The Second R. Austin Freeman Megapack

by R. Austin Freeman

  “This,” said the inspector, gazing down at the foot and hand-prints, “bears out what we saw from the inside. He wasn’t any too active, this chappie. Probably fat—a big, heavy, awkward man. Had to pull the garden seat up to the fence to enable him to get over, though it was an easy fence to climb with those big cross-rails; and here, you see, he comes down all of a heap on his hands and knees. However, that doesn’t help us a great deal. He isn’t the only fat man in the world. We had better go indoors now and have a look at the room and see if we can find out what has been taken.”

  We turned to retrace our steps towards the gate, pausing on our way to lift the mats and inspect the footprints of the smaller man; and as we went Drayton asked if anything of interest had been discovered.

  “No,” replied Badger. “They got in without any difficulty by forcing back the catch of the window—unless the window was open already. It isn’t quite clear whether they both got in. The big man walked part of the way round the house and along the fence in both directions, and he pulled a garden seat up to the fence to help himself up. The small man came out of the window last, if they were both inside, and I expect it was he who dropped this—must have had it in his hand when he climbed out”—and here the inspector produced from his pocket a ring, set with a single round stone, which he handed to Sir Lawrence.

  “Ah,” said the latter, “a posy-ring, one of the cat’s eye series. There were several of these and a set of moonstone rings in the same drawer.”

  “You know the collection pretty well, then. Sir Lawrence?”

  “Fairly well. I often used to look over the things with my poor brother. But, of course, I can’t remember all the specimens, though I think I can show you the drawer that this came from.”

  By this time we had entered the house and were making our way to the museum. On entering the room, Drayton walked straight to the cabinet which I remembered to have seen open, and pulled out the second drawer from the top.

  “This is the one,” said he. “They have taken out the glass top—I suppose those are the pieces of it on the floor.”

  “Yes,” said Badger. “We found it open, and it seems to be the only drawer that has been tampered with.”

  Drayton pulled out the top drawer, and having looked closely at the glass cover, remarked: “They have had this one open, too. There are distinct fingerprints on the glass; and they have had the cover off for there are finger-marks on the inside of the glass. I wonder why they did that.”

  “I can’t imagine,” said Badger. “They don’t seem to have taken anything—there wasn’t anything worth taking, for that matter. But they could see that without lifting off the glass. However, it is all for the best. We’ll hand this glass cover to the Fingerprint Department and hope they will be able to spot the man that the fingers belong to.”

  As he spoke, he made as if he would lift off the cover, but he was anticipated by Thorndyke, who carefully raised the glass by its leather tab, and taking it up by the edges, held it against the light and examined the fingerprints minutely both on the upper and under surfaces.

  “The thumbs are on the upper surface,” he remarked, “and the fingers underneath; so the glass was lifted right out and held with both hands.”

  He handed the glass to the inspector, who had been watching him uneasily, and now took the cover from him with evident relief; and as Badger proceeded to deposit it in a safe place, he pushed in the top drawer and returned to the consideration of the second.

  “There are evidently several pieces missing from this drawer,” said he, “and it may be important to know what they are, though it is rather unlikely that the thieves will try to dispose of them. Can you tell us what they are, Drayton?”

  “I can tell you roughly,” was the reply. “This drawer contained the collection of posy-rings, and most of them are there still, as you can see. The front row were rings set with moonstone and cat’s eye, and most of those are gone. Then there was a group of moonstone and cat’s eye ornaments, mostly brooches and earrings, and one pendant. Those have all disappeared. And there is another thing that was in this drawer that has apparently been taken; a locket. It was shaped like a book and had a Greek inscription on the front.”

  “So far as you can see, Sir Lawrence,” said Badger, “has anything of value been taken—of real value, I mean?”

  “Of negotiable value, you mean,” Drayton corrected. “No. Most of the things were of gold, though not all, but the stones were probably worth no more than a few shillings each. The value was principally in the associations and individual character of the pieces. All of them had inscriptions, and several of them had recorded histories. But that would be of no use to a thief.”

  “Exactly,” said Badger. “That was what was in my mind. There is something rather amateurish about this robbery. It isn’t quite like the work of a regular hand. The time was foolish, and then all this shooting and stabbing is more like the work of some stray foreign crooks than of a regular tradesman; and as you say, the stuff wasn’t worth the risk—unless there’s something else of more value. Perhaps we had better go through the other cabinets.”

  He produced the bunch of keys from his pocket and had just inserted one into the lock of the next cabinet when Drayton interposed.

  “There is no need for that, Inspector. If the cabinets are locked and have not been broken open, their contents are intact; and I can tell you that those contents are of no considerable intrinsic value.”

  With this he drew the key from the lock and dropped the bunch in his pocket, a proceeding whereat the inspector smiled sourly and remarked: “Then in that case, I think I have finished for the present. I’ll just pack up this glass cover and see if those others were able to follow the tracks of either of these men. And I’ll wish you gentlemen goodnight.”

  Sir Lawrence accompanied him to the drawing-room, and as I learned later, provided the official party with refreshment, and when we were alone I turned to Thorndyke.

