“Ha! Then you have got a photograph of him?”
Thorndyke shook his head. “No,” he replied. “I have not been able to get a photograph of him.”
“Then you have an exact description of him?”
“No,” was the reply. “I have no description of him at all.”
The superintendent banged his hat on the table. “Then what the deuce have you got, sir?” he demanded distractedly. “You must have something, you know, if you are going to test these witnesses on the question of identification. You haven’t got a photograph, you haven’t got a description, and you can’t have the man himself because he is at present reposing in a little terra-cotta pot in the form of bone-ash. Now, what have you got?”
Thorndyke regarded the exasperated superintendent with an inscrutable smile and then glanced at Polton, who had just stolen into the room and was now listening with an expression of such excessive crinkliness that I wrote him down an accomplice on the spot.
“You had better ask Polton,” said Thorndyke. “He is the stage manager on this occasion.”
The superintendent turned sharply to confront my fellow-apprentice, whose eyes thereupon disappeared into a labyrinth of crow’s feet.
“It’s no use asking me, sir,” said he. “I’m only an accessory before the fact, so to speak. But you’ll know all about it when the ladies arrive—and I rather think I hear ’em coming now.”
In corroboration, light footsteps and feminine voices became audible, apparently ascending the stairs. We hastily seated ourselves while Polton took his station by the door and Thorndyke said to me in a low voice: “Remember, Gray, no comments of any kind. These witnesses must act without any sort of suggestion from anybody.”
I gave a quick assent, and at that moment Polton threw open the door with a flourish and announced majestically:
“Miss Dewsnep, Miss Bonnington.”
We all rose, and Thorndyke advanced to receive his visitors while Polton placed chairs for them.
“It is exceedingly good of you to take all this trouble to help us,” said Thorndyke. “I hope it was not in any way inconvenient for you to come here this morning.”
“Oh, not at all,” replied Miss Dewsnep; “only we are not quite clear as to what it is that you want us to do.”
“We will go into that question presently,” said Thorndyke. “Meanwhile, may I introduce to you these two gentlemen, who are interested in our little business: Mr. Miller and Dr. Gray.”
The two ladies bowed, and Miss Dewsnep remarked:
“We are already acquainted with Dr. Gray. We had the melancholy pleasure of meeting him at Mrs. Morris’s house on the sad occasion when he came to examine the mortal remains of poor Mr. Bendelow, who is now with the angels.”
“And no doubt,” added Miss Bonnington, “in extremely congenial society.”
At this statement of Miss Dewsnep’s the superintendent turned and looked at me sharply with an expression of enlightenment; but he made no remark, and the latter lady returned to her original inquiry. “You were going to tell us what it is that you want us to do.”
“Yes,” replied Thorndyke. “It is quite a simple matter. We want you to look at the face of a certain person who will be shown to you and to tell us if you recognize and can give a name to that person.”
“Not an insane person, I hope!” exclaimed Miss Dewsnep.
“No,” Thorndyke assured her, “not an insane person.”
“Nor a criminal person in custody, I trust,” added Miss Bonnington.
“Certainly not,” replied Thorndyke. “In short, let me assure you that the inspection of this person need not cause you the slightest embarrassment. It will be a perfectly simple affair, as you will see. But perhaps we had better proceed at once. If you two gentlemen will follow Polton, I will conduct the ladies upstairs myself.”
On this we rose, and Miller and I followed Polton out on to the landing, where he turned and began to ascend the stairs at a slow and solemn pace, as if he were conducting a funeral. The superintendent walked at my side and muttered as he went, being evidently in a state of bewilderment fully equal to my own.
“Now, what the blazes,” he growled, “can the doctor be up to now? I never saw such a man for springing surprises on one. But who the deuce can he have up there?”
At the top of the second flight we came on to a landing and, proceeding along it, reached a door which Polton unlocked and opened.
“You understand, gentlemen,” he said, halting in the doorway, “that no remarks or comments are to be made until the witnesses have gone. Those were my instructions.”
