The Second R. Austin Freeman Megapack

by R. Austin Freeman

  Thorndyke looked them over dubiously. “It is a dreadful muddle,” said he, “but I think we can pick out the prints well enough for identification if that should be necessary. Which of these is the notes tablet, Polton?”

  “The one in the right-hand top corner, sir,” was the reply.

  “Ah!” said Thorndyke, “then that answers our question. Confused as the impressions are, you can see quite plainly that the left thumb is the same thumb as that on the maps.”

  “Yes,” I agreed after making the comparison, “there is not much doubt that they are the same. And now the question is, what about it?”

  “Yes,” said Thorndyke; “that is the question.” And with this we retired from the laboratory, leaving Polton joyfully pulling off proofs.

  During the next few days I had a vague impression that my colleague was working at this case, though with what object I could not imagine. Mr. Rabbage’s problem was too absurd to take seriously, and Thorndyke was beyond working out cases, as he used to at one time, for the sake of mere experience. However, a day or two later, a genuine case turned up and occupied our attention to some purpose.

  It was about six in the evening when Mr. Nicholas Balcombe called on us by appointment, and proceeded, in a business-like fashion, to state his case.

  “I was advised by my friend Stalker, of the Griffin Life Assurance Office, to consult you,” said he. “Stalker tells me that you have got him out of endless difficulties, and I am hoping that you will be able to help me out of mine, though they are not so clearly within your province as Stalker’s. But you will know about that better than I do.

  “I am the manager of Rutherford’s Bank—the Cornhill Branch—and I have just had a very alarming experience. The day before yesterday, about three in the afternoon, a deed-box was handed in with a note from one of our customers—Mr. Pilcher, the solicitor, of Pilcher, Markham and Sudburys—asking us to deposit it in our strong-room and give the bearer a receipt for it. Of course this was done, in the ordinary way of business; but there was one exceptional circumstance that turns out to have been, as it would appear, providential. Owing to the increase of business our strong-room had become insufficient for our needs, and we have lately had a second one built on the most modern lines and perfectly fire-proof. This had not been taken into use when Pilcher’s deed-box arrived, but as the old room was very full, I opened the new room and saw the deed-box deposited in it.

  “Well, nothing happened up to the time that I left the bank, but about two o’clock in the morning the night watchman noticed a smell of burning, and on investigating, located the smell as apparently proceeding from the door of the new strong-room. He at once reported to the senior clerk, whose turn it was to sleep on the premises, and the latter at once telephoned to the police station. In a few minutes a police officer arrived with a couple of firemen and a hand-extinguisher. The clerk took them down to the strong-room and unlocked the door. As soon as it was opened, a volume of smoke and fumes burst out, and then they saw the deed-box—or rather the distorted remains of it—lying on the floor. The police took possession of what was left, but a very cursory examination on the spot showed that the box was, in effect, an incendiary bomb, with a slow time fuse or some similar arrangement.”

  “Was any damage done?” Thorndyke asked.

  “Mercifully, no,” replied Mr. Balcombe. “But just think of what might have happened! If I had put the box in the old strong-room it is certain that thousands of pounds’ worth of valuable property would have been destroyed. Or again, if instead of an incendiary bomb the box had contained a high explosive, the whole building would probably have been blown to pieces.”

  “What explanation does Pilcher give?”

  “A very simple one. He knows nothing about it. The note was a forgery; and on the firm’s headed paper, or a perfect imitation of it. And mind you,” Mr. Balcombe continued, “my experience is not a solitary one. I have made private inquiries of other bank managers, and I find that several of them have been subjected to similar outrages, some with serious results. And probably there are more. They don’t talk about these things, you know. Then there are those fires: the great timber fire at Stepney, and those big warehouse fires near the London Docks; there is something queer about them. It looks as if some gang was at work for purposes of pure mischief and destruction.”

  “You have consulted the police, of course?”

  “Yes. And they know something, I feel sure. But they are extremely reticent; so I suppose they don’t know enough. At any rate, I should like you to investigate the case independently and so would my directors. The position is most alarming.”

  “Could you let me see Pilcher’s letter?” Thorndyke asked.

  “1 have brought it with me,” said Balcombe. “Thought you would probably want to examine it. I will leave it with you; and if we can give you any other information or assistance, we shall be only too glad.”

  “Was the box brought by hand?” inquired Thorndyke.

  “Yes,” replied Balcombe, “but I didn’t see the bearer. I can get you a description from the man who received the package, if that would be any use.”

  “We may as well have it,” said Thorndyke, “and the name and address of the person giving it, in case he is wanted as a witness.”

  “You shall have it,” said Balcombe, rising and picking up his hat. “I will see to it myself. And you will let me know, in due course, if any information comes to hand?”

  Thorndyke gave the required promise and our client took his leave.

  “Well,” I said with a laugh, as the brisk footsteps died away on the stairs, “you have had a very handsome compliment paid you. Our friend seems to think that you are one of those master craftsmen who can make bricks, not only without straw, but without clay. There’s absolutely nothing to go on.”

