The Third R. Austin Freeman Megapack

by R. Austin Freeman

  “Seems to have been a pretty handy man,” remarked Miller, pulling out one of the drawers of the cabinet and disclosing a set of files.

  “Yes,” Thorndyke agreed; “he appears to have been quite a good workman. It is all very neat and orderly. This is rather interesting,” he added, reaching down from the shelf a box containing two earthen ware cells filled with a blue liquid, and a wide jar with similar contents.

  “Electric battery, isn’t it?” said Miller. “What is the point of interest about it?”

  “It is a two-cell Daniell’s battery,” replied Thorndyke, “the form of battery most commonly used for making small electrotypes. And in evidence that it was used for that purpose, here is the jar filled with copper sulphate solution, forming the tank, with the copper electrode in position. Moreover, I see on the shelf what look like some gutta-percha moulds.” He reached one down and examined it. “Yes,” he continued, “this is a squeeze from a coin. Apparently he had been making electrotype copies of coins; probably some that had been lent to him.”

  “Well,” said Miller, “what about it?”

  “The point is that whoever stole those gems made an electrotype copy of Hollis’s seal. We now have evidence that Wampole was able to make electrotypes and did actually make them.”

  “It would be more to the point if we could find the gems themselves,” rejoined Miller.

  “Yes, that is undoubtedly true,” Thorndyke admitted; “and as we are not likely to find them here, perhaps we had better examine the sitting-room. That is much the most probable place.”

  “I don’t quite see why,” said Miller. “But I expect you do,” and with this he followed Thorndyke across the landing to the adjoining room.

  “Good Lord!” he exclaimed, stopping to gaze at the neatly-arranged tea-service on the table, “just look at this! Uncanny, isn’t it? Teapot under the cosy—quite hot still. And what’s under this cover? Crumpets, by gum! And him lying there in the mortuary! Fairly gives one the creeps. Don’t you feel a bit like a ghoul, Doctor?”

  “I might, perhaps,” Thorndyke replied, dryly, “if there had been no such person as John Osmond.”

  “True,” said Miller. “He did do the dirty on Osmond, and that’s the fact—unless Osmond was in it, too. Looks rather as if he was; but you don’t seem to think so.”

  “As a mere guess, I do not; but it is a puzzling case in some respects.”

  He stood for a while looking about the room, letting his eye travel slowly along the papered walls as if in search of a possible hiding-place. From the general survey he proceeded to the consideration of details, turning the door-key—which was on the inside and turned smoothly and silently—and examining and trying a solid-looking brass bolt.

  “You notice, Miller,” he said, “that he seems to have been in the habit of locking and bolting himself in; and that the bolt has been fixed on comparatively recently. That is somewhat significant.”

  “It seems to suggests that the swag was hidden here at one time, if it isn’t here now. I suppose we may as well look through these cabinets, just as a matter of form, for he won’t have hidden the stuff in them.”

  He produced the dead man’s bunch of keys, and having unlocked the hinged batten which secured the drawers of one, pulled out the top drawer.

  “Coins,” he announced; “silver coins. No! By jingo, they’re copper, plated, and no backs to them. Just look at that!”

  “Yes,” said Thorndyke, taking the specimen from him, “a silver-faced copper electro, taken, no doubt, from a borrowed coin. Not a bad way of forming a collection. Probably, if he had been skilful enough to join the two faces and make a complete coin, it would have been the original owner who would have had the electrotype, and Wampole would have kept the genuine coin. While you are going through the cabinets, I think I will explore those two cupboards. They seem to me to have possibilities.”

  The cupboards in question filled the recesses on either side of the fireplace. Each cupboard was built in two stages—a lower about three feet in height, and an upper extending nearly to the ceiling. Thorndyke began with the right-hand one, throwing open both its pairs of folding doors, after unlocking them with the keys, handed to him by Miller. Then he cleared the shelves of their contents—principally stamp albums and back numbers of The Connoisseur—until the cupboard was completely empty, when he proceeded to a systematic survey of the interior, rapping with his knuckles on every part of the back and sides and testing each shelf by a vigorous pull. Standing on a chair, he inspected the top and ascertained, by feeling it simultaneously from above and below, that it consisted of only a single board.

  Having thoroughly explored the upper stage with no result, he next attacked the lower story, rapping at the back, sides, and floor and pulling at the solitary shelf, which was as immovable as the others. Then he tested the ceiling or top by feeling it with one hand while the other was placed on the floor of the upper story.

  Meanwhile, Miller, who had been systematically examining the row of home-made cabinets, shut the last of the multitudinous drawers and stood up.

  “Well,” he announced, “I’ve been right through the lot, Doctor, and there’s nothing in any of them—nothing, I mean, but trash. This last one is full of buttons—brass buttons, if you’ll believe it. How are you getting on? Had any luck?”

  “Nothing definite, so far,” replied Thorndyke, who was, at the moment, taking a measurement of the height of the lower story with a tape-measure; “but there is something here that wants explaining. The internal height of the lower part of this cupboard is two feet ten inches; but the height from the floor of the lower part to the floor of the top part is three feet one inch. So there seems to be a space of three inches, less the thickness of two boards, between the ceiling of the lower part and the floor of the top part. That is not a normal state of affairs.”

