Blood on the Tracks

by Martin Edwards

  It was over. For good or for evil, the thing was done. Silas stood up, breathing heavily, and, as he wiped the sweat from his face, he looked at the clock. The hands stood at one minute to seven. The whole thing had taken a little over three minutes. He had nearly an hour in which to finish his task. The goods train that entered into his scheme came by at twenty minutes past, and it was only three hundred yards to the line. Still, he must not waste time. He was now quite composed, and only disturbed by the thought that Brodski’s cries might have been heard. If no one had heard them it was all plain sailing.

  He stooped, and, gently disengaging the table-cloth from the dead man’s teeth, began a careful search of his pockets. He was not long finding what he sought, and, as he pinched the paper packet and felt the little hard bodies grating on one another inside, his faint regrets for what had happened were swallowed up in self-congratulations.

  He now set about his task with business-like briskness and an attentive eye on the clock. A few large drops of blood had fallen on the table-cloth, and there was a small bloody smear on the carpet by the dead man’s head. Silas fetched from the kitchen some water, a nailbrush and a dry cloth, and, having washed out the stains from the table-cover—not forgetting the deal table-top underneath—and cleaned away the smear from the carpet and rubbed the damp places dry, he slipped a sheet of paper under the head of the corpse to prevent further contamination. Then he set the table-cloth straight, stood the chair upright, laid the broken spectacles on the table and picked up the cigarette, which had been trodden flat in the struggle, and flung it under the grate. Then there was the broken glass, which he swept up into a dust-pan. Part of it was the remains of the shattered tumbler, and the rest the fragments of the broken spectacles. He turned it out on to a sheet of paper and looked it over carefully, picking out the larger recognisable pieces of the spectacle-glasses and putting them aside on a separate slip of paper, together with a sprinkling of the minute fragments. The remainder he shot back into the dust-pan and, having hurriedly put on his boots, carried it out to the rubbish-heap at the back of the house.

  It was now time to start. Hastily cutting off a length of string from his string-box—for Silas was an orderly man and despised the oddments of string with which many people make shift—he tied it to the dead man’s bag and umbrella and slung them from his shoulder. Then he folded up the paper of broken glass, and, slipping it and the spectacles into his pocket, picked up the body and threw it over his shoulder. Brodski was a small, spare man, weighing not more than nine stone; not a very formidable burden for a big, athletic man like Silas.

  The night was intensely dark, and, when Silas looked out of the back gate over the waste land that stretched from his house to the railway, he could hardly see twenty yards ahead. After listening cautiously and hearing no sound, he went out, shut the gate swiftly behind him and set forth at a good pace, though carefully, over the broken ground. His progress was not as silent as he could have wished, for, though the scanty turf that covered the gravelly land was thick enough to deaden his footfalls, the swinging bag and umbrella made an irritating noise; indeed, his movements were more hampered by them than by the weightier burden.

  The distance to the line was about three hundred yards. Ordinarily he would have walked it in from three to four minutes, but now, going cautiously with his burden and stopping now and again to listen, it took him just six minutes to reach the three-bar fence that separated the waste land from the railway. Arrived here he halted for a moment and once more listened attentively, peering into the darkness on all sides. Not a living creature was to be seen or heard in this desolate spot, but far away, the shriek of an engine’s whistle warned him to hasten.

  Lifting the corpse easily over the fence, he carried it a few yards farther to a point where the line curved sharply. Here he laid it face downwards, with the neck over the near rail. Drawing out his pocket-knife, he cut through the knot that fastened the umbrella to the string and also secured the bag; and when he had flung the bag and umbrella on the track beside the body, he carefully pocketed the string, excepting the little loop that had fallen to the ground when the knot was cut.

  The quick snort and clanking rumble of an approaching goods train began now to be clearly audible. Rapidly, Silas drew from his pockets the battered spectacles and the packet of broken glass. The former he threw down by the dead man’s head, and then, emptying the packet into his hand, sprinkled the fragments of glass around the spectacles.

