“As soon as the scheme was clear in my mind I set to work to execute it; and as I worked, I thought out the details. First I stripped the corpse and dressed it in the pyjamas from the bed. Then, having thrown the bed-clothes into disorder, I placed the body half in the bed, half outside, with the head bent sideways and resting on the floor. The obvious suggestion would be that he had fallen out of bed and broken his neck—a mere accident implicating nobody.
“When I had folded his clothes and put them away tidily on a chair, I looked at my watch. It was barely twenty past six. The whole of this horrid drama had been played out in less than half an hour. I sat down to rest awhile—for it had been a strenuous affair while it lasted—and looked about the room to see that I was leaving no traces, but there were none, excepting my bag, and that I should take away with me. The Venetian blinds were lowered—I had noticed that when we came in—and I decided to leave them so, as that was probably how Haire was accustomed to leave them when he went away. So I sat and thought out the rest of my plan. The place was strangely quiet, for, by now Mr. Green and his people had apparently shut up their premises and gone away, and there was not a sound in the room save the solemn tick of the big clock in the corner.
“Presently I rose and began, at my leisure, to complete my preparations. There was no need for hurry. It was now only half-past six by the big clock, and I knew that the Holyhead express did not leave Euston until eight forty-five. I looked over an open bureau and took from it a few of Haire’s business cards and a little sheaf of his bill-heads. When I had stowed these in my bag, I had finished; and as all was still quiet, I picked up the bag, turned away with a last, shuddering glance at the grotesque figure that sprawled over the side of the bed, let myself out as silently as I could, and stole softly down the stairs.
“I need not follow the rest of my proceedings in detail. I caught my train and duly arrived in Dublin about seven o’clock the next morning. I went to a small private hotel—Connolly’s—where I wrote in the visitors’ book, ‘G. Haire, Billington Street, London,’ and when I had washed and shaved and had breakfast, I went out and made the first of my calls, Brady & Co., where I stayed quite a long time gossiping with the manager. We didn’t complete any definite transaction, but I left one of Haire’s cards with some particulars written on the back. I made two more calls on that day, the 15th, and, during the next three days I visited several other firms, always leaving one of Haire’s cards. I stayed in Dublin until the 18th, which I thought was long enough to give the proper impression of a business tour, and, in the evening of that day, just before closing time, I made a second call at Brady’s, to impress myself on the manager’s memory. Then, having already settled up at the hotel, I went straight to the station and caught the 7.50 train which runs in connection with the Holyhead express. I arrived at Euston in the early morning, about 5.55, and took a taxi straight across to Victoria, where, after a wash and a leisurely breakfast, I caught the nine o’clock Continental train, embarking at Folkestone about eleven.
“After that I followed my usual route and went about my ordinary business, canvassing the Bordeaux district for renewals. But I didn’t complete the tour, for it happened that in an hotel at Bordeaux I came across a rather out-of-date copy of The Times, and, glancing through the legal notices, I was startled to see that of Home, Cronin & Home, announcing the death of my uncle. As this was some weeks old, I thought I had better pack up and start for home at once to get into touch with the solicitors.
“But I had to go warily, for I didn’t know what might have happened while I had been abroad. Had Haire’s body been discovered? And, if so, what had been done about it? These were questions that would have to be answered before I could safely present myself at Home’s office. I thought about it during the journey and decided that the first thing to do was to go and have a look at the house and see whether the Venetian blinds were still down; and if they were not, to try to pick up some information in the neighbourhood. So when I got to Victoria I put my bag in the cloak room and took a bus to Piccadilly Circus, from whence I made my way to Billington Street. I walked cautiously down the street, keeping a sharp lookout in case Mr. Green should be at his door, and avoiding the appearance of looking for the house. But my precautions were unnecessary, for, when I came to the place, behold! there was no house there! Only some blackened walls, on which the housebreakers were operating with picks.
“As I was standing gazing at the ruins, an idler approached me.
“‘Proper old blaze, that was, Mister. Flared up like a tar barrel, it did.’
“‘Ah!’ said I, ‘then you actually saw the fire?’
“‘Well, no,’ said he, ‘I didn’t see it, myself; but I heard all about it. I was on the coroner’s jury.’
“‘The coroner’s jury!’ I exclaimed. ‘Then there were some lives lost?’
“‘Only one,’ he replied; ‘and the queer thing was that he wasn’t the proper tenant, but just a stranger what had had the rooms lent to him for a few days. He was identified by a clay pipe what had his initials, C.M., scratched on it.’
“‘C.M.!’ I gasped. ‘What did those letters stand for?’
“‘Cecil Moxdale was the poor chap’s name; and it seemed that he had been smoking that pipe in bed and set the bed-clothes alight. Probably a bit squiffy, too.’
“Now, here was a pretty state of affairs. Mysterious, too. For the clay pipe wasn’t mine. I never smoke a pipe. But, obviously, my calculations had been completely upset, and I was in a pretty tight place, for my trip to Dublin had only introduced a fresh complication. I should have to announce myself as alive, and then the fat would be in the fire. For if the body wasn’t mine, whose was it? If the dead man was Haire, then who was the man in Dublin? And if the man in Dublin was Haire, then who the deuce was the dead man? It was a regular facer.
