Mrs. Pickett's voice rang through the room, cold and biting: “Captain Muller, you murdered Captain Gunner!”
The captain shuddered. Then mechanically he replied: “Gott! Yes, I killed him.”
“You heard, Mr. Snyder,” said Mrs. Pickett. “He has confessed before witnesses. Take him away.”
Muller allowed himself to be moved toward the door. His arm in Mr. Snyder's grip felt limp. Mrs. Pickett stopped and took something from the debris on the floor. She rose, holding the harmonica.
“You are forgetting your souvenir, Captain Muller,” she said.
R. Austin Freeman
(1862–1943)
Dr. John Evelyn Thorndyke has been called the only convincing scientific investigator in detective fiction, with considerable justification. Joined by his associate, Christopher Jervis, M.D., who narrates his idol's investigations in the – classic manner pioneered by Poe and refined by Doyle, Dr. Thorndyke draws on a wealth of scientific knowledge – everything from anatomy to zoology – to solve his cases. Although many of the plots involve technical explanations, R. Austin Freeman (like Doyle, a former physician) was a master at making science and its jargon explicable to the lay reader.
Thorndyke and Jervis were introduced in the novel The Red Thumb Mark (1907), notable for its first use of fingerprint forgery in detective fiction. But it was in Freeman's 1912 collection of five novelettes, The Singing Bone, that he provided his greatest contribution to the genre. In such stories as “The Case of Oscar Brodski,” he invented the “inverted” detective story, a device much copied by other writers and utilized to cinematic perfection in the TV series Columbo. In the first part of this type of tale, the reader is permitted to witness the commission of a crime and furnished with all the facts necessary to solve it; in the second part, the reader is led through each of the steps used by the investigator to gather clues and correctly interpret them. The question of “whodunit” is thus eliminated, though there is a – challenge of sorts to match wits with the sleuth and spot the clues in advance; but the main pleasure is in watching a superior intellect at work – using scientific methods in Dr. Thorndyke's case, rather than pure deduction as in the Sherlock Holmes stories. Freeman's most celebrated work is Mr. Pottermack's Oversight (1930), which critic Anthony Boucher called “a leisurely, gentle novel, yet an acute one. No other detective in fiction has ever equaled Thorndyke in the final section of explication [and] the scene is especially effective in this novel,” offering an intellectual stimulus often attributed to the detective story but rarely found. The same is applicable to “The Puzzle Lock,” the title story of a 1925 collection of Thorndyke stories. A variation of the inverted form in that the detailed methodology of the crime is presented to Thorndyke and the reader through an ex post facto exchange of dialogue, it is a pretty brainteaser involving an ingenious locking mechanism on a strongroom door. Editor and anthologist Raymond T. Bond considered it “close to being the most exciting single episode in the Doctor's long and varied career,” adding that no other story in the Thorndyke annals puts such an immediate and terrifying demand on his mental powers or promises “so completely breathless an ending.”
THE PUZZLE LOCK
DR. JOHN THORNDYKE AND CHRISTOPHER JERVIS
LONDON, ENGLAND 1926
I do not remember what was the occasion of my dining with Thorndyke at Giamborini's on the particular evening that is now in my mind. Doubtless, some piece of work completed had seemed to justify the modest festival. At any rate, there we were, seated at a somewhat retired table, selected by Thorndyke, with our backs to the large window through which the late June sunlight streamed. We had made our preliminary arrangements, including a bottle of Barsac, and were inspecting dubiously a collection of semi–edible hors d'oeuvres, when a man entered and took possession of a table just in front of ours, which had apparently been reserved for him, since he walked directly to it and drew away the single chair that had been set aslant against it.
I watched with amused interest his methodical procedure, for he was clearly a man who took his dinner seriously. A regular customer, too, I judged by the waiter's manner and the reserved table with its single chair. But the man himself interested me. He was out of the common and there was a suggestion of character, with perhaps a spice of oddity, in his appearance. He appeared to be about sixty years of age, small and spare, with a much–wrinkled, mobile and rather whimsical face, surmounted by a crop of white, upstanding hair. From his waistcoat pocket protruded the ends of a fountain–pen, a pencil and a miniature electric torch such as surgeons use; a silver–mounted Coddington lens hung from his watch–guard and the middle finger of his left hand bore the largest seal ring that I have ever seen.
“Well,” said Thorndyke, who had been following my glance, “what do you make of him?”
“I don't quite know,” I replied. “The Coddington suggests a naturalist or a scientist of some kind, but that blatant ring doesn't. Perhaps he is an antiquary or a numismatist or even a philatelist. He deals with small objects of some kind.”
At this moment a man who had just entered strode up to our friend's table and held out his hand, which the other shook, with no great enthusiasm, as I thought. Then the newcomer fetched a chair, and setting it by the table, seated himself and picked up the menu card, while the other observed him with a shade of disapproval. I judged that he would rather have dined alone, and that the personality of the new arrival––a flashy, bustling, obtrusive type of man––did not commend him.
