“It would seem,” I suggested, with little conviction, “that he must have been taken unawares.”
“But how could he?” retorted Miller. “He knew that he was shut in with an escaped prisoner and that the other man probably knew that he knew it. You can take it that Badger would have watched him like a cat with a mouse. And the other fellow would have had to get the door open. That’s rather a noticeable proceeding. No; when you think of the circumstances, it seems impossible that Badger could have been caught off his guard, and in a tunnel, too, of all places. What do you say, Doctor?”
“I agree with you,” replied Thorndyke, “that it seems impossible that Badger could have been put out by mere physical violence.”
“Are you quite sure that there were no signs of any injury? No bullet wound or marks of a life-preserver or sand-bag, or anything of that sort?”
“I think I can say positively,” Thorndyke answered, “that there was no bullet wound and no bruises on the head, though I shall examine the body more minutely tomorrow when I attend at the post-mortem. As to a sand-bag, that would probably leave no external marks. But it is an infinitely unlikely weapon to be used in a railway carriage, even in a tunnel. The carriage was presumably lighted like this one; and although that lamp gives a mere glimmer, hardly visible in daylight, the carriage would not be dark enough to make the use of a sand-bag practicable.”
“No,” Miller agreed, “it wouldn’t. I was just feeling around for some sort of explanation. What about chloroform? Have you considered that?”
“Yes,” replied Thorndyke, “and I think we can exclude it. At any rate I could discover no trace of it. But, as a matter of fact, it is really not practicable to administer chloroform forcibly to a strong man. The whiff from a handkerchief, producing instant unconsciousness, appertains to fiction. In practice the forcible use of chloroform involves a rather prolonged struggle, and results in very characteristic marks on the skin around the mouth and nose. There were no such marks in this case, nor any other signs what ever.”
“Then,” Miller rejoined disconsolately, “I’m done. There must be some sort of explanation, but I’m hanged if I can think of one. Does anything occur to either of you gentlemen?”
For my part, I was as much in the dark as the Superintendent and had to admit it; and Thorndyke, as I expected, refused to commit himself to any speculative opinions.
“There isn’t much use in theorizing at this stage,” said he. “We want more facts, and we want confirmation of the assumptions that we have been treating as facts. For instance, the identity of the man who was seen to get into the carriage at Strood.”
“M’yes,” Miller agreed reluctantly. “I don’t think there’s much doubt, but, as you say, a little direct proof would be more satisfactory. Probably we shall get some more details in the course of a day or two. Meanwhile, I’m afraid I’ve taken up a lot of your time to very little purpose. We don’t know much more than we did when we started.”
“Apparently we do not,” Thorndyke admitted. “But I don’t regret the expedition. It was desirable for our own satisfaction to go over the ground at once and make sure that we had not missed anything.”
“I’m glad you take that view, Doctor,” said Miller, “but, all the same, you’ve got mighty little for your pains; nothing, in fact, excepting what you have gleaned from your examination of the body, and that doesn’t seem to help us much.”
“It doesn’t,” Thorndyke agreed. “But we must not forget that negative evidence has its value. The exclusion of one possibility after another leaves us eventually with the one that has to be accepted.”
Miller received this rather academic observation without enthusiasm, remarking, truly enough, that the early stages of that sort of investigation were apt to be a little discouraging. “Possibly,” he added, “some thing new may come out at the inquest, though it isn’t likely. And it is just possible that, when we get those fingerprints from Maidstone, we may find that we are dealing with a known criminal. But even that would not prove the fact of the murder.”
“As to that,” said I, “if it can be proved, as apparently it can, that this man was alone with Badger in the compartment when the disaster occurred, that will create a pretty strong presumption of murder.”
“No doubt,” agreed Miller. “But presumption is a different thing from proof. If he should give a plausible account of an accident—such as leaning out of the window of an unfastened door—we shouldn’t believe him, but we couldn’t disprove his statement, and you might find it hard to get a jury to convict. If there is any doubt, the accused is entitled to the benefit of it. What we want is something in the way of positive evidence; and all that we have got is that certain documents have apparently been taken from the person of the deceased.”
“I should call that pretty weighty positive evidence,” said I, “especially as the documents included the suspect’s fingerprints and description. What do you think, Thorndyke?”
“I think,” he replied, “that we shall be in a better position to form opinions after the inquest, when we shall know what facts are really available. And, speaking of the inquest, Miller, what is to be done with regard to notes of the evidence? Are you employing a shorthand reporter, or shall I bring or send my own man?”
“I don’t see that either is necessary,” replied Miller. “We can get a copy of the depositions if we want one.”
“That may meet your requirements,” said Thorndyke, “but it may not suit me so well. I think I will send a reporter of my own, and you can have a copy of the notes if you have any use for them.”
The Superintendent accepted this offer with suitable acknowledgments, and the subject dropped for the time. As the train moved out of London Bridge Station, however, I ventured to raise another subject of more immediate interest, at least to me.
“What are we going to do in the matter of food, Thorndyke?” I asked. “Does Polton know when to expect us?”
