“Perfectly. And you are now searching for corroborative facts in the dust from those boxes. It doesn’t look a very hopeful quest.”
“It doesn’t,” Thorndyke agreed. “But still, circumstantial evidence gains weight very rapidly. A grain of positive evidence would give quite a new importance to the disappearance. For instance, no less than seven of those boxes have yielded moustache hairs, all apparently from the same person—a fair man with a rather closely cropped moustache of a tawny colour. Now, if it should turn out that Osmond has a moustache of that kind and that no other person connected with those boxes has a moustache of precisely that character, this would be a really important item of evidence, especially coupled with the disappearance.”
“It would, indeed; and even the number might be illuminating. I mean that, although moustache hairs are shed pretty freely, one would not have expected to find so many. But if the man had the not uncommon habit of stroking or rubbing his moustache, that would account for the number that had got detached.”
Thorndyke nodded approvingly. “Quite a good point, Jervis. I will make a note of it for verification. And now, as we seem to have finished, shall we take a look at one or two of the samples.”
“Exactly what I was going to propose,” replied Jervis; and as they rose and repaired to the small laboratory, he added: “It’s quite like old times to be pursuing a mysterious unknown quantity with you. I sometimes feel like chucking the insurance job and coming back.”
“It is better to come back occasionally and keep the insurance job,” Thorndyke rejoined as he placed two microscopes on the bench facing the window and drew up a couple of chairs. “You had better note the number of each box that you examine, though it is probably of no consequence.”
He took up the collection of pill-boxes, and having placed them between the two microscopes, sat down, and the two friends then fell to work, each carefully tipping the contents of a box on to a large glass slip and laying the latter on the stage of the microscope.
For some time they worked on in silence, each jotting down on a note-block brief comments on the specimens examined. When about half of the boxes had been dealt with—and their contents very carefully returned to them—Jervis leaned back in his chair and looked thoughtfully at his colleague.
“This is very commonplace, uncharacteristic dust in most respects,” said he, “but there is one queer feature in it that I don’t quite make out. I have found in every specimen a number of irregularly oval bodies, some of them with pointed ends. They are about a hundredth of an inch long by a little more than a two hundredth wide; a dull pink in colour and apparently of a granular homogeneous substance. I took them at first for insect eggs, but they are evidently not, as they have no skin or shell. I don’t remember having seen anything exactly like them before. Have you found any of them?”
“Yes. Like you, I have found some in every box.”
“And what do you make of them? Do you recognize them?”
“Yes,” replied Thorndyke. “They are the castings of a wood-boring beetle; particles of that fine dust that you see in the worm-holes of worm-eaten wood. Quite an interesting find.”
“Quite; unless they come from the boxes that the jewels were packed in.”
“I don’t think they do. Those boxes are white wood, whereas these castings are from a red wood. But we may as well make sure.”
He rose and took up the empty boxes one by one, turning each one over and examining it closely on all sides.
“You see, Jervis,” he said as he laid down the last of them, “there is not a trace of a worm-hole in any of them. No, that worm-dust came from an outside source.”
“But,” exclaimed Jervis, “it is very extraordinary. Don’t you think so? I mean,” he continued in response to an inquiring glance from his colleague, “that the quantity is so astonishing. Just think of it. In every one of these boxes we have found an appreciable number of these castings—quite a large quantity in the aggregate. But the amount of dust that will fall from a piece of worm-eaten furniture must be infinitesimal.”
“I would hardly agree to that, Jervis. A really badly wormed piece—say an old walnut chair or armoire—may, in the course of time, shed a surprisingly large amount of dust. But, nevertheless, my learned friend has, with his usual perspicacity, laid his finger on the point that is of real evidential importance—the remarkable quantity of this dust and its more or less even distribution among all these boxes. And now you realize the truth of what I was saying just now as to the cumulative quality of circumstantial evidence. Here we have a number of boxes which have undoubtedly been tampered with by some person. That person is believed to be the man Osmond on the ground that he has absconded. But his disappearance, by itself, furnishes no evidence of his guilt. It merely offers a suggestion. He may have gone away for some entirely different reason.