  “It is certainly rather in the air,” Thorndyke agreed. “There is this letter and the description of the man who left the packet, when we get it, and neither of them is likely to help us much.”

  He looked over the letter and its envelope, held the former up to the light and then handed them to me.

  “We ought to find out whether this is Pilcher’s own paper or an imitation,” said I, when I had examined the letter and envelope without finding anything in the least degree distinctive or characteristic; “because, if it is their paper, the unknown man must have had some sort of connection with their establishment or staff.”

  “There must have been some sort of connection in any case,” said Thorndyke. “Even an imitation implies possession of an original. But you are quite right. It is a line of inquiry, and practically the only one that offers.”

  The inquiry was made on the following day, and the fact clearly established that the paper was Pitcher’s paper, but the ink was not their ink. The handwriting appeared to be disguised, and no one connected with the firm was able to recognise it. The staff, even to the caretaker, were all eminently respectable and beyond suspicion of being implicated in an affair of the kind.

  “But after all,” said Mr. Pitcher, “there are a hundred ways in which a sheet of paper may go astray if anyone wants it: at the printer’s, the stationer’s, or even in this office—for the paper is always in the letter-rack on the table.”

  Thus our only clue—if so it could be called—came to an end, and I waited with some curiosity to see what Thorndyke would do next. But so far as I could see, he did nothing, nor did he make any reference to this obscure case during the next few days. We had a good deal of other work on hand, and I assumed that this fully occupied his attention.

  One evening, about a week later, he made the first reference to the case and a very mysterious communication it seemed to me.

  “I have projected a little expedition for tomorrow,” said he. “I am proposing to spend the day, or part of it, in the pastoral region of Bethnal Green.”

  “In connection with any of our cases?” I asked.

  “Yes,” he replied. “Balcombe’s. I have been
making some cautious inquiries with Polton’s assistance, principally among hawkers and coffee-shop keepers, and I think I have struck a promising track.”

  “What kind of inquiries have you been making?” said I.

  “I have been looking for a man, or men, engaged in giving street entertainments. That is what our data seemed to suggest, among other possibilities.”

  “Our data!” I exclaimed. “1 didn’t know we had any.”

  “We had Balcombe’s account of the attempt to burn the bank. That gave us some hint as to the kind of man to look for. And there were certain other data, which my learned friend may recall.”

  “I don’t recall anything suggesting a street entertainer,” said I.

  “Not directly,” he replied. “It was one of several hypotheses, but it is probably the correct one, as I have heard of such a person as I had assumed, and have ascertained where he is likely to be found on certain days. Tomorrow I propose to go over his beat in the hope of getting a glimpse of him. If you think of coming with me, I may remind you that it is not a dressy neighbourhood.”

  On the following morning we set forth about ten o’clock, and as raiment which is inconspicuous at Bethnal Green may be rather noticeable in the Temple, we slipped out by the Tudor Street gate and made our way to Blackfriars Station. In place of the usual “research-case,” I noticed that Thorndyke was carrying a somewhat shabby wood-fibre attaché case, and that he had no walking-stick. We got out at Aldgate and presently struck up Vallance Street in the direction of Bethnal Green; and by the brisk pace and the direct route adopted, I judged that Thorndyke had a definite objective. However, when we entered the maze of small streets adjoining the Bethnal Green Road, our pace was reduced to a saunter, and at corners and crossroads Thorndyke halted from time to time to look along the streets; and occasionally he referred to a card which he produced from his pocket, on which were written the names of streets and days of the week.

  A couple of hours passed in this apparently aimless perambulation of the back streets.

  “It doesn’t look as if you were going to have much luck,” I remarked, suppressing a yawn. “And I am not sure that we are not, in our turn, being ‘spotted.’ I have noted a man—a small, shabby-looking fellow, apparently keeping us in view from a distance, though I don’t see him at the moment.”

  “It is quite likely,” said Thorndyke. “This is a shady neighbourhood, and any native could see that we don’t belong to it. Good morning! Taking a little fresh air?”

  The latter question was addressed to a man who was standing at the door of a small coffee-shop, having apparently come to the surface for a “breather.”

  “Dunno about fresh,” was the reply, “but it’s the best there is. By the by, I saw one of them blokes what I was a-tellin’ you about go by just now. Foreigner with the rats. If you want to see him give a show, I expect you’ll find him in that bit of waste ground off Bolter’s Rents.”

  “Bolter’s Rents?” Thorndyke repeated. “Is that a turning out of Salcombe Street?”

  “Quite right,” was the reply. “Half-way up on the right-hand side.”

  Thanking our informant, Thorndyke strode off up the street, and as we turned the next corner I glanced back. At the moment, the small man whom I had noticed before stepped out of a doorway and came after us at a pace suggesting anxiety not to lose sight of us.

  Bolter’s Rents turned out to be a wide paved alley, one side of which opened into a patch of waste ground where a number of old houses had been demolished. This space had an unspeakably squalid appearance; for not only had the debris of the demolished houses been left in unsavoury heaps, but the place had evidently been adopted by the neighbourhood as a general dumping-ground for household refuse. The earth was strewn with vegetable, and even animal, leavings; flies and bluebottles hummed around and settled in hundreds on the garbage, and the air was pervaded by an odour like that of an old-fashioned brick dust-bin.

