“I have brought the necessary things, myself,” said Thorndyke, producing from his pocket a small metal box. “It is understood,” he added, as he opened the box, “that I am acting on your instructions.”
Without waiting for a reply, he took out of the box a tiny roller which had been fixed by its handle in a clip, and having run it along the inside of the lid, which formed an inking-plate, he approached the squirming prisoner; waiting his opportunity, he suddenly seized the left thumb, and holding it steady, ran the little roller over its bulb. Then he produced a small pad of smooth paper, and again watching for a moment when the thumb was fixed immovably, quickly pressed the pad on the inked surface. The resulting print was not a very perfect impression, but it showed the pattern clearly enough for practical purposes.
“Have you got the photograph with you?” he asked.
“Yes,” replied Blandy, “but I can’t—could you take hold of his head for a moment?”
Thorndyke laid the pad on the top of the nearest case and then, following Blandy’s instructions, grasped the prisoner’s head so as to relieve the Inspector; Blandy then stepped back, and having taken up the pad, thrust his hand into his pocket and brought out a photograph mounted on a card. For a few moments he stood, eagerly glancing from the pad to the photograph and evidently comparing them point by point.
“Is it the right print?” Thorndyke asked.
Blandy did not answer immediately but continued his scrutiny with evidently growing excitement. At length he looked up, and forgetting his usual bland smile, replied, almost in a shout:
“Yes, by God! It’s the man himself.”
And then came the catastrophe.
Whether it was that the sergeant’s attention was for the moment distracted by the absorbing interest of Blandy’s proceedings, or that Newman had been watching his opportunity, I cannot say, but, after a brief cessation of his struggles, as if he had become exhausted, he made a sudden violent effort and twisted himself out of his captors’ grasp, darting instantly into the passage between two cases. Thither the sergeant followed, but the prisoner, with incredible quickness and dexterity, delivered a smashing blow on the chest which sent the officer staggering backwards; the next moment, the prisoner was standing in the narrow space with an automatic pistol covering his pursuers.
I will do Blandy the justice (which I am glad to do, as I never liked the man) to say that he faced the deadly danger without a sign of fear or a moment’s hesitation. How he escaped with his life I have never understood, for he dashed straight at the prisoner, looking into the very muzzle of the pistol. But by some miracle the bullet passed him by, and before another shot could be fired, he had grabbed the man’s wrist and got some sort of control of the weapon. Then the sergeant and Snuper and I came to his assistance, and the old struggle began again, but with the material difference that each and all of us had to keep a wary eye on the barrel of the pistol.
Of the crowded and chaotic events of the next minute I have but the obscurest recollection. There comes back to me a vague idea of violent, strenuous effort; a succession of pistol shots with a sort of infernal obbligato accompaniment of shattering glass; the struggles of the sergeant to reach a back pocket without losing his hold on the prisoner; and the manoeuvres of Mr. Sancroft, at first ducking at every shot and finally retreating hurriedly—almost on all fours—into his sanctum. Nor when the end came, am I at all clear as to the exact manner of its happening. I know only that the firing ceased, and that almost as the last shot was fired, the writhing, struggling body became suddenly still and began limply to sag towards the floor; and that I then noticed in the man’s right temple a small hole from which issued a little trickle of blood.
Blandy rose, and looking down gloomily at the prostrate body, cursed softly under his breath.
“What infernal luck!” he exclaimed. “I suppose he is dead?”
“I am afraid there is no doubt of that,” I replied, as the last faint twitchings died away.
“Infernal luck,” he repeated, “to have him slip through our fingers just as we had made sure of him.”
“It was the making sure of him that did it,” growled the sergeant. “I mean the fingerprints. We ought to have waited for them until we had got the darbies on.”
“I know,” said Blandy. “But you see I wasn’t sure that we had got the right man. He didn’t seem to me to answer to the description at all.”
“The description of whom?” asked Thorndyke.
“Of Frederick Boles,” replied Blandy. “This is Boles, isn’t it?”
“No,” replied Thorndyke. “This is Peter Gannet.”
Blandy was thunderstruck. “But,” he exclaimed, incredulously, “it can’t be. We identified Gannet’s remains quite conclusively.”
“Yes,” Thorndyke agreed, blandly, “that is what you were intended to do. The remains were actually those of Boles—with certain additions.”
Blandy smiled sourly. “Well,” said he, “this is a knockout. To think that we have been barking up the wrong tree all the time. But you might have given us the tip a bit sooner, Doctor.”
“My dear Blandy,” Thorndyke protested, “I told you all that I knew as soon as I knew it.”
“You didn’t tell us who this man Newman was.”
“But, my dear Inspector,” Thorndyke replied, “I didn’t know myself. When I came here today, I suspected that Mr. Newman was Peter Gannet. But I didn’t know until I had seen the man and recognized him and seen that he recognized me. I told you last night that it was merely a case of suspicion.”
“Well, well,” said Blandy, “it’s no use crying over spilt milk. Is there a telephone in the office? If there is, you had better ring up the Police Station, Sergeant, and tell them to send an ambulance along as quickly as they can.”
