“The carter seated himself in the chair and I fell to work on him mechanically. But my thoughts were with the man who was gone. What a fiasco it had been! After waiting all these years, I had met a man whom I suspected to be the very wretch I sought; I had actually been alone with him—and I had let him go!
“The futility of it! Before my eyes the grinning tenants of the great wall-case rose in reproach; the little, impassive faces in those shallow boxes seemed to look at me and ask why they had been killed. I had let the man go; and he would certainly never come to my shop again. True, I should know him again; but what better chance should I ever have of identifying him? And then again came the unanswerable question: Was he really the man, after all?
“So my thoughts fluttered to and fro. Constant, only, was a feeling of profound dejection; a sense of unutterable, irretrievable failure. The carter—a regular customer—rose and looked askance at me as he rubbed his face with the towel. He remarked that I ‘seemed to be feeling a bit dull tonight,’ paid his fee, and, with a civil ‘good evening,’ took his departure.
“When he had gone I stood by the chair wrapped in a gloomy reverie. Had I failed finally? Was my long quest at an end with my object unachieved? It almost seemed so.
“I raised my eyes and they fell on my reflection in the large mirror; and suddenly it was borne in on me that I was an old man. The passing years of labor and mental unrest had left deep traces. My hair, which was black when I first came to the east, was now snow white and the face beneath it was worn and wrinkled and aged. The sands of my life were running out apace. Soon the last grains would trickle out of the glass; and then would come the end—the futile end, with the task still unaccomplished. And for this I had dragged out these twenty weary years, ever longing for repose and the eternal reunion! How much better to have spent those years in the peace of the tomb by the dear companion of my sunny hours!
“I stepped up to the glass to look more closely at my face, to mark the crow’s-feet and intersecting wrinkles in the shrunken skin. Yes, it was an old, old face; a weary face, too, that spoke of sorrow and anxious thought and strenuous, unsatisfying effort. And presently it would be a dead face, calm and peaceful enough then; and the wretch who had wrought all the havoc would still stalk abroad with his heavy debt unpaid.
“Something on the surface of the mirror interposed between my eye and the reflection, slightly blurring the image. I focussed on it with some difficulty and then saw that it was a group of finger-marks; the prints made by the greasy fingers of my dandy customer when he had leaned on the glass to inspect his teeth. As they grew distinct to my vision, I was aware of a curious sense of familiarity; at first merely subconscious and not strongly attracting my attention. But this state lasted only for a few brief moments. Then the vague feeling burst into full recognition. I snatched out my lens and brought it to bear on those astounding impressions. My heart thumped furiously. A feeling of awe, of triumph, of fierce joy and fiercer rage surged through me, and mingled with profound self-contempt.
“There could be no mistake. I had looked at those fingerprints too often. Every ridge-mark, every loop and whorl of the varying patterns was engraved on my memory. For twenty years I had carried the slightly enlarged photographs in my pocketbook, and hardly a day had passed without my taking them out to con them afresh. I had them in my pocket now to justify rather than aid my memory.
“I held the open book before the glass and compared the photographs with the clearly-printed impressions. There were seven fingerprints on the mirror; four on the right hand and three on the left, and all were identical with the corresponding prints in the photographs. No doubt was possible. But if it had been—
“I darted across to the chair. The floor was still littered with the cuttings from that villain’s head. In my idiotic preoccupation with the other man I had let that wretch depart without a glance at his hair. I grabbed up a tuft from the floor and gazed at it. Even to the unaided eye it had an unusual quality when looked at closely; a soft, shimmering appearance like that of some delicate textile. But I gave it only a single glance. Then rushing through to the parlor, I spread a few hairs on a glass slip and placed it on the stage of the microscope.
“A single glance clenched the matter. As I put my eye to the instrument, there, straying across the circular field, were the broad gray stripes, each with its dark line of medulla obscured at intervals by rings of tiny bubbles. The demonstration was conclusive. This was the very man. Humanly speaking, no error or fallacy was possible.
