“Yes, sir. But it was no go. He hadn’t noticed any of the passengers particularly. Two or three of the men who passed out answered the station-master’s description more or less. Of course they would. But he didn’t really remember what any of them was like, and he couldn’t say whether either of them was a first-class passenger. I suppose he just looked at the tickets and didn’t see anything else.”
“Yes,” Miller agreed. “But we will go into this matter presently. We mustn’t keep these gentlemen waiting.” He turned to Thorndyke and asked:
“What would you like to do first, Doctor? I suppose you will want to inspect the tunnel, and I should like you to take a look at the body.”
“The body has been examined, sir,” said the Sergeant, “by one of the local doctors. He was rather cautious in his opinions, but I understood that he found no marks of violence—no wounds or injuries excepting the accidental ones.”
“Where is the body?” the Superintendent asked.
“In an empty store, sir, down below. They put it there out of sight until it could be moved to the mortuary.”
Miller looked at us enquiringly, and Thorndyke reflected for a few moments.
“I think we had better take the tunnel first and see if we can pick up any traces from which we can gather a hint. It isn’t very likely. The inside of the carriage, if we could have identified and examined it, would have been more hopeful as a source of information. However, the carriage is not available and the tunnel is. Will it be safe to explore it now?”
As he asked the question he glanced at the station-master, who took out his watch and consulted it.
“There is a down train due in a couple of minutes,” said he. “We had better let that go through. Then the line will be clear for a full hour on the down side.”
“You have pretty long intervals,” Miller remarked.
“We have,” the station-master admitted, “but they will be a good deal shorter when the electrification is completed. At present only the steam trains come on from Dartford. There goes the signal.”
We waited until the train had drawn up at the platform, discharged its two or three passengers and proceeded on its way. Then we walked on to the end of the platform, descended to the permanent way, and, marching in a procession, headed by the station-master, along the rough side-path, presently entered the mouth of the tunnel, advancing along the space between the down-side rails and the smoke-blackened wall.
There is always something rather eerie about a tunnel, even a comparatively short and straight one like that at Greenhithe, in which the light is never completely lost. It is not the obscurity only or the strange reverberating quality that the vaulted roof imparts to the voice. The whole atmosphere is weird and uncanny, there is a sense of remoteness from the haunts of living men, heightened by the ghostly, whispering sounds which pervade the air, confused and indistinguishable echoes from the far-away world of light and life.
The light from the entrance followed us quite a long way, throwing our indefinitely elongated shadows into the twilight before us until they were lost in the deeper gloom ahead. Gradually, the warm glow of the station-master’s lantern and the whiter circles of light from the electric lamps carried by Thorndyke and the Superintendent replaced the dwindling daylight and told us we were approaching the middle of the tunnel. The combined lights of the three lamps illuminated the ground with a brilliancy that was accentuated by the encompassing darkness, lighting up the rails and sleepers and the stones of the ballast, and bringing into view all the little odds and ends of litter that had been jettisoned from passing trains; scraps of newspaper, matchboxes, spent matches, cigarette-ends—trivial by-products of civilized human life, insignificant and worthless, but each scanned attentively by six pairs of eyes.
It was in the heart of the tunnel that Miller remarked, in a hollow voice with an accompaniment of chattering echoes:
“Someone has chucked away a pretty good cigar. Shocking waste. He hasn’t smoked a quarter of it.”
He spoke feelingly, for it was just the type of cigar that he favoured: a big, dark-coloured cigar of the Corona shape. Thorndyke let the light from his inspection lamp fall on it for an instant, but he made no reply, and we continued our slow progress. But, a few moments later, I suddenly missed the light from his lamp (we were marching in single file and he brought up the rear of the procession), and, looking round, I saw that he had gone back and was in the act of picking up the cigar with his gloved left hand. As he evidently did not wish his proceedings to be noticed by the others, I continued to walk on at a slightly reduced pace until he overtook me, when I observed that he had carefully enclosed the cigar in two of the seed envelopes that he invariably carried, and was now tenderly wrapping it in his handkerchief before disposing of it in his breast pocket.
“Any special significance in that cigar?” I asked.
“It is impossible to say,” he replied. “A half-smoked cigar must have some significance. It is for us to see whether it has any significance for us.”
The answer was a little cryptic and left me with the suspicion that it did not really disclose the motive for his evidently considered act. To one unacquainted with Thorndyke and his methods of research, the salving of this scrap of jetsam must have appeared entirely foolish, for there seemed no more reason for taking and preserving this cigar than for collecting the various empty matchboxes and cigarette that lay strewn around.
But I knew Thorndyke and his ways as no one else knew him. I knew that it was his principle to examine everything. But the word “everything” has to be construed reasonably. There was always some selection in the objects that he examined; and I had the feeling that this cigar had presented to him something more than its mere face value.
So I reflected as we walked on slowly, scanning the ballast by the light of our lamps. But no other object came into view to engage our attention until we reached the spot where the tragedy had occurred. Here we halted with one accord and stood looking down in silence at the gruesome traces of the disaster. Miller was the first to break the silence.
