“Just recently, one of our men who specializes in note forgeries and knows a good deal about money of all kinds, had to spend a week or two on the Continent. When he was about to return, he changed his foreign money into English and got one or two sovereigns. Now, when he got home and had a look at those sovereigns, he thought there seemed to be something queer about one of them. So he got a chemist to weigh it, but the weight was apparently all right—it was only an ordinary shop scale, you know, but it weighed within a fraction of a grain. Then he measured it; but all the dimensions seemed to be correct. But, still, to his expert eye, it didn’t look right; and it didn’t sound right when he rang it. So he took it to an assayist whom he knew, and the assayist tried its specific gravity and tested it so far as was possible without damaging the coin, and he reported that it was undoubtedly gold of about the correct fineness. But still our man wasn’t satisfied. So he took it to the Mint, and showed it to one of the chief officials. And then the murder was out. It wasn’t a milled coin at all. It was a casting. An uncommonly good casting and very neatly finished off at the edge, but an undoubted casting to the skilled eye. So they passed it on to the assay department and made a regular assay of it. The result was very quaint. It was gold right enough, and just about 22 carat; but it was not exactly the composition of a sovereign. There was a slight difference in the alloy. That was all. There was no fraud. The proper amount of gold was there. Yet it was a counterfeit coin. Now, what do you make of that?”
“Nothing,” I answered, “unless it was a practical joke.”
“Well, it wasn’t. The Mint people asked us to look into the matter, and we did. The result was that we found one or two more specimens of this queer, unofficial money—you couldn’t call it base coin—in France, Belgium, and Holland. Evidently, there is a regular manufacture.”
“But what on earth can be the meaning of it?” I demanded.
Miller chuckled. “We can only guess,” said he, “but we can take it that the sportsman who makes those sovereigns doesn’t do it for fun. And, if he makes a profit on them, he doesn’t buy his gold from the bullion dealers, and he doesn’t pay the market price for it. On the other hand, he probably sells it for export at considerably above its nominal value, now that gold is so difficult to get. So, if he steals his gold, or gets it cheap from the thieves, and sells it at a premium, he doesn’t do so badly. And he will be mighty hard to catch. For the coins are genuine golden sovereigns, and only a fairly expert person would be able to spot them. And experts are pretty rare, nowadays. Once, every little shopkeeper was an expert; but now there are plenty of people who have never seen a sovereign.”
“It is a clever dodge,” I remarked, “if the gold is really stolen.”
“Clever!” repeated Miller, enthusiastically. “It’s a stroke of genius. You see, it avoids all the crook’s ordinary difficulties. He can get rid of the stones pretty easily, as they can’t be identified separately. But the gold is less easy to dispose of at a decent price. For, if a bullion dealer is willing to buy it—which he probably isn’t, if he is a respectable man—the transaction is known, and the vendor has left dangerous tracks; and the ordinary fence will only give a knock down price. He must make a big profit to set off the risk that he takes.
“But there is another case that has just come to light—probably the same man. You know that, for some time past, the Mint has been calling in all real silver money. Now, since this sovereign incident, it occurred to the people there to look over the silver coins that came in; and, at the first cast, they came on a half-crown that turned out to be a casting. But it was silver. Further search brought one or two more to light. Someone was making silver half-crowns.
“Now, here was a paradoxical situation! The coiner was making good silver coin while the Mint was issuing base money. Of course, coining is illegal. But this coiner could not be charged with uttering base coin. It would be hard to prove to a jury that it was counterfeit.
“Here you see the difference between the stupid crook and the clever crook. The fool tries to grab the whole—and doesn’t do it. He makes his coin of pewter and probably steals that. They generally used to. If he got half a crown for his pewter snide, it would be all profit. But he doesn’t, because it is a duffer. So he has to sell it cheap to the snide man. And he gets caught. But this sportsman puts, say, a shilling’s worth of silver into his half-crown, and he doesn’t have to pay the snide man. He can pass it quite safely himself. And he doesn’t get caught.”