  “No, by jingo!” exclaimed the superintendent. “Ordinarily, the floor of the top part would be the ceiling of the bottom part. Carpenters don’t waste wood like that. Either the floor or the ceiling is false. Let us see if we can get a move on the floor. That is the most likely, as it would be the lid of the space between the two.”

  He passed his hands over the board, feeling for a yielding spot, and craned in, searching for some indication of a joint, as he made heavy pressure on the edges and corners. But the floor showed no sign whatever of a tendency to move. He was about to transfer his attention to the ceiling underneath when Thorndyke stopped him.

  “Wait,” said he. “Here is another abnormal feature. This moulding along the front of the door is fastened on with three screws. They have been painted over with the rest of the moulding, but you can make out the slots quite plainly.”

  “Well?” queried Miller.

  “Carpenters don’t fix mouldings on with screws. They use nails and punch them in with a ‘nail-set’ and stop the holes with putty. Moreover, if you look closely at these screw-heads, you can see that they have been turned at some time since the moulding was painted.”

  As the superintendent stooped to verify this observation, Thorndyke produced from his pocket a small leather pouch of portable tools from which he took a screw-bit and the universal handle. Having fitted them together, he inserted the screwdriver into the slot of the middle screw and gave a turn.

  “Ah!” said he. “This screw has been greased. Do you see how easily it turns?”

  He rotated the tool rapidly, and as the screw emerged he picked it out and exhibited it to Miller.

  “Not a trace of rust, you see, although the paint is some years old.”

  He laid it down and turned to the left-hand screw, which he extracted with similar ease. As he drew it out of its hole, the moulding became visibly loose, though still supported by the mitre; but when the last screw was extracted, the length of moulding came away in his hand, showing the free front edge of the floor, or bottom-board. This Thorndyke grasped with both hands and gave a steady pull, when the board slid forward easily, revealing a cavity
about two inches deep.

  “My eye!” exclaimed Miller, as Thorndyke drew the board right out. “This puts the lid on it—or rather takes the lid off.”

  He stood for a moment gazing ecstatically into the cavity, and especially at a collection of small, flat boxes that were neatly packed into it; then he grabbed up one of the boxes, and sliding back the hooked catch, raised the lid.

  The expression of half-amused astonishment with which he viewed the open box was not entirely unjustified. As the receptacle for a robber’s hoard, it was, to say the least, unconventional. The interior of the box was divided by partitions into a number of little square cells; and in each cell, reposing in a nest of black or white velvet according to its colour, was an unmounted gem.

  The superintendent drew a deep breath. “Well,” he exclaimed, “this knocks anything I’ve ever come across. Looks as if he never meant to sell the stuff at all. Just meant to keep it to gloat over. Is this what you had expected to find, Doctor? I believe it is, from what you said.”

  “Yes,” Thorndyke replied. “This agrees exactly with my theory of the robbery. I never supposed that he had stolen the gems for the purpose of selling them.”

  “Didn’t you?” said Miller. “Now, I wonder why.”

  “My dear Miller,” Thorndyke answered, with a smile, “the answer is before you in those cabinets which you have just examined. The man was a human magpie. He had a passion for acquiring and accumulating. He was the born, inveterate collector. Now, your half-baked collector will sell his treasures at a sufficient profit; but the real, thoroughbred collector, when once he has got hold, will never let go.”

  “Well,” said Miller, who had been meanwhile lifting out the boxes and verifying their contents with a supercilious glance into each, “what is one man’s meat is another man’s poison. I can’t see myself hoarding up expensive trash like this when I could swap it for good money.”

  “Nor I,” said Thorndyke. “We both lack the acquisitive instinct. By the way, Miller, I think you will agree with me that all the circumstances point to Wampole’s having done this single-handed?”

  “Undoubtedly,” was the reply. “This is a ‘one-man show,’ if ever there was one.”

  “And, consequently, that this ‘find’ puts Osmond definitely out of the picture?”

  “Yes,” Miller agreed; “I think there is no denying that.”

  “Then you will also agree that, although we might wish it otherwise, the whole of the circumstances connected with this robbery must be made public. That is necessary as a measure of common justice to the memory of Osmond. He was publicly accused and he must be publicly exonerated.”

  “You are quite right, Doctor,” Miller admitted, regretfully; “though it seems a pity, as the poor devil is dead and we’ve got the swag back. But, as you say, justice is justice. The innocent man ought to be cleared.”

  He took out the last remaining box, and having opened it and looked in, handed it to Thorndyke and cast a final glance into the cavity.

  “Hallo!” he exclaimed, reaching into the back of the space, “here’s something wrapped in paper—a key, by Jove!”

  “Ah,” said Thorndyke, taking it from him and inspecting it curiously, “the key of the strong-room. I recognize it. Quite a well-made key, too. I think we ought to hand that to Woodstock at once; and perhaps it would be as well to hand him the gems, too, and get his receipt for them. We don’t want property of this value—something like a hundred thousand pounds—on our hands any longer than we can help. What do you say?”