From this couple my eye was attracted to a tall man who had halted near the door and stood looking about the room as if seeking someone. Suddenly he spied an empty, single table, and, bearing down on it, seated himself and began anxiously to study the menu under the supervision of a waiter. I glanced at him with slight disfavour. One makes allowances for the exuberance of youth, but when a middle–aged man presents the combination of heavily–greased heir parted in the middle, a waxed moustache of a suspiciously intense black, a pointed imperial and a single eye–glass, evidently ornamental in function, one views him with less tolerance. However, his get–up was not my concern, whereas my dinner was, and I had given this my undivided attention for some minutes when I heard Thorndyke emit a soft chuckle.
“Not bad,” he remarked, setting down his glass.
“Not at all,” I agreed, “for a restaurant wine.”
“I was not alluding to the wine,” said he “but to our friend Badger.”
“The inspector!” I exclaimed. “He isn't here, is he? I don't see him.”
“I am glad to hear you say that, Jervis,” said he. “It is a better effort than I thought. Still, he might manage his properties a little better. That is the second time his eye–glass has been in the soup.”
Following, the direction of his glance, I observed the man with the waxed moustache furtively wiping his eye–glass; and the temporary absence of the monocular grimace enabled me to note a resemblance to the familiar features of the detective officer.
“If you say that is Badger, I suppose it is,” said I. “He is certainly a little like our friend. But I shouldn't have recognised him.”
“I don't know that I should,” said Thorndyke, “but for the little unconscious tricks of movement. You know the habit he has of stroking the back of his head, and of opening his mouth and scratching the side of his chin. I saw him do it just now. He had forgotten his imperial until he touched it, and then the sudden arrest of movement was very striking. It doesn't do to forget a false beard.”
“I wonder what his game is,” said I. “The disguise suggests that he is on the look–out for somebody who might know him; but apparently that somebody has not turned up yet. At any rate, he doesn't seem to be watching anybody in particular.”
“No,” said Thorndyke. “But there is somebody whom he seems rather to avoid watching. Those two men at the table in front of ours are in his direct line of vision, but he hasn't looked at them once since he sat down, though I noticed that he gave them
one quick glance before he selected his table. I wonder if he has observed us. Probably not, as we have the strong light of the window behind us and his attention is otherwise occupied.”
I looked at the two men and from them to the detective, and I judged that my friend was right. On the inspector's table was a good–sized fern in an ornamental pot, and this he had moved so that it was directly between him and the two strangers, to whom he must have been practically invisible; and now I could see that he did, in fact, steal an occasional glance at them over the edge of the menu card. Moreover, as their meal drew to an end, he hastily finished his own and beckoned to the waiter to bring the bill.
“We may as well wait and see them off,” said Thorndyke, who had already settled our account. “Badger always interests me. He is so ingenious and he has such shockingly bad luck.”
We had not long to wait. The two men rose from the table and walked slowly to the door, where they paused to light their cigars before going out. Then Badger rose, with his back towards them and his eyes on the mirror opposite; and as they went out, he snatched up his hat and stick and followed. Thorndyke looked at me inquiringly.
“Do we indulge in the pleasures of the chase?” he asked, and as I replied in the affirmative, we, too, made our way out and started in the wake of the inspector.
As we followed Badger at a discreet distance, we caught an occasional glimpse of the quarry ahead, whose proceedings evidently caused the inspector some embarrassment, for they had a way of stopping suddenly to elaborate some point that they were discussing, whereby it became necessary for the detective to drop farther in the rear than was quite safe, in view of the rather crowded state of the pavement. On one of these occasions, when the older man was apparently delivering himself of some excruciating joke, they both turned suddenly and looked back, the joker pointing to some object on the opposite side of the road. Several people turned to see what was being pointed at, and, of course, the inspector had to turn, too, to avoid being recognised. At this moment the two men popped into an entry, and when the inspector once more turned they were gone.
As soon as he missed them, Badger started forward almost at a run, and presently halted at the large entry of the Celestial Bank Chambers, into which he peered eagerly. Then, apparently sighting his quarry, he darted in, and we quickened our pace and followed. Half–way down the long hall we saw him standing at the door of a lift, frantically pressing the call–button.
“Poor Badger!” chuckled Thorndyke, as we walked past him unobserved. “His usual luck! He will hardly run them to earth now in this enormous building. We may as well go through to the
Blenheim Street
entrance.”
We pursued our way along the winding corridor and were close to the entrance when I noticed two men coming down the staircase that led to the ball.
“By Jingo! Here they are!” I exclaimed. “Shall we run back and give Badger the tip?”