“He runs the risk of getting caught if he passes it himself,” I objected.
“Not at all,” said Miller. “How should he? What you’re overlooking is that the coins are good coins. They pass freely, and they will bear assay. Only an expert can spot them, and then only after close examination. But he must make a big profit. He could easily get rid of a hundred a day. There’s seven pounds ten shillings profit, even if he buys the silver at the market price, which he probably does not. That silver is most likely burglars’ loot—silver tea-pots and candlesticks melted down; stuff that he would have to sell to a fence at about the price of brass. I tell you, Dr. Jervis, that coiner is a brainy customer. He’ll want a lot of salt sprinkled on his tail before he’ll get caught.”
“I think you are rather over-estimating his profits,” said I. “He has not only to pass the coins; he has got to make them. Good workmanship like that means time and labour. And there is the gold. Most trade jewellery is made of a lower-grade gold than 22 carat. He would either have to buy fine gold from the bullion dealers to bring his low-grade gold up to standard or to do a good deal of conversion himself.”
While Miller was considering this difficulty, the door opened, and Polton’s head became visible, his eyes riveted on the Superintendent’s back with an expression of consternation. I think he would have with drawn, but that Miller, in some occult manner, became aware of his presence and addressed him.
“Good evening, Mr. Polton. We were just discussing a little problem that is rather in your line. Perhaps you would give us your opinion on it.”
On this, Polton advanced with a slightly suspicious eye on the Superintendent, and Miller proceeded to put his case.
“The problem is, how to make sovereigns—castings, you know—out of jewellery composed of low-grade gold. Supposing you had got a lot of rings, for instance, of 18-carat gold. Now, how would you go about turning them into 22-carat sovereigns?”
Polton crinkled at him reproachfully.
“I am surprised at you, Mr. Miller—an officer of the law, too—suggesting such a thing. Of course, I wouldn’t do anything of the sort.”
“No, no,” chuckled Miller, “we know that. It’s just a question of method that we want explained. Because somebody has done it, and we would like to know how he managed it.”
“Well, sir,” said Polton, “there is no particular difficulty about it. He would weigh up the 18-carat gold and take part of it, say a little more than half, flatten it out on the stake or in a rolling mill, if he had one, break it up quite small, and boil it up in nitric acid. That would dissolve out the alloy—the copper and silver—and leave him pure gold. Then he would melt that down with the proper proportion of the 18-carat stuff, and that would give him 22-carat gold.”
“And as to making the coins? Would that be much of a job? How many do you think he could make in a day?”
“A man who knew his job,” said Polton, “wouldn’t make any trouble about it. He would make his mould in a casting flask that would cast, say, twenty at a time, and he would use a matrix that would dry hard and give a good many repeats. There would be a bit of finishing work to do on each coin—cutting off the sprue, where the metal ran in, and making good the edge. But that is not a big job. They make a special edge tool for the purpose.”
“Oh, do they?” said Miller, with a sly grin. “You seem to know a good deal about it, Mr. Polton.”
“Of course I do,” was the indignant response, “seeing that I have been dealing with tool-makers in the
metal trade since I was a boy. Not that the respectable makers in Clerkenwell have anything to do with burglars’ and coiners’ tools. But, naturally, they get to know what is made.”
“Yes, I know,” said Miller. “Our people get some useful tips from them, now and again. And I shall know where to send them if they want some more, eh, Mr. Polton? Technical tips, I mean, of course.”
Polton crinkled indulgently at the Superintendent, and when the latter, having glanced at his watch, suddenly emptied his glass and rose, his expression became positively affectionate.
“I am afraid I have wasted a lot of your time with my gossip,” said Miller, apologetically, as he drew on his gloves, “but I thought you would like to have the news. Probably you will look in at the Old Bailey and see how the case goes. The sessions are just beginning now, and I expect the case will come on in the course of a few days.”