“I stood up and laughed grimly. So much for instinct! For what fools call intuition and wise men recognize for mere slipshod reasoning! I could understand my precious intuition now; could analyze it into its trumpery constituents. It was the old story. Unconsciously I had built up the image of a particular kind of man, and when such a man appeared I had recognized him at a glance. The villainous Tartar face: I had looked for it. The fierce, furtive, hunted manner; the restless suspicion; the mop of grayish-brown hair. I had expected them all, and there they were. My man would have those peculiarities, and here was a man who had them. He, therefore, was the man I sought.
“My triumph was short-lived. A moment’s reflection sobered me. True, I had found my murderer; but I had lost him again. That bird of ill omen was still a bird in the bush; in the tangled bush of criminal London. He had said that he would come to me again, and I hoped that he would. But who could say? Other eyes than mine were probably looking for him.
“I suppose I am by nature an optimist; otherwise I should not have continued the pursuit all these years. Hence, having mastered the passing disappointment, I settled myself patiently to wait in the hope of my victim’s ultimate reappearance. Not entirely passively, however, for, after the shop was shut, I went abroad nightly to frequent the foreign restaurants and other less reputable places of the East End in the hopes of meeting him and jogging his memory. The active employment kept my mind occupied and made the time of waiting seem less long; but it had no further result. I never met the man; and, as the weeks passed without bringing him to my net, I had the uncomfortable feeling that his hair must have grown and been trimmed by someone else; unless, indeed, he had fallen into the clutches of the law.
“Meanwhile I quietly made my preparations—which involved one or two visits to a ship chandler’s—and laid down a scheme of action. It would be a delicate business. The villain was some fifteen years younger than I; a sturdy ruffian and desperate, as I had seen. My own strength and activity had been failing for some time now. Obviously I could not meet him on equal terms. Moreover, I must not allow him to injure me. That was a point of honor. This was to be no trial by wager of battle. It was to be an execution. Any retaliation by him would destroy the formal, punitive character which was the essence of the transaction.
“The weeks sped by. They lengthened into months. And still my visitor made no appearance. My anxiety grew. There were times when I looked at my white hair and doubted; when I almost despaired. But those times passed and my spirits revived. On the whole, I was hopeful and waited patiently; and in the end my hopes were justified and my patience rewarded.
“It was a fair evening early in June—Wednesday evening, I recollect—when at last he came. Fortunately the shop was empty, and again, oddly enough, it was some Jewish holiday.
“I welcomed him effusively. No fierce glare came from my eyes now. I was delighted to see him and he was flattered at the profound impression his former visit had made on me. I began very deliberately, for I could hardly hold the scissors and was afraid that he would notice the tremor; which, in fact, he did.
“‘Why does your hand shake so much, Mr. Vosper?’ he asked in his excellent English. ‘You have not been curling your little finger, hein?’
“I reassured him on this point, but used a little extra care until the tremor should subside; which it did as soon as I got over my first excitement. Meanwhile I let him talk—he was a boastful, egotistical oaf, as might have been expected—and I
flattered and admired him until he fairly purred with self-satisfaction. It was very necessary to get him into a good humor.
“My terror from moment to moment was that some other customer should come in, though a holiday evening was usually a blank in a business sense until the Christian shops shut. Still, it was a serious danger which impelled me to open my attack with as little delay as possible. I had several alternative plans and I commenced with the one that I thought most promising. Taking advantage of a little pause in the conversation, I said in a confidential tone:
“‘I wonder if you can give me a little advice. I want to find somebody who will buy some valuable property without asking too many questions and who won’t talk about the deal afterwards. A safe person, you know. Can you recommend me such a person?’
“He turned in the chair to look at me. All his self-complacent smiles were gone in an instant. The face that looked into mine was the face of as sinister a villain as I have ever clapped eyes on.
“‘The person you mean,’ he said fiercely, ‘is a fence—a receiver. Why do you ask me if I know a fence? Who are you? Are you a spy for the police? Hein? What should I know about receivers? Answer me that!’
