“Yours sincerely,
“Peter Gannet.”
“You see,” said Sancroft, as Thorndyke returned the letters, “he wrote on the 13th of April, so, as this is the 7th of July, he may turn up at any moment; as he will bring the letter of introduction with him, I shall be quite safe in delivering the figure to him, and the sooner the better. I am tired of seeing the people standing in front of that case and sniggering.”
“You must be,” said Thorndyke. “However, I hope Mr. Newman will come soon and relieve you of the occasion of sniggers. And I must thank you once more for the valuable help that you have given us; and you may take it that I shall not forget my promise to try to find you a deputy so that you can have a little more freedom.”
With this, and a cordial handshake, we took our leave; once more I was surprised and even a little puzzled by Thorndyke’s promise to seek a deputy for Mr. Sancroft. I could understand his sympathy with that overworked curator, but really, Mr. Sancroft’s troubles were no affair of ours. Indeed, so abnormal did Thorndyke’s attitude appear that I began to ask myself whether it was possible that some motive other than sympathy might lie behind it. No one, it is true, could be more ready than Thorndyke to do a little act of kindness if the chance came his way, but on the other hand, experience had taught me that no one’s motives could be more difficult to assess than Thorndyke’s. For there was always this difficulty—that one never knew what was at the back of his mind.
CHAPTER 17
Mr. Snuper
When we arrived at our chambers we were met on the landing by Polton, who had apparently observed our approach from an upper window, and who communicated to us the fact that Mr. Linnell was waiting to see us.
“He has been here more than half an hour, so perhaps you will invite him to stay to lunch. I’ve laid a place for him, and lunch is ready now in the breakfast room.”
“Thank you, Polton,” said Thorndyke, “we will see what his arrangements are,” and as Polton retired up the stairs, he opened the oak door with his latch-key and we entered the room. There we found Linnell pacing the floor with a distinctly unrestful air.
“I am afraid I have come at an inconvenient time, sir,” he began, apologetically, but Thorndyke interrupted:
“Not at all. You have come in the very nick of time; for lunch is just ready, and as Polton has laid a place for you, he will insist on your joining us.”
Linnell’s rather careworn face brightened up at the invitation, which he accepted gratefully, and we adjourned forthwith to the small room on the laboratory floor which we had recently, for labour-saving reasons, adopted as the place in which meals were served. As we took our places at the table, Thorndyke cast a critical glance at our friend and remarked:
“You are not looking happy, Linnell. Nothing amiss, I hope?”
“There is nothing actually amiss, sir,” Linnell replied, “but I am not at all happy about the way things are going. It’s that confounded fellow, Blandy. He won’t let matters rest. He is still convinced that Mrs. Gannet knows, or could guess, where Boles is hiding; whereas, I am perfectly sure that she has no more idea where he is than I have. But he won’t leave it at that. He thinks that he is being bamboozled and he is getting vicious—politely vicious, you know—and I am afraid he means mischief.”
“What sort of mischief?” I asked.
“Well, he keeps letting out obscure hints of a prosecution.”
“But,” said I, “the decision for or against a prosecution doesn’t rest with him. He is just a detective inspector.”
“I know,” said Linnell. “That’s what he keeps rubbing in. For his part, he would be entirely opposed to subjecting this unfortunate lady to the peril and indignity of criminal proceedings—you know his oily way of speaking—but what can he do? He is only a police officer. It is his superiors and the Public Prosecutor who will decide. And then he goes on, in a highly confidential, friend-of-the-family sort of way, to point out the various unfortunate (and, as he thinks, misleading) little circumstances that might influence the judgment of persons unacquainted with the lady. And after all, he remarked to me in confidence, he found himself compelled to admit that if his superiors should decide (against his advice) to prosecute, they would be able, at least, to make out a prima facie case.”
“I doubt whether they could,” said I, “unless Blandy knows more than we know after attending the inquest.”