Thorndyke hesitated. But it was too late. A taxi had just driven up and was discharging its fare. The younger man, catching the driver's eye, ran out and seized the door–handle; and when his companion had entered the cab, he gave an address to the driver, and, stepping in quickly, slammed the door. As the cab moved off, Thorndyke pulled out his notebook and pencil and jotted down the number of the vehicle. Then we turned and retraced our steps; but when we reached the lift–door, the inspector had disappeared. Presumably, like the incomparable Tom Bowling, he had gone aloft.
“We must give it up, Jervis,” said Thorndyke. “I will send him anonymously the number of the cab, and that is all we can do. But I am sorry for Badger.”
With this we dismissed the incident from our minds––at least, I did; assuming that I had seen the last of the two strangers. Little did I suspect how soon and under what strange and tragic circumstances I should meet with them again!
It was about a week later that we received a visit from our old friend, Superintendent Miller of the Criminal Investigation Department. The passing years had put us on a footing of mutual trust and esteem, and the capable, straightforward detective officer was always a welcome visitor.
“I've just dropped in,” said Miller, cutting off the end of the inevitable cigar, “to tell you about a rather queer case that we've got in hand. I know you are always interested in queer cases.”
Thorndyke smiled blandly. He had heard that kind of preamble before, and he knew, as did I, that when Miller became communicative we could safely infer that the Millerian bark was in shoal water.
“It is a case,” the superintendent continued, “of a very special brand of crook. Actually there is a gang, but it is the managing director that we have particularly got our eye on.”
“Is he a regular 'habitual,' then?” asked Thorndyke.
Well,” replied Miller, “as to that, I can't positively say. The fact is that we haven't actually seen the man to be sure of him.”
“I see,” said Thorndyke, with a grim smile. “You mean to say that you have got your eye on the place where he isn't.”
“At the present moment,” Miller admitted, “that is the literal fact. We have lost sight of the man we suspected, but we hope to pick him up again presently. We want him badly, and his pals too. It is probably quite a small gang, but they are mighty fly; a lot too smart to be at large. And they'll take some catching, for there is someone running the concern with a good deal more brains than crooks usually have.”
“What is their lay?” I asked.
“Burglary,” he replied. “Jewels and plate, but principally jewels; and the special feature of their work is that the swag disappears completely every time. None of the stuff has ever been traced. That is what drew our attention to them. After each robbery we made a round of all the fences, but there was not a sign. The stuff seemed to have vanished into smoke. Now that is very awkward. If you never see the men and you can't trace the stuff, where are you? You've got nothing to go on.”
“But you seem to have got a clue of some kind.” I said.
“Yes. There isn't a lot in it; but it seemed worth following up. One of our men happened to travel down to Colchester with a certain man, and when he came back two days later, he noticed this same man on the platform at Colchester and saw him get out at
Liverpool Street
. In the interval there had been a jewel robbery at Colchester. Then there was a robbery at Southampton, and our man went at once to Waterloo and saw all the trains in. On the second day, behold! the Colchester sportsman turns up at the barrier, so our man, who had a special taxi waiting, managed to track him home and afterwards got some particulars about him. He is a chap named Shemmonds; belongs to a firm of outside brokers. But nobody seems to know much about him and he doesn't put in much time at the office.
“Well, then, Badger took him over and shadowed him for a day or two, but just as things were looking interesting, he slipped off the hook. Badger followed him to a restaurant, and, through the glass door, saw him go up to an elderly man at a table and shake hands with him. Then he took a chair at the table himself, so Badger popped in and took a seat near them where he could keep them in view. They went out together and Badger followed them, but he lost them in the Celestial Bank Chambers. They went up in the lift just before he could get to the door and that was the last he saw of them. But we have ascertained that they left the building in a taxi and that the taxi set them down at Great Turnstile.”
“It was rather smart of you to trace the cab,” Thorndyke remarked.
“You've got to keep your eyes skinned in our line of business,” said Miller. “But now we come to the real twister. From the time those two men went down Great Turnstile, nobody has set eyes on either of them. They seem to have vanished into thin air.”
“You found out who the other man was, then?” said I.
“Yes. The restaurant manager knew him; an old chap named Luttrell. And we knew him, too, because he has a thumping burglary insurance, and when he goes out of town he notifies his company, and th
ey make arrangements with us to have the premises watched.”
“What is Luttrell?” I asked.
“Well, he is a bit of a mug, I should say, at least that's his character in the trade. Goes in for being a dealer in jewels and antiques, but he'll buy anything––furniture, pictures, plate, any blooming thing. Does it for a hobby, the regular dealers say. Likes the sport of bidding at the sales. But the knock–out men hate him; never know what he's going to do. Must have private means, for though he doesn't often drop money, he can't make much. He's no salesman. It is the buying that he seems to like. But he is a regular character, full of cranks and oddities. His rooms in Thavies Inn look like the BritishMuseum gone mad. He has got electric alarms from all the doors up to his bedroom and the strong–room in his office is fitted with a puzzle lock instead of keys.”
“That doesn't seem very safe,” I remarked.
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