  “I say let us get rid of them at once if we can. But we must seal the boxes before we hand them over. And we must seal up these rooms until the property has been checked by Hollis. Let us put the books back in the cupboard and then, perhaps, you might go and find Woodstock while I keep guard on the treasure-trove.”

  They fell to work repacking the cupboard with the albums and magazines which they had taken out; and had nearly finished when they became aware of voices below and then of hurried footsteps on the stairs. A few moments later the door was flung open and Mr. Woodstock and Mr. Hepburn strode into the room.

  “May I ask,” the former demanded, glaring at Miller, “who the deuce you are and what is the meaning of this indecent invasion? The housekeeper tells me that you profess to have come here to search for missing property. What property are you searching for, and what is your authority?”

  The superintendent quietly explained who he was and exhibited his warrant.

  “Ha!” exclaimed Woodstock, with a withering glance at Thorndyke. “And I suppose you are making this ridiculous search at the suggestion of this gentleman?”

  “You are quite correct, sir,” replied Miller. “The warrant was issued on information supplied by Dr. Thorndyke.”

  “Ha!” was the contemptuous comment. “You obtained a warrant to search the private residence of a man of irreproachable character who has been in my employ for something like a score of years! Well, have you made your search? And if so, what have you found?”

  “We have completed the search,” replied Miller, “and we have found what we believe to be the whole of the stolen property, and this key, which I understand is the key of your strong-room.”

  As the superintendent made this statement, in studiously matter-of-fact tones, Mr. Woodstock’s jaw fell and his eyes opened until he appeared the very picture of astonishment. Nor was his colleague, Mr. Hepburn, less amazed; and for a space of some seconds the two solicitors stood speechless looking from one another to the wooden-faced but secretly amused detective officer. Then Woodstock recovered somewhat and began to show signs of incredulity. But there was the key and there were the boxes; and it needed only a glance at the contents of the latter to put the matter beyond all question. Even Woodstock could not reject the evidence of his eyesight.

  “But,” he said with a puzzled air and with new born civility, “what I cannot understand is how you came to connect Wampole with the robbery. Where did you obtain the evidence of his guilt?”

  “I obtained it,” Thorndyke replied, “from the dust which I collected from your office floor.”

  Mr. Woodstock frowned impatiently and shook his head. “I am afraid,” he said, coldly, “you are speaking a language that I don’t understand. But no doubt you are right to keep your own counsel. What do you propose to do with this property?”

  “We had proposed to hand it to you to hold pending the formal identification of the gems by Mr. Hollis.”

  “Very well,” said Woodstock; “but I shall want you to seal the boxes before I put them in my strong-room. I can’t accept any responsibility as to the nature of the contents.”

  “They shall be sealed with my seal and the superintendent’s,” Thorndyke replied, with a faint smile; “and we will hope that the seals will give more security than they did last time.”

  This understanding having been arrived at, the boxes were gathered up and distributed among the party for conveyance to the office; and after a short halt on the landing while Miller locked the doors and sealed the keyholes, they went down the stairs, at the foot of which the tearful housekeeper was waiting. To her Mr. Woodstock gave a brief and somewhat obscure explanation of the proceedings and the sealed doors, and then the party set forth for the office, the two solicitors leading and conversing in low tones as they went.

  Arrived at their destination, the formalities were soon disposed of. Each box was tied up with red tape, sealed on the knot and on the opening of the lid. Then, when they had all been conveyed into the strong-room and locked in, Mr. Woodstock wrote out a receipt for “eight boxes, containing real or artificial precious stones, said to be the property of James Hollis, Esq., and sealed with the seals of Dr. Thorndyke and Superintendent Miller of the C.I.D.,” and handed it to the latter officer.

  “Of course,” he said, “I shall communicate with Mr. Hollis at once and ask him to remove these things from my custody. Probably he will write to you concerning them; but, in any case, I shall wash m
y hands of them when I get his receipt—and I shall take very good care that nobody ever saddles me with portable property of this kind again.”

  “A very wise resolution,” said Thorndyke. “Perhaps you might point out to Mr. Hollis that the boxes ought to be opened in the presence of witnesses, one of whom, at least, should be an expert judge of precious stones. I shall write to him tonight, before I leave the town, to the same effect. We all want the restitution to be definitely proved and acknowledged.”

  “That is perfectly true,” Woodstock admitted; “and perhaps I had better make it a condition on which I allow him to take possession of the boxes.”

  The business being now concluded, Thorndyke and the superintendent prepared to take their departure. As they were turning away, Mr. Hepburn addressed Thorndyke for the first time.

  “May I ask,” he said, hesitatingly and with an air of some embarrassment, “whether the—er—the dust from our office floor or—er—any other observations of yours which led you to this surprising discovery seemed to suggest the existence of any confederate?”

  “No,” Thorndyke replied, decisively. “All the evidence goes to show, very conclusively, that Wampole carried out this robbery single-handed. Of that I, personally, have no doubt; and I think the superintendent agrees with me.”

  “Undoubtedly,” Miller assented. “I, too, am perfectly convinced that our late lamented friend played a lone hand. You are thinking of John Osmond?”