Nevertheless, consistent as the explanation might be, Thorndyke did not find it convincing. The aspect of Osmond’s rooms, with their suggestion of hardy simplicity and a robust asceticism, still lingered in his memory. Nor had he forgotten the impressive face of the gentlewoman whose portrait he had looked on with such deep interest in those rooms. These were, perhaps, but mere impressions, of no evidential weight; but yet they refused to be lightly dismissed.
As to the third hypothesis, that Osmond had not been concerned in the robbery at all, it would have been quite acceptable but for the irreconcilable fact of the flight. That seemed, beyond any question, to connect him with the crime. Of course it was conceivable that he might have some other reason for his flight. But no such reason had been suggested; whereas the circumstances in which he had elected to disappear—at the exact moment when the crime had been traced to the office—made it idle to look for any other explanation. And so, once more, Thorndyke found himself involved in a tangle of contradictions from which he could see no means of escape.
The end of his train of thought coincided with his arrival at the entry to his chambers. Ascending the stairs, he became aware of a light above as from an open door; and a turn of the staircase showed him that door—his own—framing a small, restless figure.
“Why, Polton,” he exclaimed, “you are early, aren’t you? I didn’t expect you for another hour or two.”
“Yes, sir,” replied Polton, “I got away early. But I’ve seen it, sir. And you were perfectly right—absolutely right. It is a sparrowhawk, stuck in a little log of cherry wood. Exactly as you said.”
“I didn’t say a sparrowhawk,” Thorndyke objected.
“You said, sir, that it was a stake or a bec iron or some kind of small anvil, and a sparrowhawk is a kind of small anvil.”
“Very well, Polton,” Thorndyke conceded. “But tell me how you managed it and why you are home so early.”
“Well, sir, you see,” Polton explained, fidgeting about the room as if he were afflicted with St. Vitus’s dance, “it came off much easier than I had expected. I got to his house a good hour too soon. His house keeper opened the door and wanted me to call again. But I said I had come down from London and would like to wait. And then I told her about the buttons and explained how valuable they were and asked her if she would like to see them; and she said she would. So she took me upstairs to his sitting-room and there I undid the parcel and showed her the buttons.
“Then I got talking to her about the rooms; remarked what a nice place Mr. Wampole had got and how beautifully it was kept.”
“Really, Polton!” Thorndyke chuckled, “I had no idea you were such a humbug.”
“No more had I, sir,” replied Polton, with a complacent crinkle. “But, you see, it was a case of necessity; and besides, the room was wonderfully neat and tidy. Well, I got her talking about the house, and very proud she seemed to be of it. So I asked her all the questions I could think of: whether she had a good kitchen and whether there was pipe water or a pump in the scullery, and so on. And she got so interested and pleased with herself that presently she offered to let me see over the house if I liked, and of course, I said that there was nothing in the world that I should like better. So she took me down and showed me the kitchen and the scullery and her own little sitting-room and a couple of big cupboards for linen and stores, and it was all as neat and clean as a new pin. Then we went upstairs again, and as we passed a door on the landing she said, ‘That’s a little room that Mr. Wampole does his tinkering in.’
“‘Ah!’ says I, ‘but I’ll warrant that room isn’t quite so neat and tidy. I do a bit of tinkering myself and I know what a workroom looks like.’
“‘Oh, it isn’t so bad,’ says she. ‘Mr. Wampole is a very orderly man. You shall see for yourself, if it isn’t locked. He usually locks it when he has a job in hand.’
“Well, it wasn’t locked; so she opened the door and in we went; and the very moment I put my head inside, I saw it—on the table that he used for a bench. It was set in a little upright log, such as you get from the trimmings of fruit trees. And, my word! it was fairly riddled.—like a sponge—and where it stood on the bench there was a regular ring of powder round it.
“‘That’s a rare old block that his anvil is set in,’ says I, going across to look at it.
“‘Not so old as you’d think,’ says she. ‘He got it about five years ago, when we had the cherry tree lopped. You can see the tree in the garden from this window.’