The tinkle of the telephone bell answered Blandy’s question, and while the message was being sent and answered, Thorndyke and I proceeded to lay out the body, in view of the probability of premature rigor mortis. Then we adjourned to the curator’s room, where Blandy showed a tendency to revert to the topic of the might-have-been. But our stay there was short, for the ambulance arrived in an almost incredibly short time; and when the body had been carried out by the stretcher bearers and the outer door shut, the Inspector and the Sergeant made ready to depart.
“There are some other particulars, Doctor,” said Blandy, “that we shall want you to give us, if you will; but now I must get back to the Yard and report what has happened. They won’t be over-pleased, but at least we have cleared up a rather mysterious case.”
With this, he and the Sergeant went forth to their car, being let out by Mr. Sancroft, who, having affixed a notice to the main door, shut it and locked it. Then he came back to the room and gazed round ruefully at the wreck of the People’s Museum of Modern Art.
“The Lord knows,” said he, “who is going to pay for all this damage. Seven glass cases smashed and the nose knocked off Israel Popoff’s Madonna. It has been a shocking business; and there is that damned image—if you will excuse me—which has been the cause of all the trouble, still standing in one of the few undamaged cases. But I will soon have it out of there; only the question is, what on earth is to be done with it? The beastly thing seems to be nobody’s property now.”
“It is the property of Mrs. Gannet,” said Thorndyke. “I think it would be best if I were to take custody of it and hand it over to her. I will give you a receipt for it.”
“You need not trouble about a receipt,” said Sancroft, hauling out his keys and joyfully unlocking the case. “I accept you as Mrs. Gannet’s representative and I am only too delighted to get the thing out of the museum. Shall I make it up into a parcel?”
“There is no need,” replied Thorndyke, picking up Gannet’s bag from the floor, on which it had been dropped when the struggle began. “This will hold it, and there is probably some packing inside.”
He opened the bag, and finding it lined with a thick woollen scarf, took the figure
from the open case, carefully deposited it in the folds of the scarf and shut the bag.
That seemed to conclude our business, and after a few more words with the still agitated Sancroft and a brief farewell to Mr. Snuper, we accompanied the former to the door, whence we were let out into the street.
CHAPTER 19
The Monkey Reveals His Secret
By lovers of paradox we are assured that it is the unexpected that will always happens. But this is, to put it mildly, an exaggeration. Even the expected happens sometimes. It did, for instance, on the present occasion, for when we passed into the entry of our chambers on our return from the museum, and began to ascend the stairs, I expected that Thorndyke would pass by the door of our sitting room and go straight up to the laboratory floor. And that is precisely what he did. He made directly for the larger workshop, and having greeted Polton as we entered, laid Gannet’s bag on the bench.
“We need not disturb you, Polton,” said he, noting that our assistant was busily polishing the pallets of a dead beat escapement appertaining to a “regulator” that he was constructing. But Polton had already fixed an inquisitive eye on the bag, and, coupling its presence with our mysterious expedition, had evidently sniffed something more exciting than clockwork.
“You are not disturbing me, sir,” said he, laying the pallets on the table of the polishing lathe and bearing down with a purposeful air on the bag. “The clock is a spare time job. Can I give you any assistance?”
Thorndyke smiled appreciatively, and opening the bag, carefully took out the figure and stood it up on the bench.
“There, Polton,” said he, “what do you think of that for a work of art?”
“My word!” exclaimed Polton, regarding the figure with profound disfavour, “but he is an ugly fellow. Now what part of the world might he have come from? South Sea Islands he looks like.”
Thorndyke lifted the image, and turning it up to exhibit the base, handed it to Polton, who examined it with fresh astonishment.
“Why,” he exclaimed, “it seems to have been made by a civilized man! It’s English lettering, though I don’t recognize the mark.”
“It was made by an Englishman,” said Thorndyke. “But do you find anything abnormal about it apart from its ugliness?”
Polton looked long and earnestly at the base, turned the figure over and examined every part of it, finally tapping it with his knuckles and listening attentively to the sound elicited.
“I don’t think it is solid,” said he, “though it is mighty thick.”
“It is not solid,” said Thorndyke, “We have ascertained that.”
“Then,” said Polton, “I don’t understand it. The body looks like ordinary stoneware. But it can’t be if it’s hollow. There is no opening in it anywhere. But it couldn’t have been fired without a vent-hole of some kind. It would have blown to pieces.”
“Yes,” Thorndyke agreed. “That is the problem. But have another look at the base. What do you say to that white glazed slip on which the signature is written?”
Polton inspected it afresh, and finally stuck a watchmaker’s eyeglass in his eye to assist in the examination.
“I don’t know what to make of it,” said he. “It looks a little like a tin glaze, but I don’t think it is. I don’t see how it could be. What do you think it is, sir?”
“I suspect that it is some kind of hard white cement—possibly Keene’s—covered with a clear varnish.”
Polton looked up at him, and his expressive countenance broke out into a characteristic crinkly smile.
“I think you have hit it, sir,” said he; “and I think I begin to ogle, as Mr. Miller would say. What are we going to do about it?”
