“Oh come. Miller,” Thorndyke protested, “don’t call it trash. It is one of the most interesting and reasonable collections that I have ever seen.”
“So it may be,” said the Superintendent, “but I am looking at it from the trade point of view. Why, there isn’t a fence outside Bedlam who’d give a fiver for the whole boiling. It’s perfectly astonishing to me that an experienced tradesman like Moakey should have wasted his time on it. He might just as well have cracked an ironmonger’s.”
“I expect,” said I, “he embarked on the job under a mistake. Probably he saw, or heard of, that article in the Connoisseur and thought that this was a great collection of jewels.”
“That seems likely,” Miller agreed. “And that may account for his having worked with a chum this time instead of doing the job single-handed as he usually does. But it doesn’t account for his having used a pistol. That wasn’t his way at all. There has never been a charge of violence against him before. I always took him for the good old-fashioned, sporting crook who played the game with us and expected us to play the game with him.”
“Is it clear that it was Moakey who fired the shot?” asked Thorndyke.
“Well, no, I don’t know that it is. But he’ll have to stand the racket unless he can prove that somebody else did it. And that won’t be so very easy, for even if he gives us the name of the other man—the small man—and Miss Blake can identify him, still it will be difficult for Moakey to prove that the other man fired the shot, and the other chap isn’t likely to be boastful about it.”
“No,” said Thorndyke, “he will pretty certainly put it on to Moakey. But between the two we may get at the truth as to what happened.”
“We will hope so,” said Miller, rising and picking up his hat. “At any rate, that is how the matter stands. I understand that Sir Lawrence wants you to keep an eye on the case, but there’s really no need. It isn’t in your line at all. We shall arrest Moakey and he will be committed for trial. If he likes to make a statement we may get the other man, but in any case there is nothing for you to do.”
For some minutes after the Superintendent’s departure, Thorndyke sat looking into the fire with an air of deep reflection. Presently he looked up as if he had disposed of some question that he had been propounding to himself and remarked: “It’s a curious affair, isn’t it?”
“Very,” I agreed. “It seems as if this man, Moakey, had thrown all precaution to the winds. By the way, do you suppose those fingerprint people ever make mistakes? They seem pretty cocksure.”
“They would be more than human if they never made a mistake,” Thorndyke replied. “But, on the other hand, the identification of a whole set of fingerprints doesn’t leave much room for error. You might get two prints that were similar enough to admit of a mistake, but you would hardly get two sets that could be mistaken for one another.”
“No, I suppose not. So the mystery remains unexplained.”
“It remains unexplained in any case,” said Thorndyke.
“How do you mean?” I asked. “If they had made a mistake and these were really the fingerprints of some unknown person, that person might be a novice and there would be no mystery about his having taken no precautions.”
“Yes, but that is not the mystery. The real mystery is the presence of a third man who has left no other traces.”
“A third man!” I exclaimed. “What evidence is there of the presence of a third man?”
“It is very obvious,” replied Thorndyke. These fingerprints are not those of the small man, because he wore gloves. And they are not the fingerprints of the tall man.”
“How do you know that?” I asked.
Thorndyke rose, and opening a cabinet, took out the plaster cast of the tall man’s left hand, which he had made on the previous night, and the pair of photographs.
“Now,” said he, “look at the print of the left forefinger in the photograph. You see that the pattern is quite clear and unbroken. Now look at the cast of the forefinger. Do you see what I mean?”
“You mean that pit or dent in the bulb of the finger. But isn’t that due to an irregularity of the ground on which the finger was pressed?”
“No, it is the puckered scar of an old whitlow or deep wound of some kind. It is quite characteristic. And the print of this finger would show a blank white space in the middle of the pattern. So it is certain that those fingerprints did not belong to either of these two men.”
“Then, really,” said I, “the fact that these are Moakey’s fingerprints serves to explain this other mystery.”
“To some extent. But you see, Anstey, that it introduces a further mystery. If there were three men in that room, or on the premises, how comes it that there were only two sets of footprints?”
“Yes, that is rather extraordinary. Can you suggest any explanation?”
“The only explanation that occurs to me is that one of these men may have let Moakey into the house by the front door, that he may have been in the room when Miss Blake entered—he might, for instance, have been behind the door—and have slipped out when she ran to the window. He could then have to run into the drawing-room and waited until she rushed out of the house, when it would be easy for him to slip out at the front door and escape.”
“Yes,” I said dubiously, “I suppose that is possible, but it doesn’t sound very probable.”
“It doesn’t,” he agreed. “But it is the only solution that I can think of at the moment. Of course there must be some explanation, for there are the facts. Inside the house are traces of three men. Outside are traces of only two. Have you any suggestion to offer?”
I shook my head. “It is beyond me, Thorndyke. Why didn’t you ask Miller?”