“Then we find in these boxes certain moustache hairs. If it should turn out that Osmond has a moustache composed of similar hairs, that fact alone would not implicate him, since there are thousands of other men with similar moustaches. But taken in conjunction with the disappearance, the similarity of the hairs would constitute an item of positive evidence.
“Then we find some dust derived from worm-eaten wood. Its presence in these boxes, its character, and its abundance offer certain suggestions as to the kind of wood, the nature of the wooden object, and the circumstances attending its deposition in the boxes. Now, if it should be possible to ascertain the existence of a wooden object of the kind suggested and associated with the suggested circumstances, and if that object were the property of, or definitely associated with, the man Osmond, that fact, together with the hairs and the disappearance, would form a really weighty mass of evidence against him.”
“Yes, I see that,” said Jervis; “but what I don’t see is how you arrive at your inferences as to the object from which the dust was derived.”
“It is a question of probabilities,” replied Thorndyke. “First, as to the kind of wood. It is a red wood. It is pretty certainly not mahogany, as it is too light in colour and mahogany is very little liable to ‘the worm.’ But the abundance of dust suggests one of those woods which are specially liable to be worm eaten. Of these the fruit woods—walnut, cherry, apple, and pear—are the most extreme cases, cherry being, perhaps, the worst of all and therefore usually avoided by the cabinet-maker. But this dust is obviously not walnut. It is the wrong colour. But it might be either cherry, apple, or pear, and the probabilities are rather in favour of cherry; though, of course, it might be some other relatively soft and sappy red wood.”
“But how do you infer the nature of the object?”
“Again, by the presence of the dust in these boxes, by the properties of that dust and the large quantity of it. Consider the case of ordinary room dust. You find it on all sorts of surfaces, even high up on the walls or on the ceiling. There is no mystery as to how it gets there. It consists of minute particles, mostly of fibres from textiles, so small and light that they float freely in the air. But this wood consists of relatively large and heavy bodies—over a hundredth of an inch long. From the worm-holes it will fall to the floor; and there it will remain even when the floor is being swept. It cannot rise in the air and become deposited like ordinary dust, and it must therefore have made its way into these boxes in some other manner.”
“Yes, I realize that; but still I don’t see how that fact throws any light on the nature of the wooden object.”
“It is merely a suggestion,” replied Thorndyke; “and the inference may be quite wrong. But it is a perfectly obvious one. Come now, Jervis, don’t let your intellectual joints get stiff. Keep them lissom by exercise. Consider the problem of this dust. How did it get into these boxes and why is there so much of it? If you reason out the probabilities, you must inevitably reach a conclusion as to the nature of the wooden object. That conclusion may turn out to be wrong; but it will be logically justifiable.”
“Well, that is all that matters,
” Jervis retorted with a sour smile, as he rose and glanced at his watch. “The mere fact of its being wrong we should ignore as an irrelevant triviality; just as the French surgeon, undisturbed by the death of the patient, proceeded with his operation and finally brought it to a brilliantly successful conclusion. I will practise your logical dumbbell exercise, and if I reach no conclusion after all I shall still be comforted by the mental vision of my learned senior scouring the country in search of a hypothetical worm-eaten chest of drawers.”
Thorndyke chuckled softly. “My learned friend is pleased to be ironical. But nevertheless his unerring judgement leads him to a perfectly correct forecast of my proceedings. The next stage of the inquiry will consist in tracing this dust to its sources, and the goal of my endeavours will be the discovery and identification of this wooden object. If I succeed in that, there will be, I imagine, very little more left to discover.”
“No,” Jervis agreed, “especially if the owner of the antique should happen to be the elusive Mr. Osmond. So I wish you success in your quest, and only hope it may not resemble too closely that of the legendary blind man, searching in a dark room for a black hat—that isn’t there.”