“The obvious thing,” said Thorndyke, “is to make what surgeons would call an exploratory puncture; drill a small hole in it and see what the base is really made of and what its thickness is.”
“Would a drill go into stoneware?” I asked.
“No,” replied Thorndyke, “not an ordinary drill. But I do not think that there is any stoneware in the middle of the base. You remember Broomhill’s specimen? There was a good-sized elliptical opening in the base, and I imagine that this figure was originally the same, but that the opening has been filled up. What we have to ascertain is what it has been filled with and how far the filling goes into the cavity.”
“We had better do it with a hand-drill,” said Polton, “and steady the image on the bench, as it wouldn’t be safe to fix it in the vise. Then it will be convenient if we want to enlarge the hole.”
He wrapped the “image” in one or two thick dusters and laid it on the bench, when I took charge of it and held it as firmly as I could to resist the pressure of the drill. Then, having fitted an eighth-inch Morse into the stock, he began operations, cautiously, and with only a light pressure; but I noticed that at first the hard drill-point seemed to make very little impression.
“What do you suppose the filling consists of, sir?” Polton asked, as he withdrew the drill to examine the shallow pit its point had made, “and how far do you suppose it goes in?”
“My idea is,” replied Thorndyke—“but it is only a guess—that there is a comparatively thin layer of Keene’s cement and then a plug of plaster, perhaps three or four inches thick. Beyond that, I should expect to come to the cavity. I hope I am right, for if it should turn out to be Keene’s cement all the way, we shall have some trouble in making a hole large enough for our purpose.”
“What is our purpose?” I asked. “To see if there is anything in the cavity, I presume.”
“Yes,” Thorndyke replied, “though it is practically certain that there is. Otherwise, there would have been no object in stopping up the opening.”
Here Polton returned to the charge, now sensibly increasing the pressure. Still, for a while, the drill seemed to make little progress. Then quite suddenly, as if some obstruction had been removed, it began to enter freely and had soon penetrated as far as the chuck would allow it to go.
“You said, three or four inches, I think, sir?” Polton remarked, as he withdrew the drill and examined the white powder in the grooves.
“Yes,” Thorndyke replied, “but possibly more. A six-inch drill would be best; and you might use a stouter one—say a quarter-inch—to avoid the risk of its bending.”
Polton made the necessary change and resumed operations with the larger drill, which soon enlarged the opening and then began quickly to penetrate the softer plaster. When it had entered about four inches, even this slight resistance seemed to cease, for it ran in suddenly right up to the chuck.
“Four inches it is, sir,” said Polton, with a triumphant crinkle, as he withdrew the drill and inspected the grooves. “How big an opening will you want?”
“An inch might do,” replied Thorndyke, “but an inch and a half would be better. I think that is possible without encroaching on the stoneware body. But you will see.”
On this, Polton produced a set of reamers and a brace, and beginning with one which would just enter the hole, turned the brace cautiously while I continued to steady the figure. Meanwhile, Thorndyke, having cut off a piece of stout copper wire about eight inches long, fixed it in the vise, and with an adjustable die, cut a screw thread about an inch long on one end.
“We may as well see what the conditions are,” said he, “before we go any further.”
He took the wire out of the vise, and as Polton withdrew the third reamer—which had enlarged the hole to about half an inch—he passed the wire into the hole and began gently to probe the bottom of the cavity. Then he pressed it in somewhat more firmly and gave it one or two turns, slowly drawing it out while he continued to turn. When it finally emerged, its end held a small knob of cotton wool from which a little twisted strand of the same material extended into the invisible interior. I watched its emergence with profound interest and a certain amount of self-contempt; for obviously he had expected to find the interior filled with cotton wool as was demonstrated by the making of the c
otton wool holder. And yet I, who knew as much of the essential facts as he did, had never guessed, and even now had only a vague suspicion of what its presence suggested.
As the operations with the reamers progressed, it became evident that the larger opening was possible, for the material cut through was still only cement and plaster. When the full inch and a half had been reached, Thorndyke fixed his wire in the chuck of the hand-drill, and passing the former into the wide hole, pressed the screw end into the mass of cotton wool, and began to turn the handle, slowly withdrawing it as he turned. When the end of the wire appeared at the opening, it bore a ball of cotton wool from which a thick strand, twisted by the rapid rotation of the wire into a firm cord, extended to the mass inside; and as Thorndyke slowly stepped back, still turning the handle, the cord grew longer and longer until at last its end slipped out of the opening, showing that the whole of the cotton wool had been extracted.
“Now,” said Thorndyke, “let us see what all that cotton wool enclosed.”
He laid aside the drill, and carefully lifting the figure, held it upright over the bench, when there dropped out a small, white paper packet tied up with thread. Having cut the thread, he laid the packet on the bench and opened it, while Polton and I craned forward inquisitively. I suppose we both knew approximately what to expect, and I was better able to guess than Polton; but the reality was quite beyond my expectations, and as for Polton, he was, for the moment, struck dumb. Only for the moment, however, for recovering himself, he exclaimed impressively, with his eyes fixed on the packet:
The Third R. Austin Freeman Megapack Page 237
