“Ha!” exclaimed Mr. Penfield in what sounded like a tone of disapproval. “And as to the wood-dust?”
“I obtained traces of it from every part of the floor. But it was very unequally distributed; so unequally as to associate it quite distinctly with a particular individual. I obtained abundant traces of it from the floor round that individual’s desk, and even more from the inside of the desk; whereas, from the interiors of the other desks I recovered hardly a particle.”
“You refer to ‘a particular individual.’ Do you mean John Osmond?”
“No,” replied Thorndyke. “Osmond’s desk contained no wood-dust.”
“Ha!” exclaimed Mr. Penfield in what sounded very like a tone of satisfaction.
“As to the individual referred to,” said Thorndyke, “I think that, for the present, it might be better—”
“Certainly,” Mr. Penfield interrupted emphatically, “certainly. It will be much better to mention no names. After all, it is but a coincidence, though undoubtedly a striking one. But we must keep an open mind.”
“That is what I feel,” said Thorndyke. “It is an impressive fact, but there is the possibility of some fallacy. Nevertheless it is the most promising clue that offers, and I shall endeavour to follow it up.”
“Undoubtedly,” Mr. Penfield agreed, warmly. “It indicates a new line of inquiry adapted to your peculiar gifts, though to me I must confess it only adds a new complication to this mystery. And I do really find this a most perplexing case. Perhaps you do not?”
“I do, indeed,” replied Thorndyke. “It bristles with contradictions and inconsistencies. Take the case against Osmond. On the one hand it is in the highest degree convincing. The robberies coincide in time with his presence in the office. His disappearance coincides with the discovery of the robbery; and then in the rifled boxes we find a number of hairs from his moustache.”
“Can you prove that they are actually his?” Mr. Penfield asked.
“No,” Thorndyke replied. “But I have not the slightest doubt that they are, and I think they would be accepted by a jury—in conjunction with the other circumstances—as good evidence. These facts seem to point quite clearly to his guilt. On the other hand, the wood-dust is not connected with him at all. None was found in his desk or near it; and when I examined his rooms—which by a fortunate chance I was able to do—I not only found no trace whatever of wood-dust, but from the appearance of the place I was convinced that the boxes had not been opened there. And furthermore, so far as I could ascertain, the man’s personality was singularly out of character with a subtle, cunning, avaricious crime of this type; not that I would lay great stress on that point.”
“No,” agreed Mr. Penfield; “the information is too scanty. But tell me: you inferred that the boxes were not opened in Woodstock’s office, but were taken away and opened in some other place. How did you arrive at that?”
“By means of the wood-dust. The place in which those boxes were opened and refilled must have contained some worm-eaten wooden object which yielded that very distinctive dust, and yielded it in large quantities. But there was no such object on Woodstock’s premises. I searched the house from top to bottom and could not find a single piece of worm-eaten wood work.”
“And may I inquire—mind, I am not asking for details—but may I inquire whether you have any idea as to the whereabouts of that piece of furniture?”
“I have a suspicion,” replied Thorndyke. “But there is my dilemma. I have a strong suspicion as to the place where it might be found; but, unfortunately, that place is not accessible for exploration. So, at present, I am unable either to confirm or disprove my theory.”
“But supposing you were able to ascertain definitely that the piece of furniture is where you believe it to be? What then?”
“In that case,” Thorndyke replied, “provided that this worm-eaten object turned out to be the kind of object that I believe it to be, I should be disposed to apply for a search-warrant.”
“To search for what?” demanded Mr. Penfield.
“The stolen property—and certain other things.”
“But surely the stolen property has been disposed of long ago.”
“I think,” replied Thorndyke, “that there are reasons for believing that it has not. But I would rather not go into that question at present.”
“No,” said Mr. Penfield. “We agreed to avoid speculative questions. And now, as I think I have exhausted your supply of information, it is my turn to contribute. I have a rather startling piece of news to communicate. John Osmond is dead.”
Thorndyke regarded Mr. Penfield with raised eyebrows. “Have you heard any particulars?” he asked.
