“Yes,” said Dr. Thorndyke, “the difference is negligible. We may take it as certain that this is the remainder.”
“The remainder of what?” demanded Mr. Brodribb. “I see that you have identified this rope. What does that identification tell you?”
“It tells us,” Dr. Thorndyke replied, “that this rope was stolen from Black Eagle Dock, Wapping, when it was sixty feet long; that a piece thirteen feet, seven inches long was cut off it; that that piece was taken in a two-wheeled vehicle—probably a hansom cab—on the night of Sunday, the twenty-first of June, to Number Five, Piper’s Row, Stratford. Those facts emerge from the identification of this rope, from Mr. Gray’s story and from certain other data that we have accumulated.”
“Good God!” exclaimed Mr. Brodribb. “Then this was the very rope! Horrible, horrible! But, my dear Thorndyke, you seem to have the whole of the case cut and dried! Can you give the villain a name?”
“We shall not mention names prematurely,” he replied. “But we haven’t finished with Mr. Gray yet. I think he has something more to tell us. Isn’t it so? You said just now that you had seen the man whom you knocked on the head on some later occasion. Would you mind telling us about that?”
I didn’t mind at all. On the contrary, I was only too delighted to put my new knowledge into such obviously capable hands. Therefore I embarked joyfully on a detailed narrative of my journey of exploration, to which Dr. Thorndyke listened with the closest attention, jotting down notes as I proceeded but never interrupting. Others, however, were less restrained, particularly Mr. Brodribb, who, when I had described the murderous attempt of the man with the knife, broke in excitedly: “You say that this man spoke in French to the other.”
“Yes, and quite good French, too.”
“Then we may take it that you understand French?”
“Yes, I speak French pretty fluently. You see, I was born in France or Belgium—I am not quite sure which—and we lived in France until I was nearly four. So French was the first language that I learnt. And my father speaks it perfectly, and we often converse in French to keep up our knowledge of the language.”
He nodded as if the matter were quite important. Then he asked: “You say that this man accused you of having robbed him of a fortune?”
“Yes,” and here I repeated the exact words that the man had used.
“Have you any idea what he meant?”
“Not the least. So far as I know, I had never seen him before.”
“You didn’t by any chance hear what his name was?”
“Yes, I did. He gave the name of Jacob Silberstein to the policeman. But that was not his name. I heard two of the people call him Mr. Zichlinsky.”
At this Mr. Brodribb fairly exploded. I have never seen a man so excited. He spluttered two or three times as if he was going to speak, and then, whisking an envelope out of his pocket, scrawled something on it, and, apologising to the rest of us, passed it to Dr. Thorndyke, who glanced at it and handed it to Dr. Jervis, remarking: “This is extremely valuable confirmation of what we had inferred. It seems definitely to establish the fact that Maurice Zichlinsky is in England—assuming this to be Maurice, of which I have little doubt.”
Mr. Brodribb stared at him in astonishment. “How did you know that his name was Maurice?” he demanded.
“We have been looking into matters, you know,” said Dr. Thorndyke. “But we mustn’t interrupt Mr. Gray or he may overlook something important.”
I had not, however, much more to tell, and when that little was told, I waited for the inevitable cross-examination.
“There are one or two points that I should like to have cleared up,” said Dr. Thorndyke, glancing at his notes. “First, as to the cab that you saw in the yard. You seem to have had a good look at it. I wonder if you noticed anything unusual about the near wheel?”
“I noticed one thing,” said I, “because I looked for it. There was a deep notch on the edge of the tyre. I fancy I made that notch when I bumped the cab over a sharp corner-stone. The tyre was worn very thin. I wonder that the jolt didn’t break the wheel.”
“It is a mercy that it didn’t,” said he. “However, the notch was what we wanted to know about. And now, as to the names and addresses of these people. Can you give us those?”
