by Graeme Davis
“He seems to be following him also,” said Sholmes, in a low voice.
The pursuit continued, but was now embarrassed by the presence of the third man. Lupin returned the same way, passed through the Porte des Ternes, and re-entered the house in the Avenue des Ternes.
The concierge was closing the house for the night when Ganimard presented himself.
“Did you see him?”
“Yes,” replied the concierge, “I was putting out the gas on the landing when he closed and bolted his door.”
“Is there any person with him?”
“No; he has no servant. He never eats here.”
“Is there a servants’ stairway?”
“No.”
Ganimard said to Sholmes:
“I had better stand at the door of his room while you go for the commissary of police in the Rue Demours.”
“And if he should escape during that time?” said Sholmes.
“While I am here! He can’t escape.”
“One to one, with Lupin, is not an even chance for you.”
“Well, I can’t force the door. I have no right to do that, especially at night.”
Sholmes shrugged his shoulders and said:
“When you arrest Lupin no one will question the methods by which you made the arrest. However, let us go up and ring, and see what happens then.”
They ascended to the second floor. There was a double door at the left of the landing. Ganimard rang the bell. No reply. He rang again. Still no reply.
“Let us go in,” said Sholmes.
“All right, come on,” replied Ganimard.
Yet, they stood still, irresolute. Like people who hesitate when they ought to accomplish a decisive action they feared to move, and it seemed to them impossible that Arsène Lupin was there, so close to them, on the other side of that fragile door that could be broken down by one blow of the fist. But they knew Lupin too well to suppose that he would allow himself to be trapped in that stupid manner. No, no—a thousand times, no—Lupin was no longer there. Through the adjoining houses, over the roofs, by some conveniently prepared exit, he must have already made his escape, and, once more, it would only be Lupin’s shadow that they would seize.
They shuddered as a slight noise, coming from the other side of the door, reached their ears. Then they had the impression, amounting almost to a certainty, that he was there, separated from them by that frail wooden door, and that he was listening to them, that he could hear them.
What was to be done? The situation was a serious one. In spite of their vast experience as detectives, they were so nervous and excited that they thought they could hear the beating of their own hearts. Ganimard questioned Sholmes by a look. Then he struck the door a violent blow with his fist. Immediately they heard the sound of footsteps, concerning which there was no attempt at concealment.
Ganimard shook the door. Then he and Sholmes, uniting their efforts, rushed at the door, and burst it open with their shoulders. Then they stood still, in surprise. A shot had been fired in the adjoining room. Another shot, and the sound of a falling body.
When they entered they saw the man lying on the floor with his face toward the marble mantel. His revolver had fallen from his hand. Ganimard stooped and turned the man’s head. The face was covered with blood, which was flowing from two wounds, one in the cheek, the other in the temple.
“You can’t recognize him for blood.”
“No matter!” said Sholmes. “It is not Lupin.”
“How do you know? You haven’t even looked at him.”
“Do you think that Arsène Lupin is the kind of a man that would kill himself?” asked Sholmes, with a sneer.
“But we thought we recognized him outside.”
“We thought so, because the wish was father to the thought. That man has us bewitched.”
“Then it must be one of his accomplices.”
“The accomplices of Arsène Lupin do not kill themselves.”
“Well, then, who is it?”
They searched the corpse. In one pocket Herlock Sholmes found an empty pocketbook; in another Ganimard found several louis.§ There were no marks of identification on any part of his clothing. In a trunk and two valises they found nothing but wearing apparel. On the mantel there was a pile of newspapers. Ganimard opened them. All of them contained articles referring to the theft of the Jewish lamp.
An hour later, when Ganimard and Sholmes left the house, they had acquired no further knowledge of the strange individual who had been driven to suicide by their untimely visit.
Who was he! Why had he killed himself? What was his connection with the affair of the Jewish lamp? Who had followed him on his return from the river? The situation involved many complex questions—many mysteries—
Herlock Sholmes went to bed in a very bad humor. Early next morning he received the following telephonic message:
“Arsène Lupin has the honor to inform you of his tragic death in the person of Monsieur Bresson, and requests the honor of your presence at the funeral service and burial, which will be held at the public expense on Thursday, 25 June.”
* Wilson’s arm was broken by Lupin’s men in the previous story, “The Blonde Lady.”
† A small coin worth five centimes, or 0.05 Francs.
‡ Dressmaker.
§ Gold coins with a value of 20 Francs.
THE MAN WITH THE NAILED SHOES
by R. Austin Freeman
1909
Richard Austin Freeman trained as an apothecary and studied medicine at Middlesex Hospital, qualifying in 1887. He entered the Colonial Service, but was forced to return from Africa after contracting blackwater fever. Unable to find a permanent medical position, he turned to writing fiction, while continuing to practice medicine as opportunity permitted.
Doctor John Evelyn Thorndyke first appeared in “The Red Thumb Mark” in 1907, and demonstrates Freeman’s mastery of obscure scientific knowledge. While Holmes was similarly well-versed in such matters, it can be argued that Thorndyke is less of a descendant of the great detective, and more a precursor of the forensic investigators of television shows such as CSI: a doctor who re-trained in the law, he describes himself as a “medical jurispractitioner.”
