“No, I suppose not,” I answered tentatively.
“You suppose not!” he replied. “Why here is as pretty a little problem as you could desire—what would be called in the jargon of the novels, a psychological problem—and it is your business to work it out, too.”
“You mean as to Miss Gibson’s relations with these two young men?”
Thorndyke nodded.
“Is it any concern of ours?” I asked.
“Certainly it is,” he replied. “Everything is a concern of ours at this preliminary stage. We are groping about for a clue and must let nothing pass unscrutinised.”
“Well, then, to begin with, she is not wildly infatuated with Walter Hornby, I should say.”
“No,” agreed Thorndyke, laughing softly; “we may take it that the canny Walter has not inspired a grand passion.”
“Then,” I resumed, “if I were a suitor for Miss Gibson’s hand, I think I would sooner stand in Reuben’s shoes than in Walter’s.”
“There again I am with you,” said Thorndyke. “Go on.”
“Well,” I continued, “our fair visitor conveyed to me the impression that her evident admiration of Reuben’s character was tempered by something that she had heard from a third party. That expression of hers, ‘speaking from my own observation,’ seemed to imply that her observations of him were not in entire agreement with somebody else’s.”
“Good man!” exclaimed Thorndyke, slapping me on the back, to the undissembled surprise of a policeman whom we were passing; “that is what I had hoped for in you—the capacity to perceive the essential underneath the obvious. Yes; somebody has been saying something about our client, and the thing that we have to find out is, what is it that has been said and who has been saying it. We shall have to make a pretext for another interview with Miss Gibson.”
“By the way, why didn’t you ask her what she meant?” I asked foolishly.
Thorndyke grinned in my face. “Why didn’t you?” he retorted.
“No,” I rejoined, “I suppose it is not politic to appear too discerning. Let me carry the microscope for a time; it is making your arm ache, I see.”
“Thanks,” said he, handing the case to me and rubbing his fingers; “it is rather ponderous.”
“I can’t make out what you want with this great instrument,” I said. “A common pocket lens would do all that you require. Besides, a six-inch objective will not magnify more than two or three diameters.”
“Two, with the draw-tube closed,” replied Thorndyke, “and the low-power eye-piece brings it up to four. Polton made them both for me for examining cheques, bank-notes and other large objects. But you will understand when you see me use the instrument, and remember, you are to make no comments.”
We had by this time arrived at the entrance to Scotland Yard, and were passing up the narrow thoroughfare, when we encountered a uniformed official who halted and saluted my colleague.
“Ah, I thought we should see you here before long, doctor,” said he genially. “I heard this morning that you have this thumb-print case in hand.”
“Yes,” replied Thorndyke; “I am going to see what can be done for the defence.”
“Well,” said the officer as he ushered us into the building, “you’ve given us a good many surprises, but you’ll give us a bigger one if you can make anything of this. It’s a foregone conclusion, I should say.”
“My dear fellow,” said Thorndyke, “there is no such thing. You mean that there is a prima facie case against the accused.”
“Put it that way if you like,” replied the officer, with a sly smile, “but I think you will find this about the hardest nut you ever tried your teeth on—and they’re pretty strong teeth too, I’ll say that. You had better come into Mr. Singleton’s office,” and he conducted us along a corridor and into a large, barely-furnished room, where we found a sedate-looking gentleman seated at a large writing table.
“How-d’ye-do, doctor?” said the latter, rising and holding out his hand. “I can guess what you’ve come for. Want to see that thumb-print, eh?”
“Quite right,” answered Thorndyke, and then, having introduced me, he continued: “We were partners in the last game, but we are on opposite sides of the board this time.”
“Yes,” agreed Mr. Singleton; “and we are going to give you check-mate.”