“The street that I went to is Pentecost Grove. Ebbstein, and Jonas, the coiner, live at Number Forty nine. Gomorrah lives next door, Number Fifty, the house in which I found Miss Stella. Zichlinsky lives there, too. He lodges with Gomorrah. The cab-yard turns out of Pentecost Grove just opposite Ebbstein’s house. It is called Zion Place. I don’t know where Trout lives.”
“He lives in Shadwell,” said Dr. Thorndyke. “We have his address.” On hearing which, Mr. Brodribb chuckled and shook his head. I think he found the doctor as astonishing as I did. He seemed to know everything. However, this seemed to finish the cross-examination, for Dr. Thorndyke now rose to depart and took leave of the ladies with polite acknowledgments of their hospitality. As he shook hands with me, he gave me a few directions concerning the rope.
“You had better put it away in a safe place,” said he, “and remember that it is of the greatest value, as it will be produced in evidence in an important case. When the police take possession of it, which they will probably do very shortly, they will want you to certify to its identity. I will send you a rope to replace it for the skylight.”
Finally, he took down my address in case he might have to write to me, and then he turned to Mr. Brodribb.
“You are not coming with us, are you?” he asked. “No,” replied Mr. Brodribb. “I want to have a few words with Mr. Gray on another matter. Perhaps, if he is going homeward, I may walk part of the way with him.”
On this hint, I, too, made preparations for departure, and we issued forth together in the wake of the two doctors.
“I want you to understand,” said Mr. Brodribb as we walked up the mews, “that I am not poking my nose into your affairs from mere curiosity. If I seem to ask impertinent questions, believe me I have very good reasons.”
“I quite understand that, sir,” said I, wondering what the deuce was coming next. Nothing came for a little while, but at length he opened fire.
“You mentioned just now that you lived abroad in your early childhood. Have you any recollection of how and where you lived?”
“Very little. I was quite a small child when we came to England. I remember seeing dogs harnessed in carts and I have a dim recollection of an old woman in a big white cap who used to look after us. I expect we were very poor, but a little child doesn’t notice that.”
“No,” said Mr. Brodribb with a sigh. “There are many advantages in being young. You don’t remember your mother?”
“No. She died when I was quite an infant. But she must have been a very good woman, for my father once said to me that she had been a saint on earth and was now an angel in heaven. I think he was very devoted to her.”
Rather to my surprise, Mr. Brodribb appeared to be deeply moved by my reply. For some time he walked on in silence, but at length, he asked: “Did you ever hear what your mother’s name was?”
“Yes. Her Christian name was Phillipa.”
“Ha!” said Mr. Brodribb in a tone of deep significance; and I wondered why. But I was quite prepared for his next question. “Your father, I take it, is a man of considerable education?”
“Oh, yes, sir. He is quite a learned man. He is a classical tutor—crams fellows for examinations in classics and mathematics.”
“Do you happen to know if he was always a tutor, or if he ever had any other vocation?”
“I have an idea,” said I, “that he was at one time a clergyman.”
“Yes. Probably. Clergymen often do become tutors. You haven’t any idea, I suppose, why he abandoned his vocation as a clergyman?”
I hesitated. I didn’t like the thought of disclosing poor old Ponty’s failings, but I remembered what Mr. Brodribb had said. And, obviously, there was something be
hind these questions.
“I suppose, sir,” I said, at length, “there is no harm in my confiding in you. The fact is that my father is not very careful in the matter of stimulants. He doesn’t ever get intoxicated, you know, but he sometimes takes a little more than would be quite good for a clergyman. I expect it is due to the rather dull, lonely life that he leads.”
“No doubt, no doubt,” said Mr. Brodribb, speaking with a singular gentleness. “I have noticed that classical tutors frequently seem to feel the need of stimulants. And it is, as you say, a dull life for a man of culture.”
He paused, and seemed to be in a little difficulty, for after an interval he resumed in a slightly hesitating manner: “I have a sort of idea—rather vague and indefinite—but I have the feeling that I may have been slightly acquainted with your father many years ago, and I should very much like, if it could be managed, to see whether my memory is or is not playing me false. I don’t suppose your father cares much for encounters with strangers?”
