“And how do you propose to set about it?” I asked.
“I propose,” he replied, “to go to the place where Webb was employed and get a description of his person. We have an excellent one from Weech with which to compare it. And perhaps, if we are fortunate, we may pick up some additional information. We want it badly enough.”
“Yes,” I agreed; “the Abel Webb business is rather in the air.”
“Very much so,” said he. “We have adopted the provisional theory that John Gillum, a most respectable gentleman, murdered Webb. That is a theory that wants clearing up, one way or the other. So, as the matter is of some urgency, I am proposing to devote the afternoon to it as we are both free and I hope that the expedition will interest you. What do you say?”
Of course I agreed, with some enthusiasm; and, as there were no preparations to make, we set forth within a few minutes.
It was characteristic of Thorndyke that, in making his way to Webb’s place of business, he should choose the route that carried us over the scene of the tragedy. Leaving, the Temple by the Tudor Street gate, we made for the Temple Station and travelled to the bank, whence we started along the south side of Cornhill until we reached the Church of St. Michael. Here we turned up the alley, and, in a few paces, came to the arched entrance to the covered passage that Mortimer had described. A few steps along this brought us to the cavern-like south porch of the church; and here we both halted to reconstitute the picture that Mortimer had drawn so vividly, though the appearance of the place, in the bright afternoon light, was not easily reconciled with his description.
“It is an astounding affair,” said Thorndyke; as he gazed into the now well-lighted porch. “By whomsoever that murder was committed, it was a remarkable exploit; and the murderer must have been a remarkable man—a man of iron nerve who combined the utmost audacity with caution and sound judgment. Not a man in ten thousand would have dared to take the risk; but yet, apart from that momentary risk, the crime was absolutely safe from detection. The actual murder can have been but a matter of seconds; and the instant the blow was struck the murderer could slip out into the alley, quietly walk down into Cornhill, and there instantly become merged into the indistinguishable population of the street. For a premeditated murder, which it must have been, it was the boldest and the most skilfully managed crime that I have ever known.”
“I don’t know,” said I, “that I am so much impressed with his judgment. It was a terrific gamble and he took a frightful risk. It doesn’t seem to me that he made such a very good choice of the place.”
“I am rather assuming,” Thorndyke replied, “that he had not much choice. The suggestion to me is that of a desperate man who felt an immediate need to dispose of Webb; who had no time to make suitable arrangements but had to seize the one opportunity that presented itself. It was an opportunity, and he took it, and the result justified him in accepting the risk.”
I was disposed to smile at Thorndyke’s ultra-professional view of this murder, which he was evidently considering purely in terms of efficiency; putting himself, in his queer way, in the murderer’s shoes and debating the appropriate technique. But I suppressed my amusement, and, following his own train of thought, asked: “How do you suppose the murder was actually carried out?”
“I should assume,” he replied, “that the murderer knew that Webb would pass through this passage at a certain time and that—greatly favoured by the unusual darkness of the evening—he lurked here, keeping a lookout from either end for possible wayfarers who might be approaching. Then, when Webb appeared at the entrance—the coast being clear at the moment—he made his attack. Probably Webb saw him, and there was a brief struggle, as suggested by the hat in the churchyard. But when they came opposite the porch the murderer thrust in the syringe, pushed his victim down on the steps, and walked away down St. Michael’s Alley. But the point of interest to us is that the murderer seems to have been familiar with Webb’s habits. Perhaps we may get some further light on that point from our enquiries at Cope’s.”
With this we turned away from the porch, and, stepping up into the churchyard, took our way along the paved walk, out into Castle Court and through the little covered passage into Bell Yard. At the entrance of the yard into Gracechurch Street, Thorndyke paused and ran his eye along the houses on the south side of the street until it rested on a building which bore in large gilded letters the inscription, “The Cope Refrigerating Company,” when we crossed the road and bore down on it.
On entering by the main doorway, we found ourselves in a large showroom filled with a bewildering assortment of various types of refrigerators, and were confronted by a member of the staff.
“I think,” said Thorndyke, addressing him, “that the late Mr. Abel Webb was employed here.”
“Yes,” was the reply, “but not in this department. We deal here with refrigerating apparatus and plant. Mr. Webb was in the solid carbonic acid department. That is next door. You turn to the right as you go on.”
Following this direction we entered a small doorway adjoining the main entrance and came into a long, narrow shop or warehouse fitted with a counter which ran from end to end. Behind this were two men, one at the farther end, who was delivering one or two large and heavy packages to a carman, and the other, nearer to us, who appeared to be disengaged. To the latter Thorndyke repeated his former question, and thereby immediately captured his attention.
“Yes,” he replied, “poor Mr. Webb was employed here. He was assistant manager. Most of his time was spent in the manufacturing section, which adjoins this warehouse, and it was there that I knew him. I only came out into the retail department a short time before his death.”
“Then,” said Thorndyke, “as you knew him fairly well, perhaps you could tell us what sort of a man he was to look at. Would you mind?”
“Certainly not,” was the cordial reply. “But may I ask, if it is not an impertinence, whether you two gentlemen are connected with the police?”
