“I suppose the poor chap was near-sighted,” the officer remarked, indicating the remains of the shattered spectacles; “that might account for his having strayed onto the line.”
“Possibly,” said Thorndyke. He had already noticed the fragments scattered over a sleeper and the adjacent ballast, and now once more produced his “collecting-box,” from which he took another seed envelope. “Would you hand me a pair of forceps, Jervis,” he said; “and perhaps you wouldn’t mind taking a pair yourself and helping me to gather up these fragments.”
As I complied, the inspector looked up curiously.
“There isn’t any doubt that these spectacles belonged to the deceased, is there?” he asked. “He certainly wore spectacles, for I saw the mark on his nose.”
“Still, there is no harm in verifying the fact,” said Thorndyke, and he added to me in a lower tone, “Pick up every particle you can find, Jervis. It may be most important.”
“I don’t quite see how,” I said, groping amongst the shingle by the light of the lantern in search of the tiny splinters of glass.
“Don’t you?” returned Thorndyke. “Well, look at these fragments; some of them are a fair size, but many of these on the sleeper are mere grains. And consider their number. Obviously, the condition of the glass does not agree with the circumstances in which we find it. These are thick concave spectacle-lenses broken into a great number of minute fragments. Now how were they broken? Not merely by falling, evidently: such a lens, when it is dropped, breaks into a small number of large pieces. Nor were they broken by the wheel passing over them, for they would then have been reduced to fine powder, and that powder would have been visible on the rail, which it is not. The spectacle-frames, you may remember, presented the same incongruity: they were battered and damaged more than they would have been by falling, but not nearly so much as they would have been if the wheel had passed over them.”
“What do you suggest, then?” I asked.
“The appearances suggest that the spectacles had been trodden on. But, if the body was carried here the probability is that the spectacles were carried here too, and that they were then already broken; for it is more likely that they were trodden on during the struggle than that the murderer trod on them after bringing them here. Hence the importance of picking up every fragment.”
“But why?” I inquired, rather foolishly, I must admit.
“Because, if, when we have picked up every fragment that we can find, there still remains missing a larger portion of the lenses than we could reasonably expect, that would tend to support our hypothesis and we might find the missing remainder elsewhere. If, on the other hand, we find as much of the lenses as we could expect to find, we must conclude that they were broken on this spot.”
While we were conducting our search, the two officials were circling around with their lanterns in quest of the missing hat; and, when we had at length picked up the last fragment, and a careful search, even aided by a lens, failed to reveal any other, we could see their lanterns moving, like will-o’-the-wisps, some distance down the line.
“We may as well see what we have got before our friends come back,” said Thorndyke, glancing at the twinkling lights. “Lay the case down on the grass by the fence; it will serve for a table.”
I did so, and Thorndyke, taking a letter from his pocket, opened it, spread it out flat on the case, securing it with a couple of heavy stones, although the night was quite calm. Then he tipped the contents of the seed envelope out on the paper, and carefully spreading out the pieces of glass, looked at them for some moments in silence. And, as he looked, there stole over his face a very curious expression; with sudden eagerness he began picking out the large fragments and laying them on two visiting-cards which he had taken from his card-case. Rapidly and with wonderful deftness he fitted the pieces together, and, as the reconstituted lenses began gradually to take shape on their cards I looked on with growing excitement, for something in my colleague’s manner told me that we were on the verge of a discovery.
At length the two ovals of glass lay on their respective cards, complete save for one or two small gaps; and the little heap that remained consisted of fragments so minute as to render further reconstruction impossible. Then Thorndyke leaned back and laughed softly.
“This is certainly an unlooked-for result,” said he.
“What is?” I asked.
“Don’t you see, my dear fellow? There’s too much glass. We have almost completely built up the broken lenses, and the fragments that are left over are considerably more than are required to fill up the gaps.”
I looked at the little heap of small fragments and saw at once that it was as he had said. There was a surplus of small pieces.
“This is very extraordinary,” I said. “What do you think can be the explanation?”
“The fragments will probably tell us,” he replied, “if we ask them intelligently.”
He lifted the paper and the two cards carefully onto the ground, and, opening the case, took out the little microscope, to which he fitted the lowest-power objective and eye-piece—having a combined magnification of only ten diameters. Then he transferred the minute fragments of glass to a slide, and, having arranged the lantern as a microscope-lamp, commenced his examination.
“Ha!” he exclaimed presently. “The plot thickens. There is too much glass and yet too little; that is to say, there are only one or two fragments here that belong to the spectacles; not nearly enough to complete the building up of the lenses. The remainder consists of a soft, uneven, moulded glass, easily distinguished from the clear, hard optical glass. These foreign fragments are all curved, as if they had formed part of a cylinder, and are, I should say, portions of a wine-glass or tumbler.” He moved the slide once or twice, and then continued: “We are in luck, Jervis. Here is a fragment with two little diverging lines etched on it, evidently the points of an eight-rayed star—and here is another with three points—the ends of three rays. This enables us to reconstruct the vessel perfectly. It was a clear, thin glass—probably a tumbler—decorated with scattered stars; I dare say you know the pattern. Sometimes there is an ornamented band in addition, but generally the stars form the only decoration. Have a look at the specimen.”