“That is just the point,” said Thorndyke. “Does he? Has he got anything up his sleeve? I don’t think he can have; for if he had knowledge of any material facts, he would have to communicate them to his superiors. And as those superiors have not taken any action so far, we may assume that no such facts have been communicated. I suppose Blandy’s agitations are connected with Boles?”
“Yes,” Linnell replied. “He keeps explaining to me, and to Mrs. Gannet, how the whole trouble would disappear if only we could get into touch with Boles. I don’t see how it would, but I do think that if Blandy could lay his hands on Boles, his interest in Mrs. Gannet would cease. All this fuss is to bring pressure on her to make some sort of statement.”
“Yes,” said Thorndyke, “that seems to be the position. It is not very creditable, and very unlike the ordinary practice of the police. But there is this to remember: Blandy’s interest in Boles, and that of the police in general, is not connected with the murder in the studio, but with the murder of the constable at Newingstead. Blandy’s idea is, I suspect—assuming that he seriously entertains a prosecution—that if Mrs. Gannet were brought to trial, she would have to be put into the witness box and then some useful information might be extracted from her in cross-examination. He is not likely to have made any such suggestions to his superiors, but seeing how anxious the police naturally are to find the murderer of the constable, they might be ready to give a sympathetic consideration to Blandy’s view, if he could make out a really plausible case. And that is the question. What sort of case could he make out? Have you any ideas on that subject, Linnell? I take it that he would suggest charging Mrs. Gannet as an accessory after the fact.”
“Yes, he has made that clear to both of us. If the Public Prosecutor decided to take action, the charge would be that she, knowing that a felony had been committed, subsequently sheltered or relieved the felon in such a way as to enable him to evade justice. Of course, it is the only charge that would be possible.”
“So it would seem,” said I. “But what facts has he got to support it? He can’t prove that she knows where Boles is hiding.”
“No,” Linnell agreed, “at least, I suppose he can’t. But there is that rather unfortunate circumstance that, when her husband was missing, she was—as she has admitted—afraid to enter the studio to see if he was there. Blandy fears that her behaviour might be interpreted as proving that she had some knowledge of what had happened.”
“There isn’t much in that,” said I. “What are the other points?”
“Well, Blandy professes to think that the relations between Boles and Mrs. Gannet would tend to support the charge. No one suggests that their relations were in any way improper, but they were admittedly on affectionate terms.”
“There is still less in that,” said I. “The suggestion of a possible motive for doing a certain act is no evidence that the act was done. If Blandy has nothing better than what you have mentioned, he would never persuade a magistrate to commit her for trial. What do you say, Thorndyke?”
“It certainly looks as if Blandy held a remarkably weak hand,” he replied. “Of course, we have to take all the facts together; but even so, assuming that he has nothing unknown to us in reserve, I don’t see how he could make out a prima facie case.”
“He has also,” said Linnell, “dropped some obscure hints about that affair of the arsenic poisoning.”
“That,” said Thorndyke, “is pure bluff. He would not be allowed to mention it, and he knows he wouldn’t. He said so explicitly, to Oldfield. It looks as if the threat of a prosecution were being made t
o exert pressure on Mrs. Gannet to make some revelation. Still, it is possible that he may manage to work up a case sufficiently plausible to induce the authorities to launch proceedings. Blandy is a remarkably ingenious and resourceful man, and none too scrupulous. He is a man whom one has to take seriously.”
“And suppose he does manage to get a prosecution started,” said Linnell, “what do you advise me to do?”
“Well, Linnell,” Thorndyke replied, “you know the ordinary routine. We are agreed that the lady is innocent and you will act accordingly. As to bail, we will settle the details of that later, but we can manage any amount that may be required.”
“Do you think that she might be admitted to bail?”
“But why not?” said Thorndyke. “She will be charged only as an accessory after the fact. That is not a very grave crime. The maximum penalty is only two years’ imprisonment, and in practice, the sentences are usually quite lenient. You will certainly ask for bail, and I don’t see any grounds on which the police could oppose it.