“Because I am not proposing to take the police into my confidence until I have evidence that they are prepared to do the same by me. They will probably assume that the tall man was Moakey—he is about the same height. The information that we obtain from the cast of that man’s hand is not, you must remember, in their possession.”
“No, I had forgotten that. And now I begin to appreciate my learned senior’s foresight in taking a permanent record of that handprint.”
“Yes,” said Thorndyke. “A permanent record is invaluable. It allows of reference at one’s leisure and in connection with fresh evidence, as in the present case. And, moreover, it allows of study under the most favourable conditions. That scar on the finger was not noticeable in the impression in the sand, especially by the imperfect light of the lamp. But on the cast, which we can examine at our ease, by daylight if necessary, it is plainly visible. And we have it here to compare with the finger, if ever that finger should be forthcoming. I now make a rule of securing a plaster cast of any object that I cannot retain in my possession.”
Here, as if in illustration of this last statement, Polton entered the room bearing a small tray lined with blotting paper, on which lay three objects—a diminutive glass negative and two mascots. He laid the tray on the table and invited us to inspect his works, tendering a watchmakers eyeglass to assist the inspection.
Thorndyke picked up the two mascots and examined them separately through the glass, then with a faint smile, but without remark, he passed the tray to me. I stuck the glass in my eye and scrutinised first one and then the other of the mascots, and finally looked up at Polton, who was watching me with a smile that covered his face with wrinkles of satisfaction.
“I suppose, Polton,” I said, “You have some means of telling which is which, but I’m hanged if I can see a particle of difference.”
“I can tell ’em by the feel, sir,” he replied “but I took the precaution to weigh the original in the chemical balance before I made the copy. I think the colour matches pretty well.”
“It is a perfect reproduction, Polton,” said Thorndyke. “If we were to show it to Superintendent Miller he would want to take your fingerprints right away. He would say that you were not a safe person to be at large.”
At this commen
dation Polton’s countenance crinkled until he looked like a species of human walnut, and when the photograph of the signature had been examined and pronounced fit for the making of an enlargement, he departed, chuckling audibly.
When he had gone, I picked up one of the mascots and again examined it closely while Thorndyke made a similar inspection of its twin.
“Had you any definite purpose in your mind,” I asked “when you instructed Polton to make this indistinguishable copy?”
“No,” he replied. “I thought it wise to preserve a record of the thing, but, for my own information, a plain plaster cast would have answered quite well. Still, as it would not take much more trouble to imitate the colour and texture, I decided that there might be some advantage in having a perfect replica. There are certain imaginable circumstances in which it might be useful. I shall get Polton to make a cast of the Echidna’s vertebra, so that we may have the means of demonstrating the nature of the object to others, if necessary; and by the way, we may as well make the comparison now and confirm my opinion that the animal really was an Echidna.”
He produced the little packet that Saltwood had given him, and laying the little bones on the table, compared them carefully with the mascot.
“Yes,” he said at length, “I was right. Mr. Halliburton’s treasure is the third cervical vertebra of a young but full-grown Echidna.”
“How did you recognise this as an Echidna’s vertebra?” I asked, recalling Mr. Robson’s rather obscure exposition on the subject. “Aren’t neck vertebrae a good deal alike in most animals?”
“In animals of the same class they are usually very much alike. But the Echidna is a transitional form. Although it is a mammal, it has many well-marked reptilian characters. This vertebra shows one of them. If you look at those corner-pieces—the transverse processes—you will see that they are separate from the rest of the bone, that they are joined to it by a seam or suture. But in all other mammals, with a single exception, the transverse processes are fused with the rest of the bone. There is no separating line. That suture was the distinguishing feature which attracted my attention.”
“And does the fact of its being an Echidna’s bone suggest any particular significance to your mind?”
“Well,” he replied, “the Echidna is far from a common animal. And this particular bone seems to have been worked on by some barbarian artist, which suggests that it may have been originally a barbaric ornament or charm or fetish, which again suggests personal connections and a traceable history. You will notice that the two letters seem to have been impressed on the ornament and have no connection with it, which suggests that the bone was already covered with these decorations when it came into the late owner’s possession.”
I took up the glass and once more examined the mascot. The whole surface of the little bone, on both sides, was covered with an intricate mass of ornament consisting principally of scrolls or spirals, crude and barbaric in design but very minutely and delicately executed. In the centre of the solid part of the bone an extremely small “o” had been indented on one side and on the same spot on the reverse side an equally minute “h.” And through the glass I could see that the letters cut into the pattern, whereas the hole for the suspension ring was part of the original work and was incorporated into the design.
“I wonder why he used small letters for his initials instead of capitals,” said I.
“For the reason, I imagine, that they were small letters. He wanted them merely for identification, and no doubt wished them to be as inconspicuous as possible. Any letters are a disfigurement when they are not part of the design, and capitals would have been much worse than small letters.”
“These seem to have been punched, on with printer’s types.” I remarked.