“We shall certainly drop in if we can,” said Thorndyke, “and see what comes of your efforts. Won’t you throw away that stump and take a fresh cigar?” he added, holding out the box as the Superintendent essayed to strike a match.
“Seems a waste,” replied Miller, turning a thrifty eye on the stump. But he succumbed, nevertheless; and when he had selected a fresh cigar and amputated its point with anxious care, he lit it (with a match that Polton had struck in readiness), shook hands, and took his leave.
As the door closed on the sound of his retiring foot steps, Polton fell to, in his noiseless, dexterous fashion, on the dismantling of the dinner-table; and, as he prepared a tray for transport to the upper regions, he announced:
“The camera is finished, sir, and all ready for inspection, if you have time to come up and have a look at it.”
“Then let us go up at once,” said Thorndyke; “and perhaps we can take some of the debris with us and save another journey.”
He loaded a second tray and followed Polton up the stairs, while I brought up the rear with an empty claret jug and a couple of dish covers.
The “automatic watcher,” which its creator exhibited with justifiable complacency, was a singularly ingenious appliance. The clock was enclosed in a small box, on the front of which was a miniature dial; and the almost inaudible tick was further muffled by a pad of felt between its back and the wall. The camera, to which it was connected by an insulated wire, was another small box, fitted with mirror plates to fasten it to the door. From its front projected a brass tube, five inches long, and half an inch thick, at the end of which was an enclosed prism with a circular opening facing at right angles to the axis of the tube.
“There are two film holders,” Polton explained, “each taking six yards of kinematograph film, and each enclosed in a light-tight case with a dark-slide, so that it can be taken out and another put in its place. So I can go down and bring away one film for development and leave the other to carry on. I have set the clock to make an exposure every six hours, beginning at twelve o’clock, noon.”
“And what about the shutter?” asked Thorndyke. “Does it make much of a click?”
“It doesn’t make any sound at all,” replied Polton, “because it moves quite slowly. It is just a disc with a hole in it. ‘When the clock makes the circuit, the disc moves so that the hole is opposite the lens; and stays there until the circuit is broken. Then it moves round and closes the lens, and, at the same time, the roller makes a turn and winds on a fresh piece of film. I’ll make an exposure now.”
He turned the hand of the clock until it came to six, while Thorndyke and I listened with our heads close to the camera. But no sound could be heard; and it was only by repeating the proceeding with our ears actually applied to the camera that it was possible to detect faint sounds of movement as the shutter-disc revolved.
“I suppose,” said Thorndyke, “you focus on the film?”
“Yes,” replied Polton; “there’s plenty to spare, so I use a piece as a focusing screen and waste it. And the barrel of the lens can be turned so as to get the prism pointing at the right spot. I think it will do, sir.”
“I am sure it will,” Thorndyke agreed, heartily; “and I only hope that all your trouble and ingenuity and skill will not have been expended in vain.”
“That can hardly be, sir,” was the cheerful response. “The photographs are bound to show something, though it may not be exactly what you want. At any rate, it’s ready; and, with your permission, I will pop down with it tomorrow, as soon as I have finished with the breakfasts.”
“Excellent!” said Thorndyke. “Then, if Mrs. Gibbins’s belief is well founded, the ‘watcher’ will be installed in time for the Wednesday-night visit.”
CHAPTER XIII
Rex v. Dobey
During the next day or two, I was sensible of a certain tension and unrest that seemed to affect the atmosphere of our chambers in King’s Bench Walk. Polton, having successfully installed his apparatus in the corridor at Hartsden Manor House, was in a fever of impatience to harvest the results. I believe that he would have liked to sit down beside his camera and change the film after each exposure. As it was, he had fixed it on Tuesday morning, and, as no result could be expected until Thursday, at the earliest, circumstances condemned him to two whole days of suspense.
