“Yes,” I answered, “there was—a most amazing thing. You remember my telling you about the patient I attended in Morris’s house?”
“The man who died of gastric cancer and was eventually cremated?”
“Yes. His name was Bendelow. Well, this photograph might have been a portrait of Bendelow, taken with a beard and moustache before the disease got hold of him. Excepting for the emaciation and the beard—Bendelow was clean-shaved—I should think it would be quite an excellent likeness of him.”
Thorndyke made no immediate reply or comment, but sat quite still, looking at me with a very singular expression. I could see that he was thinking rapidly and intensely, but I suspected that his thoughts were in a good deal less confusion than mine had been.
“It is,” he remarked at length, “as you say, a most amazing affair. The face is no ordinary face. It would be difficult to mistake it, and one would have to go far to find another with which it could be confused. Still, one must not forget the possibility of a chance resemblance. Nature doesn’t take out letters-patent even for a human face. But I will ask you, Gray, to write down and send to me all that you know about the late Mr. Bendelow, including all the details of your attendance on him, dead and alive.”
“I will,” said I, “though it is difficult to imagine what connexion he could have had with the D’Arblay case.”
“It seems incredible that he could have had any,” Thorndyke agreed. “But at present we are collecting facts, and we must note everything impartially. It is a fatal mistake to select your facts in accordance with the apparent probabilities. By the way, if Bendelow was like this photograph, he must have corresponded pretty exactly with Miss D’Arblay’s very complete and lucid description. I wonder why you did not realize that at the time.”
“That is what I have been wondering. But I suppose it was the beard and the absence of any kind of association between Bendelow and the D’Arblays.”
“Probably,” he agreed. “A beard and moustache alter very greatly even a striking face like this. Incidentally, it illustrates the superiority of a picture over a verbal description for purposes of identification. No mere description will enable you to visualize correctly a face which you have never seen. I shall be curious to hear what Miss D’Arblay has to say about this photograph.”
“I will let you know without delay,” said I; and then, as he seemed to have completed his work and put the documents aside, I made a final effort to extract some definite information from him.
“It is evident,” I said, “that the body of facts in your notes has conveyed a good deal more to you than it has to me.”
“Probably,” he agreed. “If it had not, I should seem to have profited little by years of professional practice.”
“Then,” I said persuasively, “may I ask, if you have formed a really satisfactory theory as to who this man is and why he murdered D’Arblay?”
Thorndyke reflected for a few moments and then replied:
“My position. Gray, is this: I have arrived at a very definite theory as to the motive of the murder, and a most extraordinary motive it is. But there are one or two points that I do not understand. There are some links missing from the chain of evidence. So with the identity of the man. We know pretty certainly that he is the murderer of Van Zellen and we know what he is like to look at; but we can’t give him a name and a definite personality. There are links missing there, too. But I have great hopes of finding those missing links. If I find them, I shall have a complete case against this man and I shall forthwith set the law in motion. I can’t tell you more than that at present; but I repeat that you are in possession of all the facts and that if you think over all that has happened and ask yourself what it can mean, though you will not arrive at a complete solution any more than I have, you will at least begin to see the light.”
This was all that I could get out of him, and as it was growing late I presently rose to take my departure. He walked with me as far as the Middle Temple Gate and stood outside the wicket watching me as I strode away westward.
CHAPTER XIV
The Haunted Man
When I arrived at the studio on the following afternoon I found the door open and Polton waiting just inside with his hat and overcoat on and his bag in his hand.
“I am glad you are punctual, sir,” he said, with his benevolent smile. “I wanted to get back to the chambers in good time today. It won’t matter tomorrow, which is fortunate, as you may be late.”
“Why may I be late tomorrow?” I asked.
“I have a message for you from the doctor,” he replied. “It is about what you were discussing last night. He told me to tell you that he is expecting a visit from an officer of the Criminal Investigation Department and he would like you to be present, if it would be convenient. About half past ten, sir.”
“I will certainly be there,” said I.
“Thank you, sir,” said he. “And the doctor told me to warn you, in case you should arrive after the officer, not to make any comment on anything that may be said, or to seem to know anything about the subject of the interview.”
“This is very mysterious, Polton,” I remarked.
“Why, not particularly, sir,” he replied. “You see, the officer is coming to give certain information, but he will try to get some for himself if he can. But he won’t get anything out of the doctor, and the only way for you to prevent his pumping you is to say nothing and appear to know nothing.”
I laughed at his ingenuous wiliness. “Why,” I exclaimed, “you are as bad as the doctor, Polton. A regular Machiavelli.”
“I never heard of him,” said Polton, “but most Scotchmen are pretty close. Oh, and there is another little matter that I wanted to speak to you about—on my own account this time. I gathered from the doctor, in confidence, that someone has been following you about. Now, sir, don’t you think it would be very useful to be able to see behind you without turning your head?”
“By jove!” I exclaimed. “It would indeed! Capital! I never thought of it. I will have a supplementary eye fixed in the back of my head without delay.”
Polton crinkled deprecatingly. “No need for that, sir,” said he. “I have invented quite a lot of different appliances for enabling you to see behind you—reflecting spectacles and walking-sticks with prisms in the handle and so on. But for use at night I think this will answer your purpose best.”