“There seems to have been a lot of blood. Doesn’t that suggest that he was alive when the train went over him?”
“Yes,” replied Thorndyke, “in a general way, it does. But we shall be able to judge better from an examination of the body.” Then, turning to the station-master, he asked: “How long could he have been lying on the line when the down train came along?”
“Not more than a minute,” was the reply. “Perhaps not that. The two trains passed in the tunnel.”
“And how was the body lying? You came with the search party, I think?”
“Yes, I directed the search party. The body was lying across the rails slantwise with the feet towards the Greenhithe end. It was lying nearly on its back. But, of course, the train passing over it may have changed its position. Still, it is rather curious that the feet should have been pointing that way. If a man steps out of a moving train, his feet come to the ground and catch, and he flies forward head first. The position of the body almost seemed to suggest that he fell out head downwards.”
“Yes,” agreed Thorndyke. “But there isn’t much in it, for he certainly did not step out. And a man who falls out by the unexpected opening of the door may fall, in almost any position. Have you had any detailed report from the driver of the down train?”
“Yes. I had a talk with him when he brought the train back from New Brompton. But he had very little to tell. He never saw the body at all, and he wouldn’t have known of the accident if it hadn’t been for the chance that the fireman happened to look over the near side of the foot-plate and caught just a passing glimpse of a pair of feet sticking out from under the engine. He shouted out as soon as he saw them, but of course there was nothing to be done. It was a fast train, and it couldn’t have been pulled up in its own length, even if that would have been any good.”
“And where did he pass the up train?”
“He was just passing the rear of it
when the fireman shouted.”
“Did he notice any open door?”
“No. But that is not to say that there was not an open door. He didn’t really see the other train at all. They had just opened the furnace door and the light from that must have dazzled him. It was the light from the furnace reflected from the roof and walls of the tunnel that enabled the fireman to see the body.”
“It is unnecessary to ask in what part of the train Badger was travelling,” said Thorndyke. “He must have been near the front unless it was a very long train.”
“It was rather a long train,” said the Sergeant. “The station-master at Strood told us that, though he couldn’t say exactly how many coaches there were. Of course, we can easily find out, and we shall have to. But he was able to tell us where Inspector Badger’s compartment was. It was right up in front, in the second coach—rather an unusual position for a first class compartment.”
While this interrogation was proceeding, we had been walking on slowly towards the east end of the tunnel, scrutinizing the ground as we went but without any further result. We now came out into the open in a cutting, and, on the station-master’s advice, continued our examination of the permanent way as far as Swanscombe Halt; but nothing came into view that threw any light on the tragedy. At the halt we waited a few minutes for an up train that was then due, in which we travelled back to Greenhithe; an arrangement that not only saved time and effort, but gave Thorndyke the opportunity of observing, with his head out of the window, the conditions of light prevailing in the tunnel and the visibility of one part of the train from the others.
As we came out on to the platform at Greenhithe, Miller looked wistfully at my colleague.
“Did you think of having a look at the body, Doctor?” he asked, adding: “I should feel more satisfied if you would. A local doctor hasn’t had the experience of criminal cases that you and Dr. Jervis have.”
“I don’t suppose that the local doctor would have missed any signs that bore on the cause of death,” said Thorndyke. “But still, an additional examination is at least an extra precaution. Perhaps the station-master will direct someone to show us the way.”
The station-master elected to show us the way himself, and preceded us down the stairs. Reluctantly, I followed Thorndyke, leaving the others on the platform and, as I descended the stairs, I was, for the first time in my professional life, conscious of a shrinking repugnance to the atmosphere of tragedy and death. After all, a doctor has his human feelings. It is impossible to look on the mutilated corpse of an old acquaintance as the mere “subject” of an investigation. But, as a matter of fact, I took no part in the actual examination. I saw that the body still lay on the tarpaulin-covered stretcher and that part of the clothing had been removed, but I stood aloof by the door, leaving the inspection to Thorndyke; who evidently realized my state of mind, for he made his examination in silence and with no suggestion that I should join him.
One thing, however, I did observe, and with considerable surprise. When he had completed his examination of the body, he opened his research case and took from it the portable fingerprint outfit that formed part of its permanent equipment. Taking out the ready-inked copper plate and a couple of cards, he proceeded, in his neat, methodical way, to make a set of ten prints, one of each digit.
“Why are you taking his fingerprints?” I asked. “Does anything hinge on them?”
“Not at present,” he replied. “But it is possible that some fingerprints may be found; and, if they may be, it might be very important to be able to say if they were or were not Badger’s. So I am securing the means of comparison while they are available.”
Thus stated, the motive for the proceeding seemed reasonable enough; but yet the explanation left me wondering if there was not something more definite in Thorndyke’s mind. And this vague suspicion was strengthened when, as I helped him to repack the research case, I saw him deposit in it, and pack with extreme care, the derelict cigar which be had picked up in the tunnel. But I made no comment, and as the gruesome business was now completed, I took up the research case and led the way out of the store.