“Obviously not,” was the reply, “as we did not know ourselves. I told him that we should get some food on the way, and I suggest that the Coffee Room at the Charing Cross Hotel will be the best place to stoke up. Perhaps the Superintendent will join us.”
“Very good of you, Doctor,” said Miller, “but I think I must get on to my office to finish up one or two odds and ends. Possibly we shall travel down together tomorrow, but, if not, we shall meet at the inquest. By that time I shall probably have seen those fingerprints from Maidstone.”
Accordingly, we separated at Charing Cross, Miller striding away towards the entrance while Thorndyke and I made our way to the Hotel Coffee Room, where, with one accord, we demanded whatever might be ready at the moment. The long fast that our various activities had entailed had disposed us both to find a better use for our jaws than conversation. But as the entrée dish emptied and the level in the claret bottle sank, my interest in our quest revived and I began cautiously to put out feelers. It had been evident to me that Thorndyke was not prepared to accept Miller’s interpretation of the facts, and the question that I asked myself—and by implication put to him—was, Had he any alternative theory? But my feelers felt nothing but a steady, passive resistance to discussion, which, however, was not entirely unilluminating; for long experience of Thorndyke had taught me that when he was more than usually uncommunicative, he had something up his sleeve.
Now, could he have anything up his sleeve on the present occasion? Was there something that he had seen and the rest of us had overlooked? Naturally, I could not be sure, but there had been so little to see that it seemed hardly possible. His examination of the body could not have yielded any fact that he had net disclosed. It was quite unlike him to withhold any observed fact when he made a report. As I turned over the events of the day, I could recall only two that seemed to involve any obscurity or uncertainty. Thorndyke had taken the dead man’s fingerprints. I did not see why. But it was a simple and reasonable proceeding and Thorndyke’s explanation had seemed adequate. But was it possi
ble that he had something more definite in his mind?
Again, he had picked up a half-smoked cigar in the tunnel. That I could make nothing of. I could imagine no possible bearing that it could have on the case. The subsequent taking of the fingerprints suggested a suspicion that the cigar had been smoked by Badger. But supposing it had? What light could that fact conceivably throw on the crime? I could perceive no relevancy at all. Nevertheless, the more I reflected on these two incidents, the more strongly did I suspect that they were connected with something definite in Thorndyke’s mind; something connected with Badger’s fingerprints, or even with those of the other man—which would, indeed, furnish highly relevant and important evidence.
That suspicion deepened when, on our arrival at our chambers, he made his way straight up to the laboratory with an air of evident purpose. There we found our laboratory assistant, Polton, apparently engaged in a post-mortem examination of the dismembered remains of a clock. He greeted us with a crinkly smile of welcome, and, scenting some more alluring activity, abandoned the autopsy and slipped off his stool.
“Is there anything that you are wanting, sir?” he asked, as Thorndyke ran a seeking eye along the shelves.
“Haven’t we a holder for objects that are to be photographed?” Thorndyke enquired.
“Yes, sir. The stand forceps,” was the reply; and, opening a cupboard, Polton produced an appliance somewhat like an enlarged edition of the stage forceps of a naturalist’s microscope—a spring holder supported on a heavy foot and furnished with a universal joint. As Polton set the appliance down on the bench, Thorndyke opened his research case, and, taking from it the envelope containing the cigar, extracted the latter with a pair of forceps and fixed it in the jaws of the holder, which grasped it near the pointed end. Anticipating the next move, I repaired to the cupboard and brought forth an insufflator, or powder spray, and a wide-mouthed bottle filled with a fine, white powder, both of which I placed on the bench without remark. Thorndyke acknowledged the attention with a smile, enquiring:
“What are the odds that we draw a blank?”
“You are gambling on the chance of finding Badger’s fingerprints?” I suggested.
“It is hardly a gamble, as we don’t stand to lose anything,” he replied. “But I thought it worth while to try. There is at least a possibility.”
“Undoubtedly,” I agreed. “And the probability is not so very remote. What I don’t see is the relevancy of their presence or absence. Does it matter to us or to anybody else whether Badger was or was not smoking a cigar when he met his death?”
“That question,” he replied, “we may leave until we see what luck we have. The might-have-beens certainly do not concern us.”
As he was speaking, he filled the container of the spray with the white powder, and, starting the bellows, blew a jet of powder on to the cigar, turning the latter round by degrees until every part of it was covered with a white film. Then, swinging up the arm of the holder until the cigar was upright, he took a little box-wood mallet that Polton had picked out of a rack and handed to him, and began rapidly and lightly to tap the foot of the holder. As the slight concussions were transmitted to the cigar, the film of powder on its surface crept gradually downward, uncovering the dark body by degrees, but leaving a number of light-coloured patches where the powder had adhered more closely. Slowly, as the tapping continued, the loose powder became detached until only the lightest dusting remained; and meanwhile the light patches grew more distinct and defined, and began to show faintly the characteristic linear patterns of fingerprints. Finally, Thorndyke blew gently on the cigar, rotating it as before by means of the universal joint. And now, as the last vestiges of the loose powder were blown away, the fingerprints—or at least some of them—grew suddenly quite clear and distinct.
