shoulder,’ replied the Professor, slowly and distinctly.
‘A birthmark in the form of a cross!’ repeated April. ‘Why, what an extraordinary thing! When I was bandaging Evan’s arm just now …’
But her sentence was never finished. With a sudden movement Professor Priestley tilted the shade of his lamp, until its rays shone full upon the face of Evan Denbigh, white, staring, huddled in the corner of the sofa. All leapt to their feet, knowing somehow that the crisis was imminent, searching for the direction from which it must fall. Then suddenly, as if her immobility had given place to the speed of a tempest, the unknown woman leapt across the room, and stood for an instant staring into Denbigh’s eyes.
‘Isidore!’ she exclaimed. ‘So I’ve found you at last, have I?’
CHAPTER XV
HAROLD, who was nearest the door, sprang for the switches, and plunged the study into a flood of light, as though in this way he could dispel the darkness of utter amazement which possessed him. Vere—Isidore Samuels—Evan Denbigh—three personalities resolved into two—the problem was at first too much for him. And yet, as he stared, fascinated, the white drawn face of Denbigh began to suggest the vaguely remembered outline of the half-daft Isidore, of that hurrying form which had brushed past him to disappear into the gloomy entrance off Balaclava Street. Was it a true resemblance, or was his fancy, exerted by the extraordinary theories of the Professor, playing tricks with him?
April, very white and still, sat with her hands clenched, gazing, not at the man she had known, and this strange woman who confronted him, but into the glowing heart of the fire, as though she could watch there in procession a thousand incidents of her acquaintanceship with Denbigh. A sort of numb horror filled her, an uneasy feeling that the well-ordered safe old world of whic
h she had been a gay ornament, had somehow been arrested suddenly in its course, shooting her far out into a chilly and unknown void, where, as yet, there was nothing for her to cling to. Was it possible she had made a fool of herself?
So that it was left to Denbigh to break the silence, to answer Vere’s question, which still seemed to ring shrilly through the room. And his answer was a laugh, low and mirthless, which caused April to shudder and Harold to gasp audibly, so vividly did it recall the queer scene in the dark recess of Mr Samuels’ shop.
‘You’ve won, Professor,’ he said. ‘It serves me right. I never took your brain into consideration. I confess I should like to know what you mean to do about it?’
‘That depends very largely upon your own actions,’ replied the Professor gravely. ‘You will admit that as I unfolded my theory I gave you every chance to confess without the indignity of this exposure. I think it rests with those you have deluded to decide upon the next step.’
Denbigh looked slowly round the room. Harold stood by the door, staring at him as though he were a visitor from another world. Vere, with unfathomable eyes, leant upon the desk, breathing heavily, glancing alternately at him and at the bowed figure of April. The Professor, the tips of his fingers together, had swung round in his chair and sat as a judge awaiting the verdict of a jury.
Slowly, as he struggled to regain his composure, Denbigh’s eyes lost their hunted expression, and became hard and bright. There was just a chance, a fighting chance, left. His ambitious scheme had failed, the rôle of Evan Denbigh, the brilliant young scientist, the favoured suitor of April, was no longer possible. But, if he could extricate himself, he could shed the worn disguise, and create some other form in which to enjoy the tangible advantages he had gained. Clearly, with a keen insight into the psychology of these people who unmasked him, he saw the way.
‘Your theories withstand the test of fact, Professor,’ he said quietly. ‘You have reconstructed my actions to the last detail. I am Isidore Samuels, and the body found by Merefield in his rooms was my uncle’s. I am responsible for his death, but I believe that morally I should be esteemed as a public benefactor for ridding the world of one of the meanest and most treacherous rascals that ever encumbered it.
‘I need not tell you the full story of the man’s treachery. I have no doubt that if you ask Mr Boost he can tell you pretty well as much as I know, and perhaps more. Among his other occupations he was a moneylender on a small scale, lending at exorbitant interest to the struggling poor, and once in his clutches there was no escape. One way and another he was responsible for more misery than it seems possible any one man could produce.
‘However, as far as I am concerned, all that is only of casual interest. I hated him on far more personal grounds. He drove my mother to prostitution, and then, before I was born, did his best to starve her, and ultimately succeeded. He flung me out of his house when I was a few days old, hoping that I should vanish from his sight for good. For many years I did vanish; starved, ill-treated, my life made a burden to me. But I managed to survive, and when I learnt the story, purely by chance, I determined to have my revenge.
‘How I managed to educate myself and become the Evan Denbigh that you knew, hardly matters. I know what it cost me, but I could hardly make you understand that. My uncle never knew anything of that side of my existence. To him I was an idiot nephew who managed to pick up a living somehow, and could be made occasional use of in the shop. Vere, who … who has known me for some time, can confirm this if she cares to.’
Vere, thus appealed to, nodded her head. ‘Yes, that’s right,’ she said dully. ‘You managed to beg your way along, somehow.’