  But in spite of these trifling disadvantages, a considerable crowd had collected, mainly composed of women and children; and at the centre of the crowd a man was giving an entertainment with a troupe of performing rats. We had sauntered slowly up the “Rents” and now halted to look on. At the moment, a white rat was climbing a pole at the top of which a little flag was stuck in a socket. We watched him rapidly climb the pole, seize the flagstaff in his teeth, lift it out of the socket, climb down the pole and deliver the flag to his master. Then a little carriage was produced and the rat harnessed into it, another white rat being dressed in a cloak and placed in the seat, and the latter—introduced to the audience as Lady Murphy—was taken for a drive round the stage.

  While the entertainment was proceeding I inspected the establishment and its owner. The stage was composed of light hinged boards opened out on a small four-wheeled hand-cart, apparently home-made. At one end was a largish cage, divided by a wire partition into two parts, one of which contained a number of white and piebald rats, while the inmates of the other compartment were all wild rats; but not, I noted, the common brown or Norway rat, but the old-fashioned British black rat. I remarked upon the circumstance to Thorndyke.

  “Yes,” he said, “they were probably caught locally. The sewers here will be inhabited by brown rats, but the houses, in an old neighbourhood like this, will be infested principally by the black rat. What do you make of the exhibitor?”

  I had already noticed him, and now unobtrusively examined him again. He was a medium-sized man with a sallow complexion, dark, restless eyes—which frequently wandered in our direction—a crop of stiff, bushy, upstanding hair—he wore no hat—and a ragged beard.

  “A Slav of some kind, I should think,” was my reply; “a Russian, or perhaps a Lett. But that beard is not perfectly convincing.”

  “No,” Thorndyke agreed, “but it is a good makes up. Perhaps we had better move on flow; we have a deputy, you observe.”

  As he spoke, the small man whom I had observed following us strolled up the Rents; and as he drew nearer, revealed to my astonished gaze no less a person than our ingenious laboratory assistant, Polton. Strangely altered, indeed, was our usually neat and spruce artificer with his seedy clothing and grubby hands; but as he sauntered up, profoundly unaware of our existence, a faint reminiscence of the familiar crinkly smile stole across his face.

  We were just moving off when a chorus of shrieks mingled with laughter arose from the spectators, who hastily scattered right and left, and I had a momentary glimpse of a big black rat bounding across the space, to disappear into one of the many heaps of debris. It seemed that the exhibitor had just opened the cage to take out a black rat when one of the waiting performers—presumably a new recruit—had seized the opportunity to spring out and escape.

  “Well,” a grinning woman remarked to me, genially, “there’s plenty more where that one came from. You should see this place on a moonlight night! Fair alive with ’em it is.”

  We sauntered up the Rents and along the cross street at the top; and as we went, I reflected on the very singular inquiry in which Thorndyke seemed to be engaged. The rat-tamer’s appearance was suspicious. He didn’t quite look the part, and his beard was almost certainly a make-up—and a skilful one, too, for it was no mere “property” beard; and the restless, furtive eyes, and a certain suppressed excitement in his bearing, hinted at something more than met the eye. But if this was Mr. Balcombe’s incendiary, how had Thorndyke arrived at his identity, and, above all, by what process of reasoning had he contrived to associate the bank outrage with performing rats,? That he had done so, his systematic procedure made quite clear. But how? It had seemed to me that we had not a single fact on which to start an investigation.

  We had walked the length of the cross street, and had halted before turning, when a troop of children emerged from the Rents. Then came the exhibitor, towing his cart, with the cage shrouded in a cloth, then more children, and finally, at a little distance, Polton, slouching along idly but keeping the cart in view.

 
; “I think,” said Thorndyke, “it would be instructive, as a study in urban sanitation, to have a look round the scene of the late exhibition.”

  We retraced our steps down Bolter’s Rents, now practically deserted, and wandered around the patch of waste land and in among the piles of bricks and rotting timber where the houses had been pulled down.

  “Your lady friend was right,” said Thorndyke. “This is a perfect Paradise for rats. Convenient residences among the ruins and unlimited provisions to be had for the mere picking up.”

  “Apparently you were right, too,” said I, “as to the species inhabiting these eligible premises. That seems to be a black rat,” and I pointed to a deceased specimen that lay near the entrance to a burrow.

  Thorndyke stooped over the little corpse, and after a brief inspection, drew a glove on his right hand.

  “Yes,” he said, “this is a typical specimen of Mus rattus, though it is unusually light in colour. I think it will be worth taking away to examine at our leisure.”

  Glancing round to see that we were unobserved, he opened his attaché case and took from it a largish tin canister and removed the lid—which, I noted, was anointed at the joint with vaseline. Stooping, he picked up the dead rat by the tail with his gloved fingers dropped it into the canister, clapped on the lid, and replaced it in the attache case. Then he pulled off the glove and threw it on a rubbish heap.

  “You are mighty particular,” said I.

  “A dead rat is a dirty thing,” said he, “and it was only an old glove.”