With this he entered the room, closely followed by Miller, who, as he crossed the threshold, set at naught Polton’s instructions by exclaiming in a startled voice:
“Snakes!” I followed quickly, all agog with curiosity; but whatever I had expected to see—if I had expected anything—I was totally unprepared for what I did see.
The room was a smallish room, completely bare and empty of furniture save for four chairs—on two of which Polton firmly seated us; and in the middle of the floor, raised on a pair of trestles, was a coffin covered with a black linen cloth. At this gruesome object Miller and I gazed in speechless astonishment, but, apart from Polton’s injunction, there was no opportunity for an exchange of sentiments; for we had hardly taken our seats when we heard the sound of ascending footsteps mingled with Thorndyke’s bland and persuasive accents. A few moments later the party reached the door, and as the two ladies came in sight of the coffin, both started back with a cry of alarm.
“Oh, dear!” exclaimed Miss Dewsnep, “it’s a dead person! Who is it, sir? Is it anyone we know?”
“That is what we want you to tell us,” Thorndyke replied.
“How mysterious!” exclaimed Miss Bonnington, in a hushed voice. “How dreadful! Some poor creature who has been found dead, I suppose? I hope it won’t be very—er—you know what I mean, sir—when the coffin is opened.”
“There will be no need to open the coffin,” Thorndyke reassured her. “There is an inspection window in the coffin-lid through which you can see the face. All you have to do is to look through the window and tell us if the face that you see is the face of anyone who is known to you. Are you ready, Polton?”
Polton replied that he was, having taken up his position at the head of the coffin with an air of profound gravity, approaching to gloom. The two ladies shuddered audibly, but their nervousness being now overcome by a devouring curiosity, they advanced, one on either side of the coffin, and taking up a position close to Polton, gazed eagerly at the covered coffin. There was a solemn pause as Polton carefully gathered up the two corners of the linen pall. Then, with a quick movement, he threw it back. The two witnesses simultaneously stooped and peered in at the window. Simultaneously their mouths opened and they sprang back with a shriek.
“Why, it’s Mr. Bendelow!”
“You are quite sure it is Mr. Bendelow?” Thorndyke asked.
“Perfectly,” replied Miss Dewsnep. “And yet,” she continued with a mystified look, “it can’t be; for I saw him pass through the bronze doors into the cremation furnace. I saw him with my own eyes,” she added, somewhat unnecessarily. “And what’s more, I saw his ashes in the casket.”
She gazed with wide-open eyes at Thorndyke and then at her friend, and the two women tiptoed forward and once more stared in at the window with starting eyes and dropped chins.
“It is Mr. Bendelow,” said Miss Bonnington, in an awe-stricken voice.
“But it can’t be,” Miss Dewsnep protested in tremulous tones. “You saw him put through those doors yourself, Susan, and you saw his ashes afterwards.”
“I can’t help that, Sarah,” the other lady retorted. “This is Mr. Bendelow. You can’t deny that it is.”
“Our eyes must be deceived,” said Miss Dewsnep, the said eyes being still riveted on the face behind the window. “It can’t be—and yet it is—but yet it is impossible—”
Sh
e paused suddenly and raised a distinctly alarmed face to her friend.
“Susan,” she said, in a low, rather shaky voice, “there is something here with which we, as Christian women, are better not concerned. Something against nature. The dead has been recalled from a burning fiery furnace by some means which we may not inquire into. It were better, Susan, that we should now depart from this place.”
This was evidently Susan’s opinion, too, for she assented with uncommon alacrity and with a distinctly uncomfortable air; and the pair moved with one accord towards the door. But Thorndyke gently detained them.
“Do we understand,” he asked, “that, apart from the apparently impossible circumstances, the body in that coffin is, in your opinion, the body of the late Simon Bendelow?”
“You do,” Miss Dewsnep replied in a resentfully nervous tone and regarding Thorndyke with very evident alarm. “If it were possible that it could be, I would swear that those unnatural remains were those of my poor friend Mr. Bendelow. As it is not possible, it cannot be.”