  He was none too soon. Already the quick, laboured puffing of the engine sounded close at hand. His impulse was to stay and watch; to witness the final catastrophe that should convert the murder into an accident or suicide. But it was hardly safe: it would be better that he should not be near lest he should not be able to get away without being seen. Hastily he climbed back over the fence and strode away across the rough fields, while the train came snorting and clattering towards the curve.

  He had nearly reached his back gate when a sound from the line brought him to a sudden halt; it was a prolonged whistle accompanied by the groan of brakes and the loud clank of colliding trucks. The snorting of the engine had ceased and was replaced by the penetrating hiss of escaping steam.

  The train had stopped!

  For one brief moment Silas stood with bated breath and mouth agape like one petrified; then he strode forward quickly to the gate, and, letting himself in, silently slid the bolt. He was undeniably alarmed. What could have happened on the line? It was practically certain that the body had been seen; but what was happening now? And would they come to the house? He entered the kitchen, and having paused again to listen—for somebody might come and knock at the door at any moment—he walked through the sitting-room and looked round. All seemed in order there. There was the bar, though, lying where he had dropped it in the scuffle. He picked it up and held it under the lamp. There was no blood on it; only one or two hairs. Somewhat absently he wiped it with the table-cover, and then, running out through the kitchen into the back garden, dropped it over the wall into a bed of nettles. Not that there was anything incriminating in the bar, but, since he had used it as a weapon, it had somehow acquired a sinister aspect to his eye.

  He now felt that it would be well to start for the station at once. It was not time yet, for it was barely twenty-five minutes past seven; but he did not wish to be found in the house if anyone should come. His soft hat was on the sofa with his bag, to which his umbrella was strapped. He put on the hat, caught up the bag and stepped over to the door; then he came back to turn down the lamp. And it was at this moment, when he stood with his hand raised to the burner, that his eye, travelling by chance into the dim corner of the room, lighted on Brodski’s grey felt hat, reposing on the chair where the dead man had placed it when he entered the house.

  Silas stood for a few moments as if petrified, with the chilly sweat of mortal fear standing in beads upon his forehead. Another instant and he would have turned the lamp down and gone on his way; and then—He strode over to the chair, snatched up the hat and looked inside it. Yes, there was the name, ‘Oscar Brodski,’ written plainly on the lining. If he had gone away, leaving it to be discovered, he would have been lost; indeed, even now, if a search-party should come to the house, it was enough to send him to the gallows.

  His limbs shook with horror at the thought, but in spite of his panic he did not lose his self-possession. Darting through into the kitchen, he grabbed up a handful of the dry brush-wood that was kept for lighting fires and carried it to the sitting-room grate where he thrust it on the extinct, but still hot, embers, and crumpling up the paper that he had placed under Brodski’s head—on which paper he now noticed, for the first time, a minute bloody smear—he poked it in under the wood, and, striking a wax match, set light to it. As the wood flared up, he hacked at the hat with his pocket knife and threw the ragged strips into the blaze.

  And all the while his heart was thumping and his hands a-tremble with
the dread of discovery. The fragments of felt were far from inflammable, tending rather to fuse into cindery masses that smoked and smouldered, than to burn away into actual ash. Moreover, to his dismay, they emitted a powerful resinous stench mixed with the odour of burning hair, so that he had to open the kitchen window (since he dared not unlock the front door) to disperse the reek. And still, as he fed the fire with small cut fragments, he strained his ears to catch, above the crackling of the wood, the sound of the dreaded footsteps, the knock on the door that should be as the summons of fate.

  The time, too, was speeding on. Twenty-one minutes to eight! In a few minutes more he must set out or he would miss the train. He dropped the dismembered hat-brim on the blazing wood and ran upstairs to open a window, since he must close that in the kitchen before he left. When he came back, the brim had already curled up into a black, clinkery mass that bubbled and hissed as the fat, pungent smoke rose from it sluggishly to the chimney.