  “I suppose we have finished, too?”

  “Not quite,” he replied. “There are one or two little matters to be attended to, but we will wait until the police are clear of the premises. They will keep their own counsel and I propose to keep mine, unless I can give them a straight lead.” He opened his research-case and was thoughtfully looking over its contents when Drayton returned and announced that the police had departed.

  “Is there anything more that you want to do, Thorndyke?” he asked.

  “Yes,” was the reply. “For one thing, I should like to see if there are any more fingerprints.” As he spoke, he pulled out the drawers of the cabinet one after the other, and examined the glass covers. But apparently they had not been touched. At any rate, there were no marks on any of the glasses.

  “They must have been disturbed soon after they got to work,” said Drayton “as they opened only two drawers.”

  “Probably,” Thorndyke agreed, taking from his case a little glass-jar filled with a yellowish powder and fitted with two glass tubes and a rubber bulb. With this apparatus he blew a cloud of the fine powder over the woodwork of the rifled cabinet, and when a thin coating had settled on the polished surface, he tapped the wood gently with the handle of his pocket-knife. At each tap a portion of the coating of powder was jarred on the surface, and then there appeared several oval spots to which it still adhered. Then he gently blew away the rest of the powder, when the oval spots were revealed as fingerprints, standing out white and distinct against the dark wood. Thorndyke now produced from his pocket the hinged board, and opening it, compared the photographs with these new fingerprints, while Drayton and I looked over his shoulder.

  “They are undoubtedly the same,” said I, a little surprised at the ease with which I identified these curious markings. “Absolutely the same—which is rather odd, seeing that there are the marks of only two digits of the left hand and four of the right. It almost looks as if those particular fingers had got soiled with some greasy material and that the other fingers were
clean and had left no mark.”

  “An admirable suggestion, Anstey,” said Thorndyke. “The same idea had occurred to me, for the prints of these particular fingers are certainly abnormally distinct. Let us see if we can get any confirmation.” He blew upon each of the fingerprints in turn until most of the powder was dislodged and the markings had become almost invisible. Then, taking my handkerchief, which was of soft silk, and rolling it into a ball, he began to wipe the woodwork with a circular motion, at first very lightly but gradually increasing the pressure until he was rubbing quite vigorously. The result seemed to justify my suggestion, for as the rubbing proceeded, I could see, by the light of Drayton’s lamp, thrown on at various angles, that the fingerprints seemed to have spread out into oval, glistening patches, having a lustre somewhat different from that of the polished wood.

  Sir Lawrence looked on with keen interest, and as Thorndyke paused to examine the woodwork, he asked: “What is the exact purpose of this experiment?”

  “The point is,” replied Thorndyke, “that whereas the fingerprint of the mathematical theorists is a mere abstraction of form devoid of any other properties, the actual or real fingerprint is a material thing which has physical and chemical properties, and these properties may have considerable evidential significance. These fingerprints, for instance, contain some substance other than the natural secretions of the skin. The questions then arise, What is that substance? How came it here? And is it usually associated with any particular kind of person or activity? The specimens that Anstey so judiciously captured may help us to answer the first question, and our native wits may enable us to answer the others. So we have some data for consideration. And that reminds me that there are some other data that we must secure.”

  “What are they?” Drayton asked eagerly.

  “There are those impressions in the sand outside the fence. I must have permanent records of them. Shall we go and do them now? I shall want a jug of water and a light.”

  While Drayton went to fetch the water Thorndyke and I took our way out through the garden to the outside of the fence, he carrying his research-case, and I bearing Drayton’s lamp. At the spot where we had laid down the mat we halted, and Thorndyke, having set down his case, once more lifted the mat.

  “They are small feet,” he remarked, glancing at the footprints before stooping to open the case. “A striking contrast to the other man’s.”

  He took from his case a tin of plaster of Paris, and dipping up a small quantity in a spoon, proceeded very carefully to dust the footprints with the fine, white powder until they were covered with a thin, even coating. Then he produced a bottle of water fitted with a rubber ball-spray diffuser, and with this blew a copious spray of water over the footprints. As a result, the white powder gradually shrank until the footprints looked as if they had received a thin coat of whitewash.

  “Why not fill the footprints up with liquid plaster?” asked Drayton, who came up at this moment carrying a large jug.

  “It would probably disturb the sand,” was the reply, “and moreover, the water would soak in at once and leave the plaster a crumbling mass. But when this thin layer has set it will be possible to fill up and get a solid cast.”

  He repeated the application of the spray once or twice, and then we went on to the place where the other man had come over. Here the same process was carried out, not only with the footprints but also with those of the hands. Then we went back to the first place, and when Thorndyke had gently touched the edge of the footprints and ascertained that the thin coating of plaster had set into a solid shell, he produced a small rubber basin, and having half filled it with water, added a quantity of plaster and stirred it until it assumed the consistency of cream; when he carefully poured it into the white-coated footprints until they were full and slightly overflowing.

  “You see the advantage of this?” said Thorndyke as he cleaned out the basin and started to walk slowly back to the site of the second set of prints.

