The First R. Austin Freeman Megapack: 27 Mystery Tales of Dr. Thorndyke & Others

by R. Austin Freeman

  “I noted Gill’s address, as it appeared on the agreement, and sent my man, Polton, to make enquiries.

  “The address is that of a West Kensington lodging house at which Gill was staying when he signed the agreement. He had been there only three weeks, he left two days after the date of the agreement and the landlady does not know where he went or anything about him.”

  “Sounds a bit fishy,” Jervis remarked. “Did he tell Highfield what he wanted the premises for?”

  “I understood that something was said about some assay work in connection with certain—or rather uncertain—mineral concessions. But of course that was no affair of Highfield’s. His business was to get the rent, and, having got it, his interest in Mr. Gill lapsed. But you see the bearing of these facts. Gill’s connection with these works does, as Jervis says, look a little queer, especially after what has happened. But, seeing that he made his arrangements four months ago, at a time when Jardine had no thought of coming into this neighbourhood, it is clear that those arrangements could have no connection with this particular attempt. Gill obviously did not take those works with the intention of murdering Jardine. He took them for some other purpose; quite possibly the purpose that he stated. And we must not assume that Gill was the perpetrator of this outrage at all. Could you identify the man who let you in?”

  “No,” I replied. “Certainly not. I hardly saw him at all. The place was pitch dark, and whenever he struck a match he was either behind me or in front with his back to me. The only thing I could make out about him was that he had some sort of coarse wash-leather gloves on.”

  “Ha!” exclaimed Thorndyke. “Then we were right, Jervis.”

  I looked in surprise from one to the other of my friends, and was on the point of asking Thorndyke what he meant, when he continued. “That closes another track. If you couldn’t identify the man, a description of Gill, if we could obtain it, would not help us. We must begin at some other point.”

  “It seems to me,” said Jervis, “that we haven’t much to go upon at all.”

  “We haven’t much,” agreed Thorndyke, “but still we have something. We find that the motive of this attempt was apparently not robbery, nor the diversion of inheritable property, nor personal enmity. It must have been premeditated, but yet it could not have been planned more than a week in advance, for Jardine has only been in this neighbourhood for that time, and his coming was unexpected. The appearances very strongly suggest that the motive, whatever it was, has been generated recently and probably locally. So we had better make a start from that assumption.”

  “Is it possible,” Jervis suggested, “that this man Gill may be some sort of anarchist crank? Or a sort of thug? It is actually conceivable that he may have taken these premises for the express purpose of having a secure place where he could perpetrate murders and conceal the bodies.”

  “It is quite conceivable,” said Thorndyke, “and when we go and look over the works—which I propose we do presently—we may as well bear the possibility in mind. But it is merely a speculative suggestion. To return to your affairs, Jardine, has your stay here been quite uneventful?”

  “Perfectly,” I replied.

  “No unusual or obscure cases? No injuries?”

  “No, nothing out of the common,” I replied.

  “No deaths?”

  “One. But the man died before I took over.”

  “Nothing unusual about that? Everything quite regular?”

  “Oh, perfectly,” I answered; and then with a sudden qualm, as I recalled Batson’s uncertainty as to the actual cause of death, I added, “At least I hope so.”

  “You hope so?” queried Thorndyke. “Yes. Because it’s too late to go into the question now. The man was cremated.”

  At this a singular silence fell. Both my friends seemed to stiffen in their chairs, and both looked at me silently but very attentively. Then Thorndyke asked, “Did you have anything to do with that case?”

  “Yes,” I replied. “I went with Batson to examine the body.”

  “And are you perfectly satisfied that everything was as it should be?”

  I was on the point of saying “yes.” And then suddenly there arose before my eyes the vision of Mrs. Samway looking at me over Batson’s shoulder with that strange, inscrutable expression. And again, I recalled her unexplained anger and then her sudden change of mood. It had impressed me uncomfortably at the time, and it impressed me uncomfortably now. “I don’t know that I am, now that I come to think it over,” I replied.