She went over to the window and I followed her; and as I passed the bench I picked up a pinch of the dust between my finger and thumb and put my hand in my pocket, where I had a pill-box that I had brought in case I should get a chance to collect a sample. As we were looking out of the window, I managed to work the lid off the pill-box and drop the pinch of dust in and slip the lid on again. Then I was happy; and as I had done all that I came to do, I thought I would rather like to clear off.”
“Why?” asked Thorndyke.
“Well, sir,” said Polton in a slightly apologetic tone, “the fact is that I wasn’t very anxious to meet Mr. Wampole. It wouldn’t have been quite pleasant, under the circumstances, to present those buttons and have him thanking me and shaking my hand. I should have felt rather like Pontius Pilate.”
“Why Pontius Pilate?” asked Thorndyke.
“Wasn’t he the chap—or was it Judas Iscariot? At any rate, I had a sudden feeling that I didn’t want to hand him those buttons. So I looked up my time table and discovered that I couldn’t wait to see him. ‘But, however,’ I said, ‘it doesn’t matter. I can leave the buttons with you to give him; and I will leave my card, too, so that he can send me a line if he wants to.’ So with that I gave her the roll of buttons and nipped off to the station, just in time to catch the earlier train to town. I hope I didn’t do wrong, sir.”
“Not at all,” Thorndyke replied heartily. “I quite understand your feeling on the matter; in fact, I think I should have done the same. Shall we look at that pill-box? I didn’t expect such good fortune as to get a specimen.”
Polton produced the little box, and having opened it to make sure that the contents were intact, handed it to Thorndyke, who forthwith made a preliminary inspection of the dust with the aid of his lens.
“Yes,” he reported, “it is evidently the same dust as was in the other samples, so that aspect of the case is complete. I must compliment you, Polton, on the masterly way in which you carried out your really difficult and delicate mission. You have made a brilliant success of it. And you have been equally successful in another direction. I have just come from Lambert’s, where I had a very instructive interview. You were perfectly correct. It was Lambert who cut those dummy stones.”
“I felt sure it must be,” said Polton, “when I had been round to those other lapidaries. He seems to be the only one who specializes in cutting strass gems. But did you find out who the customer was, sir?”
“I found out who he was not,” replied Thorndyke, “and that was as far as it seemed wise to go. The rest of the inquiry—the actual identification—will be better carried out by the police. I think, if we give Mr. Lambert’s address, with certain other particulars, to Mr. Superintendent Miller, we can safely leave him to do what is necessary.”
CHAPTER XVIII
The End of the Clue
It was nearing the hour of six in the evening when five men made their appearance on the stretch of pavement on which Mr. Woodstock’s office door opened. They did not, however, arrive in a solid body, but in two groups—of two and three, respectively—which held no mutual communication, but kept within easy distance of one another. The larger group consisted of Dr. Thorndyke, Mr. Lambert, the lapidary, and a tall, powerful man of distinctly military appearance and bearing; the smaller group consisted of a uniformed inspector of the local police and Mr. Lambert’s assistant “Fred.”
“I hope our friends are punctual in coming out,” Thorndyke remarked as he stood with his two com
panions ostensibly inspecting the stock in a bookseller’s window. “If we have to wait about long, we are likely to attract notice. Even a bookseller’s window won’t explain our presence indefinitely.”
“No,” the tall man agreed. “But there is a good deal of traffic in this street to cover us up and prevent us from being too conspicuous. All I hope is that he will take things quietly—that is, if he is the right man. You are sure you would know him again, Mr. Lambert?”
“Perfectly sure, Superintendent,” was the confident reply. “I remember him quite well. I have a good memory for faces, and so has my man, Fred. But I tell you frankly that neither of us relishes this job.”
“I sympathize with you, Mr. Lambert,” said Thorndyke. “I don’t relish it myself. We are both martyrs to duty. Ah! Here is somebody coming out. That is Mr. Woodstock. I mustn’t let him see me.”