He produced from his pocket an object somewhat like a watchmaker’s eyeglass, and having fixed it in his eye to show me how it worked, handed it to me with the request that I would try it. I did so and was considerably surprised at the efficiency of the appliance; for it gave me a perfectly dear view of the street almost directly behind me.
“I am very much obliged to you, Polton,” I said enthusiastically. “This is a most valuable gift, especially under the present circumstances.”
He was profoundly gratified “I think you will find it useful, sir,” he said. “The doctor uses these things sometimes, and so do I if the occasion arises. You see, sir, if you are being shadowed, it is a fatal thing to turn round and look behind you. You never get a chance of seeing what the stalker is like, and you put him on his guard.”
I saw this clearly enough and once more thanked him for his timely gift. Then, having shaken his hand and sped him on his way, I entered the lobby and shut the outer door, at the same time transferring Thorndyke’s photograph from my letter-case to my jacket-pocket. When I passed through into the studio, I found Marion putting the finishing touches to a plaster case. She greeted me with a smile as I entered and then plunged her hand once more into the bowl of rapidly-thickening plaster, whereupon I took the opportunity to lay the photograph on a side-bench as I walked towards the table on which she was working.
“Good afternoon, Marion,” said I.
“Good afternoon, Stephen,” she responded, adding, “I can’t shake hands until I have washed,” and held out her emplastered hands in evidence.
“That will be too
late,” said I, and as she looked up at me inquiringly, I stooped and kissed her.
“You are very resourceful,” she remarked with a smile and a warm blush, as she scooped up another handful of plaster; and then, as if to cover her slight confusion, she asked: “What was all that solemn pow-wow about with Mr. Polton? And why did he wait for you at the door in that suspicious manner? Had he some secret message for you?”
“I don’t know whether it was intended to be secret,” I answered, “but it isn’t going to be so far as you are concerned;” and I repeated to her the substance of Thorndyke’s message, to which she listened with an eagerness that rather surprised me, until her further inquiries explained it.
“This sounds rather encouraging,” she said; “as if Dr. Thorndyke had been making some progress in his investigations. I wonder if he has. Do you think he really knows much more than we do?”
“I am sure he does,” I replied, “but how much more, I cannot guess. He is extraordinarily close. But I have a feeling that the end is not so very far off. He seems to be quite hopeful of laying his hand on this villain.”
“Oh! I hope you are right, Stephen,” she exclaimed. “I have been getting so anxious. There has seemed to be no end to this deadlock. And yet it can’t go on indefinitely.”
“What do you mean, Marion?” I asked.
“I mean,” she answered, “that you can’t go on wasting your time here and letting your career go. Of course, it is delightful to have you here. I don’t dare to think what the place will be like without you. But it makes me wretched to think how much you are sacrificing for me.”
“I am not really sacrificing anything,” said I. “On the contrary, I am spending my time most profitably in the pursuit of knowledge and most happily in a sweet companionship which I wouldn’t exchange for anything in the world.”
“It is very nice of you to say that,” she said, “but still, I shall be very relieved when the danger is over and you are free.”
“Free!” I exclaimed. “I don’t want to be free. When my apprenticeship has run out I am coming on as journeyman. And now I had better get my blouse on and start work.”
I went to the further end of the studio, and taking the blouse down from its peg; proceeded to exchange it for my coat. Suddenly I was startled by a sharp cry, and turning round, beheld Marion stooping over the photograph with an expression of the utmost horror.
“Where did this come from?” she demanded, turning a white, terror-stricken face on me.
“I put it there, Marion,” I answered somewhat sheepishly, hurrying to her side. “But what is the matter? Do you know the man?”
“Do I know him?” she repeated. “Of course I do. It is he—the man who came here that night.”
“Are you quite sure?” I asked. “Are you certain that it is not just a chance resemblance?”
She shook her head emphatically. “It is he, Stephen. I can swear to him. It is no mere resemblance. It is a likeness, and a perfect one, though it is such a bad photograph. But where did you get it? And why didn’t you show it to me when you came in?”
I told her how I came by it and explained Thorndyke’s instructions. “Then,” she said, “Dr. Thorndyke knows who the man is.”
“He says he doesn’t, and he was very close and rather obscure as to how the photograph came into his possession.”
“It is very mysterious,” said she, with another terrified glance at the photograph. Then suddenly she snatched it up and, with averted face, held it out to me. “Put it away, Stephen,” she entreated. “I can’t bear the sight of that horrible face. It brings back afresh all the terrors of that awful night.”
I hastily returned the photograph to my letter-case, and taking her arm, led her back to the work-table. “Now,” I said, “let us forget it and get on with our work;” and I proceeded to turn the case over and fix it in the new position with lumps of clay. For a little while she watched me in silence, and I could see by her pallor that she was still suffering from the shock of that unexpected encounter. But presently she picked up a scraper and joined me in trimming up the edges of the case, cutting out the ‘key-ways’ and making ready for the second half; and by degrees her colour came back and the interest of the work banished her terrors.