“Thank you,” said Thorndyke, with the most extreme suavity of manner. “You have done us a great service by coming here today, and a great service to humanity—how great a service you will learn later. I am afraid it has been a disagreeable experience to both of you, for which I am sincerely sorry; but you must let me assure you that there is nothing unlawful or supernatural in what you have seen. Later, I hope you will be able to realize that. And now I trust you will allow Mr. Polton to accompany you to the dining-room and offer you a little refreshment.”
As neither of the ladies raised any objection to this programme, we all took our leave of them and they departed down the stairs, escorted by Polton. When they had gone, Miller stepped across to the coffin and cast a curious glance in at the window.
“So that is Mr. Bendelow,” said he. “I don’t think much of him, and I don’t see how he is going to help us. But you have given those two old girls a rare shake-up, and I don’t wonder. Of course, this can’t be a dead body that you have got in this coffin, but it is a most life-like representation of one, and it took in those poor old Judies properly. What have you got to tell us about this affair, Doctor? I can see that your scheme, whatever it was, has come off. They always do. But what about it? What has this experiment proved?”
“It has turned a mere name into an actual person,” was the reply.
“Yes, I know,” rejoined Miller, “Very interesting, too. Now we know exactly what he looked like. But what about it? And what is the next move?”
“The next move on my part is to lay a sworn information against him as the murderer of Julius D’Arblay; which I will do now, if you will administer the oath and witness my signature.” As he spoke, Thorndyke produced a paper from his pocket and laid it on the coffin.
The superintendent looked at the paper with a surprised grin.
“A little late, isn’t it,” he said, “to be swearing an information? Of course you can if you like, but when you’ve done it, what then?”
“Then,” replied Thorndyke, “it will be for you to arrest him and bring him to trial.”
At this reply the superintendent’s eyes opened until his face might have been a symbolic mask of astonishment. Grasping his hair with both hands, he rose slowly from his chair, staring at Thorndyke as if at some alarming apparition.
“You’ll be the death of me. Doctor!” he exclaimed. “You really will. I am not fit for these shocks at my time of life. What is it you ask me to do? I am to arrest this man! What man? Here is a waxwork gentleman in a coffin—at least, I suppose that is what he is—that might have come straight from Madame Tussaud’s. Am I to arrest him? And there is a casket full of ashes somewhere. Am I to arrest those? Or am I off my head or dreaming?”
Thorndyke smiled at him indulgently. “Now, Miller,” said he, “don’t pretend to be foolish, because you are not. The man whom you are to arrest is a live man, and what is more, he is easily accessible whenever you choose to lay your hands on him.”
“Do you know where to find him?”
“Yes,” Thorndyke replied. “I, myself, will conduct you to his house, which is in Abbey Road, Hornsey, nearly opposite Miss D’Arblay’s studio.”
I gave a gasp of amazement on hearing this, which directed the superintendent’s attention to me.
“Very well. Doctor,” he said, “I will take your information, but you needn’t swear to it; just sign your name. I must be off now, but I will look in tonight about nine, if that will do, to get the necessary particulars and settle the arrangements with you. Probably tomorrow afternoon will be a good time to make the arrest. What do you think?”
“I should think it would be an excellent time,” Thorndyke replied, “but we can settle definitely tonight.”
With this, the superintendent, having taken the signed paper from Thorndyke, shook both our hands and bustled away with the traces of his late surprise still visible on his countenance.
The recognition of the tenant of the coffin as Simon Bendelow had come on me with almost as great a shock as it had on the two witnesses, but for a different reason. My late experiences enabled me to guess at once that the mysterious tenant was a waxwork figure, presumably of Polton’s creation. But what I found utterly inexplicable was that such a waxwork should have been produced in the likeness of a man whom neither Polton nor Thorndyke had ever seen. The astonishing conversation between the latter and Miller had, for the moment, driven this mystery out of my mind; but as soon as the superintendent had gone, I stepped over to the coffin and looked in at the window. And then I was more amazed than ever. For the face that I saw was not the face that I had expected to see. There, it is true, was the old familiar skull-cap, which Bendelow had worn, pulled down over the temples above the jaw-bandage. But it was the wrong face. (Incidentally I now understood what had become of Polton’s eyelashes. That conscientious realist had evidently taken no risks.)