“And now as to the general conduct of the case, I advise you very strongly to play for time. Delay the proceedings as much as you can. Find excuses to ask for remands, and in all possible ways keep the pot boiling as slowly as you can contrive. The longer the date of the final hearing can be postponed, the better will be the chance of finding a conclusive answer to the charge. I will tell you why, following Blandy’s excellent example by taking you into my confidence.
“I have been examining this case in considerable detail, partly in Mrs. Gannet’s interests and partly for other reasons; and I have a clear and consistent theory of the crime, both as to its motive and approximate procedure. But at present it is only a theory. I can prove nothing. The one crucial fact which will tell me whether my theory is right or wrong is still lacking. I cannot test the truth of it until certain things have happened. I hope that they may happen quite soon, but still, I have to wait on events. If those events turn out as I expect, I shall know that my construction of the crime has been correct; and then I shall be able to show that Mrs. Gannet could not possibly have been an accessory to it. But I can give no date because I cannot control the course of events.”
Linnell was visibly impressed, and so was I—though less visibly. I was still in the same state of bewilderment as to Thorndyke’s proceedings. I still failed to understand why he was busying himself in a case which did not seem to concern him—apart from his sympathy with Mrs. Gannet. Nor could I yet see that there was anything to discover beyond what we already knew.
Of course I had realized all along that I must have missed some essential point in the case, and now this was confirmed. Thorndyke had a consistent theory of the crime, which, indeed, might be right or wrong. But long experience with Thorndyke told me that it was pretty certainly right, though what sort of theory it might be I was totally unable to imagine. I could only, like Thorndyke, wait on events.
The rest of the conversation concerned itself with the question of bail. Oldfield we knew could be depended on for one surety, and by a little manoeuvring, it was arranged that Thorndyke should finance the other without appearing in the transaction. Eventually Linnell took his departure in greatly improved spirits, cheered by Thorndyke’s encouragement and all the better for a good lunch and one or two glasses of sound claret.
Thorndyke’s “confidence,” if it mystified rather than enlightened me, had at least the good effect of arousing my interest in Mrs. Gannet and her affairs. From time to time during the next few days I turned them over in my mind, though with little result beyond the beneficial mental exercise. But in another direction I had better luck, for I did make an actual discovery. It came about in this way.
A few days after Linnell’s visit, I had occasion to go to the London Hospital to confer with one of the surgeons concerning a patient in whom I was interested. When I had finished my business there and came out into the Whitechapel Road, the appearance of the neighbourhood recalled our expedition to the People’s Museum, and I suddenly realized that I was within a few minutes’ walk of that shrine of the fine arts. Now I had occasionally speculated on Thorndyke’s object in making that visit of inspection and on his reasons for interesting himself in Sancroft’s difficulties. Was it pure benevolence or was there something behind it? And there was the further question, had his benevolent intentions taken effect? The probability was that they had. He had given Sancroft a very definite promise, and it was quite unlike him to leave a promise unfulfilled.
These questions recurred to me as I turned westward along the Whitechapel Road, and I decided that at least some of them should be answered forthwith. I could now ascertain whether any deputy for Mr. Sancroft had been found, and if so, who that deputy might be. Accordingly, I turned up Commercial Street and presently struck the junction of Norton Folegate and Shoreditch; and, traversing the length of the latter, came into Kingsland Road and so to the People’s Museum.
One of my questions was answered as soon as I entered. There was no sign of Mr. Sancroft, but the priceless collection was being watched over by a gentleman of studious aspect who was seated in an armchair—a representative specimen of Curtain Road Chippendale—reading a book with the aid of a pair of horn-framed spectacles. So engrossed was he with his studies that he appeared to be unaware of my entrance, though, as I was the only visitor, I must have been a rather conspicuous object and worthy of some slight notice.