“Woodstock sent me a copy of the police report, of which I will send you a duplicate if you would like one. Briefly, it amounts to this: Osmond was traced to Bristol, and it was suspected that he had embarked on a ship which traded from that port to the west coast of Africa. That ship was seen, some weeks later, at anchor off the coast at a considerable distance from her usual trading-ground, and on her arrival at her station—a place called Half-Jack on the Grain Coast—was boarded by an inspector of constabulary who had been sent up from the Gold Coast to make inquiries. To him the captain admitted that he had landed a passenger from Bristol at a place called Adaffia in the Bight of Benin. The passenger was a man named Walker whose description agreed completely with that of Osmond. Thereupon, the inspector returned to Accra to report; and from thence was sent down to Adaffia with an armed party to find the man and arrest him.
“But he was too late. He arrived only in time to find a trader named Larkom setting up a wooden cross over the grave. Walker had died early that morning or the night before.”
“Is it quite clear that this man was really John Osmond?”
“Quite,” replied Mr. Penfield. “Larkom had just painted the name John Osmond on the cross. It appeared that Osmond, when he realized that he was dying, had disclosed his real name and asked to have it written above his grave—naturally enough. One doesn’t want to be buried under an assumed name.”
“No,” Thorndyke agreed. “The grave is a sufficiently secure sanctuary. Does the report say what was the cause of death?”
“Yes, though it doesn’t seem very material. He is stated to have died from blackwater fever—whatever that may be.”
“It is a peculiarly malignant type of malaria,” Thorndyke explained; and he added after a pause: “Well, ‘the White Man’s Grave’ is a pestilential region, but poor Osmond certainly wasted no time in dying. How does his death affect our inquiry?”
Mr. Penfield took snuff viciously. “Woodstock’s view is—I can hardly speak of it with patience—that as the thief is dead, the inquiry comes automatically to an end.”
“And Hollis, I take it, does not agree?”
“Indeed he does not. He wants his property traced and recovered.”
“And do I understand that you instruct me to proceed with my investigations?
“Most certainly; especially in view of what you have told me.”
“I am glad of that,” said Thorndyke. “I dislike exceedingly leaving an inquiry uncompleted. In fact, I should have completed the case for my own satisfaction and as a matter of public policy. For if Osmond stole these gems, the fact ought to be proved lest any other person should be suspected; and if he did not, his character ought to be cleared as a matter of common justice.”
“That is exactly my own feeling,” said Mr. Penfield. “And then, of course, there is the property. That ought to be recovered if possible, especially if, as you seem to think, it is still intact. And now,” he added, draining his glass and rising, “it is time for me to depart. I have to thank you for a most interesting and pleasant evening.”
As Thorndyke stood on the landing looking down upon his retreating guest, he was dimly aware of a presence on the stair above; and when he turned to re-enter his chambers, the presence materialized into the form of Polton. With silent and stealthy tread the ‘fam
iliar spirit’ stole down the stairs and followed his principal into the room, where, having closed both doors with a secret and portentous air, he advanced to the table.
“What have you got under your arm, Polton?” Thorndyke asked.
By way of reply, Polton regarded his employer with a smile of the most extraordinary crinkliness and began very deliberately to untie the string of a small parcel. From the latter he at length disengaged a kind of leathern wallet marked in gold lettering with what appeared to be a tradesman’s name and address. This he bore, slowly and ceremoniously, to the table, where with a sudden movement he unrolled it, displaying a glittering constellation of metal buttons.
“Well done, Polton!” Thorndyke exclaimed. “What a man you are! Now, where might you have unearthed this relic?”
“I discovered it, sir,” replied Polton, blushing with pleasure like a dried apricot, “in a little, old-fashioned tailor’s trimming-shop in one of the courts off Carnaby Street. It is quite a well preserved specimen, sir.”
“Yes, it is in wonderful condition, considering its age. Mr. Wampole will be delighted with it. He will be set up with buttons for life. I think, Polton, it would add to his pleasure if you were to run down and make the presentation in person. Don’t you?”