“They have been punched, not cut, but not, I should say, with printer’s types. Type metal—even the hard variety which would be used for casting these little ‘Pearl’ or ‘Diamond’ types—is comparatively soft, and the harder varieties are brittle. It would scarcely be strong enough to bear hammering into bone. I should say these letters were indented with steel punches.”
“Well,” I said “we have got a vast amount of entertainment out of Mr. Halliburton and his mascot. But it looks rather as if that were going to be the end of it, for if Moakey is one of the robbers, we may take it that the others are just professional crooks. And thereupon Mr. Halliburton recedes once more into the background. Isn’t that the position?”
“Apparently it is,” replied Thorndyke. “But we shall see what happens at the inquest. Possibly some further evidence may be forthcoming when the witnesses give their accounts in detail. And possibly Moakey himself may be able to throw some further light on the matter. They will probably have him in custody within a day or two.”
“By the way,” I said, “have you examined the hair that poor Drayton had grasped in his hand?”
“Yes. There is nothing very characteristic about it. It is dark in colour and the hairs are rather small in diameter. But there was one slightly odd circumstance. Among the tuft of dark hairs there was one light one—not white—a blonde hair. It had no root and no tip. It was just a broken fragment. What do you make of that?”
“I don’t know that I make anything of it. I understand that a man may sometimes find a woman’s hair sticking to his coat in the neighbourhood of the shoulder or chest, though I have no personal experience of such things. But if on the coat, why not on the head? My learned senior’s powerful constructive imagination might conceive circumstances in which such a transfer of hair might occur. Or has he some more recondite explanation?”
“There are other possible explanations,” Thorndyke replied. “And as the hour seems to preclude a return to Hampstead tonight, and seems to suggest a temporary tenancy of Jervis’s bedroom, I would recommend the problem for my learned friend’s consideration while awaiting the approach of Morpheus or Hypnos, whichever deity he elects to patronize.”
This gentle hint, enforced by a glance at my watch, brought our discussion to an end, and very shortly afterwards we betook ourselves to our respective sleeping apartments.
CHAPTER SEVEN
The Vanished Heirloom
The tragic events at “The Rowans” had excited a considerable amount of public interest, and naturally that interest was manifested in a specially intense form by the residents in the locality. I realised this when, in obedience to the summons which had been left at my lodgings, I made my way to the premises adjoining the High Street in which the inquest was to be held. As I approached the building I observed that quite a considerable crowd had gathered round the doors awaiting their opening, and noticed with some surprise the proportion of well-dressed women composing it.
Observing that the crowd contained no one whom I knew, I began to suspect that there was some other entrance reserved for authorised visitors, and was just looking round in search of it when the doors were opened and the crowd began to surge in; and at that moment I saw Miss Blake approaching. I waited for her to arrive, and when we had exchanged greetings I proceeded to pilot her through the crowd, which passed in with increasing slowness, suggesting that the accommodation was already being somewhat taxed.
I was not the only person who observed the symptoms of a “full house.” A woman whom I had already noticed making her way through the throng with more skill and energy than politeness, came abreast of me just as I had struggled to the door and made a determined effort to squeeze past. Perhaps if she had been a different type of woman I might have accepted the customary masculine defeat, but her bad manners, combined with her unprepossessing appearance, banished any scruples of chivalry. She was a kind of woman that I dislike most cordially; loudly dressed, flashy, scented like a civet cat; with glaring golden hair—manifestly peroxided, as was evident by her dark eyebrows—pencilled eyelids, and a coat of powder that stared even through her spotted veil. My gorge rose at her, and as she stuck her elbow in my ribs and made a final burst to get in before me, I maintained
a stolid resistance.
“You must excuse me,” I said, “but I am a witness, and so is this lady.”
She cast a quick glance at me, and from me to Miss Blake; then—with a bad enough grace and without replying—she withdrew to let us pass, and ostentatiously turned her back on us.
The room was already crowded, but that was no concern of ours. We were present, and when our names should be called, the coroner’s officer would do all that was necessary.
“I suppose,” said Miss Blake, “we ought to have come in by another door. I see Sir Lawrence and Mrs. Benham are sitting by the table; and isn’t that Dr Thorndyke next to Sir Lawrence?”
“Yes,” I replied. “I don’t think he has been summoned, but, of course, he would be here to watch the case. I see Inspector Badger, too. I wonder if he is going to give evidence. Ah! You were right. There is another door. Here come the coroner and the jury. They will probably call you first as you are the principal witness, unless they begin with the medical evidence or Sir Lawrence. I see Dr Nichols has just come in.”
As the coroner and the jury took their seats at the table, the loud hum of conversation died away and an air of silent expectancy settled on the closely-packed audience. The coroner looked over a sheaf of type-written papers, and then opened the proceedings with a short address to the jury in which he recited the general facts of the case.
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