“We are not,” Thorndyke replied. “My friend and I are lawyers; but I may say that our interest in Mr. Webb is a professional interest. We are trying to get some fresh light on the circumstances of his death.”
“I am glad to hear that,” said the assistant. “It’s time someone did. The police came here once or twice after the inquest, but, of course, we couldn’t tell them much, and they didn’t seem particularly keen. But I don’t think the affair ought to have been let drop in the way that it was. Now, as to what Mr. Webb was like. He was rather a noticeable man, though short. He was a bit of a dandy, always well-dressed and smartly turned out; waxed the ends of his moustache and wore a single eyeglass. Quite a nut in his way.”
“Yes,” said Thorndyke, “and to come to particulars; was he dark or fair, fat or thin?”
“He was dark. Sallow face, black moustache and eyebrows—bushy eyebrows like young moustaches; and I wouldn’t call him fat. He was just stoutly built, and looked stouter because of his shortness.”
“You spoke of an eyeglass. What was that like?”
“It was just an eyeglass. No rim or frame, no cord or ribbon. Just a plain glass. He used to carry it in his waistcoat pocket, and, when he wanted it, he would take it out and fix it in his eye, and there it stuck as if it were glued in.”
“When he was out of doors, did he carry an umbrella or a stick?”
“A stick, always. He had just a slight limp—I think one leg was a little shorter than the other. That was why he gave up the sea. Found it a trifle inconvenient on board ship. So he used a stick for a bit of extra support. And a rare fine stick it was; a very thick malacca with a silver band and an ivory knob like a young billiard ball. And that, I think, is all that I can tell you about Mr. Webb.”
“Thank you,” said Thorndyke, “you have given us a very admirable and complete description.” He paused for a few moments and appeared to be reflecting. Then he opened a new topic. “I notice that you seem to reject the idea that Mr. Webb committed suicide.”
“What is the significance of the place?” Thorndyke asked.
“The significance is that anyone waiting at that place at the right time would have been sure of meeting him. He used to get on his bus at the Royal Exchange and he always walked there by the same route; through Bell Yard, Castle Court and the churchyard and out into Cornhill by St. Michael’s Alley. Always the same way; he told me so, himself, one day when I walked that way with him. He that he liked the walk through the churchyard. And he was wonderfully punctual, too. He would stay on here finishing up the day’s work after the rest of the staff had gone; but at seven-thirty, sharp, he would take his stick and hat and off he would go. Anyone waiting for him in that dark passage could have been certain of him to half a minute. It would have been perfectly easy if there happened to be nobody about.”
“Yes,” Thorndyke agreed, “that is quite an important point. But you see that the idea of some person lying in wait there suggests the further idea someone who had an intimate knowledge of Mr. Webb’s habits. Can you think of any persons who had that knowledge?”
“No. I don’t know that anyone besides myself knew what his habits were; and even if any of our people knew, there is none of them that I could possibly suspect.”
Thorndyke agreed cordially with the latter statement and again paused with a reflective air, and I got the impression that he was feeling about for a new opening. Apparently he found one, for he proceeded to put a fresh case. “Looking back on that time—the time just before Mr. Webb’s death—can you recall any incident that could possibly be, in any way, regarded as suspicious?”
Our friend weighed the question seriously for some seconds but finally concluded that he really did not think that he could. But yet I seemed to detect a certain hesitancy in his reply as if he did not absolutely reject the suggestion. And this was evidently perceived also by Thorndyke, for he returned to the attack with his customary persistence, tempered by suavity.
“You must forgive me for pressing you, Mr.—”
“My name is Small.”
“Mr. Small. But, looking back by the light of what happened, can you think of any incident—we won’t say actually suspicious; perhaps quite trivial and commonplace, but which, considered retrospectively, might conceivably have had some connection with the tragedy. Any strangers, for instance, who might have called to see Mr. Webb, or who might have met him by chance. Now, what do you say?
Mr. Small was still hesitant and slightly evasive. “You see,” said he, “when an awful thing like that has happened, it tends to upset your judgment and sense of proportion. You look back on what went before and you are apt to magnify every little simple thing that occurred and think that it might have had something to do with the disaster.”
“Exactly,” said Thorndyke. “And so it might have had. Don’t forget that. It is by the close scrutiny of little simple things that we sometimes get a valuable hint. Now, Mr. Small, I can see that there is something in your mind that you have given some thought to, but that you are shy of mentioning because of its apparent triviality. Let us have it. Perhaps it may not appear so trivial to me; and if it does, there will be no harm done.”
