The First R. Austin Freeman Megapack: 27 Mystery Tales of Dr. Thorndyke & Others

by R. Austin Freeman

  The superintendent was obviously dissatisfied, but he eventually agreed, with manifest reluctance, to Thorndyke’s suggestion.

  “Very well, doctor,” he said; “you shall have it for a day or two. Do you want the spoons and things as well?”

  “No. Only the handkerchief and the paper that was in it.”

  The two articles were accordingly handed to him and deposited in a tin box which he usually carried in his pocket, and, after a few more words with the disconsolate detective, we took our departure.

  “A very disappointing morning,” was Thorndyke’s comment as we walked away. “Of course the room ought to have been examined by an expert before anything was moved.”

  “Have you picked up anything in the way of information?” I asked.

  “Very little excepting confirmation of my original theory. You see, this man Caldwell was a receiver and evidently a police spy. He gave useful information to the police, and they, in return, refrained from inconvenient inquiries. But a spy, or ‘nark,’ is nearly always a blackmailer too, and the probabilities in this case are that some crook, on whom Caldwell was putting the screw rather too tightly, made an appointment for a meeting when the house was empty, and just knocked Caldwell on the head. The crime was evidently planned beforehand, and the murderer came prepared to kill several birds with one stone. Thus he brought with him the stamps to make the sham fingerprints on the window, and I have no doubt that he also brought this handkerchief and the various oddments of plate and jewellery from those burglaries that Miller is so keen about, and planted them in the safe. You noticed, I suppose, that none of the things were of any value, but all were capable of easy identification?”

  “Yes, I noticed that. His object, evidently, was to put those burglaries as well as the murder onto poor Belfield.”

  “Exactly. And you see what Miller’s attitude is; Belfield is the bird in the hand, whereas the other man—if there is another—is still in the bush; so Belfield is to be followed up and a conviction obtained if possible. If he is innocent, that is his affair, and it is for him to prove it.”

  “And what shall you do next?” I asked.

  “I shall telegraph to Belfield to come and see us this evening. He may be able to tell us something about this handkerchief that, with the clue we already have, may put us on the right track. What time is your consultation?”

  “Twelve-thirty—and here comes my ‘bus. I shall be in to lunch.” I sprang onto the footboard, and as I took my seat on the roof and looked back at my friend striding along with an easy swing, I knew that he was deep in thought, though automatically attentive to all that was happening. My consultation—it was a lunacy case of some importance—was over in time to allow of my return to our chambers punctually at the luncheon hour; and as I entered, I was at once struck by something new in Thorndyke’s manner—a certain elation and gaiety which I had learned to associate with a point scored successfully in some intricate and puzzling case. He made no confidences, however, and seemed, in fact, inclined to put away, for a time, all his professional cares and business.

  “Shall we have an afternoon off, Jervis?” he said gaily. “It is a fine day and work is slack just now. What say you to the Zoo? They have a splendid chimpanzee and several specimens of that remarkable fish Periophthalmos Kolreuteri. Shall we go?”

  “By all means,” I replied; “and we will mount the elephant, if you like, and throw buns to the grizzly bear and generally renew our youth like the eagle.”

  But when, an hour later, we found ourselves in the gardens, I began to suspect my friend of some ulterior purpose in this holiday jaunt; for it was not the chimpanzee or even the wonderful fish that attracted his attention. On the contrary, he hung about the vicinity of the lamas and camels in a way that I could not fail to notice; and even there it appeared to be the sheds and houses rather than the animals themselves that interested him.

  “Behold, Jervis,” he said presently, as a saddled camel of seedy aspect was led towards its house, “behold the ship of the desert, with raised saloon-deck amidships, fitted internally with watertight compartments and displaying the effects of rheumatoid arthritis in his starboard hip-joint. Let us go and examine him before he hauls into dock.” We took a cross-path to intercept the camel on its way to its residence, and Thorndyke moralized as we went.