He unlocked a drawer and drew forth a small portfolio, from which he extracted a piece of paper which he laid on the table. It appeared to be a sheet torn from a perforated memorandum block, and bore the pencilled inscription: “Handed in by Reuben at 7:30 P.M., 9.3.01. J. H.” At one end was a dark, glossy blood-stain, made by the falling of a good-sized drop, and this was smeared slightly, apparently by a finger or thumb having been pressed on it. Near to it were two or three smaller smears and a remarkably distinct and clean print of a thumb.
Thorndyke gazed intently at the paper for a minute or two, scrutinising the thumb-print and the smears in turn, but making no remark, while Mr. Singleton watched his impassive face with expectant curiosity.
“Not much difficulty in identifying that mark,” the official at length observed.
“No,” agreed Thorndyke; “it is an excellent impression and a very distinctive pattern, even without the scar.”
“Yes,” rejoined Mr. Singleton; “the scar makes it absolutely conclusive. You have a print with you, I suppose?”
“Yes,” replied Thorndyke, and he drew from a wide flap-pocket the enlarged photograph, at the sight of which Mr. Singleton’s face broadened into a smile.
“You don’t want to put on spectacles to look at that,” he remarked; “not that you gain anything by so much enlargement; three diameters is ample for studying the ridge-patterns. I see you have divided it up into numbered squares—not a bad plan; but ours—or rather Galton’s, for we borrowed the method from him—is better for this purpose.”
He drew from the portfolio a half-plate photograph of the thumb-print which appeared magnified to about four inches in length. The print was marked by a number of figures written minutely with a fine-pointed pen, each figure being placed on an “island,” a loop, a bifurcation or some other striking and characteristic portion of the ridge-pattern.
“This system of marking with reference numbers,” said Mr. Singleton, “is better than your method of squares, because the numbers are only placed at points which are important for comparison, whereas your squares or the intersections of the lines fall arbitrarily on important or unimportant points according to chance. Besides, we can’t let you mark our original, you know, though, of course, we can give you a photograph, which will do as well.”
“I was going to ask you to let me take a photograph presently,” said Thorndyke.
“Certainly,” replied Mr. Singleton, “if you would rather have one of your own taking. I know you don’t care to take anything on trust. And now I must get on with my work, if you will excuse me. Inspector Johnson will give you any assistance you may require.”
“And see that I don’t pocket the original,” added Thorndyke, with a smile at the inspector who had shown us in.
“Oh, I’ll see to that,” said the latter, grinning; and, as Mr. Singleton returned to his table, Thorndyke unlocked the microscope case and drew forth the instrument.
“What, are you going to put it under the microscope?” exclaimed Mr. Singleton, looking round with a broad smile.
“Must do something for my fee, you know,” replied Thorndyke, as he set up the microscope and screwed on two extra objectives to the triple nose-piece.
“You observe that there is no deception,” he added to the inspector, as he took the paper from Mr. Singleton’s table and placed it between two slips of glass.
“I’m watching you, sir,” replied the officer, with a chuckle; and he did watch, with close attention and great interest, while Thorndyke laid the glass slips on the microscope stage and proceeded to focus.
I also watched, and was a good deal exercised in my mind by my colleague’
s proceedings. After a preliminary glance with the six-inch glass, he swung round the nose-piece to the half-inch objective and slipped in a more powerful eye-piece, and with this power he examined the blood-stains carefully, and then moved the thumb-print into the field of vision. After looking at this for some time with deep attention, he drew from the case a tiny spirit lamp which was evidently filled with an alcoholic solution of some sodium salt, for when he lit it I recognised the characteristic yellow sodium flame. Then he replaced one of the objectives by a spectroscopic attachment, and having placed the little lamp close to the microscope mirror, adjusted the spectroscope. Evidently my friend was fixing the position of the “D” line (or sodium line) in the spectrum.
Having completed the adjustments, he now examined afresh the blood-smears and the thumb-print, both by transmitted and reflected light, and I observed him hurriedly draw one or two diagrams in his notebook. Then he replaced the spectroscope and lamp in the case and brought forth the micrometer—a slip of rather thin glass about three inches by one and a half—which he laid over the thumb-print in the place of the upper plate of glass.