“He glared at me with such furious suspicion that I instinctively opened my scissors and looked at the neighborhood of his carotid. But I took his question quite pleasantly.
“‘That’s what they all say,’ I remarked with a foolish smile.
“‘Who do?’ he demanded.
“‘Everybody that I ask. They all say, “What should I know about fences?” It’s very inconvenient for me.’
“‘Why is it inconvenient to you?’ he asked less savagely and with evidently awakening curiosity.
“I gave an embarrassed cough. ‘Well, you see,’ I said, ‘it’s this way. Supposing I have some property—valuable property, but of a kind that is of no use to me. Naturally I want to sell it. But I don’t want it talked about. I am a poor man. If I am known to be selling things of value, people may make uncharitable remarks and busy-bodies may ask inconvenient questions. You see my position?’ Piragoff looked at me fixedly, eagerly. A new light was in his eye now.
“‘What have you got?’ he demanded.
“I coughed again. ‘Aha!’ I said with a smile. ‘It is you who are asking questions now.’
“‘But you ask me to advise you. How can I if I don’t know what you have got to sell? Perhaps I might buy the stuff myself. Hein?’
“‘I think not,’ said I, ‘unless you can write a check for four figures. But perhaps you can?’
“‘Yes, perhaps I can, or perhaps I can get the money. Tell me what the stuff is.’
“I clipped away at the top of my speed—and I could cut hair very quickly if I tried. No fear of his slipping away now. I had him fast.
“‘It’s a complicated affair,’ I said hesitatingly, ‘and I don’t want to say much about it if you’re not in the line. I thought you might be able to put me on to a safe man in the regular trade.’
“Piragoff moved impatiently, then glanced at the parlor door.
“‘Anyone in that room?’ he asked.
“‘No,’ I answered, ‘I live here all alone.’
“‘No servant! No one to look after you?’ he asked the question with ill-concealed eagerness.
“‘No. I look after myself. It’s cheaper; and I want so little.’
“The last statement I made in accordance with a curious fact that I have observed, which is that the really infallible method of impressing a stranger with your wealth is to dilate on your poverty. The statement had its usual effect. Piragoff fidgeted slightly, glanced at the shop door and said
“‘Finish my hair quickly and let us go in there and talk about this.’
“I chuckled inwardly at his eagerness. Even his personal appearance had become a secondary consideration. I bustled through the rest of the operation, whisked off the cloth and opened the parlor door. He rose, glanced at his reflection in the glass, looked quickly at the shop door and followed me into the little room, shutting and bolting the door after him.
“I watched him closely. I am no believer in the rubbish called telepathy, but, by observing a person’s face and actions, it is not difficult to trace the direction of his thoughts. Piragoff gazed round the room with the frank curiosity of the barbarian, and the look of pleased surprise that he bestowed on the safe and the way in which his glance traveled from that object to my person were easy enough to interpret. Here was an iron safe, presumably containing valuables, and here was an elderly man with the key of that safe in his pocket. The corollary was obvious.
“‘Is that another room?’ he asked, pointing to the cellar door.
“I threw it open and let him look into the dark cavity. ‘That,’ I said, ‘is the cellar. It has a door opening into the back yard, which has a gate that opens into Bell’s Alley. It might be useful. Don’t you think so?’
“He did think so; very emphatically, to judge by his expression. Very useful indeed when you have knocked down an old man and rifled his safe, to have a quiet exit at the back.
“‘Now tell me about this stuff,’ said he. ‘Have you got it here?’
“‘The fact is,’ I said confidentially, ‘I haven’t got it at all—yet’ (his face fell perceptibly at this), ‘but,’ I added, ‘I can get it when I like; when I have arranged about disposing of it.’
“‘But you’ve got a safe to keep it in,’ he protested.
“‘Yes, but I don’t want to have it here. Besides, that safe won’t hold it all, if I take over the whole lot.’
“Piragoff’s eyes fairly bulged with greed and excitement.
“‘What sort of stuff is it? Silver?’