  “It is interesting,” he remarked, “to note the way in which these specialized animals, such as the horse, the reindeer and the camel, have been appropriated by man, and their special character made to subserve human needs. Think, for instance, of the part the camel has played in history, in ancient commerce—and modern too, for that matter—and in the diffusion of culture; and of the role he has enacted in war and conquest from the Egyptian campaign of Cambyses down to that of Kitchener. Yes, the camel is a very remarkable animal, though it must be admitted that this particular specimen is a scurvy-looking beast.”

  The camel seemed to be sensible of these disparaging remarks, for as it approached it saluted Thorndyke with a supercilious grin and then turned away its head.

  “Your charge is not as young as he used to be,” Thorndyke observed to the man who was leading the animal.

  “No, sir, he isn’t; he’s getting old, and that’s the fact. He shows it too.”

  “I suppose,” said Thorndyke, strolling towards the house by the man’s side, “these beasts require a deal of attention?”

  “You’re right, sir; and nasty-tempered brutes they are.”

  “So I have heard; but they are interesting creatures, the camels and lamas. Do you happen to know if complete sets of photographs of them are to be had here?”

  “You can get a good many at the lodge, sir,” the man replied, “but not all, I think. If you want a complete set, there’s one of our men in the camel-house that could let you have them; he takes the photos himself, and very clever he is at it, too. But he isn’t here just now.”

  “Perhaps you could give me his name so that I could write to him,” said Thorndyke.

  “Yes, sir. His name is Woodthorpe—Joseph Woodthorpe. He’ll do anything for you to order. Thank you, sir; good-afternoon, sir;” and pocketing an unexpected tip, the man led his charge towards its lair.

  Thorndyke’s absorbing interest in the camels seemed now suddenly to become extinct, and he suffered me to lead him to any part of the gardens that attracted me, showing an imperial interest in all the inmates from the insects to the elephants, and enjoying his holiday—if it was one—with the gaiety and high spirits of a schoolboy. Yet he never let slip a chance of picking up a stray hair or feather, but gathered up each with care, wrapped it in its separate paper, on which was written its description, and deposited it in his tin collecting-box.

  “You never know,” he remarked, as we turned away from the ostrich enclosure, “when a specimen for comparison may be of vital importance. Here, for instance, is a small feather of a cassowary, and here the hair of a wapiti deer; now the recognition of either of those might, in certain circumstances, lead to the detection of a criminal or save the life of an innocent man. The thing has happened repeatedly, and may happen again tomorrow.”

  “You must have an enormous collection of hairs in your cabinet,” I remarked, as we walked home.

  “I have,” he replied, “probably the largest in the world. And as to other microscopical objects of medico-legal interest, such as dust and mud from different localities and from special industries and manufactures, fibres, food-products and drugs, my collection is certainly unique.”

  “And you have found your collection useful in your work?” I asked.

  “Constantly. Over and over again I have obtained, by reference to my specimens, the most unexpected evidence, and the longer I practise, the more I become convinced that the microscope is the sheet-anchor of the medical jurist.”

  “By the way,” I said, “you spoke of sending a telegram to Belfield. Did you send it?”

  “Yes. I asked him to come to see me tonight at half-past eight, and
, if possible, bring his wife with him. I want to get to the bottom of that handkerchief mystery.”

  “But do you think he will tell you the truth about it?”

  “That is impossible to judge; he will be a fool if he does not. But I think he will; he has a godly fear of me and my methods.”

  As soon as our dinner was finished and cleared away, Thorndyke produced the “collecting-box” from his pocket, and began to sort out the day’s “catch,” giving explicit directions to Polton for the disposal of each specimen. The hairs and small feathers were to be mounted as microscopic objects, while the larger feathers were to be placed, each in its separate labelled envelope, in its appropriate box. While these directions were being given, I stood by the window absently gazing out as I listened, gathering many a useful hint in the technique of preparation and preservation, and filled with admiration alike at my colleague’s exhaustive knowledge of practical detail and the perfect manner in which he had trained his assistant. Suddenly I started, for a well-known figure was crossing from Crown Office Row and evidently bearing down on our chambers.