“No, he does not. He is extremely reserved and solitary.”
“Exactly. Now if I could get an opportunity of seeing him without making any formal occasion—just a casual inspection, you know, even by passing him in the street—”
“I think you might have a chance now, sir,” said I. “He has a teaching appointment from four to six on Thursdays and usually comes straight home. It is now a few minutes to six, so if we step out, we shall probably meet him. If we do, I will point him out to you and then you would like me to leave you, I expect.”
“If you don’t mind, I think it would be better,” said he; “and if I may make a suggestion, it would be as well, for the present, if you made no mention of this conversation or of your having met me.”
I had already reached this conclusion and said so; and for a while we walked on at a slightly quickened pace in silence. As we crossed the top of Queen Square by the ancient pump that stands in the middle of the crossing, I began to keep a sharp lookout, for Ponty was now due; and we had hardly crossed to the corner of Great Ormond Street when I saw the familiar figure turn in from Lamb’s Conduit Street and come creeping along the pavement towards us.
“That is my father, sir,” said I; “that old gentleman with the stoop and the walking-stick.”
“I see,” said Mr. Brodribb. “He has something under his arm.”
“Yes,” I answered; and there being no use in blinking the fact, I added: “I expect it is a bottle. Good evening, sir.”
He shook my hand warmly and I ran on ahead and dived into our entry. But I didn’t run up the stairs. A reasonable and natural curiosity impelled me to linger and see what came of this meeting. For some thing told me that Mr. Brodribb could, if he chose, enlighten the mystery of my father’s past on which I had often vaguely speculated, and that these presentproceedings might not be without some significance for me.
From the entry I watched the two men approach one another and I thought they were going to pass. But they did not. Mr. Brodribb halted and accosted Ponty, apparently to ask for some direction, for I saw my father point with his stick. Then, instead of going on his way, Mr. Brodribb lingered as if to ask some further questions. A short conversation followed—a very short one. Then the two old gentlemen bowed to one another ceremoniously and separated. Mr. Brodribb strode away down the street and Pontifex came creeping homeward more slowly than ever with his chin on his breast and something rather dejected in his manner.
He made no reference to the meeting when he entered the room, whither I had preceded him, but silently placed the bottle on the mantelpiece. He was very thoughtful and quiet that evening, and the matter of his thoughts did not appear to be exhilarating. Indeed he seemed to be in such low spirits that I found myself wishing that Mr. Brodribb had taken less interest in our affairs. And yet, as I watched poor old Pontifex despondently broaching the new bottle, my thoughts kept drifting back to that meeting and those few words of conversation; and again the suspicion would creep into my mind that perhaps the shadows of coming events were already falling upon me.
CHAPTER XV
THORNDYKE’S PLAN OF ATTACK
(Dr. Jervis’s Narrative)
“A most astonishing experience, Thorndyke,” I commented as we walked away from Miss Vernet’s studio after our meeting with Jasper Gray (recorded above in his own words).
“Yes,” he agreed; “and not the least astonishing part of it was the boy himself. A truly Olympian errand boy. I have never seen anything like him.”
“Nor have I. As an advertisement of democracy be would be worth his weight in gold to a propagandist. If he could be seen strolling across the quadrangle of an Oxford College, old-fashioned persons would point him out as a type of the young British aristocrat. Yet the amazing fact is that he is just a stationer’s errand boy.”
Thorndyke chuckled. “I am afraid, Jervis,” said he, “that as a demonstration of the essential equality of men he would fail, as demonstrations of that kind are apt to do on going into particulars. Our young friend’s vocabulary and accent and his manners and bearing, while they fit his personal appearance well enough, are quite out of character with his ostensible social status. There is some mystery in his background. But we needn’t concern ourselves with it, for I can see that Brodribb’s curiosity is at white heat. We can safely leave the private enquiries to him.”