We were, in fact, extremely industrious. We not only finished the case—it was an arm from the shoulder which was to be made—cut the pouring-holes and varnished the inside with knotting, but we filled one half with the melted gelatine which was to form the actual mould in which the wax would be cast. This brought the day’s work to an end, for nothing more could be done until the gelatine had set—a matter of at least twelve hours.
“It is too late to begin anything fresh,” said Marion. “You had better come and have supper with me and Arabella.”
I agreed readily enough to this proposal, and when we had tidied up in readiness for the morning’s work, we set forth at a brisk pace—for it was a cold evening—towards Highgate, gossiping cheerfully as we went. By the time we reached Ivy Cottage eight o’clock was striking and ‘the village’ was beginning to settle down for the night. The premature quiet reminded me that the adjacent town would presently be settling down, too, and that I should do well to start for home before the streets had become too deserted.
Nevertheless, so pleasantly did the time slip away in the cosy sitting-room with my two companions that it was close upon half past ten when I rose to take my departure. Marion escorted me to the door, and as I stood in the hall buttoning up my overcoat she said:
“You needn’t worry if you are detained tomorrow. We shall be making the wax cast of the bust and I am certain Mr. Polton won’t leave the studio until it is finished, whether you are there or not. He is perfectly mad on waxwork. He wormed all the secrets of the trade out of me the very first time we were alone and he is extraordinarily quick at learning. But I can’t imagine what use the knowledge will be to him.”
“Perhaps he thinks of starting an opposition establishment,” I suggested, “or he may have an eye to a partnership. But if he has, he will have a competitor, and one with a prior claim. Good night, dear child. Save some of the waxwork for me tomorrow.”
She promised to restrain Polton’s enthusiasm as far as possible and, wishing me ‘good night,’ held out her hand, but submitted without demur to being kissed; and I took my departure in high spirits, more engrossed with the pleasant leave-taking than with the necessity of keeping a bright lookout.
I was nearing the bottom of the High Street when the prevailing quiet recalled me to the grim realities of my position, and I was on the point of stopping to take a look round when I bethought me of Polton’s appliance and also of that cunning artificer’s advice not to put a possible Stalker on his guard. I accordingly felt in my pocket, and having found the appliance carefully fixed it in my eye without altering my pace. The first result was a collision with a lamp—post, which served to remind me of the necessity of keeping both eyes open. The instrument was, in fact, not very easy to use while walking and it took me a minute or two to learn how to manage it. Presently, however, I found myself able to divide my attention between the pathway in front and the view behind, and then it was that I became aware of a man following me at a distance of about a hundred yards. Of course, there was nothing remarkable or suspicious in this, for it was a main thoroughfare and by no means deserted at this comparatively early tour. Nevertheless, I kept the man in view, noting that he wore a cloth cap and a monkey-jacket, that he carried no stick or umbrella and that when I slightly slackened my pace he did not seem to overtake me. As this suggested that he was accommodating his pace to mine, I decided to put the matter to the test by giving him an opportunity to pass me at the next side-turning.
At this moment the Roman Catholic church came into view and I recalled that at its side a narrow lane—Dartmouth Park Hill—ran down steeply between high fences towards Kentish Town. Instantly I decided to turn into the lane—which bent sharply to the left behind the church—walk a few ya
rds down it and then return slowly. If my follower were a harmless stranger, he would then have passed on down Highgate Hill, whereas if he were stalking me I should meet him at the entrance to the lane and could then see what he was like.
But I was not very well satisfied with this plan, for the obvious manoeuvre would show him that he was suspected, and as I approached the church, a better plan suggested itself.
On one side by the entrance to the lane were some low railings and a gate with large brick piers. In a moment I had vaulted over the railings and taken up a position behind one of the piers, where I stood motionless, listening intently. Very soon I caught the sound of distinctly rapid footsteps, which suddenly grew louder as my follower came opposite the entrance to the lane, and louder still as, without a moment’s hesitation, he turned into it.
From my hiding-place in the deep shadow of the pier I could safely peep out into the wide space at the entrance of the lane, and as this space was well lighted by a lamp I was able to get an excellent view of my follower. And very much puzzled I was therewith. Naturally I had expected to recognize the man whose photograph I had in my pocket. But this was quite a different type of man. It is true that he was shortish and rather slightly built and that he had a beard: but there the resemblance ended. His face, which I could see plainly by the lamp-light, so far from being of an aquiline or vulturine cast, was rather of the blunt and bibulous type. The short, though rather bulbous nose made up in colour what it lacked in size, and its florid tint extended into the cheek on either side in the form of what dermatologists call acne rosacea.
I say that his appearance puzzled me; but it was not his appearance alone. For the latter showed that he was a stranger to me and suggested that he was going down the lane on his lawful occasions; but his movements did not support that suggestion. He had turned into the lane and passed my hiding-place at a very quick walk. But just as he reached the sharp turn he slackened his pace, stepping lightly, and then stopped for a moment, listening intently and peering forward into the darkness of the lane. At length he started again and disappeared round the corner, and by the sound of his retreating footsteps I could tell that he was once more putting on the pace.
The Second R. Austin Freeman Megapack Page 136