  “My word, Thorndyke,” I exclaimed, “here’s a pretty mess!”

  “What is the matter?” he asked, looking up anxiously.

  “Superintendent Miller heading straight for our doorway. And it is now twenty minutes past eight.”

  Thorndyke laughed. “It will be a quaint position,” he remarked, “and somewhat of a shock for Belfield. But it really doesn’t matter; in fact, I think, on the whole, I am rather pleased that he should have come.”

  The superintendent’s brisk knock was heard a few moments later, and when he was admitted by Polton, he entered and looked round the room a little, sheepishly.

  “I am ashamed to come worrying you like this, sir,” he began apologetically.

  “Not at all,” replied Thorndyke, serenely slipping the cassowary’s feather into an envelope, and writing the name, date and locality on the outside. “I am your servant in this case, you know. Polton, whisky and soda for the superintendent.”

  “You see, sir,” continued Miller, “our people are beginning to fuss about this case, and they don’t approve of my having handed that handkerchief and the paper over to you as they will have to be put in evidence.”

  “I thought they might object,” remarked Thorndyke.

  “So did I, sir; and they do. And, in short, they say that I have got to get them back at once. I hope it won’t put you out, sir.”

  “Not in the least,” said Thorndyke. “I have asked Belfield to come here tonight—I expect him in a few minutes—and when I have heard what he has to say I shall have no further use for the handkerchief.”

  “You’re not going to show it to him!” exclaimed the detective, aghast.

  “Certainly I am.”

  “You mustn’t do that, sir. I can’t sanction it; I can’t indeed.”

  “Now, look you here, Miller,” said Thorndyke, shaking his forefinger at the officer; “I am working for you in this case, as I have told you. Leave the matter in my hands. Don’t raise silly objections; and when you leave here tonight you will take with you not only the handkerchief and the paper, but probably also the name and address of the man who committed this murder and those various burglaries that you are so keen about.”

  “Is that really so, sir?” exclaimed the astonished detective. “Well, you haven’t let the grass grow under your feet. Ah!” as a gentle rap at the door was heard, “here’s Belfield, I suppose.”

  It was Belfield—accompanied by his wife—and mightily disturbed they were when their eyes lighted on our visitor.

  “You needn’t be afraid of me, Belfield,” said Miller, with ferocious geniality; “I am not here after you.” Which was not literally true, though it served to reassure the affrighted ex-convict.

  “The superintendent dropped in by chance,” said Thorndyke; “but it is just as well that he should hear what passes. I want you to look at this handkerchief and tell me if it is yours. Don’t be afraid, but just tell us the simple truth.”

  He took the handkerchief out of a drawer and spread it on the table; and I now observed that a small square had been cut out of one of the bloodstains.

  Belfield took the handkerchief in his trembling hands, and as his eye fell on the stamped name in the corner he turned deadly pale.

  “It looks like mine,” he said huskily. “What do you say, Liz?” he added, passing it to his wife.

  Mrs. Belfield examined first the name and then the hem. “It’s yours, right enough, Frank,” said she. “It’s the one that got changed in the wash. You see, sir,” she continued, addressing Thorndyke, “I bought him half-a-dozen new ones about six months ago, and I got a rubber stamp made and marked them all. Well, one day when I was looking over his things I noticed that one of his handkerchiefs had got no mark on it. I spoke to the laundress about it, but she couldn’t explain it, so as the right one never came back, I marked the one that we got in exchange.”

  “How long ago was that?” asked Thorndyke.

  “About two months ago I noticed it.”

  “And you know nothing more about it.”

  “Nothing whatever, sir. Nor you, Frank, do you?”

  Her husband shook his head gloomily, and Thorndyke replaced the handkerchief in the drawer.

  “And now,” said he, “I am going to ask you a question on another subject. When you were at Holloway there was a warder—or assistant warder—there, named Woodthorpe. Do you remember him?”

  “Yes, sir, very well indeed; in fact, it was him that—?”