Taking advantage of his preoccupation, I observed him narrowly; and though I could not place him or give him a name, I had the distinct impression that I had seen him before. Continuing a strategic advance in his direction under cover of the glass cases, and still observing him as unobtrusively as I could, I had a growing sense of familiarity until, coming within a few yards of him, I suddenly realized who he was.
“Why,” I exclaimed, “it is Mr. Snuper!”
He lowered his book and smiled, blandly. “Mr. Snuper it is,” he admitted. “And why not? You seem surprised.”
“So I am,” I replied. “What on earth are you doing here?”
“To tell the truth,” said he, “I am doing very little. You see me here, taking my ease and spending my very acceptable leisure profitably in reading books that I usually have not time to read.”
I glanced at the book which he was holding and was not a little surprised to discover that it was Bell’s British Stalk-eyed Crustacea. Observing my astonishment, he explained, apologetically:
“I am a collector of British Crustacea in a small way, a very small way. The beginnings were made during a seaside holiday, and now I occasionally secure small additions from the fishmongers’ shops.”
“I shouldn’t have thought,” said I, “that the fishmongers’ shops would have yielded many rare specimens.”
“No,” he agreed, “you wouldn’t. But it is surprising how many curious and interesting forms of life you may discover among the heaps of shell-fish on a fishmonger’s slab; especially the mussels and winkles. Only the day before yesterday, I obtained a nearly perfect specimen of Stenorhynchus phalangium from a winkle stall in the Mile End Road.”
Now this was very interesting. I have often noticed how the discovery of some unlikely hobby throws most unexpected light on a man’s character and personality. And so it was now. The enthusiastic pursuit of this comparatively erudite study presented a feature of Mr. Snuper’s rather elusive personality that was quite new to me, and somewhat surprising. But I had not come here to study Mr. Snuper, and it suddenly occurred to me that that very discreet gentleman might be making this conversation expressly to divert my attention from other topics. Accordingly, I returned to my business with a direct question.
“But how do you come to be here?”
“It was Dr. Thorndyke’s idea,” he replied. “You see there was nothing doing in my line at the moment, and Mr. Sancroft was badly in need of someone who could look after the place while he went about his business, so the doctor suggested that I might as well spend my leisure here as at home, and do
a kindness to Mr. Sancroft at the same time.”
This answer left me nothing to say. The general question that I had asked was all that was admissible. I could not pursue the matter further, for that would have been a discourtesy to Thorndyke, to say nothing of the certainty that the discreet Snuper would keep his own counsel if there were any counsel to keep. So I brought the conversation gracefully to an end with a few irrelevant observations, and having wished my friend good day, went forth and set a course for Shoreditch Station.
But if it was not admissible for me to question Snuper, I was at liberty to turn the matter over in my mind. But that process had the effect rather of raising questions than of disposing of them. Snuper’s account of his presence at the gallery was perfectly reasonable and plausible. Thorndyke had no use for him at the moment and Sancroft had. That seemed quite simple. But was it the whole explanation? I had my doubts, and they were based principally on what I knew of Mr. Snuper.
Now Mr. Snuper was a very remarkable man. Originally he had been a private inquiry agent whom Thorndyke had employed occasionally to carry out certain observation duties which could not be discharged by either of us. But Snuper had proved so valuable—so dependable, so discreet, and so quick in the uptake—that Thorndyke had taken him on as a regular member of our staff. For apart from his other good qualities, he had a most extraordinary gift of inconspicuousness. Not only was he at all times exactly the kind of person whom you would pass in the street without a second glance, but in some mysterious way he was able to keep his visible personality in a state of constant change. Whenever you met him, you found him a little different from the man whom you had met before, with the natural result that you were constantly failing to recognize him. That was my experience, as it had been on this very occasion. I never discovered how he did it. He seemed to use no actual disguise (though I believe that he was a master of the art of make-up), but he appeared to be able, in some subtle way, to manage to look like a different person.
The Third R. Austin Freeman Megapack Page 235
