Dr. Thorndyke Omnibus Vol 4

by R. Austin Freeman

  Thorndyke's impassive face softened with a faint, inscrutable smile.

  "We hold a promising hand. Miller," he replied quietly; "but if the ace is there, it is you who will have the satisfaction of playing it. And I hope to see you put it down quite soon."

  Miller grunted. "Very well," said he. "I can see that I am not going to get any more out of you than that; so I must wait for you to develop your plans. Meanwhile I am going to ask Dr. Usher for a signed statement."

  "Yes, that is very necessary," said Thorndyke. "You two had better go on together and set down Gray and me in the Kingsland Road, where he and I have some other business to transact."

  I glanced at him quickly as he made this astonishing statement, for we had no business there, or anywhere else that I knew of. But I said nothing. My recent training had not been in vain.

  A few minutes later, near to Dalston Junction, he stopped the carriage, and having made our adieux, we got out. Then Thorndyke strode off down the Kingsland Road, but presently struck off westward through a bewildering maze of seedy suburban streets and shabby squares in which I was as completely lost as if I had been dropped into the midst of the Sahara.

  "What is the nature of the business that we are going to transact?" I ventured to ask as we turned yet another corner.

  "In the first place," he replied, "I wanted to hear what conclusions you had reached in view of this discovery at the cemetery."

  "Well, that won't take long," I said, with a grin. "They can be summed up in half a dozen words: I have come to the conclusion that I am a fool."

  He laughed good-humouredly. "There is no harm in thinking that," he said, "provided you are not right—which you are not. But did that empty coffin suggest no new ideas to you?"

  "On the contrary," I replied, "it scattered the few ideas that I had. I am in the same condition as Superintendent Miller—an inextricable muddle."

  "But," he objected, "you are not in the same position as the superintendent. If he knew all that you and I know, he wouldn't be in a muddle at all. What is your difficulty?"

  "Primarily the discrepancies about this man Crile. There seems to be no possible doubt that he died. But apparently he was never buried; and you and Miller seem to believe that he is still alive. Further, I don't see what business Crile is of ours at all."

  "You will see that presently," said he, "and meanwhile you must not confuse Miller's beliefs with mine. However," he added as we crossed a bridge over a canal—presumably the Regent's Canal—"we will adjourn the discussion for the moment. Do you know what street that is ahead of us?"

  "No," I answered; "I have never been here before, so far as I know."

  "That is Field Street," said he.

  "The street that the late Mr. Crile lived in?"

  "Yes," he answered; and as we passed on into the street from the foot of the bridge, he added, pointing to a house on our left hand, "And that is the residence of the late Mr. Crile—empty, and to let, as you observe."

  As we walked past I looked curiously at the house, with its shabby front and its blank, sightless windows, its desolate condition emphasized by the bills which announced it; but I made no remark until we came to the bottom of the street, when I recognized the cross-roads as the one along which I used to pass on my way to the Morrises' house. I mentioned the fact to Thorndyke, and he replied: "Yes. That is where we are going now. We are going to take a look over the premises. That house also is empty, and I have got a permit from the agent to view it and have been entrusted with the keys."

  In a few minutes we turned into the familiar little thoroughfare, and as we took our way past its multitudinous stalls and barrows I speculated on the object of this exploration. But it was futile to ask questions, seeing that I had but to wait a matter of minutes or the answer to declare itself. Soon we reached the house and halted for a moment to look through the glazed door into the empty shop. Then Thorndyke inserted the key into the side-door and pushed it open.

  There is always something a little melancholy in the sight of an empty house which one has known in its occupied state. Nothing, indeed, could be more cheerless than the Morris household; yet it was with a certain feeling of depression that I looked down the long passage (where Cropper had bumped his head in the dark) and heard the clang of the closing door. This was a dead house—a mere empty shell. The feeble life that I had known in it was no more. So I reflected as I walked slowly down the passage at Thorndyke's side, recalling the ungracious personalities of Mrs. Morris and her husband and the pathetic figure of poor Mr. Bendelow.