“Well,” Mr. Small replied with some reluctance, “it is really a very trivial incident, but yet I have n thought it rather odd. It just amounts to this: One evening, not very long before closing time, a man—a gentleman, I might call him—came here to buy some four-pound blocks of snow—solid carbonic acid, you know—and he had brought a sort of suitcase to carry it away in. Now, I had got the blocks, wrapped in a rough insulated packing, and was just handing them to him when Mr. Webb came in through that door and stopped to look up at the shelves, standing about where the other assistant is standing now. Well, what attracted my notice was this; as Mr. Webb came through the doorway, the customer glanced at him, and then he looked again very hard with an expression as if he was surprised or startled. And at that moment Mr. Webb noticed him, and HE looked very hard at him. But he couldn’t get a very good view of him, for the customer turned away so that his back was towards Mr. Webb while he was packing the blocks in his vase. And when he had got them in, as he had already paid for them, he said ‘good evening’ and walked out. When he had gone Mr. Webb asked me if I knew who the customer was, and I said I didn’t. ‘Well,’ he said, ‘the next time that he comes, find out his name if you can,’ and I said I would.”
“And did you?” Thorndyke asked.
“No,” replied Small, “because he never came again, and I have never seen him since.”
“Do you remember, roughly, the date on which this incident occurred?”
“I should say that it was from ten days to a fortnight before Mr. Webb’s death; and that happened on the ninth of September. That is what has made it stick in my memory. I have often wondered whether it could have had any connection with that dreadful affair.”
“Naturally,” said Thorndyke; “and it does not appear so very improbable that it had. It might be useful to have a description of that customer if you could remember what he was like.”
“I can’t remember much about him,” said Small, “though I should know him if I met him, but, of course, I didn’t notice him particularly. I know that he was a rather tall man, say about five foot ten, and dark; black hair and a smallish black beard with a close-clipped moustache; and that is about all that I do remember.”
“You didn’t by any chance notice what his teeth were like?”
Mr. Small seemed to start, and gazed at Thorndyke in evident surprise. “Well, now,” he exclaimed, “that’s curious; because, now that you come to mention it, I did notice his teeth, when he smiled at something that I said. His upper front teeth had been stopped with gold; pretty extensively, too; and those stoppings were no ornament. I wonder he let the dentist disfigure him in that way. But you seemed to know the man, to judge by your question.”
“It was only a shot,” replied Thorndyke. “I remembered a man who might have been surprised at seeing Mr. Webb here. But, as that man is now dead, there isn’t much in it.”
As Thorndyke seemed to have elicited the information that he had come for, I ventured to seek a little on my own account.
“What sort of people use those blocks that you were speaking of,” I asked, “and what do they use them for?”
“All sorts of people use the solid carbonic acid,” replied Small. “The standard twenty-five-pound blocks are mostly used by brewers and mineral water manufacturers. The small four-pound blocks were made in the first place principally for the convenience of the ice-cream tricycles, to keep their stuff cold. But nowadays those blocks are used for a number of purposes. Doctors use them for freezing warts and moles, and engineers and motor repair men use them quite a lot.”
“What on earth do engineers want carbonic acid now for?” I asked.
“Principally,” he replied, “for shrinking metal. Say you have got a bush that is just too big to drive into its hole. Well, you can get it in either by expanding the piece with the hole in it by making it hot, which may be a big job, or you can shrink the bush by freezing it with the dioxide snow, which is much more convenient.”
Hitherto, fortunately for us, the warehouse had been so nearly empty that the other assistant had been able to deal with the business. But now several customers came in, and their arrival brought our conversation to an end. Mr. Small apologised for having to leave us in order to attend to them, and accordingly, when we had thanked him for having given us so much of his time, we wished him good afternoon and retired.
We took our way back by the way we had come, through Bell Yard and the paved walk beside the little grass plot, lingering a while in the quiet and seclusion of the churchyard to discuss the results of the expedition.
“That was a bold shot
of yours,” I remarked, “with respect to the teeth. What made you think that the man might be Gillum—for there can be no doubt that it was he?”
“Practically none,” he replied. “But the reasons that made me chance the suggestion were, first, that the circumstances seemed to make it probable that the man was Gillum, and, second, the description that Small gave fitted Gillum perfectly, as far as it went.”
“I don’t quite see the probability that you mention,” said I; “in fact, I find these new developments rather bewildering. I can’t fit them into our scheme. Small’s description almost suggests an unexpected meeting, which might be natural enough on Webb’s part, but hardly on Gillum’s. For, as he was neither an ice-cream vendor nor a doctor nor an engineer, it would seem that the purchase of the blocks was merely a pretext for going to Webb’s place of business and getting into touch with him. But that doesn’t seem to fit in with our theory at all; and neither does Webb’s visit to Clifford’s Inn—for that visitor certainly was Webb.”
“Yes,” Thorndyke agreed, “Small’s description corresponds exactly with Weech’s. But you are quite right, Jervis. These new facts do not fit our theory in its original form. We shall have to modify it. But you notice that our new discoveries, so far from exonerating Gillum, tend to confirm our suspicion that he was responsible for Webb’s death. What we shall have to reconsider is the possible motive for the murder. We assumed that Webb was a blackmailer. We may have been right, but these two meetings, as you say, do not fit comfortably into the group of events that we assumed. We must have another try. But what will be much better than speculating on the possible alternatives, will be the collection of some further data. There are still some unexplored territories in which we may possibly make new discoveries.”
The Third R. Austin Freeman Megapack Page 204