  Nineteen minutes to eight! It was time to start. He took up the poker and carefully beat the cinders into small particles, stirring them into the glowing embers of the wood and coal. There was nothing unusual in the appearance of the grate. It was his constant custom to burn letters and other discarded articles in the sitting-room fire: his housekeeper would notice nothing out of the common. Indeed, the cinders would probably be reduced to ashes before she returned. He had been careful to notice that there were no metallic fittings of any kind in the hat, which might have escaped burning.

  Once more he picked up his bag, took a last look round, turned down the lamp and, unlocking the door, held it open for a few moments. Then he went out, locked the door, pocketed the key (of which his housekeeper had a duplicate) and set off at a brisk pace for the station.

  He arrived in good time after all and, having taken his ticket, strolled through on to the platform. The train was not yet signalled, but there seemed to be an unusual stir in the place. The passengers were collected in a group at one end of the platform, and were all looking in one direction down the line; and, even as he walked towards them, with a certain tremulous, nauseating curiosity, two men emerged from the darkness and ascended the slope to the platform, carrying a stretcher covered with a tarpaulin. The passengers parted to let the bearers pass, turning fascinated eyes upon the shape that showed faintly through the rough pall; and, when the stretcher had been borne into the lamp-room, they fixed their attention upon a porter who followed carrying a hand-bag and an umbrella.

  Suddenly one of the passengers started forward with an exclamation.

  ‘Is that his umbrella?’ he demanded.

  ‘Yes, sir,’ answered the porter, stopping and holding it out for the speaker’s inspection.

  ‘My God!’ ejaculated the passenger; then, turning sharply to a tall man who stood close by, he said excitedly: ‘That’s Brodski’s umbrella. I could swear to it. You remember Brodski?’ The tall man nodded, and the passenger, turning once more to the porter, said: ‘I identify that umbrella. It belongs to a gentleman named Brodski. If you look in his hat you will see his name written in it. He always writes his name in his hat.’

  ‘We haven’t found his hat yet,’ said the porter; ‘but here is the station-master coming up the line.’ He awaited the arrival of his superior and then announced: ‘This gentleman, sir, has identified the umbrella.’

  ‘Oh,’ said the station-master, ‘you recognise the umbrella, sir, do you? Then perhaps you would step into the lamp-room and see if you can identify the body.’

  The passenger recoiled with a look of alarm.

  ‘Is it—is he—very much injured?’ he asked tremulously.

  ‘Well, yes,’ was the reply. ‘You see, the engine and six of the trucks went over him before they could stop the train. Took his head clean off, in fact.’

  ‘Shocking! Shocking!’ gasped the passenger. ‘I think if you don’t mind—I’d—I’d rather not. You don’t think it’s necessary, doctor, do you?’

  ‘Yes, I do,’ replied the tall man. ‘Early identification may be of the first importance.’

  ‘Then I suppose I must,’ said the passenger.

  Very reluctantly he allowed himself to be conducted by the station-master to the lamp-room, as the clang of the bell announced the approaching train. Silas Hickler followed and took his stand with the expectant crowd outside the closed door. In a few moments the passenger burst out, pale and awe-stricken, and rushed up to his tall friend. ‘It is!’ he exclaimed breathlessly. ‘It’s Brodski! Poor old Brodski! Horrible! Horrible! He was to have met me here and come on with me to Amsterdam.’

  ‘Had he any—merchandise about him?’ the tall man asked; and Silas strained his ears to catch the reply.

  ‘He had some stones, no doubt, but I don’t know what. His clerk will know, of course. By the way, doctor, could you watch the case for me? Just to be sure it was really an accident or—you know what. We were old friends, you know, fellow townsmen, too; we were both born in Warsaw. I’d like you to give an eye to the case.’

  ‘Very well,’ said the other. ‘I will satisfy myself that—there is nothing more than appears and let you have a report. Will that do?’

  ‘Thank you. It’s excessively good of you, doctor. Ah! Here comes the train. I hope it won’t inconvenience you to stay and see to this matter.’