  “I know,” interrupted Thorndyke. “Have you seen him since you left Holloway?”

  “Yes, sir, once. It was last Easter Monday. I met him at the Zoo; he is a keeper there now in the camel-house” (here a sudden light dawned upon me and I chuckled aloud, to Belfield’s great astonishment). “He gave my little boy a ride on one of the camels and made himself very pleasant.”

  “Do you remember anything else happening?” Thorndyke inquired.

  “Yes, sir. The camel had a little accident; he kicked out—he was an ill-tempered beast—and his leg hit a post; there happened to be a nail sticking out from that post, and it tore up a little flap of skin. Then Woodthorpe got out his handkerchief to tie up the wound, but as it was none of the cleanest, I said to him: ‘Don’t use that, Woodthorpe; have mine,’ which was quite a clean one. So he took it and bound up the camel’s leg, and he said to me: ‘I’ll have it washed and send it to you if you give me your address.’ But I told him there was no need for that; I should be passing the camel-house on my way out and I would look in for the handkerchief. And I did: I looked in about an hour later, and Woodthorpe gave me my handkerchief, folded up but not washed.”

  “Did you examine it to see if it was yours?” asked Thorndyke.

  “No, sir. I just slipped it in my pocket as it was.”

  “And what became of it afterwards?”

  “When I got home I dropped it into the dirty-linen basket.”

  “Is that all you know about it?”

  “Yes, sir; that is all I know.”

  “Very well, Belfield, that will do. Now you have no reason to be uneasy. You will soon know all about the Camberwell murder—that is, if you read the papers.”

  The ex-convict and his wife were obviously relieved by this assurance and departed in quite good spirits. When they were gone, Thorndyke produced the handkerchief and the half-sheet of paper and handed them to the superintendent, remarking—“This is highly satisfactory, Miller; the whole case seems to join up very neatly indeed. Two months ago the wife first noticed the substituted handkerchief, and last Easter Monday—a little over two months ago—this very significant incident took place in the Zoological Gardens.”

  “That is all very well, sir,” objected the superintendent, “but we’ve only their word for it, you know.”

  “Not so,” replied Thorndyke. “We have excellent corroborative evidence. You noticed that I had cut a small piece out of t
he blood-stained portion of the handkerchief?”

  “Yes; and I was sorry you had done it. Our people won’t like that.”

  “Well, here it is, and we will ask Dr. Jervis to give us his opinion of it.”

  From the drawer in which the handkerchief had been hidden he brought forth a microscope slide, and setting the microscope on the table, laid the slide on the stage.

  “Now, Jervis,” he said, “tell us what you see there.”

  I examined the edge of the little square of fabric (which had been mounted in a fluid reagent) with a high-power objective, and was, for a time, a little puzzled by the appearance of the blood that adhered to it.

  “It looks like bird’s blood,” I said presently, with some hesitation, “but yet I can make out no nuclei.” I looked again, and then, suddenly, “By Jove!” I exclaimed, “I have it; of course! It’s the blood of a camel!”

  “Is that so, doctor?” demanded the detective, leaning forward in his excitement.

  “That is so,” replied Thorndyke. “I discovered it after I came home this morning. You see,” he explained, “it is quite unmistakable. The rule is that the blood corpuscles of mammals are circular; the one exception is the camel family, in which the corpuscles are elliptical.”

  “Why,” exclaimed Miller, “that seems to connect Woodthorpe with this Camberwell job.”

  “It connects him with it very conclusively,” said Thorndyke. “You are forgetting the fingerprints.”

  The detective looked puzzled. “What about them?” he asked.

  “They were made with stamps—two stamps, as a matter of fact—and those stamps were made by photographic process from the official fingerprint form. I can prove that beyond all doubt.”

  “Well, suppose they were. What then?”

  Thorndyke opened a drawer and took out a photograph, which he handed to Miller. “Here,” he said, “is the photograph of the official fingerprint form which you were kind enough to bring me. What does it say at the bottom there?” and he pointed with his finger.