“Of course, I could have maintained that I knew nothing about the affair. But that wouldn’t do; for there was that infernal Mr. Green. No, I should have to make up some story that would fit the facts; and, turning it over in my mind, I decided to invent an imaginary person and let the police find him if they could. He must be virtually a stranger to me, and he must be sufficiently like me to pass as the man whom Green saw going into the rooms with Haire. So I invented Mr. O’Grady and told a pretty vague story about him—but I needn’t say any more. You know the rest; and now, Inspector, what about that statement that you have?”
Blandy smiled benignly, and, opening the envelope, drew from it a single sheet of paper; and when he had quickly glanced at its contents, he positively beamed. “Dr. Thorndyke’s statement,” said he, “is, in effect, a very brief summary of your own.”
“Well, let’s have it,” said Moxdale.
“You shall,” said Blandy, and he proceeded, with unctuous relish, to read the document:
“Summary of the circumstances attending the death of Gustavus Haire as suggested by evidence in my possession.
“Haire had planned to murder Cecil Moxdale, presumably, to secure the reversion of a bequest of four thousand pounds, and then, by means of a certain mechanism, to start a fire in the rooms while he was absent in Dublin. He prepared the rooms by filling them with inflammable material and planted certain marked, uninflammable objects to enable Moxdale’s body to be identified. On the 14th of April, he set the mechanism to discharge in the early morning of the 19th. At about six P.M. on the 14th he brought Moxdale to the rooms and attempted to murder him. But the attempt failed; and in the struggle which ensued, Haire’s neck became dislocated. Then Moxdale, knowing that he had been seen to enter the premises with Haire, and fearing that he would be accused of murder, decided to go to Dublin and personate Haire to make it appear that Haire was then alive. He started for Dublin in the evening of the 14th and remained there until the evening of the 18th, when he apparently returned to England.
“That is all that is material,” Blandy concluded, “and, as your statement is in complete agreement with Dr. Thorndyke’s—which I
have no doubt is supported by conclusive evidence—I, personally, accept it as true.”
Moxdale drew a deep breath. “That is a blessed relief,” he exclaimed. “And now what is to be done? Are you going to arrest me?”
“No,” replied Blandy, “certainly not. But I think you had better walk back with me to Head Quarters and let us hear what the senior officers propose. May I take your summary with me, Doctor?”
“By all means,” Thorndyke replied; “and make it clear that I am ready to produce the necessary evidence.”
“I had taken that for granted, Doctor,” said Blandy as he put the envelope in his pocket. Then he rose to depart, and Moxdale stood up.
“I am thankful, sir,” said he, “that I took your advice, and eternally grateful to you for having dissipated this nightmare. Now, I can look to the future with some sort of confidence.”
“Yes,” Thorndyke agreed, “I don’t think that you need feel any great alarm; and I wish you an easy passage through any little difficulties that may arise.”
With this, Moxdale shook our hands all round, and, when the inspector had done likewise, the two men moved towards the door, escorted by Polton.
CHAPTER XIX
The Evidence Reviewed
“Brilliant finish to a most remarkable case,” I commented as our visitors’ footsteps died away upon the stairs, “and a most magnificent piece of bluff on the part of my revered senior.”
Thorndyke smiled and Polton looked shocked.
“I shall not contest your description, Jervis,” said the former, “but, in fact, the conclusion was practically a certainty.”
“Probability,” I corrected.
“In practice,” said he, “we have to treat the highest degrees of probability as certainties; and if you consider the evidence in this case as a whole, I think you will agree that only one possible conclusion emerged. The element of bluff was almost negligible.”
“Probably you are right,” I admitted. “You usually are, and you certainly were in this case. But the evidence was so complex and conflicting that I find it difficult to reconstitute it as a whole. It would interest me very much to hear you sort it out into a tidily arranged argument.”
“It would interest me, too,” said he, “to retrace our investigation and observe the curious way in which the different items of evidence came to light. Let us do so, taking the events in the order of their occurrence and noting the tendency of the evidence to close in on the final conclusion.
“This was a very singular case. The evidence did not transpire gradually but emerged in a number of successive and perfectly distinct stages, each stage being marked by the appearance of a new fact which reacted immediately on our previous conclusions. There were seven stages, each of which we will examine separately, noting how the argument stood at the end of it.
“The first is the inquest, including the post mortem. Perhaps we had better deal with the body first. There were only two points of interest, the neck and the teeth. The dislocation of the neck appeared to me to have occurred before death and I took it to be, most probably, the immediate cause of death. As to the teeth, there was nothing very striking in their appearance; just a little pitting of the enamel. But from the arrangement of the little pits in irregular transverse lines, corresponding roughly to the lines of growth, I did not believe them to have been due to the heat but to have existed during life. I thought it possible that deceased might have had mottled teeth which had been bleached out in the fire; but, as I had never seen a case of mottled teeth, I could not form a definite opinion. I just noted the facts and satisfied myself that the pitting showed clearly in Polton’s photograph of the dead man’s face.