Having secured it in position by the clips, he moved it about, comparing its appearance with that of the lines on the large photograph, which he held in his hand. After a considerable amount of adjustment and readjustment, he appeared to be satisfied, for he remarked to me—
“I think I have got the lines in the same position as they are on our print, so, with Inspector Johnson’s assistance, we will take a photograph which we can examine at our leisure.”
He extracted the camera—a quarter-plate instrument—from its case and opened it. Then, having swung the microscope on its stand into a horizontal position, he produced from the camera case a slab of mahogany with three brass feet, on which he placed the camera, and which brought the latter to a level with the eye-piece of the microscope.
The front of the camera was fitted with a short sleeve of thin black leather, and into this the eye-piece end of the microscope was now passed, the sleeve being secured round the barrel of the microscope by a stout indiarubber band, thus producing a completely light-tight connection.
Everything was now ready for taking the photograph. The light from the window having been concentrated on the thumb-print by means of a condenser, Thorndyke proceeded to focus the image on the ground-glass screen with extreme care and then, slipping a small leather cap over the objective, introduced the dark slide and drew out the shutter.
“I will ask you to sit down and remain quite still while I make the exposure,” he said to me and the inspector. “A very little vibration is enough to destroy the sharpness of the image.”
We seated ourselves accordingly, and Thorndyke then removed the cap, standing motionless, watch in hand, while he exposed the first plate.
“We may as well take a second, in case this should not turn out quite perfect,” he said, as he replaced the cap and closed the shutter.
He reversed the dark slide and made another exposure in the same way, and then, having removed the micrometer and replaced it by a slip of plain glass, he made two more exposures.
“There are two plates left,” he remarked, as he drew out the second dark slide. “I think I will take a record of the blood-stain on them.”
He accordingly made two more exposures—one of the larger blood-stain and one of the smaller smears.
“There,” said he, with an air of satisfaction, as he proceeded to pack up what the inspector described as his ‘box of tricks.’ “I think we have all the data that we can squeeze out of Scotland Yard, and I am very much obliged to you, Mr. Singleton, for giving so many facilities to your natural enemy, the counsel for the defence.”
“Not our natural enemies, doctor,” protested Mr. Singleton. “We work for a conviction, of course, but we don’t throw obstacles in the way of the defence. You know that perfectly well.”
“Of course I do, my dear sir,” replied Thorndyke, shaking the official by the hand. “Haven’t I benefited by your help a score of times? But I am greatly obliged all the same. Good-bye.”
“Good-bye, doctor. I wish you luck, though I fear you will find it ‘no go’ this time.”
“We shall see,” replied Thorndyke, and with a friendly wave of the hand to the inspector he caught up the two cases and led the way out of the building.
CHAPTER IV
CONFIDENCES
During our walk home my friend was unusually thoughtful and silent, and his face bore a look of concentration under which I thought I could detect, in spite of his habitually impassive expression, a certain suppressed excitement of a not entirely unpleasurable kind. I forbore, however, from making any remarks or asking questions, not only because I saw that he was preoccupied, but also because, from my knowledge of the man, I judged that he would consider it his duty to keep his own counsel and to make no unnecessary confidences even to me.
On our arrival at his chambers he immediately handed over the camera to Polton with a few curt directions as to the development of the plates, and, lunch being already prepared, we sat down at the table without delay.
We had proceeded with our meal in silence for some time when Thorndyke suddenly laid down his knife and fork and looked into my face with a smile of quiet amusement.
“It has just been borne in upon me, Jervis,” said he, “that you are the most companionable fellow in the world. You have the heaven-sent gift of silence.”
“If silence is the test of companionability,” I answered, with a grin, “I think I can pay you a similar compliment in even more emphatic terms.”