  “I do, indeed,” replied Drayton, “and I am astonished that Badger did not take a permanent record. These casts will enable you to put the actual feet of the accused in evidence if need be.”

  “Precisely; besides giving us the opportunity to study them at our leisure, and refer to them if any fresh evidence should become available.”

  The second set of footprints and the impressions of the hands received similar treatment, and when they had been filled, Thorndyke proceeded to pack up his appliances.

  “We ought to give the casts a good twenty minutes to set hard,” he said, “though it is the best plaster and quite fresh and has a little powdered alum mixed with it to accelerate setting and make the cast harder. But we mustn’t be impatient.”

  “I am in no hurry,” said Drayton. “I shall stay here tonight—one couldn’t leave Mrs. Benham in the house all alone. The car can take you back to your chambers and drop Anstey at his lodgings. Tomorrow we must make some arrangements of a more permanent kind. But the great thing is to get on the track of these two villains. Nothing else seems to matter. There is my poor brother’s corpse, crying aloud to Heaven for justice, and I shall never rest until his murderers have paid their debt.”

  “I sympathise with you most cordially, Drayton,” said Thorndyke, “and it is no mere verbal sympathy. I promise you that every resource at my disposal shall be called in to aid, that no stone shall be left unturned. It is not only the office of friendship; it is a public duty to ensure that an inexcusable crime of this kind shall be visited with the most complete retribution.”

  “Thank you. Thorndyke,” Sir Lawrence said with gruff earnestness. And then after a short pause, he continued: “I suppose it is premature to ask you, but do you see any glimmer of hope? Is there anything to lay hold of? I can see for myself that it is a very difficult and obscure case.”

  “It is,” Thorndyke agreed. “Of course the fingerprints may dispose of the whole difficulty, if they happen to be on the files at the Habitual Criminals Registry. Otherwise there is very little evidence. Still, there is some, and we may build up more by inference. I have seen more unpromising cases come to a successful issue.”

  By this time the stipulated twenty minutes had expired, and we proceeded to the first set of footprints. The plaster, on being tested, was found to be quite firm and hard, and Thorndyke was able, with great care, to lift the two chalky-looking plates from their bed in the ground. And even in the rather unfavourable light of the lamp their appearance was somewhat startling, for, as Thorndyke turned them over, each cast presented the semblance of a white foot, surprisingly complete in detail so far as the sole was concerned.

  But if the appearance of these casts was striking, much more so was that of the second set; for the latter included casts of the handprints, the aspect of which was positively uncanny, especially in the case of the deeper impression, the effect of which was that of a snowy hand with outspread, crooked, clutching fingers. And here again the fine loam had yielded an unexpected amount of detail. The creases and markings of the palm were all perfectly clear and distinct, and I even thought that I could perceive a trace of the ridges of the fingertips.

  Before leaving the spot we carefully removed all traces of plaster, for it was certain that the footprints would be examined by daylight, and Thorndyke considered it better that the existence of these casts should be known only to ourselves. The footprints were left practically intact, and it was open to the police to make casts if they saw fit.

  “I think,” said Thorndyke when we had re-entered the house and were inspecting the casts afresh as they lay on the table, “it would be a wise precaution to attach our signatures to each of them, in case it should be necessary at any time to put them in evidence. Their genuineness would then be attested beyond any possibility of dispute.”

  To this Drayton and I agreed most emphatically, and accordingly each of us wrote his name, with the date, on the smooth back of each cast. Then the “records” were carefully packed and bestowed in the research-case
, and Thorndyke and I shook our host’s hand and went forth to the car.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  The Lady of Shalott

  The modern London suburb seems to have an inherent incapacity for attaining a decent old age. City streets and those of country towns contrive to gather from the passing years some quality of mellowness that does but add to their charm. But with suburbs it is otherwise. Whatever charm they have appertains to their garish youth and shares its ephemeral character. Cities and towns grow venerable with age, the suburb merely grows shabby.

  The above profound reflections were occasioned by my approach to the vicinity of Jacob Street, Hampstead Road, and by a growing sense of the drab—not to say sordid—atmosphere that enveloped it, and its incongruity with the appearance and manner of the lady whose residence I was approaching. However, I consoled myself with the consideration that if “Honesty lives in a poor house, like your fair pearl in your foul oyster,” perhaps Beauty might make shift with no better lodging; and these cogitations having brought me to the factory-like gateway, I gave a brisk tug at the bell above the brass plate.

  After a short interval the wicket was opened by my young acquaintance of the previous night, who greeted me with a sedate smile of recognition.

  “Good afternoon,” I said, holding out my hand. “I have just called to learn how your sister is. I hope she is not much the worse for her rather terrifying experiences last night.”

  “Thank you,” he replied with quaint politeness, “she seems to be all right today. But the doctor won’t let her do any work. He’s fixed her arm in a sling. But won’t you come in and see her, sir?”

  I hesitated, dubious as to whether she would care to receive a stranger of her own class in these rather mean surroundings, but when he added: “She would like to see you, I am sure, sir,” my scruples gave way to my very definite inclination and I stepped through the wicket.