With this parting shot and a defiant grin, Jervis took his departure, leaving Thorndyke to complete the examination of the remaining material.
CHAPTER XV
MR. WAMPOLE IS HIGHLY AMUSED
On a certain Saturday afternoon at a few minutes to three the door of Mr. Woodstock’s office in High Street, Burchester, opened somewhat abruptly and disclosed the figures of the solicitor himself and his chief clerk.
“Confounded nuisance all this fuss and foolery,” growled the former, pulling out his watch and casting an impatient glance up the street. “I hope he is not going to keep us waiting.”
“He is not due till three,” Hepburn remarked, soothingly; and then, stepping out and peering up the nearly empty street, he added: “Perhaps that may be he—that tall man with the little clerical-looking person.”
“If it is, he seems to be bringing his luggage with him,” said Mr. Woodstock, regarding the pair, and especially the suitcases that they carried, with evident disfavour; “but you are right. They are coming here.”
He put away his watch, and as the two men crossed the road, he assumed an expression of polite hostility.
“Dr. Thorndyke?” he inquired as the newcomers halted opposite the doorway; and having received confirmation of his surmise, he continued: “I am Mr. Woodstock, and this is my colleague, Mr. Hepburn. May I take it that this gentleman is concerned in our present business?” As he spoke he fixed a truculent blue eye on Thorndyke’s companion, who crinkled apologetically.
“This is Mr. Polton, my laboratory assistant,” Thorndyke explained, “who has come with me to give me any help that I may need.”
“Indeed,” said Woodstock, glaring inquisitively at the large suitcase which Polton carried. “Help? I gathered from Mr. Penfield’s letter that you wished to inspect the office, and I must confess that I found myself utterly unable to imagine why. May I ask what you expect to learn from an inspection of the premises?”
“That,” replied Thorndyke, “is a rather difficult question to answer. But as all my information as to what has occurred here is second-or third-hand, I thought it best to see the place myself and make a few inquiries on the spot. That is my routine practice.”
“Ah, I see,” said Woodstock. “Your visit is just a matter of form, a demonstration of activity. Well, I am sorry I can’t be present at the ceremony. My colleague and I have an engagement elsewhere; but my office-keeper, Mr. Wampole, will be able to tell you anything that you may wish to know and show you all there is to see excepting the strong-room. If you want to see that, as I suppose you do, I had better show it to you now, as I must take the key away with me.”
He led the way along the narrow hall, half-way down which he opened a door inscribed ‘Clerks’ Office,’ and entered a large room, now unoccupied save by an elderly man who sat at a table with the parts of a dismembered electric bell spread out before him. Through this Mr. Woodstock passed into a somewhat smaller room furnished with a large writing-table, one or two nests of deed-boxes, and a set of book-shelves. Nearly opposite the table was the massive door of the strong-room, standing wide open with the key in the lock.
“This is my private office,” said Mr. Woodstock, “and here is the strong-room. Perhaps you would like to step inside. I am rather proud of this room. You don’t often see one of this size. And it is absolutely fire-proof; thick steel lining, concrete outside that, and then brick. It is practically indestructible. Those confounded boxes occupied that long upper shelf.”
Thorndyke did not appear to be specially interested in the strong-room. He walked in, looked round at the steel walls with their ranks of steel shelves, loaded with bundles of documents, and then walked out.
“Yes,” he said, “it is a fine room, as strong and secure as one could wish; though, of course, its security has no bearing on our case, since it must have been entered either with its own key or a duplicate. May I look at the key?”
Mr. Woodstock withdrew it from the lock and handed it to him without comment, watching him with undisguised impatience as he turned it over and examined its blade.
“Not a difficult type of key to duplicate,” he remarked as he handed it back, “though these wardless pin-keys are more subtle than they look.”