Polton’s features crinkled to the point of obliteration. “I do, indeed, sir,” he replied. “At his private residence, I think, sir.”
“Certainly; at his private residence. And we shall have to find out at what time he usually returns from the office.”
“We shall, sir,” Polton agreed; and thereupon proceeded to crinkle to a perfectly alarming extent.
CHAPTER XVII
The Lapidary
In a small street hard by Clerkenwell Green is a small shop of antique and mouldy aspect, the modest window of which is so obscured by a coat of paint on the inside as to leave the unaided observer to speculate in vain as to the kind of wares concealed within. A clue to the mystery is, however, furnished by an inscription in faded gilt lettering on the fascia above, which sets forth that the tenant’s name is Lambert and that his vocation is that of a lapidary and dealer in precious stones.
On a certain afternoon a few days after his interview with Mr. Penfield, Dr. John Thorndyke might have been seen to turn into the small street with a brisk, decisive air suggestive of familiarity with the neighbourhood and a definite purpose; and the latter suggestion would have been confirmed when, having arrived at the shop, he pushed open the door and entered. A faded, elderly man confronted him across the counter and inquired what might be his pleasure.
“I have called,” said Thorndyke, “to make some inquiries concerning artificial stones.”
“Did you want them for theatrical purposes?”
“No. Those are usually cast or moulded, aren’t they?”
“Sometimes. Not as a rule. Can’t get much sparkle out of moulded glass, you know. But what was the class of goods you were wanting?”
“I wanted a set of imitation gems made to given shapes and dimensions to form a collection such as might be suitable for purposes of instruction in a technical school.”
“Would the shapes and dimensions have to be exact?”
“Yes, quite exact. They are intended to be copies of existing specimens and the settings are already made.”
Thorndyke’s answer seemed to occasion some surprise, for the man to whom he made it reflected profoundly for a few moments and then looked round at a younger man who was sorting samples from the stock at a side-bench.
“Odd, isn’t it, Fred?” said the former.
“What is odd?” inquired Thorndyke.
“Why, you see, sir, we had someone come in only a few days ago making the very same inquiry. You remember him, Fred?”
“Yes, I remember him, Mr. Lambert. Crinkly-faced little blighter.”
“That’s the man,” said Mr. Lambert. “I rather wondered at the time what his game was. Seemed to know a lot about the trade, too; but you have to mind what you are about making strass facsimiles.”
“Of course you have,” Thorndyke agreed, “especially when you are dealing with these crinkly-faced people.”
“Exactly,” said Mr. Lambert, “But, of course, sir, in your case we know where we are.”
“It is very good of you to say so,” rejoined Thorndyke. “But I gather that you are not often asked to make sets of facsimile imitations.”
“No, not sets. Occasionally we get an order from a jeweller to duplicate the stones of a diamond necklace or tiara to be used while the original is in pawn, or for safety in a crowd. But not a collection such as you are speaking of. In fact, during all the thirty-five years that I have been in business, I have only had one order of the kind. That was between four and five years ago. A gentleman named Scofield wanted a set to offer to some local museum, and he wanted them to be copies of stones in various public collections. He got the shapes and dimensions from the catalogues—so I understood.”
“Did you execute the order?”
“Yes; and quite a big order it was.”
“I wonder,” said Thorndyke, “whether he happened to have selected any of the stones that are in my list. Mine are mostly from the Hollis collection. But I suppose you don’t keep records of the work you do?”
“I expect all the particulars are in the order book. We can soon see.”
He went over to a shelf on which was ranged a row of books of all ages, and running his hand along, presently drew out a leather volume which he laid on the counter and opened.
“Ah! Here we are,” said he, after a brief search. “Mr. Scofield. Perhaps you would like to glance over his list. You see there are quite a lot of them.”
He pushed the book across to Thorndyke, who had already produced a notebook from his pocket, the entries in which he now proceeded to compare with those in Mr. Scofield’s list. Mr. Lambert watched him with close interest as he placed his finger on one after another of the entries in the book, and presently remarked:
“You seem to be finding some duplicates of your own lot.”