“‘There is some silver,’ I said, superciliously; ‘a good deal, in fact. But that’s hardly worth while. You see this stuff is a collection. It belongs, at present, to one of those fools who collect jewelry and church plate; monstrances, jeweled chalices and things of that kind.’
“Piragoff licked his lips. ‘Aha!’ said he, ‘I am that sort of fool myself.’ He laughed uneasily, being evidently sorry he had spoken, and continued:
“‘And you can get all this when you want it, hein? But where is it now?’
“I smiled slyly. ‘It is in a sort of private museum; but where that museum is I am not going to say, or perhaps I may find it empty when I call.’
“Piragoff looked at me earnestly. He had evidently written me down an abject fool—and no wonder—and was considering how to manage me.
“‘But this place—this museum—it must be a strong place. How are you going to get in? Will you ring the bell?’
“‘I shall let myself in with a latchkey,’ I said jauntily.
“‘Have you got the latchkey?’
“‘Yes, and I have tried it. I had it from a friend who lives there.’
“Piragoff laughed outright. ‘And she gave you the latchkey, hein? Ha-ha! But you are a wicked old man. And it is strange too.’ He glanced from me to his reflection in the little mirror over the safe; and his expression said as plainly as words, ‘Now, if she had given it to me, one could understand it.’
“‘But,’ he continued, ‘when you are inside? The stuff will be locked up. You are skilful, perhaps? You can open a safe, for instance? You have tried?’
“‘No, I’ve never actually tried, but it’s easy enough. I’ve often opened packing cases. And I don’t think there is an iron safe. They are wooden cabinets. It will be quite easy.’
“‘Bah! Packing cases!’ exclaimed Piragoff. He grasped my coat sleeve excitedly. ‘I tell you, my friend, it is not easy. It is very difficult. I tell you this. I, who know. I am not in the line myself, but I have a friend who does these things and he has shown me. I have some skill—though I practice only for sport, you understand. It is very difficult. You shall let yourself in, you shall find the stuff locked up, you shall try to open the cabinet and you shall only make a great noise. Then you shall come away empty, like a fool, and the
police shall set a watch on the house. The chance is gone and you have nothing.’
“I scratched my head like the fool that he thought me. ‘That would be rather awkward,’ I admitted.
“‘Awkward!’ he exclaimed. ‘It would be wicked! The chance of a lifetime gone! Now, if you take with you a friend who has skill—hein?’
“‘Ah!’ I said craftily, ‘but this is my little nest egg. If I take a friend I shall have to share.’
“‘But there is enough for two. If your safe will not hold it, there is more than you can carry. Besides, your friend shall not be greedy. If he takes a third—or say a quarter? How much is the stuff worth?’
“‘The collection is said to be worth a hundred thousand pounds.’
“‘A hundred thousand!’ gasped Piragoff. He was almost foaming at the mouth. ‘A hundred thousand! That would be twenty five for me—for your friend—and seventy-five for you. It is impossible for one man. You could not carry it. My friend,’ again he grasped my sleeve persuasively, ‘I will come with you. I am very skilful. I am strong. I am brave. You shall be safe with me. I will be your comrade and you shall give a quarter—or even less if you like.’
“He could afford to make easy terms—under the circumstances.
“I reflected awhile and at length said, ‘Perhaps you are right. Some of the things are large and gold is heavy—we should leave the silver. It would take two to carry it all. Yes, you shall come with me and bring the necessary tools. When shall we do it? Any night will do for me.’
“He reflected, with an air of slight embarrassment, and then asked:
“‘Do you open your shop on Sunday?’
“The question took a load off my mind. I had been speculating on what plan of action he would adopt. Now I knew. And his plan would suit me to a nicety.
“‘No,’ I said, ‘I never open on Sunday.’
“‘Then,’ said he, ‘we will do the job on Saturday night or Sunday morning. That will give us a quiet day to break up the stuff.’
The First R. Austin Freeman Megapack: 27 Mystery Tales of Dr. Thorndyke & Others Page 135