But Polton was not the only sufferer. My long association with Thorndyke enabled me to detect changes in his emotional states that were hidden from the eye of the casual observer by his habitually calm and impassive exterior; and, in these days, a certain gravity and preoccupation in his manner conveyed to me the impression that something was weighing on his mind. At first, I was disposed to connect his preoccupation with the affairs of Hartsden Manor; but I soon dismissed this idea. For in those affairs there was nothing that could reasonably cause him any anxiety. And Thorndyke was by no means addicted to fussing unnecessarily.
The explanation came on the Wednesday evening, when we had finished dinner and taken our armchairs, and were preparing the post-prandial pipes.
“I suppose,” said he, pushing the tobacco jar to my side of the little table, “you will turn up at the Old Bailey to hear how Dobey fares?”
“When is the trial?” I asked.
“Tomorrow,” he replied. “I thought you knew.”
“No,” said I. “Miller didn’t mention any date, and I have heard nothing since. I think it would be interesting to hear the evidence, though we know pretty well what it will be.”
“Yes, we know the case for the prosecution. But we don’t know what Dobey may have to say in reply. That is what interests me. I am not at all happy about the case. I don’t much like the attitude of the prosecution—if Miller has represented it fairly—particularly the dragging in of the house affair.”
“No,” I agreed, “that seems quite irrelevant.”
“It is,” said be. “And it is a flagrant instance of the old forensic dodge of proving the wrong conclusion. The identification of Dobey by these women is evidently expected to convey to the jury in a vague sort of way that the station-master’s refusal to swear to the identity of the Strood man is of no consequence.”
“It is quite possible that the judge may refuse to allow the house affair to be introduced at all.”
“Quite,” he agreed, “especially if the defence objects. But, still, I am not happy about the case. The intention of the prosecution to introduce this irrelevant matter to prejudice the jury and their suppression of the evidence regarding the poisoned cigar—which really is highly relevant—suggests a very determined effort to obtain a conviction.”
“I take it that you do not entertain the possibility that Dobey may have committed the murder?”
“No, I don’t think I do. As you say, we know the case for the prosecution and we know that it is a bad case. There is a total lack of positive evidence. But, still, there is the chance that they may get a conviction. That would be a disaster; and it would, at once, raise the question as to what we should have to do. Obviously, we couldn’t let an innocent man go to the gallows. But it would be a very difficult po
sition.”
“What are the chances of a conviction, so far as you can see?”
“That depends on what Dobey has to say. The case for the prosecution rests on the finding of the stolen document in his fiat. There is no denying that that is a highly incriminating circumstance, and, if he can produce nothing more than a mere denial of having taken it, the chances will be decidedly against him.”
“It is difficult to see what answer he can give,” said L “The document was certainly taken from Badger, before or after his death; it was certainly found in Dobey’s flat; and, apparently, Dobey was the sole occupant of that flat. I don’t see how he is going to escape from those facts.”
“Neither do I,” said Thorndyke. “But we shall hear what he has to say tomorrow; and if he is found guilty, we shall have to consider very seriously what our next move is to be.”
With this, the subject dropped. But, at intervals during the evening, my thoughts went back to it, and I found myself wondering whether Thorndyke had not perhaps allowed himself to undervalue the evidence against Dobey. The finding of that document in his rooms would take a great deal of explaining.
My intention to hear the case from the beginning was frustrated by a troublesome solicitor, who first failed to keep an appointment, and then detained me inordinately, so that when, at last, I arrived at the Central Criminal Court and, having hurriedly donned my wig and gown, slipped into the counsels’ seats beside Thorndyke, the case for the prosecution was nearly concluded. But by the fact that the fingerprint expert was then giving evidence, I knew that the prosecution had succeeded in introducing the house breaking incident. As I listened to the evidence, I looked quickly round the court to identify the various dramatis personae and, naturally, looked first at the dock, where the prisoner stood “on his deliverance,” listening with stolid calm to the apparently indestructible evidence of the expert.
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