  When from the passage we came out into the hall, the sense of desolation was intensified; for here not only the bare floor and vacant walls proclaimed the untenanted state of the house. The big curtain that had closed in the end of the hall and to a great extent furnished it was gone, leaving the place very naked and chill. Incidentally, its disappearance revealed a feature of whose existence I had been unaware.

  "Why," I exclaimed, "they had a second street-door. I never saw that. It was hidden by a curtain. But it can't open into Market Street."

  "It doesn't," replied Thorndyke. "It opens on Field Street."

  "On Field Street!" I repeated in surprise. "I wonder why they didn't let me in that way. It is really the front of the house."

  "I think," answered Thorndyke, "that if you open the door and look out, you will understand why you were admitted at the back."

  I unbolted the door and, opening it, stepped out on the wide threshold and looked up and down the street. Thorndyke was right. The thoroughfare was undoubtedly Field Street, down which we had passed only a few minutes ago, and close by, on the right hand, was the canal bridge. Strongly impressed with the oddity of the affair, I turned to re-enter, and as I turned I glanced up at the number on the door. As my eye lighted on it, I uttered a cry of astonishment. For the number was fifty-two!

  "But this is amazing!" I exclaimed, re-entering the hall—where Thorndyke stood watching me with quiet amusement—and shutting the door. "It seems that Usher and I were actually visiting at the same house!"

  "Evidently," said he.

  "But it almost looks as if we were visiting the same patient!"

  "There can be practically no doubt that you were," he agreed. "It was on that assumption that I induced Miller to apply for the exhumation order; and the empty coffin seems to confirm it completely."

  I was thunderstruck; not only by the incredible thing that had happened, but by Thorndyke's uncanny knowledge of all the circumstances.

  "Then," I said, after a pause, "if Usher and I were attending the same man, we were both attending Bendelow."

  "That is certainly what the appearances suggest," he agreed.

  "It was undoubtedly Bendelow who was cremated," said I.

  "All the circumstances seem to point to that conclusion," he admitted, '"unless you can think of any that point in the opposite direction."

  "I cannot," I replied. "Everything points in the same direction. The dead man was seen and identified as Bendelow by those two ladies. Miss Dewsnep and Miss Bonnington; and they not only saw him here, but they actually saw him in his coffin just before it was passed through into the crematorium. And there is no doubt that they knew Bendelow by sight, for you remember that they recognized the photograph of him that the American detective showed them."

  "Yes," he admitted, "that is so. But their identification is a point that requires further investigation. And it is a vitally important point. I have my own hypothesis as to what took place, but that hypothesis will have to be tested; and that test will be what the logicians would call the Experimentum Crucis. It will settle one way or the other whether my theory of this case is correct. If my hypothesis as to their identification is true, there will be nothing left to investigate. The case will be complete and ready to turn over to Miller."

  I listened to this statement in complete bewilderment. Thorndyke's reference to the case conveyed nothing definite to me. It was all so involved that I had almost lost count
of the subjects of our investigation.

  "When you speak of 'the case'," said I, "what case are you referring to?"

  "My dear Gray!" he protested. "Do you not realize that we are trying to discover who murdered Julius D'Arblay?"

  "I thought you were," I answered; "but I can't connect this new mystery with his death in any way."

  "Never mind," said he. "When the case is completed, we will have a general elucidation. Meanwhile there is something else that I have to show you before we go. It is through this side-door."

  He led me out into a large neglected garden and along a wide path that was all overgrown with weeds. As we went I tried to collect and arrange my confused ideas, and suddenly a new discrepancy occurred to me. I proceeded to propound it.

  "By the way, you are not forgetting that the two alleged deaths were some days apart? I saw Bendelow dead on a Monday. He had died on the preceding afternoon. But Crile's funeral had already taken place a day or two previously."