“And now let us consider the body of evidence which was before us when the inquest was finished and the inferences that it suggested. To me—and also to Blandy—the appearances as a whole conveyed the idea of deliberate arson; of a fire which had been arranged and started for a definite purpose. And since the death of Cecil Moxdale seemed to be part of the plan—if there was a plan—it was reasonable to suspect that this was the purpose for which the fire was raised.
“What especially led me to suspect arson was the appearance of preparation. The room, itself crammed with highly inflammable material, seemed to have been expressly prepared for a fire. But most suspicious to me was the information given by Haire to Green. It seemed designed to create in Green’s mind (as it actually did) the fear that a fire might occur. But more than this; it prepared him, if a fire should occur, to decide at once upon the way in which it had been caused. Nor was that all. Haire’s statement even suggested to Green the possibility of a fatal accident; and in the event of such a fatality occurring, it provided Green in advance with the data for identifying any body that should be found.
“Then there were the objects found in the ruins which confirmed Green’s identification. They were marked objects composed of highly refractory material.”
“They would have to be,” I objected, “if they were found. All the combustible objects would have been destroyed.”
“True,” he admitted. “But still it was a striking coincidence that these imperishable objects should happen to bear the initials of a man whose corpse was unrecognizable. The clay pipe was especially significant, seeing that people do not usually incise their initials on their pipe-bowls. But a clay pipe is, as nearly as possible, indestructible by heat. No more perfect means of identification, in the case of a fire, could be devised than a marked clay pipe. To me, these most opportune relics offered a distinct suggestion of having been planted for the very purpose which they served.
“But there is one observation to make before finishing with the positive aspects of the case. It was assumed that the man who was in the house when the fire broke out was a live man; and it was agreed that that live man was Cecil Moxdale. Now, I did not accept, unreservedly, either of these assumptions. To me, the appearances suggested that the man was already dead when the fire started. As to the identity, the probability seemed to be that the man was Moxdale; but I did not regard the fact as having been established conclusively. I kept in my mind the possibility of either a mistake or deliberate deception.
“And now, what conclusions emerged from these considerations? To me—and to Blandy—they suggested a crime. My provisional hypothesis was that Haire had made away with Moxdale and raised the fire to cover the murder; that the crime had been carefully planned and prepared; and that, for some reason, Haire was especially anxious that the body should be identified as that of Cecil Moxdale. That, as I said, was the positive aspect of the case. Now let us look at the negative.
“There were two facts that conflicted with my hypothesis. The first was that when the fire broke out, Haire was in Dublin and had been there for five days. That seemed to be an unanswerable alibi. There was no trace of any sort of fire-raising apparatus known to the experts or the police; indeed, no apparatus was known which would have been capable of raising a fire after an interval of five days. The large and complicated appliances used for the automatic lighting of street lamps do not come into the problem; they would not have been available to Haire, and, in fact, no trace of anything of the kind was found. Apparently, it was a physical impossibility that the fire could have been started by Haire.
“The second objection to my hypothesis was in the nature of the injury. A dislocation of the neck is, in my experience, invariably an accidental injury. I have never heard of a homicidal case. Have you?”
“No,” I answered; “and, in fact, if you wanted to dislocate a man’s neck, I don’t quite know how you would go about it.”
“Exactly,” he agreed. “It is too difficult and uncertain a method for a murderer to use. So that, in this case, if the broken neck was the cause of death, the man would appear to have died from the effects of an accident.
“Thus, the position at the end of the first stage was that, although the case as a whole looked profoundly suspicious, there was not a particle of positive evidence of either
arson or murder.
“The second stage was introduced by the disappearance of Haire. This was most mysterious. Why did Haire not return at the expected time? There was no reason why he should not, even if my hypothesis were true. For if he had raised a fire to cover a murder, his plan had succeeded to perfection. The fire had been accepted as an accident, the body had been identified, and the man’s death had been attributed to misadventure. And not only was there no reason why Haire should not have come home; there was a very good reason why he should. For his absence tended to start inquiries, and inquiries were precisely what he would have wished to avoid. I could think of no explanation of his disappearance. There was a suggestion that something had gone wrong; but there was no suggestion whatever as to what it was. Nevertheless, the fact of the disappearance tended to make the already suspicious group of events look even more suspicious.
“The third stage was reached when we learned that Moxdale senior was dead and heard of the provisions of his will. Then it appeared that Haire stood to benefit to the extent of four thousand pounds by the death of Cecil Moxdale. This, of course, did not, by itself, establish a probability that Haire had murdered Moxdale; but if that probability had already been suggested by other facts, this new fact increased it by supplying a reasonable and adequate motive. At this stage, then, I definitely suspected Haire of having murdered Moxdale, though still not without some misgivings. For the apparently insuperable difficulty remained. It seemed to be a physical impossibility that Haire could have started the fire.
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