Thorndyke is further distinguished from Holmes in that many of his exploits are told as “inverted” detective stories. In this sub-genre, which Freeman claimed to have invented, the identity of the criminal is known from the start and the story’s interest lies not in the mystery itself, but in the means by which the detective unravels it.
Doctor Thorndyke appeared in twenty-two novels and forty short stories, published between 1907 and 1942. His legacy is a troubled one, and not free from controversy. He was a vocal supporter of eugenics, a social science of the time which was to inspire Nazi policies of racial purity, and expressed a number of other views which would be regarded as offensive today. Raymond Chandler, who had little good to say about the classical detective story, described Freeman as “a wonderful performer” with “no equal in his genre.” Some years later, though, British crime writer Julian Symons wrote that “reading a Freeman story is very much like chewing dry straw.”
Readers must decide for themselves. “The Man with the Nailed Shoes” is a tidy little mystery, which first appeared in the collection John Thorndyke’s Cases, published in the United States as Dr. Thorndyke’s Cases. Freeman’s invention of the inverted detective story is still three years in the future, and this case, along with Thorndyke’s solution, would not look out of place in a Holmes collection: it even features a doctor as the narrator.
There are, I suppose, few places even on the East Coast of England more lonely and remote than the village of Little Sundersley and the country that surrounds it. Far from any railway, and some miles distant from any considerable town, it remains an outpost of civilization, in which primitive manners and customs and old-world tradition linger on into an age that has elsewhere forgotten them. In the summer, it is true, a small contingen
t of visitors, adventurous in spirit, though mostly of sedate and solitary habits, make their appearance to swell its meagre population, and impart to the wide stretches of smooth sand that fringe its shores a fleeting air of life and sober gaiety; but in late September—the season of the year in which I made its acquaintance—its pasture-lands lie desolate, the rugged paths along the cliffs are seldom trodden by human foot, and the sands are a desert waste on which, for days together, no footprint appears save that left by some passing sea-bird.
I had been assured by my medical agent, Mr. Turcival, that I should find the practice of which I was now taking charge “an exceedingly soft billet, and suitable for a studious man;” and certainly he had not misled me, for the patients were, in fact, so few that I was quite concerned for my principal, and rather dull for want of work. Hence, when my friend John Thorndyke, the well-known medico-legal expert, proposed to come down and stay with me for a weekend and perhaps a few days beyond, I hailed the proposal with delight, and welcomed him with open arms.
“You certainly don’t seem to be overworked, Jervis,” he remarked, as we turned out of the gate after tea, on the day of his arrival, for a stroll on the shore. “Is this a new practice, or an old one in a state of senile decay?”
“Why, the fact is,” I answered, “there is virtually no practice. Cooper—my principal—has been here about six years, and as he has private means he has never made any serious effort to build one up; and the other man, Dr. Burrows, being uncommonly keen, and the people very conservative, Cooper has never really got his foot in. However, it doesn’t seem to trouble him.”
“Well, if he is satisfied, I suppose you are,” said Thorndyke, with a smile. “You are getting a seaside holiday, and being paid for it. But I didn’t know you were as near to the sea as this.”
We were entering, as he spoke, an artificial gap-way cut through the low cliff, forming a steep cart-track down to the shore. It was locally known as Sundersley Gap, and was used principally, when used at all, by the farmers’ carts which came down to gather seaweed after a gale.
“What a magnificent stretch of sand!” continued Thorndyke, as we reached the bottom, and stood looking out seaward across the deserted beach. “There is something very majestic and solemn in a great expanse of sandy shore when the tide is out, and I know of nothing which is capable of conveying the impression of solitude so completely. The smooth, unbroken surface not only displays itself untenanted for the moment, but it offers convincing testimony that it has lain thus undisturbed through a considerable lapse of time. Here, for instance, we have clear evidence that for several days only two pairs of feet besides our own have trodden this gap.”
“How do you arrive at the ‘several days?’” I asked.
“In the simplest manner possible,” he replied. “The moon is now in the third quarter, and the tides are consequently neap-tides. You can see quite plainly the two lines of seaweed and jetsam which indicate the high-water marks of the spring-tides and the neap-tides respectively. The strip of comparatively dry sand between them, over which the water has not risen for several days, is, as you see, marked by only two sets of footprints, and those footprints will not be completely obliterated by the sea until the next spring-tide—nearly a week from to-day.”
“Yes, I see now, and the thing appears obvious enough when one has heard the explanation. But it is really rather odd that no one should have passed through this gap for days, and then that four persons should have come here within quite a short interval of one another.”
“What makes you think they have done so?” Thorndyke asked.
“Well,” I replied, “both of these sets of footprints appear to be quite fresh, and to have been made about the same time.”