He turned to the shop-window, presenting his back to the street, and the solicitor walked quickly past without noticing him. A few moments later Mr. Hepburn emerged and walked away in the opposite direction, furtively observed by Fred, who, with his companion, occupied a position on the farther side of the office door. He was followed after a short interval by two young men, apparently clerks, who walked away together up the street and were narrowly inspected by Fred as they passed. Close on their heels came an older man, who emerged with an air of business and, turning towards the three watchers, approached at a brisk walk.
“That the man, Mr. Lambert?” the superintendent asked in a low, eager tone, as the newcomer drew near.
“No,” was the reply. “Not a bit like him.”
Two more men came out, at both of whom Mr. Lambert shook his head. Then came a youth of about eighteen, and after his emergence an interval of several minutes, during which no one else appeared.
“That can’t be the lot,” said the superintendent, with a glance of anxious inquiry at Thorndyke.
“It isn’t unless some of them are absent,” the latter replied. “That would be rather a disaster.”
“It would, indeed,” the superintendent replied. “What do you say, Doctor, to going in—that is, if the door isn’t locked?
“Not yet, Miller,” Thorndyke replied. “Of course we can’t wait indefinitely, but, if possible—Ah! here is someone else.”
As he spoke, an elderly man came out and stood for a few moments looking up and down the street. Then he turned and very deliberately locked the door behind him.
“That’s the man!” Lambert exclaimed. “That is Mr. Scofield.”
“You are quite sure?” demanded Miller.
“Positive,” was the reply. “I recognized him instantly,” and in confirmation, Fred was signalling with a succession of emphatic nods.
Superintendent Miller cast an interrogative glance at Thorndyke. “Your man, too?” he asked.
“Yes,” replied Thorndyke. “Mr. Wampole.”
The unconscious subject of these observations, having locked the door, slowly pocketed the key and began to walk at a leisurely pace and with a thoughtful air towards the three observers, closely followed by Fred and the inspector. Suddenly he became aware of Thorndyke; and the beginnings of a smile of recognition had appeared on his face when he caught sight of Mr. Lambert. Instantly, the smile froze; and as Superintendent Miller bore down on him with evident purpose, he halted irresolutely and cast a quick glance behind him. At the sight of Fred—whom he evidently recognized at once—and the inspector, his bewilderment changed to sheer panic, and he darted out into the road close behind a large covered van that was drawn up at the kerb.
“Look out!” roared Miller, as Wampole passed the rear of the van; but the only effect of the warning was to cause the fugitive to cast a terrified glance backward over his shoulder as he ran. And then, in an instant, came the catastrophe. An empty lorry was coming up the street at a brisk trot, but its approach had been hidden from Wampole by the van. As the unfortunate man ran out from behind the latter, still looking back, he charged straight in front of the horses. The driver uttered a yell of dismay and tugged at the reins; but the affair was over in a moment. The pole of the lorry struck Wampole at the side of the neck with the force of a battering-ram and flung him violently down on the road, where he lay motionless as the ponderous vehicle swerved past within an inch of his head.
A number of bystanders immediately gathered round, and the carman, having pulled up the lorry, climbed down from his high perch and came hurrying, white-faced and breathless, across the road. Through the gathering crowd the inspector made his way and piloted Thorndyke to the fatal spot.
“Looks a pretty bad case, sir,” said he, casting a perturbed eye down at the motionless form, which lay where it had fallen. “Will you just have a glance at him?”
Thorndyke stooped over the prostrate figure and made a brief—a very brief—inspection. Then he stood up and announced curtly: “He is dead. The blow dislocated his neck.”
“Ha!” the inspector exclaimed, “I was afraid he was—though perhaps it is all for the best. At any rate, we’ve done with him now.”
“I haven’t,” said Miller. “I’ve got a search warrant; and I shall want his keys. We will come along with you to the mortuary. Can’t very well get them here.”
At this moment the carman presented himself, wiping his pale face with a large red handkerchief.
“Shockin’ affair, this, Inspector,” he said, huskily. “Pore old chap. I couldn’t do no more than what I done. You could see that for yourself. He was down almost as soon as I see ’im.”