“It is most remarkable,” said Thorndyke “—and yet perhaps it isn’t—but his selection coincides with mine in over a dozen instances. May I tick them off with a pencil?”
“Do, by all means,” said Lambert. “Then I can copy them out afterwards—that is, if you want me to get the duplicates cut.”
“I do, certainly. I will mark off those that I want, and, when you have cut those, I will give you a further list. And I may add that I should like you to use the best-quality strass that you can get. I want them to be as much like real stones as possible.”
“I should do that in any case for good cut work,” said Lambert; and he added: “I suppose there is no special hurry for these stones?
“None at all,” replied Thorndyke. “If you will send me a card to this address when they are ready, I will call for them. Or, perhaps, if I pay for them now you could send them to me.”
The latter alternative was adopted, and while the prices were being reckoned up and the bill was being made out, Thorndyke occupied himself in making, in shorthand, a copy of the list in the order book. He had finished and put away his notebook by the time the account was ready; when, having laid a visiting-card on the counter, he paid his score and began to put on his gloves.
“By the way,” said he, “your customer would not happen to be Mr. Scofield of the Middle Temple, I suppose?
“I really couldn’t say, sir,” replied Lambert. “He never gave any address. But I had an idea that he came up from the country. He used to give his orders and then he would call, at longish intervals, and take away as many of the stones as were ready. He was a middle-aged man, a bit on the shady side; tallish, clean-shaved, iron-grey hair, and not too much of it.”
“Ah, then I don’t think that would be the same Mr. Scofield. It is not a very uncommon name. Good-afternoon.”
With this Thorndyke took up his stick and, emerging from the shop, set a course southward for the Temple
, walking quickly, as was his wont, with a long, swinging stride, and turning over in his mind the bearings of what he had just learned. In reality he had not learned much. Still, he had added one or two small items to his stock of facts, and in circumstantial evidence every added fact gives additional weight to all the others. He sorted out his new acquirements and considered each in turn.
In the first place, it was clear that Mr. Scofield’s collection was a facsimile of the missing part of Hollis’s. The list in Lambert’s book was identical with the one in his own pocket-book; which, in its turn, was a list of the forgeries. The discovery of the maker of the forgeries (a result of extensive preliminary scouting on the part of Polton) was of little importance at the moment, though it might be of great value in the future. For, since the forgeries existed, it was obvious that someone must have made them. Much more to the point was the identity of the person for whom they were made. Whoever ‘Mr. Scofield’ might have been, he certainly was not John Osmond. And this set Thorndyke once more puzzling over the really perplexing feature of this curious case. Why had Osmond absconded? That he had really done so, Thorndyke had no doubt, though he would have challenged the use of the word by anyone else. But why? There had been nothing to implicate him in any way. Beyond the hairs in the boxes—of which he could not have known and which were not at all conclusive—there was nothing to implicate him now but his own flight. All the other evidence seemed to point away from him. Yet he had absconded.
Thorndyke put to himself the various possibilities and argued them one at a time. There were three imaginable hypotheses. First, that Osmond had committed the robbery alone and unassisted; second, that he had been an accessory or worked with a confederate; third, that he had had no connection with the robbery at all.
The first hypothesis could be excluded at once, for Mr. Scofield must have been, at least, an accessory; and Mr. Scofield was not John Osmond. The second was much more plausible. It not only agreed with the known facts, but might even furnish some sort of explanation of the flight. Thus, supposing Osmond to have planned and executed the robbery with the aid of a confederate in the expectation that, even if discovered, it would never be traced to the office, might it not have been that, when, unexpectedly, it was so traced, Osmond had decided to take the onus on himself, and by absconding, divert suspicion from his accomplice? The thing was quite conceivable. It was entirely in agreement with Osmond’s character as pictured by Mr. Wampole; that of a rash, impulsive, rather unreasonable man. And if it were further assumed that there had been known to him some incriminating fact which he had expected to leak out, but which had not leaked out, then the whole set of facts, including the flight, would appear fairly consistent.
The Third R. Austin Freeman Megapack Page 47