“Not at the same time, Jervis,” rejoined Thorndyke. “There is certainly an interval of several hours between them, though precisely how many hours we cannot judge, since there has been so little wind lately to disturb them; but the fisherman unquestionably passed here not more than three hours ago, and I should say probably within an hour; whereas the other man—who seems to have come up from a boat to fetch something of considerable weight—returned through the gap certainly not less, and probably more, than four hours ago.”
I gazed at my friend in blank astonishment, for these events befell in the days before I had joined him as his assistant, and his special knowledge and powers of inference were not then fully appreciated by me.
“It is clear, Thorndyke,” I said, “that footprints have a very different meaning to you from what they have for me. I don’t see in the least how you have reached any of these conclusions.”
“I suppose not,” was the reply; “but, you see, special knowledge of this kind is the stock-in-trade of the medical jurist, and has to be acquired by special study, though the present example is one of the greatest simplicity. But let us consider it point by point; and first we will take this set of footprints which I have inferred to be a fisherman’s. Note their enormous size. They should be the footprints of a giant. But the length of the stride shows that they were made by a rather short man. Then observe the massiveness of the soles, and the fact that there are no nails in them. Note also the peculiar clumsy tread—the deep toe and heel marks, as if the walker had wooden legs, or fixed ankles and knees. From that character we can safely infer high boots of thick, rigid leather, so that we can diagnose high boots, massive and stiff, with nailless soles, and many sizes too large for the wearer. But the only boot that answers this description is the fisherman’s thigh-boot—made of enormous size to enable him to wear in the winter two or three pairs of thick knitted stockings, one over the other. Now look at the other footprints; there is a double track, you see, one set coming from the sea and one going towards it. As the man (who was bow-legged and turned his toes in) has trodden in his own footprints, it is obvious that he came from the sea, and returned to it. But observe the difference in the two sets of prints; the returning ones are much deeper than the others, and the stride much shorter. Evidently he was carrying something when he returned, and that something was very heavy. Moreover, we can see, by the greater depth of the toe impressions, that he was stooping forward as he walked, and so probably carried the weight on his back. Is that quite clear?”
“Perfectly,” I replied. “But how do you arrive at the interval of time between the visits of the two men?”
“That also is quite simple. The tide is now about halfway out; it is thus about three hours since high water. Now, the fisherman walked just about the neap-tide, high-water mark, sometimes above it and sometimes below. But none of his footprints have been obliterated; therefore he passed after high water—that is, less than three hours ago; and since his footprints are all equally distinct, he could not have passed when the sand was very wet. Therefore he probably passed less than an hour ago. The other man’s footprints, on the other hand, reach only to the neap-tide, high-water mark, where they end abruptly. The sea has washed over the remainder of the tracks and obliterated them. Therefore he passed not less than three hours and not more than four days ago—probably within twenty-four hours.”
As Thorndyke concluded his demonstration the sound of voices was borne to us from above, mingled with the tramping of feet, and immediately afterwards a very singular party appeared at the head of the gap descending towards the shore. First came a short burly fisherman clad in oilskins and sou’-wester, clumping along awkwardly in his great sea-boots, then the local police-sergeant in company with my professional rival Dr. Burrows, while the rear of the procession was brought up by two constables carrying a stretcher. As he reached the bottom of the gap the fisherman, who was evidently acting as guide, turned along the shore, retracing his own tracks, and the procession followed in his wake.
“A surgeon, a stretcher, two constables, and a police-sergeant,” observed Thorndyke. “What does that suggest to your mind, Jervis?”
“A fall from the cliff,” I replied, “or a body washed up on the shore.”
“Pr
obably,” he rejoined; “but we may as well walk in that direction.”
We turned to follow the retreating procession, and as we strode along the smooth surface left by the retiring tide Thorndyke resumed:
“The subject of footprints has always interested me deeply for two reasons. First, the evidence furnished by footprints is constantly being brought forward, and is often of cardinal importance; and, secondly, the whole subject is capable of really systematic and scientific treatment. In the main the data are anatomical, but age, sex, occupation, health, and disease all give their various indications. Clearly, for instance, the footprints of an old man will differ from those of a young man of the same height, and I need not point out to you that those of a person suffering from locomotor ataxia* or paralysis agitans† would be quite unmistakable.”
“Yes, I see that plainly enough,” I said.
“Here, now,” he continued, “is a case in point.” He halted to point with his stick at a row of footprints that appeared suddenly above high-water mark, and having proceeded a short distance, crossed the line again, and vanished where the waves had washed over them. They were easily distinguished from any of the others by the clear impressions of circular rubber heels.
“Do you see anything remarkable about them?” he asked.
“I notice that they are considerably deeper than our own,” I answered.
“Yes, and the boots are about the same size as ours, whereas the stride is considerably shorter—quite a short stride, in fact. Now there is a pretty constant ratio between the length of the foot and the length of the leg, between the length of leg and the height of the person, and between the stature and the length of stride. A long foot means a long leg, a tall man, and a long stride. But here we have a long foot and a short stride. What do you make of that?” He laid down his stick—a smooth partridge cane, one side of which was marked by small lines into inches and feet—beside the footprints to demonstrate the discrepancy.