  “Why not?” asked Thorndyke. “Well,” I said, a little hesitatingly, “to begin with, I don’t think the cause of death was quite clear, Batson couldn’t find anything definite when he attended the man, and I know that the patient’s death came as quite a surprise.”

  “But surely,” exclaimed Thorndyke, “he took some measures to find out the cause of death!”

  “He didn’t. He assumed that it was a case of fatty heart and certified it as ‘Morbus cordis’; and a man named O’Connor confirmed his certificate after examining the body.”

  “After merely inspecting the exterior?”

  “Yes.”

  My two friends looked at one another significantly, and Thorndyke remarked, with a disapproving shake of the head: “And this is what all the elaborate precautions amount to in practice. A case which might have been one of the crudest and baldest poisoning gets passed with hardly a pretence of scrutiny. And so it will always be. Routine precautions against the unsuspected are no precautions at all. That is the danger of cremation. It restores to the poisoner the security that he enjoyed in the old days when there were no such sciences as toxicology and organic chemistry, when it was impossible for him to be tripped up by an exhumation and an analysis.”

  “You don’t think it likely that this was a case of poisoning, do you?” I asked.

  “I know nothing about the case,” he replied, “excepting that there was gross neglect in issuing the certificates. What do you think about it yourself? Looking back at the case, is there anything besides the uncertainty that strikes you as unsatisfactory?”

  I hesitated, and again the figure of Mrs. Samway rose before me with that strange, baleful look in her eyes. Finally I described the incident to my colleagues. “Mrs. Samway!” exclaimed Jervis. “Is that the handsome Lucrezia Borgia lady with the mongoose eyes who called here this morning? By Jove! Jardine, you are giving me the creeps.”

  “I understand,” said Thorndyke, “that you were making as if to feel the dead man’s pulse?”

  “Yes.”

  “There is no doubt, I suppose, that he really was dead?”

  “None whatever. He was as cold as a fish, and, besides there was quite distinct rigor mortis.”

  “That seems conclusive enough,” said Thorndyke, but he continued to gaze at his open notebook with a profoundly speculative and thoughtful expression.

  “It certainly looks,” said Jervis, “as if Jardine had either seen something or had been about to see something that he was not wanted to see; and the question is what that something could have been.”

  “Yes,” I agreed, gloomily; “that is what I have just been asking myself. There might have been a wound or injury of some kind, or there might have been the marks of a hypodermic needle on the wrist. I wish I knew what she meant by looking at me in that way.”

  “Well,” said Jervis, “we shall never know now. The grave gives up its secrets now and again, but the crematorium furnace never. Whether he died naturally or was murdered, Mr. Maddock is now a little heap of ashes with no message for anyone this side of the Day of Judgment.”

  Thorndyke looked up. “That seems to be so,” said he, “and really, we have no substantial reasons for thinking that there was anything wrong. So we come back to your own affairs, Jardine, and the question is, What would you prefer to do?”

  “In what respect?” I asked.

  “In regard to this attempt on your life. You have told us that you have not an enemy in the world.
But it appears as if you had; and a very dangerous one, too. Now would you like to put the case into the hands of the police, or would you rather that we kept our own counsel and looked into it ourselves?”

  “I should like you to decide that,” said I.

  “The reason that I ask,” said Thorndyke, “is this: the machinery of the police is adjusted to professional crime—burglary, coining, forgery, and so forth—and their methods are mostly based on ‘information received.’ The professional ‘crook’ is generally well known to the police, and, when wanted for any particular ‘job,’ can be found without much difficulty and the information necessary for his conviction obtained from the usual sources. But in cases of obscure, non-professional crime the police are at a disadvantage. The criminal is unknown to them; there are no confederates from whom to get information; consequently they have no starting-point for their enquiries. They can’t create clues; and they, very naturally, will not devote time, labour and money to cases in which they have nothing to go on.

  “Now this affair of yours does not look like a professional crime. No motive is evident and you can give no information that would help the police. I doubt if they would do much more than give you some rather disagreeable publicity, and they might even suspect you of some kind of imposture.”