  ‘Not in the least,’ replied the doctor. ‘We are not due at Warmington until tomorrow afternoon, and I expect we can find out all that is necessary to know and still keep our appointment.’

  Silas looked long and curiously at the tall, imposing man who was, as it were, taking his seat at the chess-board, to play against him for his life. A formidable antagonist he looked, with his keen, thoughtful face, so resolute and calm. As Silas stepped into his carriage he looked back at his opponent, and thinking with deep discomfort of Brodski’s hat, he hoped that he had made no other oversight.

  II. The Mechanism of Detection

  (Related by Christopher Jervis, MD)

  The singular circumstances that attended the death of Mr Oscar Brodski, the well-known diamond merchant of Hatton Garden, illustrated very forcibly the importance of one or two points in medico-legal practice which Thorndyke was accustomed to insist were not sufficiently appreciated. What those points were, I shall leave my friend and teacher to state at the proper place; and meanwhile, as the case is in the highest degree instructive, I shall record the incidents in the order of their occurrence.

  The dusk of an October evening was closing in as Thorndyke and I, the sole occupants of a smoking compartment, found ourselves approaching the little station of Ludham; and, as the train slowed down, we peered out at the knot of country people who were waiting on the platform. Suddenly Thorndyke exclaimed in a tone of surprise: ‘Why, that is surely Boscovitch!’ And almost at the same moment a brisk, excitable little man darted at the door of our compartment and literally tumbled in.

  ‘I hope I don’t intrude on this learned conclave,’ he said, shaking hands genially and banging his Gladstone with impulsive violence into the rack; ‘but I saw your faces at the window, and naturally jumped at the chance of such pleasant companionship.’

  ‘You are very flattering,’ said Thorndyke; ‘so flattering that you leave us nothing to say. But what in the name of fortune are you doing at—what’s the name of the place?—Ludham?’

  ‘My brother has a little place a mile or so from here, and I have been spending a couple of days with him,’ Mr Boscovitch explained. ‘I shall change at Badsham Junction and catch the boat train for Amsterdam. But whither are you two bound? I see you have your mysterious little green box up on the hat-rack, so I infer that you are on some romantic quest, eh? Going to unravel some dark and intricate crime?’

  ‘No,’ replied Thorndyke. ‘We are bound for Warmington on a quite prosaic errand. I am instructed to watch the proceedings at an inquest there tomorrow on behalf of the Griffin Life Insurance Office, an
d we are travelling down tonight as it is rather a cross-country journey.’

  ‘But why the box of magic?’ asked Boscovitch, glancing up at the hat-rack.

  ‘I never go away from home without it,’ answered Thorndyke. ‘One never knows what may turn up; the trouble of carrying it is small when set off against the comfort of having one’s appliances at hand in case of an emergency.’

  Boscovitch continued to stare up at the little square case covered with Willesden canvas. Presently he remarked: ‘I often used to wonder what you had in it when you were down at Chelmsford in connection with that bank murder—what an amazing case that was, by the way, and didn’t your methods of research astonish the police!’ As he still looked up wistfully at the case, Thorndyke good-naturedly lifted it down and unlocked it. As a matter of fact he was rather proud of his ‘portable laboratory,’ and certainly it was a triumph of condensation, for, small as it was—only a foot square by four inches deep—it contained a fairly complete outfit for a preliminary investigation.

  ‘Wonderful!’ exclaimed Boscovitch, when the case lay open before him, displaying its rows of little reagent bottles, tiny test-tubes, diminutive spirit-lamp, dwarf microscope and assorted instruments on the same Lilliputian scale; ‘it’s like a doll’s house—everything looks as if it was seen through the wrong end of a telescope. But are these tiny things really efficient? That microscope now—’

  ‘Perfectly efficient at low and moderate magnifications,’ said Thorndyke. ‘It looks like a toy, but it isn’t one; the lenses are the best that can be had. Of course, a full-sized instrument would be infinitely more convenient—but I shouldn’t have it with me, and should have to make shift with a pocket-lens. And so with the rest of the under-sized appliances, they are the alternative to no appliances.’