"Did Dobey make a good recovery?"
"Yes, excellent. When he left the hospital, the wound was quite healed, and the broken bone firmly united, but there was a large knob of callus, or new bone, which, I hope, will disappear in time."
"Would you recognize the wound if you were to examine it?"
"Certainly I should. I saw it last only about three weeks ago."
"Then, if his lordship will grant his permission, I will ask you to make the examination."
His lordship—bearing in mind; no doubt, the evidence of the finger-print experts—gave his permission readily; whereupon the doctor came out of the witness-box and went over to the dock. There he proceeded dexterously to unwind a length of bandage from the prisoner’s leg—which had been exposed by its owner in readiness for the inspection—and examine the member by sight and touch. Then he replaced the bandage and returned to the witness-box.
"What is the result of your examination?" Mr. Lyon asked.
"I find the wound and the fracture in much the same condition as when I saw it last about three weeks ago."
"You have no doubt that it is the same injury?"
"Not the slightest. I recognize every detail of it."
"What is meant by a compound fracture? Is it a very serious injury?"
"A compound fracture is a break in a bone accompanied by a wound of the flesh and skin which communicates with the broken part of the bone and exposes it to the air. It is always a serious injury, even under modern surgical conditions, because the wound and the fracture have both to be treated, and each may interfere with the treatment of the other."
"And you have no doubt that the prisoner is the person whom you treated at the hospital?"
"I identify the prisoner as the man of whom I am speaking. I am quite certain that he is the same person."
On receiving this answer, Mr. Lyon sat down, and the witness looked expectantly at the counsel for the prosecution. But, as before, they made no sign, and, accordingly, the witness was dismissed. As he retired, the foreman of the jury rose and announced that he and his colleagues did not want to hear any more evidence. "The jury are of opinion," he added, "that this is a case of mistaken identity."
"It is difficult to avoid that conclusion," the judge admitted. Then, turning to the prisoner’s counsel, he enquired what further evidence he had proposed to offer. "I had proposed to call the prisoner’s wife, my lord, and then to put the prisoner in the box."
The judge reflected for a few moments and then, addressing the foreman, said: "I think, in fairness to the prisoner, we should hear the rest of the evidence. You will note that the question of the document has not been cleared up. That document was found, you will remember, on premises belonging to the prisoner. We had better hear the evidence, though it may not be necessary for the learned counsel for the defence to address you." The jury having agreed to this eminently sensible suggestion, the prisoner’s wife, Elizabeth Dobey, was called and took her place in the witness-box.
"Is the address at East Mailing that you have given your permanent address? Is that your home?" Mr. Lyon asked, when the preliminaries had been disposed of, and the witness had described herself as the wife of Charles Dobey, the prisoner, "Yes. We rent a cottage with a nice bit of garden. My husband is very fond of gardening."
"With regard to the flat in London, 103 Barnard’s Buildings? Do you spend much of your time there?"
"Me? I have never been there at all. It isn’t a flat. It’s just a place where my husband can sleep and cook a meal when he is in Town, looking for a job."
"Do you remember when the prisoner first went up to Barnard’s Buildings after he came home from the hospital?"
"He only went up once. That was when the police took him. It was about a week after he came home—on the eighth of October."
"Did he send anyone else up to the flat, before he went himself?"
"No. There wasn’t anyone to send, and there wasn’t any reason to send them." This concluded the examination-in-chief. But, this time, as Mr. Lyon resumed his seat, Mr. Barnes rose with remarkable promptitude. "You have said that your husband kept this flat in London to sleep in when he was looking for a job. What kind of jobs would he be looking for?"
"He is a plumber and gas-fitter by trade. He would be looking for jobs in his own line, of course."
"You have heard the police witnesses state that they found in that flat a number of burglars’ tools, a quantity of stolen jewellery, and a stolen document. Do those tools and that stolen property suggest anything to you as to the kind of jobs that your husband went to London to look for?"
"No, they have got nothing to do with his trade."
"Can you account for the presence of burglars’ tools and stolen property in the rooms of a plumber and gas-fitter?"
"Yes, I can," Mrs. Dobey replied, viciously, "after all the false swearing that there has been in this court to-day. If you ask me, I should say that the police put them there." At this rather unexpected reply a low rumble of laughter filled the court, including the jury box; and a faint, appreciative smile stole over the judge’s face, and was even reflected on the countenance of Mr. Barnes himself.
"I am afraid," he said, good-humouredly, "that you are taking a prejudiced view. But with regard to this flat; have you ever taken any measures to ascertain what your husband does at those rooms?"
"No," she replied. "I don’t go spying on my husband. It isn’t necessary. I can trust him, if other people can’t."