  “Gad!” I exclaimed. “That’s just what they would do. It’s what they did last time, and this affair would write me down in their eyes a confirmed mystery-monger.”

  “Last time?” queried Thorndyke. “What last time is that? Have there been any other attempts?”

  “Not on me,” I replied. “But I had an adventure one night about six or seven weeks ago that has made the Hampstead police look on me, I think, with some suspicion”; and here I gave my two friends a description of my encounter with the dead (or insensible) cleric in Millfield Lane, and my discoveries on the following morning.

  “But my dear Jardine!” Thorndyke exclaimed when I had finished, “what an extraordinary man you are! It seems as if you could hardly show your nose out of doors without becoming involved in some dark and dreadful mystery.”

  “Well,” said I, “I hope I have now exhausted my gifts in that respect. I am not thirsting for more experiences. But what do you think about that Hampstead affair? Do you think I could possibly have been mistaken? Could the man have been merely insensible, after all, as the police suggested?”

  Thorndyke shook his head. “I don’t think,” he replied, “that it is possible to take that view. You see the man had disappeared. Now he could not have got away unassisted, in fact he could not have walked at all. One would have to assume that some persons appeared directly after you left and carried him away; and that they appeared and retired so quickly as not to be overtaken by you on your return a few minutes later with the police. That is assuming too much. And then there are the traces which you discovered on the following day, which seem to suggest strongly that a body had been carried away to Ken Wood. It is a thousand pities that you encountered that keeper, if you could have followed the tracks while they were fresh you might have been able to ascertain whither it had been carried. But now, to return to your latest experience, what shall we do? Shall we communicate with the police, or shall we make a few investigations on our own account?”

  “As far as I am concerned,” I replied eagerly, “a private investigation would be greatly preferable. But wouldn’t it take up rather a lot of your time?”

  “Now, Jardine, you needn’t apologize,” said Jervis. “Unless I am much mistaken, my respected senior has ‘struck soundings,’ as the nautical phrase has it. He has a theory of your case, and he would like to see it through. Isn’t that so, Thorndyke?”

  “Well,” Thorndyke admitted, “I will confess that the case piques my curiosity somewhat. It is an unusual affair and suggests some curious hypotheses which might be worth testing. So, if you agree, Jardine, that we make at least a few preliminary investigations, I suggest that, as soon as Batson returns, we three go over to the what the newspapers would call ‘the scene of the tragedy’ and reconstitute the affair on the spot.”

  “And what about Batson?” I asked. “Shall we tell him anything?”

  “I think we must,” said Thorndyke, “if only to put him on his guard; for your unknown enemy may be his enemy, too.”

  At this moment the street door banged loudly, a quick step danced along the hall, and Batson himself burst into the room. “Good Lord!” he exclaimed, halting abruptly at the door and gazing in dismay at our little council. “What’s the matter? Anything happened?”

  Thorndyke laughed as he shook the hand of his quondam pupil. “Come, come, Batson, “said he,” don’t make me out such a bird of ill-omen.”

  “I was afraid something awkward might have occurred, police job or inquest or something of that sort.”

  “You weren’t so very far wrong,” said Thorndyke. “When you are at liberty I’ll tell you about it.”

  “I’m at liberty now,” said Batson, dropping into a chair and glaring at Thorndyke through his spectacles. “No scandal, I hope.”

  Thorndyke reassured him on this point and gave him a brief account of my adventure and our proposed visit to the works; to which he listened with occasional ejaculations of astonishment and relief. “By Gum!” he exclaimed, “what a mercy you got there in time. If you hadn’t there’d have been an inquest and a devil of a fuss. I should never have heard the last of it. Ruined the practice and worried me into a lunatic asylum. Oh, and about those works. I wouldn’t go there if I were you.”

  “Why not?” Thorndyke asked.

  “Well, you may have to answer some awkward questions, and we don’t want this affair to get about, you know. No use raising a dust. Rumpus of any kind plays the deuce with a medical practice.”