I had just applied my eye to the microscope when the stationmaster and the inspector came up. Our appearance, seated on the ground with the microscope between us, was too much for the police officer’s gravity, and he laughed long and joyously.
“You must excuse me, gentlemen,” he said apologetically, “but really, you know, to an old hand, like myself, it does look a little—well—you understand—I dare say a microscope is a very interesting and amusing thing, but it doesn’t get you much forwarder in a case like this, does it?”
“Perhaps not,” replied Thorndyke. “By the way, where did you find the hat, after all?”
“We haven’t found it,” the inspector replied.
“Then we must help you to continue the search,” said Thorndyke. “If you will wait a few moments, we will come with you.” He poured a few drops of xylol balsam on the cards to fix the reconstituted lenses to their supports and then, packing them and the microscope in the case, announced that he was ready to start.
“Is there any village or hamlet near?” he asked the station-master.
“None nearer than Corfield. That is about half-a-mile from here.”
“And where is the nearest road?”
“There is a half-made road that runs past a house about three hundred yards from here. It belonged to a building estate that was never built. There is a footpath from it to the station.”
“Are there any other houses near?”
“No. That is the only house for half-a-mile round, and there is no other road near here.”
“Then the probability is that Brodski approached the railway from that direction, as he was found on that side of the permanent way.”
The inspector agreeing with this view, we all set off slowly toward the ho
use, piloted by the station-master and searching the ground as we went. The waste land over which we passed was covered with patches of docks and nettles, through each of which the inspector kicked his way, searching with feet and lantern for the missing hat. A walk of three hundred yards brought us to a low wall enclosing a garden, beyond which we could see a small house; and here we halted while the inspector waded into a large bed of nettles beside the wall and kicked vigorously. Suddenly there came a clinking sound mingled with objurgations, and the inspector hopped out holding one foot and soliloquizing profanely.
“I wonder what sort of a fool put a thing like that into a bed of nettles!” he exclaimed, stroking the injured foot. Thorndyke picked the object up and held it in the light of the lantern, displaying a piece of three-quarter inch rolled iron bar about a foot long. “It doesn’t seem to have been there very long,” he observed, examining it closely, “there is hardly any rust on it.”
“It has been there long enough for me,” growled the inspector, “and I’d like to bang it on the head of the blighter that put it there.”
Callously indifferent to the inspector’s sufferings, Thorndyke continued calmly to examine the bar. At length, resting his lantern on the wall, he produced his pocket-lens, with which he resumed his investigation, a proceeding that so exasperated the inspector that that afflicted official limped off in dudgeon, followed by the station-master, and we heard him, presently, rapping at the front door of the house.
“Give me a slide, Jervis, with a drop of Farrant on it,” said Thorndyke. “There are some fibres sticking to this bar.”
I prepared the slide, and, having handed it to him together with a cover-glass, a pair of forceps and a needle, set up the microscope on the wall.
“I’m sorry for the inspector,” Thorndyke remarked, with his eye applied to the little instrument, “but that was a lucky kick for us. Just take a look at the specimen.”
I did so, and, having moved the slide about until I had seen the whole of the object, I gave my opinion. “Red wool fibres, blue cotton fibres and some yellow vegetable fibres that look like jute.”
“Yes,” said Thorndyke; “the same combination of fibres as that which we found on the dead man’s teeth and probably from the same source. This bar has probably been wiped on that very curtain or rug with which poor Brodski was stifled. We will place it on the wall for future reference, and meanwhile, by hook or by crook, we must get into that house. This is much too plain a hint to be disregarded.”
Hastily repacking the case, we hurried to the front of the house, where we found the two officials looking rather vaguely up the unmade road.
“There’s a light in the house,” said the inspector, “but there’s no one at home. I have knocked a dozen times and got no answer. And I don’t see what we are hanging about here for at all. The hat is probably close to where the body was found, and we shall find it in the morning.”
Thorndyke made no reply, but, entering the garden, stepped up the path, and having knocked gently at the door, stooped and listened attentively at the key-hole.
“I tell you there’s no one in the house, sir,” said the inspector irritably; and, as Thorndyke continued to listen, he walked away, muttering angrily. As soon as he was gone, Thorndyke flashed his lantern over the door, the threshold, the path and the small flower-beds; and, from one of the latter, I presently saw him stoop and pick something up.
“Here is a highly instructive object, Jervis,” he said, coming out to the gate, and displaying a cigarette of which only half-an-inch had been smoked.
“How instructive?” I asked. “What do you learn from it?”
“Many things,” he replied. “It has been lit and thrown away unsmoked; that indicates a sudden change of purpose. It was thrown away at the entrance to the house, almost certainly by someone entering it. That person was probably a stranger, or he would have taken it in with him. But he had not expected to enter the house, or he would not have lit it. These are the general suggestions; now as to the particular ones. The paper of the cigarette is of the kind known as the ‘Zig-Zag’ brand; the very conspicuous water-mark is quite easy to see. Now Brodski’s cigarette book was a ‘Zig-Zag’ book—so called from the way in which the papers pull out. But let us see what the tobacco is like.” With a pin from his coat, he hooked out from the unburned end a wisp of dark, dirty brown tobacco, which he held out for my inspection.