“But,” I protested, “this is not Bendelow. This is Morris.”
Thorndyke nodded. “You have just heard two competent witnesses declare with complete conviction and certainty that this is Simon Bendelow; and, as you yourself pointed out, there can be no doubt as to their knowledge of Bendelow, since they recognized the photograph of him that was shown to them by the American detective.”
“That is perfectly true,” I admitted. “But it is a most incomprehensible affair. This is not the man who was cremated.”
“Evidently not, since he is still alive.”
“But these two women saw Bendelow cremated—at least they saw him pass through into the crematorium, which is near enough. And they had seen him in the coffin a few minutes before I saw him in the coffin, and they saw him again a few minutes after Cropper and Morris and I had put him back in the coffin. And the man whom we put into the coffin was certainly not this man.”
“Obviously not, since he helped you to put the corpse in.”
“And again,” I urged, “if the body that we put into the coffin was not the body that was cremated, what has become of it? It wasn’t buried, for the other coffin was empty. Those women must have made some mistake.”
He shook his head. “The solution of the mystery is staring you in the face,” said he. “It is perfectly obvious, and I am not going to give you any further hints now. When we have made the arrest, you shall have a full exposition of the case. But tell me, now; did those two women ever meet Morris?”
I considered for a few moments and then replied: “I have no evidence that they ever met him. They certainly never did in my presence. But even if they had, they would hardly have recognized him as the person they have identified today. He had grown a beard and moustache, you will remember, and his appearance was very much altered from what it was when I first saw him.”
Thorndyke nodded. “It would be,” he agreed. Then, turning to another subject, he said: “I am afraid it will be necessary for you to be present at the arrest. I would much rather that you were not, for he is a dangerous brute and w
ill probably fight like a wild cat; but you are the only one of us who really knows him by sight in his present state.”
“I should like to be in at the death,” I said eagerly.
“That is well enough,” said he, “so long as it is his death. You must bring your pistol and don’t be afraid to use it.”
“And how shall I know when I am wanted?” I asked.
“You had better go to the studio tomorrow morning,” he replied. “I will send a note by Polton giving you particulars of the time when we shall call for you. And now we may as well help Polton to prepare for our other visitors, and I think. Gray, that we will say as little as possible about this morning’s proceedings or those of tomorrow. Explanations will come better after the event.”
With this, we went down to the dining-room, where we found Polton sedately laying the table, having just got rid of the two ladies. We made a show of assisting him and I ventured to inquire:
“Who is doing the cooking today, Polton? Or is it to be a cold lunch?”
He looked at me almost reproachfully as he replied: “It is to be a hot lunch, and I am doing the cooking, of course.”
“But,” I protested, “you have been up to your eyes in other affairs all the morning.”
He regarded me with a patronizing crinkle. “You can do a good deal,” said he, “with one or two casseroles, a hay-box and a four-storey cooker on a gas stove. Things don’t cook any better for your standing and staring at them.”
Events went to prove the soundness of Polton’s culinary principles; and the brilliant success of their application in practice gave a direction to the conversation which led it comfortably away from other and less discussable topics.
CHAPTER XVIII
The Last Act
Shortly before leaving Thorndyke’s chambers with Marion and Miss Boler, I managed to secure his permission to confide to them, in general terms, what was to happen on the morrow; and very relieved I was thereat, for I had little doubt that questions would be asked which it would seem ungracious to evade. Events proved that I was not mistaken; indeed, we were hardly clear of the precincts of the Temple when Marion opened the inquisition.
The Second R. Austin Freeman Megapack Page 141