  Thorndyke smiled at my principal’s frank egoism. “Jervis and I went over last night,” said he, “and had a hasty look round and we found the place quite deserted. Probably it is so still.”

  “Then you won’t be able to get in. How jer get in last night?”

  “I happened to have a piece of stiff wire in my pocket,” Thorndyke replied impassively.

  “Ha!” said Batson. “Wire, eh? Picklock in fact. I wouldn’t, if I were you. Devil of a bobbery if anyone sees you. Hallo! There goes the bell. Patient. Let him wait. ’Tisn’t six yet, is it?”

  “Two minutes past,” replied Thorndyke, rising and looking at his watch. “Perhaps we had better be starting as it’s now dark, and the business at the works, if there is any, is probably over for the day.”

  “Hang the works!” exclaimed Batson. “I wouldn’t go nosing about there. What’s the good? Jardine’s alright and the chappie isn’t likely to be on view. You’ll only raise a stink for nothing and bring in a crowd of beastly reports humming about the place. There’s that damn bell again. Well, if you won’t stay, perhaps you’ll look me up some other time. Always d’lighted to see you. Jervis too. You’re not going, Jardine. I’ve got to settle up with you and bear your report.”

  “I’ll look in later,” said I; “when you’ve finished the evening’s work.”

  “Right you are,” said Batson, opening the door and adroitly edging us out. “Sorry you can’t stay. Good-night! Good-night!”

  He shepherded us persuasively and compellingly down the hall, with a skill born of long practice with garrulous patients, and, having exchanged us on the doorstep for a stout woman with two children, returned into the house with his prey and was lost to sight.

  CHAPTER VII

  AN UNSEEN ENEMY

  From my late principal’s house we walked away quickly down the lamplit street, all, I think, dimly amused at the circumstances of our departure. “Is Batson always like that?” Thorndyke asked.

  “Always,” I replied. “Hurry and bustle are his normal states.”

  “Dear, dear,” commented Thorndyke, “what a terrible amount of time he must waste. Of course, one can understand now how that cremation muddle came about. Your incurable hustler
is always thinking of the things he has got to do next instead of the thing that he is doing at the moment. By the way, Jardine, I am taking it for granted that you would like to inspect these premises. It is not essential. Jervis and I had a preliminary look round last night, and I daresay we picked up most of the facts that are likely to be of importance if we should be going farther into the matter.”

  “I think it would be as well for me to take a look at the place and show you exactly where and how the affair happened.”

  “I think so too,” said Thorndyke. “It was all pretty evident, but you might be able to show us something that we had overlooked. Here we are. I wonder if Mr. Gill is on the premises—supposing him still to frequent them.”

  He looked up and down the street, and, taking a key from his pocket, inserted it into the lock. “Why, how on earth did you get the key?” I asked.

  Thorndyke looked at me slyly. “We keep a tame mechanic,” said he, as he turned the key and opened the wicket.

  “Yes, but how did he get the pattern of the lock?” I asked.

  Thorndyke laughed softly. “It is only a simple trade lock. The fact is, Jardine, that in our branch of practice we have occasionally to take some rather irregular proceedings. For instance, I usually carry a small set of picklocks—fortunately for you. That is how I got in last night. Then I never go abroad without a little box of moulding wax; a most invaluable material, Jardine, for collecting certain kinds of evidence. Well, with a slip of wood and a bit of wax I was able to furnish my man with the necessary data for filing up a blank key. One doesn’t want to be seen using a picklock. Now, can you show us the way?”

  He flashed a pocket electric lamp on the ground, and we advanced over the rough cobbles until we reached a door at the side. “This is where I went in,” said I. “It opens into a sort of corridor, and at the end is a door opening on some steps that lead down to the passage below.”

  Thorndyke tried the handle of the door and pushed, but it was evidently locked or bolted. “I left this door unlocked last night,” said he; “so it is clear that someone has been here since. I hardly expected that. I thought our friend would have cleared off for good. But it is possible that Gill had nothing to do with the attempt. The premises may have been used by someone who happened to know that they were unoccupied. It would have been quite easy for such a person to gain admittance; as you see.”