Here it apparently dawned upon Mr. Barnes that he was not going to do his case any good with this witness, Accordingly, he thanked her, and resumed his seat; and, as Mr. Lyon was not disposed to re-examine, Mrs. Dobey retired in triumph, and her husband was conducted from the dock to the witness-box.
When he had been sworn and had given the usual particulars, his counsel directed him to describe his movements after his escape from the prison, which he did with picturesque conciseness.
"As soon as I was clear of the prison, I scooted round a corner into a by-street, and there I saw a motor wagon piled up with empty baskets. The driver was cranking up the engine, and, as there was nobody in sight, I climbed up behind and laid down on the floor among the baskets. Then the driver got up and off she went. When we got out somewhere between Headcorn and Biddenden the wagon turned down a by-lane, and as I thought that we might be getting near the farm that we seemed to be bound for, I decided to hop off. So I did. But she was going faster than I thought, and I came down a cropper and broke my leg. I laid there in the road for about a quarter of an hour, and then the doctor came along and picked me up, and took me off to the hospital. And there I stayed until I was discharged on the first of October."
"When did you first go up to your London flat?"
"I only went once. That was when I had been at home just over a week—on the eighth of October. The detectives came and collared me just as I was picking the lock to let myself in."
"Why did you have to pick the lock?"
"Because I hadn’t got my key. They took all the things out of my pockets at Maidstone police-station. But I had forgotten that I hadn’t got my key until I was close to the Buildings, so I had to pop into an ironmonger’s shop and get a piece of wire. And I was picking the lock with that piece of wire when the cops nabbed me."
"You have heard about the burglars’ tools and the stolen property that the police found in your room. Can you tell us anything about them?"
"No, I don’t know anything about them. They were not mine, and I didn’t put them there. Somebody must have got into the rooms and planted them there while I was in the hospital."
"Have you any idea who might have planted those things, and for what purpose?"
"I should think anyone could see what they were planted for. It was to put this murder on to me. But, as to who planted them, if the police didn’t—and I suppose they didn’t, though they do seem to have been working the oracle a bit—it must have been the person who did the murder, seeing that he had
got the paper that was taken from the murdered man."
"Do you swear that you never went to the flat after leaving the hospital until the eighth of October?"
"I do. I shouldn’t have gone there a second time with a bit of wire to let myself in. I should have got a key."
This was Mr. Lyon’s final question, and, as he sat down, Mr. Barnes rose to cross-examine, but with no great show of enthusiasm. He began by pressing the witness for a clearer explanation of the purpose for which he kept the rooms in London. But at this point the foreman of the jury again intervened with a protest that the jury were not interested in the prisoner’s occupation, and that they did not want to hear any more evidence; whereupon Mr. Barnes sat down with no appearance of reluctance, and the judge enquired of Mr. Lyon if he desired to address the jury.
"If the gentlemen of the jury have come to a decision," was the reply, "it would be useless for me to occupy the time of the court with an address."
Accordingly, the prisoner was led back to the dock, and the judge proceeded to make a few observations.
"I do not pretend to understand this case," said he. "We have been told that it is an impossibility for two different persons to have identically similar finger-prints. Yet, here, the impossible seems to have happened. Finger-prints which have been identified as those of the prisoner were made in a house in London on the second of August; at which time the prisoner appears to have been lying, with a broken leg, in a hospital some forty miles away. It would seem that there is some person whose finger-prints are identical with those of the prisoner; and, unfortunately for the prisoner, that person appears to be a house-breaker. However, there is no use in trying to resolve this puzzle, for, after all, the question is not relevant to the issue that you are trying. What you have to decide is whether you are prepared to accept as true the evidence of the matron of the hospital and Dr. Wale. If their evidence is true, it is physically impossible that the prisoner could have committed the murder with which he is charged. That is for you to decide, and I do not think that I need say anything more."
When the judge had finished speaking, the grey-wigged clerk of the court rose and put the formal question:
"Are you all agreed upon your verdict, gentlemen?"
To which the foreman replied, promptly: "We are."
"What do you say, gentlemen? Is the prisoner guilty or not guilty?"
"Not guilty," was the reply, delivered with noticeable emphasis.
The judge briefly expressed his entire concurrence, and then proceeded:
"I understand that the prisoner, having escaped from prison while awaiting his trial, is still in custody, on the original charge. Have you any instructions on the subject?
"Yes, my lord," replied Mr. Barnes. "It appears that the bill was presented to the Grand Jury at Maidstone on the day on which the prisoner absconded. There would seem to have been some error in presenting the bill; but, at any rate, the Grand Jury threw it out."
"I am glad to hear that," said the judge. Then, addressing the prisoner, he continued: "Charles Dobey, you have been tried for the crime on which you were indicted, and have been found not guilty—very properly, as I think—and, as the bill in respect of the original offence has been thrown out by the Grand Jury at Maidstone, there is now no charge against you, and you are accordingly discharged."