  "I see no difficulty in that," Thorndyke replied. "Crile's funeral occurred, as I have ascertained, on a Saturday. You saw Bendelow alive for the last time on Thursday morning. Usher was sent for and saw Crile dead on Thursday evening, he having evidently died—with or without assistance—soon after you left. Of course, the date of death given to you was false, and you mention in your notes of the case that both you and Cropper were surprised at the condition of the body. The previous funeral offers no difficulty, seeing that we know that the coffin was empty. This is what I thought you might be interested to see."

  He pointed to a flight of stone steps, at the bottom of which was a wooden gate set in the wall that enclosed the garden. I looked at the steps—a little vacantly, I am afraid—and inquired what there was about them that I was expected to find of interest.

  "Perhaps," he replied, "you will see better if we open the gate."

  We descended the steps and he inserted a key into the gate, drawing my attention to the fact that the lock had been oiled at no very distant date and was in quite good condition. Then he threw the gate open and we both stepped out on to the tow-path of the canal. I looked about me in considerable surprise, for we were within a few yards of the hut with the derrick and the little wharf from which I had been flung into the canal.

  "I remember this gate," said I—"in fact, I think I mentioned it to you in my account of my adventure here. But I little imagined that it belonged to the Morrises' house. It would have been a short way in, if I had known. But I expect it was locked at the time."

  "I expect it was," Thorndyke agreed, and thereupon turned and re-entered. We passed once more down the long passage, and came out into Market Street, when Thorndyke locked the door and pocketed the key.

  "That is an extraordinary arrangement," I remarked; "one house having two frontages on separate streets."

  "It is not a very uncommon one," Thorndyke replied. "You see how it comes about. A house fronting on one street has a long back garden extending to another street which is not yet fully built on. As the new street fills up, a shop is built at the end of the garden. A small house may be built in connexion with it and cut off from the garden or the shop may be connected with the original house, as in this instance. But in either case, the shop belongs to the new street and has its own number. What are you going to do now?"

  "I am going straight on to the studio," I replied.

  "You had better come and have an early lunch with me first," said he. "There is no occasion to hurry. Polton is there and you won't easily get rid of him, for I understand that Miss D'Arblay is doing the finishing work on a wax bust."

  "I ought to see that, too," said I.

  He looked at me with a mischievous smile. "I expect you will have plenty of opportunities in the future," said he, "whereas Polton must make hay while the sun shines. And, by the way, he may have something to tell you. I have instructed him to make arrangements with those two ladies, Miss Dewsnep and her friend, to go into the question of their identification of Bendelow. I want you to be present at the interview, but I have left him to fix the date. Possibly he has made the arrangement by now. You had better ask him."

  At this moment an eligible omnibus making its appearance, we both climbed on board and were duly conveyed to King's Cross, where we alighted and lunched at a modest restaurant, thereafter separating to go our respective ways north and south.

  XVII. A Chapter of Surprise

  In answer to my knock, the studio door was opened by Polton; and as I met his eyes for a moment I was conscious of something unusual in his appearance. I had scanty opportunity to examine him, for he seemed to be in a hurry, bustling away after a few hasty words of apology and returning whence he had come. Following close on his heels, I saw what was the occasion of his hurry. He was engaged with a brush and a pot of melted wax in painting a layer of the latter on the insides of the moulds of a pair of arms, while Marion, seated on a high stool, was working at a wax bust, which was placed on a revolving modelling-stand, obliterating the seams and other irregularities with a steel tool which she heated from time to time at a small spirit-lamp.

  When I had made my salutations, I offered my help to Polton, which he declined—without looking up from his work—saying that he wanted to carry the job through by himself. I sympathized with this natural desire, but it left me without occupation, for the work which Marion was doing was essentially a one-person job, and in any case was far beyond the capabilities of either of the apprentices. For a minute or two I stood idly looking on at Polton's proceedings, but noticing that my presence seemed to worry him, I presently moved away—again with a vague impression that there was something unusual in his appearance—and drawing up another high stool beside Marion's, settled myself to take a lesson in the delicate and difficult technique of surface finishing.