“Fine-cut Latakia,” I pronounced, without hesitation.
“Very well,” said Thorndyke. “Here is a cigarette made of an unusual tobacco similar to that in Brodski’s pouch and wrapped in an unusual paper similar to those in Brodski’s cigarette book. With due regard to the fourth rule of the syllogism, I suggest that this cigarette was made by Oscar Brodski. But, nevertheless, we will look for corroborative detail.”
“What is that?” I asked.
“You may have noticed that Brodski’s match-box contained round wooden vestas—which are also rather unusual. As he must have lighted the cigarette within a few steps of the gate, we ought to be able to find the match with which he lighted it. Let us try up the road in the direction from which he would probably have approached.”
We walked very slowly up the road, searching the ground with the lantern, and we had hardly gone a dozen paces when I espied a match lying on the rough path and eagerly picked it up. It was a round wooden vesta.
Thorndyke examined it with interest and having deposited it, with the cigarette, in his “collecting-box,” turned to retrace his steps. “There is now, Jervis, no reasonable doubt that Brodski was murdered in that house. We have succeeded in connecting that house with the crime, and now we have got to force an entrance and join up the other clues.” We walked quickly back to the rear of the premises, where we found the inspector conversing disconsolately with the station-master.
“I think, sir,” said the former, “we had better go back now; in fact, I don’t see what we came here for, but—here! I say, sir, you mustn’t do that!” For Thorndyke, without a word of warning, had sprung up lightly and thrown one of his long legs over the wall.
“I can’t allow you to enter private premises, sir,” continued the inspector; but Thorndyke quietly dropped down on the inside and turned to face the officer over the wall.
“Now, listen to me, inspector,” said he. “I have good reasons for believing that the dead man, Brodski, has been in this house, in fact, I am prepared to swear an information to that effect. But time is precious; we must follow the scent while it is hot. And I am not proposing to break into the house off-hand. I merely wish to examine the dust-bin.”
“The dust-bin!” gasped the inspector. “Well, you really are a most extraordinary gentleman! What do you expect to find in the dust-bin?”
“I am looking for a broken tumbler or wine-glass. It is a thin glass vessel decorated with a pattern of small, eight-pointed stars. It may be in the dust-bin or it may be inside the house.”
The inspector hesitated, but Thorndyke’s confident manner had evidently impressed him.
“We can soon see what is in the dust-bin,” he said, “though what in creation a broken tumbler has to do with the case is more than I can understand. However, here goes.” He sprang up onto the wall, and, as he dropped down into the garden, the station-master and I followed.
Thorndyke lingered a few moments by the gate examining the ground, while the two officials hurried up the path. Finding nothing of interest, however, he walked towards the house, looking keenly about him as he went; but we were hardly half-way up the path when we heard the voice of the inspector calling excitedly.
“Here you are, sir, this way,” he sang out, and, as we hurried forward, we suddenly came on the two officials standing over a small rubbish-heap and looking the picture of astonishment. The glare of their lanterns illuminated the heap, and showed us the scattered fragments of a thin glass, star-pattern tumbler.
“I can’t imagine how you guessed it was here, sir,” said the inspector, with a new-born
respect in his tone, “nor what you’re going to do with it now you have found it.”
“It is merely another link in the chain of evidence,” said Thorndyke, taking a pair of forceps from the case and stooping over the heap. “Perhaps we shall find something else.” He picked up several small fragments of glass, looked at them closely and dropped them again. Suddenly his eye caught a small splinter at the base of the heap. Seizing it with the forceps, he held it close to his eye in the strong lamplight, and, taking out his lens, examined it with minute attention. “Yes,” he said at length, “this is what I was looking for. Let me have those two cards, Jervis.”
I produced the two visiting-cards with the reconstructed lenses stuck to them, and, laying them on the lid of the case, threw the light of the lantern on them. Thorndyke looked at them intently for some time, and from them to the fragment that he held. Then, turning to the inspector, he said: “You saw me pick up this splinter of glass?”
“Yes, sir,” replied the officer.
“And you saw where we found these spectacle-glasses and know whose they were?”
“Yes, sir. They are the dead man’s spectacles, and you found them where the body had been.”
“Very well,” said Thorndyke; “now observe;” and, as the two officials craned forward with parted lips, he laid the little splinter in a gap in one of the lenses and then gave it a gentle push forward, when it occupied the gap perfectly, joining edge to edge with the adjacent fragments and rendering that portion of the lens complete.
“My God!” exclaimed the inspector. “How on earth did you know?”
“I must explain that later,” said Thorndyke. “Meanwhile we had better have a look inside the house. I expect to find there a cigarette—or possibly a cigar—which has been trodden on, some whole-meal biscuits, possibly a wooden vesta, and perhaps even the missing hat.”
Toward the Golden Age Page 9