“I suppose they are,” Woodstock assented indifferently. “But really, these investigations appear to me rather pointless, seeing that the identity of the thief is known. And now I must be off; but first let me introduce you to my deputy, Mr. Wampole.”
He led the way back to the clerks’ office, where his subordinate was busily engaged in assembling the parts of the bell.
“This is Dr. Thorndyke, Wampole, who has come with his assistant, Mr.—er—Bolton, to inspect the premises and make a few inquiries. You can show him anything that he wants to see and give him all the assistance that you can in the way of answering questions. And,” concluded Mr. Woodstock, shaking hands stiffly with Thorndyke, “I wish you a successful issue to your labours.”
As Mr. Woodstock and his colleague departed, closing the outer door after them, Mr. Wampole laid down his screw-driver and looked at Thorndyke with a slightly puzzled expression.
“I don’t quite understand, sir, what you want to do,” said he, “or what sort of inspection you want to make; but I am entirely at your service, if you will kindly instruct me. What would you like me to show you first?”
“I don’t think we need interrupt your work just at present, Mr. Wampole. The first thing to be done is to make a rough plan of the premises, and while my assistant is doing that, perhaps I might ask you a few questions if it will not distract you too much.”
“It will not distract me at all,” Mr. Wampole replied, picking up his screw-driver. “I am accustomed to doing odd jobs about the office—I am the handy man of the establishment—and I am not easily put out of my stride.”
Evidently he was not; for even as he was speaking his fingers were busy in a neat, purposive way that showed clearly that his attention was not wandering from his task. Thorndyke watched him curiously, not quite able to ‘place’ him. His hands were the skilful, capable hands of a mechanic, and this agreed with Woodstock’s description of him and his own. But his speech was that of a passably educated man and his manner was quite dignified and self-possessed.
“By the way,” said Thorndyke, “Mr. Woodstock referred to you as the office-keeper. Does that mean that you are the custodian of the premises?”
“Nominally,” replied Wampole. “I am a law-writer by profession; but when I first came here, some twenty years ago, I came as a caretaker and used to live upstairs. But for many years past the upstairs rooms have been used for storage—obsolete books, documents, and all sorts of accumulations. Nobody lives in the house now. We lock the place up when we go away at night. As for me, I am, as I said, the handy man of the
establishment. I do whatever comes along—copy letters, engross leases, keep an eye on the state of the premises, and so on.”
“I see. Then you probably know as much of the affairs of this office as anybody.”
“Probably, sir. I am the oldest member of the staff, and I am usually the first to arrive in the morning and the last to leave at night. I expect I can tell you anything that you want to know.”
“Then I will ask you one or two questions, if I may. You probably know that my visit here is connected with the robbery of Mr. Hollis’s gems?”
“The alleged robbery,” Mr. Wampole corrected. “Yes, sir. Mr. Woodstock told me that.”
“You appear to be somewhat doubtful about the robbery.”
“I am not doubtful at all,” Wampole replied in a tone of great decision. “I am convinced that the whole thing is a mare’s nest. The gems may have been stolen. I suppose they were as Mr. Hollis says they were. But they weren’t stolen from here.”
“You put complete trust in the strong-room?”
“Oh no, I don’t, sir. This is a solicitor’s strong-room, not a banker’s. It is secure against fire, not against robbery. It was designed for the custody of things such as documents, of great value to their owners but of no value to a thief. It was no proper receptacle for jewels. They should have gone to a bank.”
“Do I understand, then, that unauthorized persons might have obtained access to the strong-room?”
“They might, during business hours. Mr. Woodstock unlocks it when he arrives and it is usually open all day; or if it is shut, the key is left hanging on the wall. But it has never been taken seriously as a bank strong-room is. Mr. Hepburn and Mr. Osmond kept their cricket-bags and other things in it, and we have all been in the habit of putting things in there if we were leaving them here over-night.”
“Then, really, any member of the staff had the opportunity to make away with Mr. Hollis’s property?”
The Third R. Austin Freeman Megapack Page 44