He accompanied the rather dry statement with a smile and a kindly nod, which Dobey acknowledged with a low bow, and, as the gate of the dock was now thrown open, he descended to meet, with a somewhat stolid grin, the effusive greetings of his wife and the congratulations of his friends from the hospital.
"Well," I said, as we rose to depart, "I hope you find the result of the trial satisfactory."
"I do," Thorndyke replied, "but I don’t think Miller does. He looks most uncommonly glum. But I do not feel sympathetic. The police—if they instructed the prosecution—have been hoist with their own petard. They insisted on dragging in these finger-prints and those two women, whose evidence was quite irrelevant and was intended merely to discredit the prisoner, and behold the result. From this time forward, Dobey is practically immune from finger-print evidence and evidence of personal identification. He can prove, from the records of this trial, that there is some person, who is engaged in the practice of house breaking, who is in appearance his exact double, and whose finger-prints are identically similar to his. He can actually quote the judge to that effect."
"Yes," I agreed. "Dobey need not trouble to wear gloves now, if he really is a cracksman, as I have no doubt he is. One cannot help admiring the masterly strategy of the defence in egging on the prosecution to play their trump cards and prove those very facts. But, even now, I don’t see how you came to be so certain of Dobey’s innocence. You knew nothing about the alibi. And, apart from that, there was a case against him. Yet, apparently, you never entertained the possibility of his being guilty."
"I don’t think I did," he admitted; "and, if you will reconsider the case in general terms and in detail, I think you will see why. Let me recommend you to do this now, as the completion of the case devolves on us. I must stay and have a few words with Miller; and I suggest that you go on ahead and spend half an hour in going over the case with an open mind. You know where to find our notes of the case. Get them out and look them through. Note all the facts that are known to us, consider them separately and as a whole, and see if there does not emerge a perfectly coherent theory of the crime. The evidence that you have heard to-day, inasmuch as it is in agreement with that theory, ought to be helpful to you."
"When you speak of a theory of the crime," said I, "do you mean a general theory, or one capable of a particular application?"
"Our function," he replied, "is to discover the identity of the person who murdered Inspector Badger; and the theory that I refer to is one which is capable of leading us to that discovery."
With this he stepped out into the body of the court to go in search of the Superintendent, and I made my way to the robing-room to divest myself of wig and gown before issuing forth into places of public resort.
XIV. A STARTLING DISCOVERY
On my way westward from the Old Bailey to the Temple, I turned over in my mind Thorndyke’s last statement. Its exact meaning was not perfectly clear to me; but what I did gather was that he had enough knowledge of the circumstances surrounding Badger’s death to make the belief in Dobey’s guilt untenable. That implied some positive knowledge pointing to the guilt of some other person; but as to whether that other person was an actual individual to whom a name could be given, or a mere abstraction whom we had yet to convert into a reality, I was unable to decide. What did, however, emerge clearly from his statement was that whatever facts were known to him were also known to me. My problem, therefore, was to examine the facts that I already knew, and try to extract their significance, which I had apparently missed up to the present.
When I arrived at our chambers, I became aware, by certain familiar signs, that Polton had returned from his expedition to Hartsden, and was engaged in some kind of photographic work in the laboratory. Presumably, he was developing the films from the "automatic watcher," and I was tempted to go up and see what luck he had had. But I restrained my curiosity, and, having drawn a chair up to the table and procured a note-block and pencil, I went to the cabinet in which the portfolios of current cases were kept and unlocked it. The one labelled "Inspector Badger, deceased," was uppermost, with the finger-print measuring-glass lying on its cover. I lifted them out together, and, laying the glass on the table, opened the portfolio and began to glance through its contents, laying the papers out in their order as to the dates.
The first that I picked up I put aside, as it did not appear to belong to the series. It was a rough copy of the entry that Thorndyke had made in his note-book when we were experimenting on the Thumbograph, and had apparently been put in the portfolio out of the way—though it was extremely unlike Thorndyke to put anything in its wrong place. Then I began to go through the various n
otes, seriatim, trying to refresh my memory as to the order of the events and the way in which the case had developed. But as I turned over the notes, I was aware of a growing sense of disappointment. There was nothing new; nothing that I did not remember quite clearly without their aid. I glanced through the brief notes of our expedition to Greenhithe. It was all fresh in my memory. The description of the body, the examination of the tunnel, the finding of the cigar; then the analysis of the cigar, the report of the inquest, and the evidence of the witnesses. I knew it all, and it conveyed nothing to me but a mysterious crime of which we held not a single clue to guide us to the identity of the perpetrator. There was a brief summary of Miller’s account of the house-breaking incident, which did now, after the event, point pretty definitely to a personation and the making of false finger-prints. But there was no suggestion as to the identity of the personator. To me, the whole case remained in the air.
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