“Yes. And I suspect that he is pursuing them at this moment. But, speaking of Brodribb, I think you rather took his breath away. He was positively staggered at the amount of knowledge that you disclosed. And I don’t wonder. He was hardly exaggerating when he said that you had the whole case cut and dried.”
“I wouldn’t put it so high as that,” said Thorndyke. “We can now be confident that we shall lay our hands on the murderer, but we haven’t done it yet. We have advanced our investigations another stage and I think the end is in sight. But we have yet another stage before us.”
“It is surprising,” I remarked, “how our knowledge of the case has advanced step by step, almost imperceptibly.”
“It is,” he agreed, “and an intensely interesting experience it has been, to watch it closing in from the vaguest generalities to the most complete particularity. We began with a purely speculative probability of murder. Then the murder became an established fact and its methods and procedure ascertained. But the perpetrators remained totally unknown to us and even unguessed at. Then, as you say, step by step, our knowledge advanced. One figure after another came into view, first as mere contacts with the known circumstances, then as possible suspects, until at last we seem to have the whole group in view and can begin to assign to each his place in the conspiracy.”
“It seems to me,” said I, “that Jasper Gray’s information should help us to do that off-hand.”
“It is extremely valuable,” he replied. “But the enormous importance of what he has told us is really tactical. He has placed an invaluable weapon in our hands.”
“What weapon do you mean?” I asked.
“I mean the power to make an arrest whenever we please. And that, when the moment comes, will be the very keystone of our tactics.”
“I don’t quite see either point; how we have the power or what special value it is. You wouldn’t suggest an arrest before you are prepared to prove the murder charge against a definite person.”
“But that, I suspect, is precisely what we shall have to do. Let me explain. The abduction of Miss Hardcastle is a new fact. It is very illuminating to us, but we can’t prove that it was connected with the murder of Sir Edward. Nevertheless, it is a crime, and we actually know two of the guilty parties, Shemrofsky and Gomorrah. With Gray’s assistance, we could lay a sworn information now; and on his and Miss Stella’s evidence, we could secure a conviction. Of course, we shall not do anything of the kind. We have got to make sure of the woman who lured the girl away. Brodribb evidently suspects that she is Mrs. David Hardcastle—at least that is what I gathered when he wrote down her maiden name, Marie Zichlinsk
y, for our information—and I think he is probably right. You remember that she had a brother who was convicted in Russia of a conspiracy to murder. He also thinks that the Zichlinsky who tried to murder Gray is that brother. And again I suspect that he is right.
“But these are only suspicions, and we cannot rush into action on suspicions. We have to prove them right or wrong. If we can turn our suspicions into demonstrable truths, we shall have our whole case complete and can act at once and with confidence.”
“Then what do you propose to do?”
“First, I propose to settle the question, if I can, as to whether the Zichlinsky of Pentecost Grove is the Maurice Zichlinsky whose fingerprints are in the records at Scotland Yard. If he is the same man, I shall then try to ascertain if the convict, Maurice Zichlinsky, is Mrs. David Hardcastle’s brother.”
“But I understood Brodribb to say that he was.”
“So did I,” said Thorndyke. “But I must get a categorical statement with particulars as to the date of the extradition proceedings. If Brodribb can confirm his implied statement, then I shall have to test our suspicion that the woman who managed the abduction of Miss Stella was Marie Zichlinsky, alias Mrs. David Hardcastle.”
“You will have your work cut out,” I remarked. “I don’t see how you are going to prove either proposition.”
“There are no insuperable difficulties in identifying the woman,” he replied, “though I have not yet made a definite plan. As to Zichlinsky, I shall ask Singleton to re-examine our fingerprint.”
“But he has already said that he can’t identify it.”
“That was not quite what I understood. I gathered that he recognised the print, but then rejected his identification on extrinsic evidence. He realised that a man who is in a Russian prison cannot make a finger print in London. But if I re-submit the print with the information that the man is believed to be in London and that there are circumstances which make it probable that the print was made by him, we may get an entirely different report; especially if I have previously communicated the facts to Miller.”
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