“But, my dear fellow,” said Thorndyke, “that is precisely its most valuable quality. A man writing an account with the conscious intention of throwing light on some question tends unconsciously to select the facts which appear to him to be important and to ignore other facts which seem to have no bearing. But his selection may be all wrong. He may omit something of vital importance through having failed to realise its significance. Whereas your little history gives the facts impartially without selection. Would it be possible for us to have the privilege of reading it?”
Mortimer smiled rather shyly. “It is a poor performance in a literary sense,” said he, “but, of course, you can see it if you wish to. I rattled it off on the typewriter, and, as I did it in duplicate, you can have one copy to keep as long as you like. I will post it off to you tonight.”
“Thank you,” said Thorndyke. “I shall read it with interest even if it throws no further light on the case. And there are two other matters that may be mentioned before we adjourn this meeting. Who has the blackmailer’s letters?”
“They are in Penfield’s custody at present,” replied Benson. “He has all the documents.”
“The other matter,” said Thorndyke, “refers to Gillum’s chambers. Who has possession of them? You, I suppose, are the nominal tenant.”
“Yes, I am the tenant until Michaelmas or until they are let. Why do you ask?”
“I merely wanted to know whether they would be available if it should seem desirable to make an inspection.”
“What use would an inspection be?” Benson asked.
“It is impossible to say,” replied Thorndyke. “Probably none. But some point may arise from the reading of Mortimer’s manuscript which may be elucidated by looking over the premises.”
“Well, you know best,” said Benson. “At any rate, I will send you the keys in case you should want them. And I think that finishes our business for the present. It is very good of you to have given us so much of your time; but, before we go, there is one question that I should like to ask. You have gone very patiently into the case tonight. From what you have learned from us, do you think you will be disposed to do what I am hoping you will; to prosecute a search for those wretches who are responsible for poor Jack Gillum’s death?”
“I am prepared to look into the case,” Thorndyke replied. “If I find that we come to an absolute dead end, I shall advise you to abandon the inquiry. But if I see any prospect whatever of bringing it to a successful conclusion, I shall place my services unreservedly at your disposal. Will that satisfy you?”
“It will more than satisfy me,” replied Benson, “and, for my part, I promise to be guided by your advice, whatever you may decide.”
With this, the two men rose, and, when we had escorted them to the landing and seen them safely launched on the stairs, we wished them good-night and re-entered our chambers.
DEATH AT THE INN [Part 2]
CHAPTER IX
The Empty Nest
“Well, Thorndyke,” I said when we had re-entered and closed the door, “this has been quite an entertaining interview. I fancy that your drag net brought up rather more than you expected. A mighty queer catch, in fact.”
“Yes,” he agreed, as he dug out his pipe with a thoughtful air, “a decidedly queer catch. And it will need some sorting out. What do you make of it?”
“It seems to me,” I replied, “that we have identified one of the blackmailers and accounted for the other.”
“That is the result in a nutshell,” said he. “But I should like to hear how you arrived at it.”
“The argument,” I replied, “consists in stating the facts in their natural sequence. To begin with Abel Webb. I remember the case quite clearly. It was that cyanide injection case; and when we discussed it, we agreed that suicide could not be entertained. It was a blatant case of murder.”
“Yes,” Thorndyke agreed. “I accept that.”
“Then we agree that Abel Webb was murdered. He was murdered on the ninth of September. At that time Gillum was being blackmailed at the rate of eight hundred a year. But exactly a week after the murder, on the sixteenth of September, the blackmail suddenly jumped up to the rate of two thousand a year.
“At, or about, the time of the murder, Gillum is known to have been in the neighbourhood, within a few yards of the place where it was committed; and, after the murder, although he and Mortimer discussed it in detail, he concealed from Mortimer the fact that he had been acquainted with Webb. You agree to that?
“Yes,” Thorndyke replied. “Mortimer referred to it as reticence, but reticence to that extent amounts to concealment.”
“Those, then,” said I, “are the facts, and my interpretation of them is this: Abel Webb was blackmailing Gillum to the tune of eight hundred a year. Possibly he was also becoming troublesome. At any rate, Gillum got tired of it and took an opportunity to kill Abel Webb. For that I don’t blame him, although his methods were not pretty. But then Gillum had bad luck. Somebody knew more than he was aware of and promptly put on the screw; and put it on so forcibly that when Gillum came to the end of his resources, he committed suicide rather than face the consequences of not being able to pay. That is my reading of the case, and I rather think it is yours too.”
“Yes,” Thorndyke agreed, “that is what the facts seem to suggest, and I am prepared to accept your theory as a working hypothesis. Without prejudice, however, as our friend Penfield would say. I mean that, while adopting it as a working hypothesis, we must not lose sight of its hypothetical nature. Fresh facts may lead us to modify our views.”
“Yes, that is true,” I admitted; “but you speak of a working hypothesis. But how does it work? The problem is to find the principal blackmailer. But I don’t see that what we have learned gets us any more forward on that quest.”