“Apparently,” he said as we ascended the stairs, “the local practitioner was right. There are no signs of any injuries that might have been inflicted before he fell on the line. But one thing is clear. He was certainly alive when the train ran over him and for at least a few seconds after.”
“Then,” said I, “it might really have been an accident.”
“So far as the appearances and condition of the body are concerned, it might. But if there was another person in the compartment and that person has not reported an accident, the probabilities are overwhelmingly in favour of either a crime or what we may call an incriminating misadventure.”
“What do you mean by an incriminating misadventure?” I asked.
“I mean a misadventure which would probably not have been accepted as such. Miller believes that the other passenger was the escaped prisoner, Frederick Smith. Suppose that Miller is right. Suppose that Badger recognized the man and tried to arrest him. That the man resisted and a struggle occurred. I don’t see why it should unless Badger had handcuffs with him and tried to put them on. But suppose a struggle to have occurred, in the course of which the door became unfastened and Badger fell out. That would have been a pure misadventure. But it is not likely that the man would have reported it, for he would realize the improbability of his statement being believed. He would trust rather to the probability of his presence in the carriage being unknown.”
“I have no doubt that he would,” I agreed, “and wisely, too. For no one would believe his statement. He would be charged with murder and most probably convicted. But you don’t entertain the possibility of a misadventure, do you?
“As a bare possibility, yes. But it is wildly improbable; and still more so if those documents were really in Badger’s pocket and have really disappeared. That is a crucial point. For, if it is certain that they were removed from the wallet, that is not only evidence of a conflict having taken place, but suggests in the strongest possible way that Badger had been rendered unconscious or helpless. But that suggestion at once raises the question, How was he rendered unconscious or helpless? The state of the body seems to exclude physical violence such as throttling or a knock on the head. Yet it is difficult to think of any other means.”
“Very difficult,” I agreed, “particularly in the alleged circumstances—the casual and unexpected meeting of two men in a railway carriage; and if one of those men was, as the theft of the documents seems to imply, a man just escaped from prison, the difficulty is still greater. Such a man would presumably, be unprovided with anything but his fists, indeed the mystery is how he could have procured his ticket.”
“Yes,” Thorndyke assented, “that calls for explanation. But we must not mix up hypothesis and fact. Miller assumes that the man was the prisoner, Smith, and it is possible that he was. But we must not let that possibility influence us. We have to approach the inquiry with a perfectly open mind.”
As he concluded, we came out on to the platform, where we found our friends awaiting us. In a few words Thorndyke communicated to them the results of his inspection, at which Miller was visibly disappointed.
“It is an extraordinary thing,” said he. “Badger was a pretty hefty fellow and a skilled wrestler and boxer. I can’t imagine even a strong man putting him out through the door unless he had disabled him first. And, in any case, you would expect to find some signs of a scrap. Did you propose to make any further examination?”
“It doesn’t seem very necessary,” Thorndyke replied. “But perhaps you might like me to be present when the local doctor does the post-mortem. There are other possibilities besides gross physical injury.”
“That is what I was thinking,” said Miller; “and I should be glad if you could be present at the post mortem. Then I could feel satisfied that nothing had been overlooked. I understand that the inquest is to be held tomorrow afternoon at fou
r o’clock and the post-mortem at two. Can you manage that?”
“I shall have to, if you think it important,” was the reply.
As Miller was making grateful acknowledgments, the station-master approached to convey to us the welcome tidings that a fast train to London was due in a few minutes.
“Are you coming back with us, Superintendent?” Thorndyke asked.
“I may as well,” Miller replied. “The Sergeant will carry on with the case, and I must set some inquiries going at the London end. And, by the way, Cummings, are you returning to Maidstone today?”
“Yes, sir,” answered the Chief Officer. “I shall take the next train back.”
“Then,” said Miller, “you had better have those fingerprints of Smith’s photographed and send either the photographs or the original up to Headquarters with the portrait photographs and the personal description. See to it at once, for we may want the information at any moment. In fact we want it now.”
“Very well, sir,” replied Cummings. “I expect the photographs have been done already, but in any case, I will see that you get them some time tomorrow.”
The short remaining interval was occupied by Miller in the delivery of detailed instructions to the Sergeant. Then the train came hissing into the station, and Thorndyke, Miller, and I took our places in a compartment to which we were escorted by our three coadjutors.
CHAPTER VI
Thorndyke examines his Material
On the way up to Town little was said on the subject of our investigation and that little was mainly contributed by Miller. Thorndyke, unwilling as he always was to go far beyond the ascertained facts, maintained a tactful reticence tempered by a sympathetic interest in the Superintendent’s comments and suggestions.
“What I can’t understand,” said Miller, “is how that fellow managed to get Badger out of the door. It wouldn’t be easy in the case of an ordinary man, but in the case of a man like Badger—a trained police officer and a pretty hefty one at that—it seems incredible.”
The Third R. Austin Freeman Megapack Page 115