‘I had to beg my way,’ replied Isidore quietly. ‘I never knew who my father was, but I had blood in my veins which revolted at the name of Samuels, my mother’s, and all it implied. Even when I was a child, without a crust to gnaw in the evening, I felt that I could do something if only I had the money. So I begged and starved and spent every penny on being taught. The only thing that kept me going was the realisation that science, which seemed so hard to acquire to young men with every advantage which I lacked, came to me almost without effort.
‘However, I need not bore you with all that. As you know, I eventually gained for myself a position as Sir Alured Faversham’s assistant. And there, suddenly, some six months ago, the idea came to me.
‘You must know that Sir Alured’s chief occupation is the synthetic production of drugs designed to cure various illnesses. It is his life’s work, and he has, as you know, been extremely successful. Latterly he has been engaged upon the isolation of a compound which should have a beneficial effect upon asthmatic and bronchial symptoms. It was while I was assisting him with this, that I began to see my way clear before me.
‘As you know, Professor, the difficulty with a new and unknown preparation does not end with its adaption to the cure of certain symptoms. It often happens that the drug which will cure the diseases of one organ cannot be made use of, because it produces an ill-effect upon some other organ. From our knowledge of the substances with which we were working, it appeared to us that one of the drugs we succeeded in isolating, which has a very long name, but which we will call the new drug, though it would have a very beneficial effect upon asthmatic cases, would be exceedingly dangerous to employ in adequate doses, since it belonged to that class of compounds which have an ill-effect upon the heart. Whether it would be possible to employ it could only be decided in one way, by experiment. And I decided to make that experiment.
‘Isaac Samuels, as I knew from my own observation, suffered from what is properly known as a weak heart. He might have lived for years, or he might have died at very short notice. He also suffered from a form of chronic asthma, the very type of complaint which the new drug was designed to cure. Here was an ideal subject for my experiment. If he died, he had no relatives but myself, and his death would be a positive benefit to the community. If he lived and was cured of his asthma, the safety of the new drug would have been vindicated, and I should have shared in the advantage of its discovery.’
The Professor, who had been listening intently, exclaimed with annoyance, ‘I recollect that Faversham told me some time ago that he was on the track of a new drug to alleviate asthma,’ he said. ‘A fact which I had overlooked and failed to place in its correct sequence! But I shall be glad to hear how you conducted your experiment.’
‘My first care was to provide for the event of its failure,’ replied Isidore in a level voice. ‘Of course, Sir Alured knew nothing of my intentions. If my uncle died, I should be compelled to dispose of his body and to account for his disappearance. There was no risk of the cause of death being revealed by post-mortem. The new drug undergoes chemical changes in the human body and all traces of it vanish within a few hours. Although we had not yet made experiments on human beings, I knew this from our experiments on animals, and from the analogy of similar drugs, already in everyday use. My principal difficulty, therefore, was to dispose of the body, and to deposit it in such a place that no connection could be traced between it and Isidore Samuels or Evan Denbigh.
‘I spent a long time considering this problem, and found the solution by accident. I was in the habit of visiting Vere in her rooms, to beg for money, as she has told you, for the method of life which I had adopted required more support than was afforded by the salary I received. One day I noticed that she had lying on her table a pair of Yale keys, which I knew were not those of her rooms, since their lock was of an entirely different pattern. I contrived to pocket them without her notice, and thus gain access to some place, I did not know where, perhaps the office she worked in, which could be used as my depository, if necessary. My plan was already half-formed, and I was only seeking some utterly unlikely spot for my purposes.
‘I discovered a little later that Vere was intimate with Merefield, and it immediately occurred to me that these might be the keys of his rooms. I had already cultivated Merefield’s acquaintance, in my Denbig
h capacity, as I had an idea that access to Mr Boost, whom I knew to be acquainted with my uncle, might some day be useful. I called on Merefield one evening, with the intention of securing an opportunity of trying my keys in his locks. Here I met with a stroke of luck. Merefield was dressing in his bedroom, and his keys were lying on the table of his sitting-room. I compared his with mine and found them identical. At the same time I took a good look round the rooms to get my bearings.’
‘Yes, Harold told me of that visit,’ said the Professor. ‘I think I see the whole matter clearly now. The traces of hyperdermic injections on the body, for which I could find no explanation, are accounted for.’
‘You have deduced my actions exactly,’ continued Isidore. ‘I began by giving my uncle minute injections of the new drug, in order to observe its effects. A whiff of anæsthetic while he was asleep served my purpose and prevented him from having any knowledge of it. The effect even of those doses was magical, his asthma practically left him, but I could see that his heart was adversely affected. It was still doubtful whether he could stand a large enough dose to effect permanent relief. I determined to make the final experiment on an afternoon when Sir Alured did not expect me at the laboratory. My arrangements were soon made; I ensured that Harold should be absent from his rooms that evening, and I telephoned George, the carter, to call at Inkerman Street. If my uncle survived, I had a bale, containing a clock and some statuettes, ready for him.