  We were all very silent. My two companions were engrossed by their respective occupations and I must needs refrain from distracting them by untimely conversation; so I sat, well content to watch the magical tool stealing caressingly over the wax surface, causing the disfiguring seams to vanish miraculously into an unbroken contour. But my own attention was somewhat divided; for even as I watched the growing perfection of the bust there would float into my mind now and again an idle speculation as to the change in Polton's appearance. What could it be? It was something that seemed to have altered, to some extent, his facial expression. It couldn't be that he had shaved off his moustache or whiskers, for he had none to shave. Could he have parted his hair in a new way? It seemed hardly sufficient to account for the change; and looking round at him cautiously, I could detect nothing unfamiliar about his hair.

  At this point he picked up his wax-pot and carried it away to the farther end of the studio, to exchange it for another which was heating in a water-bath. I took the opportunity to lean towards Marion and ask in a whisper:

  "Have you noticed anything unusual about Polton?"

  She nodded emphatically and cast a furtive glance over her shoulder in his direction.

  "What is it?" I asked in the same low tone.

  She took another precautionary glance and then, leaning towards me with an expression of exaggerated mystery, whispered:

  "He has cut his eyelashes off."

  I gazed at her in amazement, and was about to put a further question, but she held up a warning fore-finger and turned again to her work. However, my curiosity was now at boiling-point. As soon as Polton returned to his bench, I slipped off my stool and sauntered over to it on the pretence of seeing how his wax cast was progressing.

  Marion's report was perfectly correct. His eyelids were as bare of lashes as those of a marble bust. And this was not all. Now that I came to look at him critically, his eyebrows had a distinctly moth—eaten appearance. He had been doing something to them, too.

  It was an amazing affair. For one moment I was on the point of demanding an explanation, but good sense and good manners conquered the inquisitive impulse in time. Returning to my stool I cast an inquiring glance
at Marion, from whom, however, I got no enlightenment but such as I could gather from a most alluring dimple that hovered about the corner of her mouth and that speedily diverted my thoughts into other channels.

  My two companions continued for some time to work silently, leaving me to my meditations—which concerned themselves alternately with Polton's eyelashes and the dimple aforesaid. Suddenly Marion turned to me and asked:

  "Has Mr. Polton told you that we are all to have a holiday to-morrow?"

  "No," I answered; "but Dr. Thorndyke mentioned that Mr. Polton might have something to tell us. Why are we all to have a holiday?"

  "Why, you see, sir," said Polton, standing up and forgetting all about his eyelashes, "the Doctor instructed me to make an appointment with those two ladies. Miss Dewsnep and Miss Bonnington, to come to our chambers on a matter of identification. I have made the appointment for ten o'clock to-morrow morning; and as the Doctor wants you to be present at the interview and wants me to be in attendance, and we can't leave Miss D'Arblay here alone, we have arranged to shut up the studio for to-morrow."

  "Yes," said Marion; "and Arabella and I are going to spend the morning looking at the shops in Regent Street, and then we are coming to lunch with you and Dr. Thorndyke. It will be quite a red-letter day."

  "I don't quite see what these ladies are coming to the chambers for," said I.

  "You will see, all in good time, sir," replied Polton; and as if to head me off from any further questions, he added: "I forgot to ask how your little party went off this morning."

  "It went off with a bang," I answered. "We got the coffin up all right, but Mr. Fox wasn't at home. The coffin was empty."

  "I rather think that was what the Doctor expected," said Polton.

  Marion looked at me with eager curiosity. "This sounds rather thrilling," she said. "May one ask who it was that you expected to find in that coffin?"

  "My impression is," I replied, "that the missing tenant was a person who bore a strong resemblance to that photograph that I showed you."