He laughed cheerfully and rejoined—
“You are pleased to be sarcastic, I observe; but I maintain my position. The capacity to preserve an opportune silence is the rarest and most precious of social accomplishments. Now, most men would have plied me with questions and babbled comments on my proceedings at Scotland Yard, whereas you have allowed me to sort out, without interruption, a mass of evidence while it is still fresh and impressive, to docket each item and stow it away in the pigeonholes of my brain. By the way, I have made a ridiculous oversight.”
“What is that?” I asked.
“The ‘Thumbograph.’ I never ascertained whether the police have it or whether it is still in the possession of Mrs. Hornby.”
“Does it matter?” I inquired.
“Not much; only I must see it. And perhaps it will furnish an excellent pretext for you to call on Miss Gibson. As I am busy at the hospital this afternoon and Polton has his hands full, it would be a good plan for you to drop in at Endsley Gardens—that is the address, I think—and if you can see Miss Gibson, try to get a confidential chat with her, and extend your knowledge of the manners and customs of the three Messieurs Hornby. Put on your best bedside manner and keep your weather eye lifting. Find out everything you can as to the characters and habits of those three gentlemen, regardless of all scruples of delicacy. Everything is of importance to us, even to the names of their tailors.”
“And with regard to the ‘Thumbograph’?”
“Find out who has it, and, if it is still in Mrs. Hornby’s possession, get her to lend it to us or—what might, perhaps, be better—get her permission to take a photograph of it.”
“It shall be done according to your word,” said I. “I will furbish up my exterior, and this very afternoon make my first appearance in the character of Paul Pry.”
About an hour later I found myself upon the doorstep of Mr. Hornby’s house in Endsley Gardens listening to the jangling of the bell that I had just set in motion.
“Miss Gibson, sir?” repeated the parlourmaid in response to my question. “She was going out, but I am not sure whether she has gone yet. If you will step in, I will go and see.”
I followed her into the drawing-room, and, threading my way amongst the litter of small tables and miscellaneous furniture by which ladies nowadays convert their special domain into the semblance of a broker’s shop, let go my anchor in the vicinity of the firep
lace to await the parlourmaid’s report.
I had not long to wait, for in less than a minute Miss Gibson herself entered the room. She wore her hat and gloves, and I congratulated myself on my timely arrival.
“I didn’t expect to see you again so soon, Dr. Jervis,” she said, holding out her hand with a frank and friendly manner, “but you are very welcome all the same. You have come to tell me something?”
“On the contrary,” I replied, “I have come to ask you something.”
“Well, that is better than nothing,” she said, with a shade of disappointment. “Won’t you sit down?”
I seated myself with caution on a dwarf chair of scrofulous aspect, and opened my business without preamble.
“Do you remember a thing called a ‘Thumbograph’?”
“Indeed I do,” she replied with energy. “It was the cause of all this trouble.”
“Do you know if the police took possession of it?”
“The detective took it to Scotland Yard that the finger-print experts might examine it and compare the two thumb-prints; and they wanted to keep it, but Mrs. Hornby was so distressed at the idea of its being used in evidence that they let her have it back. You see, they really had no further need of it, as they could take a print for themselves when they had Reuben in custody; in fact, he volunteered to have a print taken at once, as soon as he was arrested, and that was done.”
“So the ‘Thumbograph’ is now in Mrs. Hornby’s possession?”
“Yes, unless she has destroyed it. She spoke of doing so.”
“I hope she has not,” said I, in some alarm, “for Dr. Thorndyke is extremely anxious, for some reason, to examine it.”
“Well, she will be down in a few minutes, and then we shall know. I told her you were here. Have you any idea what Dr. Thorndyke’s reason is for wanting to see it?”
“None whatever,” I replied. “Dr. Thorndyke is as close as an oyster. He treats me as he treats every one else—he listens attentively, observes closely, and says nothing.”
“It doesn’t sound very agreeable,” mused Miss Gibson; “and yet he seemed very nice and sympathetic.”
The Detective Megapack Page 29