“There,” said Thorndyke, “I disagree entirely. Assuming your interpretation of the facts to be correct, we have a most important clue to the identity of the chief blackmailer. You have said it yourself. ‘Somebody knew more than he was aware of.’ But what did that somebody know? He must have known, not only of the connection between Gillum and Webb, but that Webb was blackmailing Gillum. That implies that the blackmailer must have known Webb pretty intimately; but if Webb was really a blackmailer, the suggestion is that the matter which supported the blackmail was something connected with the voyage from Australia to England. But that, in its turn, seems to connect the unknown blackmailer with the voyage; and if we are right in inferring such a connection, we have a very valuable hint as to where to look for further information.”
“You mean the ship’s doctor?”
“Yes. If the blackmail arose out of any incident that occurred on board ship, and still more if the blackmailer should have been one of the other passengers, the doctor could hardly fail to have some knowledge of the matter, or some knowledge of the circumstances out of which the blackmail arose. Even if he had no suspicion of the blackmailing transaction, he must know what the general conditions were on the voyage. There isn’t much privacy on board ship, especially on a long voyage.”
“Yes,” I agreed, “the doctor should be a useful witness. Benson’s knowledge of the matter is based on hearsay, but Dr. Peck’s is first-hand, so that we could cross-examine him in detail. But the question is, how are we to get into touch with him? He may be in India or China by this time.”
“That is a possibility,” said Thorndyke, “but we had better begin by finding out his permanent address from the Medical Directory.”
He went into the office and returned with the volume in his hand. Laying it down on the table, he turned over the leaves until he found the entry, which he read put.
“Augustus Peck, M.R.C.S., L.R.C.P., L.D.S., Surgeon, Commonwealth and Dominions Line. Permanent address, 87, Staple Inn.”
“Staple Inn,” I repeated. “It is rather odd that this case should be connected with the only two remaining inns of Chancery. And I notice that he has the dental as well as the medical
qualification.”
“Yes,” said Thorndyke, “and quite a useful combination for a ship’s surgeon. I suppose our next move must be to call at Staple Inn and see if we can discover his present whereabouts. But there is no hurry. We shall have Mortimer’s manuscript in the morning and it may be that we shall pick up some hint from that.”
This ended our discussion for the time being; and if it had not carried us far, it, and the preceding inter view, had yielded more matter for investigation than Penfield’s dismal account of the case had led us to expect.
On the following morning, Mortimer’s manuscript arrived, and the same post brought a package from Benson containing two keys tied together and bearing a parchment label inscribed, “64, Clifford’s Inn, 1st floor.” As Thorndyke was occupied during the morning and I was free, I took possession of the manuscript and read through the seven chapters of which it consisted with close attention and growing disappointment. For I had expected that Mortimer’s story would furnish us with some new facts; whereas it seemed to me merely to repeat at greater length what he had already told us or what we had gathered from the report of the inquest.
But in this, as appeared later, I was mistaken; and as Mortimer’s history contained practically all that we ever knew of the period that it described, I have attached it as a preface to this record and shall hence forth assume that the reader is fully acquainted with its contents. And it may be that he, or she, more discerning than I, will already have noted certain points the significance of which I failed to appreciate.
Certain suspicions did, indeed, cross my mind on the subject, especially when I noted the deep interest and attention with which Thorndyke studied the document. But then my colleague was a man who habitually gave his whole attention to even the simplest matters; and I could see that this case, with all its obscurities and ambiguities, had taken a strong hold on him. It was the kind of puzzle that he really enjoyed; and he was going to spare no pains in seeking out the solution.
About a week after the arrival of the manuscript I ventured to ask his views on it, with the above suspicions in mind.
“What do you make of Mortimer’s history?” said I. “To me it seems rather barren of matter. I have not extracted from it anything that I did not already know.”
“Nor have I,” he replied, “in the sense of new facts of a fundamental order. I hardly expected to. But the story has its value in that it gives us a lively picture of the man, Gillum. It shows us a shrewd, ingenious, rather subtle man, with a distinctly casuistical type of mind; and it enables us to contrast his apparent intelligence with his amazingly foolish conduct.”
“But we were able to do that already,” I objected; “and as to the main problem, the identity of the principal blackmailer, it gives us not the faintest hint.”
“That is true,” said Thorndyke. “But perhaps the immediate problem is rather the occasion of the blackmail; what it was that Gillum had done to render him susceptible to blackmail. Mortimer throws no light on that question either. Whatever we are to learn from his story must be gathered by reading between the lines and considering the possible significance of apparently trivial things and events.”
“You mean, in relation to our working hypothesis?” I suggested.
“Yes,” he replied. “But let us not be obsessed by our hypothesis. It may be entirely erroneous; and while we are using it as the only instrument of investigation which we possess, we should scrutinise every new fact, as well as the old ones, to see whether any alternative hypothesis is suggested. Read Mortimer’s history again, Jervis, and ask yourself in respect of Gillum’s sayings and doings and the little trivial occurrences which Mortimer chronicles, whether they support our hypothesis or whether they seem to be consistent with some different meaning.”
As this implied that Thorndyke had already taken his own prescription, I decided to study the manuscript afresh. Meanwhile, by way of “getting some of my own back,” I remarked with a grin: “There is one thing that I have been expecting ever since Mortimer’s document turned up; and I’m still expecting it.”