Polton and I pored eagerly over the curious markings (though it had been almost a foregone conclusion that some fingerprints must appear, since somebody had held the cigar in his fingers) while Thorndyke once more opened his research case and took from it a couple of cards, each bearing five fingerprints and each scribed with the name of Inspector Badger. Laying the two cards on the bench beside the holder, he took a magnifying glass down from a nail on the wall and carefully scanned through it first the prints on the card and then those on the cigar. After several prolonged comparisons he seemed to have reached a conclusion, though he made no remark but silently handed me the glass.
I began with a thorough inspection of the prints on the cards. They were beautifully distinct, having been skilfully executed with fingerprint ink, and showed, with the sharpness of an engraving, not only the ridge-pattern but the rows of tiny white dots on the black lines which represented the mouths of the sweat glands. When I had to some extent memorized the patterns, I turned my attention to the cigar, selecting first a rather large print which looked like that of a thumb. It was slightly blurred as if the thumb had been damp, but it was quite legible; and when I compared it with the two thumb prints on the card, I recognized it pretty confidently as that of the left hand.
Having reached a positive result, I felt no further examination was worthwhile. But before giving my decision, I handed the glass to Polton, who took it from me with a crinkle of satisfaction and bent eagerly over the cards. But I think he had already made his observations with the naked eye, for, after a very brief inspection, he delivered his verdict.
“It’s a true bill, sir.” He pointed at the large print with a pencil and added:
“That is Mr. Badger’s left thumb.”
“That was my opinion, too,” I said in confirmation.
“Yes,” Thorndyke agreed, “I think there is no doubt of it, though it will have to be verified by a detailed comparison of the separate characters. But it establishes a prima facie case. There are a number of other, less distinct prints, but we need not examine them now. The important thing is to secure a permanent record which can be safely handled. How many photographs shall we want, Polton?”
“You will want to show every part of every fingerprint free from distortion,” said Polton, stating the problem and slowly rotating the cigar as he spoke. “Six photographs would do it at a pinch, but if it is important, I should do twelve and make it safe. That would give you about four views of each fingerprint.”
“Very well, Polton,” said Thorndyke, “we will make twelve exposures. And if you have the plates ready, we will get them done at once.”
As the making of twelve exposures promised to be a tedious business and my assistance was not required, I took one or two sheets of paper from the rack, and, laying them on the work-bench, proceeded to occupy myself usefully in drawing up a summary of the day’s experiences and the facts, such as they were, which had transpired during our investigations. But they were few and apparently not very significant, so that I was not long in coming to the end of my summary; when I laid down my pen and transferred my attention to Thorndyke’s proceedings.
It was evident that the discovery of Badger’s thumb-print had not exhausted his interest in the derelict cigar, for, as each negative was developed and washed, he brought it to the bench, and, holding it over a sheet of white paper under the lamp, scrutinized it through his lens and compared it with the prints on the cards. I did not quite understand the object of this detailed comparison, for the identification of the one print had established the fact that the cigar had been smoked by Badger, whatever the significance of that fact might be. The identification of further prints seemed rather like flogging a dead horse. Eventually I was moved to make a remark to that effect.
“That is true enough,” said he, “but we have to get all the information that our material will yield. As a matter of fact, I am not looking for the remainder of Badger’s prints; I am looking to see if there are any prints which are not his.”
“And are there?”
“Yes, there is at least one and a problematical second one, but that is practically obliterated by the heat from the burnt end. The other is a fairly clear print
, apparently a thumb; and it is certainly not either of Badger’s thumbs.”
“From which, I presume, you infer that the cigar was given to Badger by someone else?”
“That is the reasonable inference; and as he was alone with another man in the carriage, the further inference is admissible that the giver of the cigar was that other man. That, however, is only a probability which will have to be considered in relation to the other facts.”
“Yes,” I agreed. “It might have been given to him at Maidstone to smoke in the train. I don’t see how you are to prove either view, or that you would be much forrarder if you did.”
I was, in fact, rather puzzled by the intense interest that Thorndyke displayed in this cigar. For, surely, nothing could be less distinctive or more hopeless for purposes of identification than a commodity which is manufactured in thousands of identical replicas. But as Thorndyke must necessarily realize this, I could only suppose that there was some point the significance of which I had overlooked; and with this probability in my mind, I followed my colleague’s proceedings closely in the hope that the point which I had missed would presently emerge.
When the last of the negatives had been developed and examined, Thorndyke took the cigar out of the holder and wiped it clean of all traces of the powder.
“That,” he remarked, “is the advantage of carrying out these investigations ourselves. If Miller had seen those fingerprints, he would have insisted on annexing the cigar to produce as an ‘exhibit’ at the trial—if there ever is one. Whereas our photographs, properly attested, are equally good evidence, and the cigar is at our disposal for further examination.”
The advantage was not very obvious to me, but I discreetly abstained from comment, and he continued:
“It is a rather unusual cigar; considerably above the ordinary dimensions. The part which remains is five inches and an eighth long. Judging by the thickness—a full three-quarters of an inch—the complete cigar was probably well over six inches in length. How much over we can’t say. There are some enormously long cigars made for civic banquets and similar functions.”
The Third R. Austin Freeman Megapack Page 116