“What is that?” he asked, regarding me suspiciously.
“I have been expecting that you would want to go across to Clifford’s Inn and nose round the empty chambers.”
“And why not?” said he. “I think it is an excellent suggestion. It would be quite interesting to fill in Mortimer’s picture with its appropriate background; and as we have the afternoon free, I propose that we put your idea into execution forth with. We will go over as soon as we have had lunch.”
Of course, I agreed (noting that Thorndyke, according to his habit, had planted his “idea” on me); and, when we had dispatched our meal, and Thorndyke had provided himself with his invaluable research-case and his graduated walking-stick, we went forth, and passing out of the Inner Temple gate, crossed Fleet Street, and walking up Clifford’s Inn Passage, came out into the courtyard by the garden.
“Sic transit,” Thorndyke remarked, regretfully, as he cast a disparaging eye on the garish new buildings that were beginning to replace the pleasant old houses. “John Penhallow’s chambers have gone and soon all the others will follow; and then all that will remain to show posterity the quiet sumptuousness and dignity of London chambers in the seventeenth century will be Penhallow’s rooms in the Victoria and Albert Museum.”
He stood for a few moments running a reflective eye over the exterior of Number 64, observed by a pair of inquisitive eyes from the window of the type writing office on the ground floor; then he plunged into the dim entry and I followed him up the stairs until we emerged into the daylight of the first-floor landing.
“This is rather gruesome,” said I, as we threw open the inner door and looked into the room. “With the exception of the corpse, the place is just the same as it appeared to Mortimer when he and Benson and Weech discovered the body. Nothing seems to have been moved.”
“No,” Thorndyke agreed. “We have only to imagine the body lying on the couch and we have the tableau that Mortimer described.”
We went in and looked curiously at the couch, the pillow of which still bore the impression of the dead man’s head, and the little table by its side with the siphon, the tumbler, and the decanter, all bearing the very distinct prints of the dead man’s fingers.
“We may as well preserve these,” said Thorndyke, slipping on a pair of loose gloves. “They are not likely to help us, but you never know. It is a good rule never to destroy evidence.”
“I don’t see what evidence they could furnish,” said I, “seeing that they were proved to be Gillum’s own fingerprints.”
“But that is evidence,” he replied. “Prints like these are Gillum’s; and prints unlike them are those of somebody else. As we are seeking an unknown person, that kind of evidence may be quite material. And you notice that there is a nearly complete set of both hands.”
He looked about the room, and observing a built-in cupboard by the fireplace, turned the key which was in the lock, and opened the door. One of the shelves was nearly empty, and as the height was sufficient to take the siphon, he transferred that and the tumbler and the smooth, patternless decanter from the table to the vacant space and closed the door.
“We will lock the cupboard and take the key when we go,” said he. “Meanwhile, we may find some other things which we may think fit to put in it.”
He went back to the couch and ran his eye over the cushions and the pillow, stooping over the latter and examining it more closely.
“This is worth noticing,” said he. “The man’s head could have rested on this pillow only a few hours while he was alive and capable of movement, but yet there are no less than three hairs sticking to the fabric.”
“He may have used the pillow on other occasions,” I suggested; to which Thorndyke assented.
“At any rate,” he added, “we may as well collect these hairs, as we can assume them to be authentic samples of Gillum’s hair.”
“I suppose so,” I agreed, though
without enthusiasm; for it would have been more to the point if they had been authentic samples of the blackmailer’s hair. Thorndyke noted the tone of my remark and smiled as he opened his research case, which he had deposited on the table.
“You think,” said he, “that we are collecting all the things that don’t matter. Probably you are right; but it is better to provide yourself with useless material than to throw away things that may later be badly needed.”
He took out of the case a pair of forceps and one of his invaluable seed envelopes, and with the former picked out the three hairs—two black and one white—and transferred them to the envelope, on which he wrote a brief description, before returning it to the case. Then he began a leisurely perambulation of the room, inspecting its various contents and making occasional remarks on them. The bookcase seemed to interest him, for he stood before it running his eye along the rows of volumes and apparently reading their titles.
“In general,” said he, “the books seem to confirm Mortimer’s estimate of Gillum’s character and tastes. There are six works on London topography, catalogues of the National Gallery, the Tate, and the Wallace Collection, a book on games of chance, and one on the theory of probability. Those are according to expectation and so is the book on Modern Organ Music; but Staunton’s Chess is not. I don’t think that chess-players are usually interested in games of chance.”
He turned away from the bookcase and resumed his travels round the room, halting presently before a rather elegantly turned roulette box.
“This,” said he, “is the box that Mortimer speaks of. Apparently, Gillum used it for experiments in connection with his projected system. But it is possible hat the may have used it for actual play with some of his visitors. Perhaps it would be as well to put it away with the other specimens.”
He took it up in his gloved hands and carried it over to the cupboard where he placed it on the shelf with the objects from the table. Then, having exhausted the interest of the living-room, he passed through into the bedroom.
The Third R. Austin Freeman Megapack Page 201