“Yes,” the inspector agreed, “he ran straight at the pole. It was no fault of yours. At least, that’s my opinion,” he added with official caution. “Just help me and the constable here to lift the body on to your lorry and then he will show you the way to the mortuary. You understand, Borman,” he continued, addressing the constable. “You are to take the body to the mortuary, and wait there with the lorry until I come. I shall be there in a minute or two.”
The constable saluted, and the inspector, having made a note of the carman’s name and address, stood by while the ghastly passenger was lifted up on to the rough floor. Then, as the lorry moved off, he turned to Miller and remarked: “Your friend Mr. Lambert looks rather poorly, Superintendent. It has been a bit of a shock for him. Hadn’t you better take him somewhere and give him a little pick-me-up? We shall want him and his assistant at the mortuary, you know, for a regular identification.”
“Yes,” agreed Miller, glancing sympathetically at the white-faced, shaking lapidary, “he does look pretty bad, poor old chap. Thinks it’s all his doing, I expect. Well, you show us the way to a suitable place.”
“The Blue Lion Hotel is just round the corner,” said the inspector, “and it is on our way.”
To the Blue Lion he accordingly led the way, while Thorndyke followed, assisting and trying to comfort the shaken and self-reproachful Lambert. From the hotel they proceeded to the mortuary, where Lambert having, almost with tears, identified the body of ‘Mr. Scofield,’ and the dead man’s keys having been handed to Superintendent Miller, the latter departed with Thorndyke, leaving the inspector to conduct the carman to the police-station.
“You seem to be pretty confident,” said Miller as they set forth, guided by Polton’s written directions, “that the stuff is still there.”
“Not confident, Miller,” was the reply, “but I think it is there. At any rate, it is worth while to make the search. There may be other things to see besides the stones.”
“Ah!” Miller agreed doubtfully. “Well, I hope you are right.”
They walked on for some five minutes when Thorndyke, having again referred to his notes, halted before a pleasant little house in a quiet street on the outskirts of the town, and entering the front garden, knocked at the door. It was opened by a motherly-looking, middle-aged woman to whom Miller briefly but courteously explained his business and exhibited his warrant.
“Good gracious!” she exclaimed. “What on earth makes you
think the missing property is here?”
“I can’t go into particulars,” replied Miller. “Here is the search-warrant.”
“Yes, I see. But couldn’t you wait until Mr. Wampole comes home? He is due now, and his tea is waiting for him in his sitting-room.”
Miller cleared his throat. Then, hesitatingly and with manifest discomfort, he broke the dreadful news.
The poor woman was thunderstruck. For a few moments she seemed unable to grasp the significance of what Miller was telling her; then, when the horrid reality burst upon her, she turned away quickly, flinging out her hand towards the staircase, ran into her room, and shut the door.
The two investigators ascended the stairs in silence with an unconsciously stealthy tread. On the landing they paused, and as he softly opened the three doors and peered into the respective apartments, Miller remarked in an undertone: “Rather gruesome, Doctor, isn’t it? I feel like a tomb-robber. Which one shall we go in first?”
“This one on the left seems to be the workshop,” replied Thorndyke. “Perhaps we had better take that first, though it isn’t likely that the gems are in there.”
They entered the workshop, and Thorndyke looked about it with keen interest. On a small table, fitted with a metal-worker’s bench-vice, stood the “sparrow-hawk,” like a diminutive smith’s anvil, in its worm-eaten block, surrounded by a ring of pinkish-yellow dust. A Windsor chair, polished by years of use, was evidently the one on which the workman had been accustomed to sit at his bench; and close inspection showed a powdering of the pink dust on the rails and other protected parts. On the right-hand side of the room was a small woodworker’s bench, and on the wall above it a rack filled with chisels and other small tools. There was a tool cabinet ingeniously made from grocer’s boxes, and a set of shelves on which the glue-pot and various jars and small appliances were stowed out of the way.
The Third R. Austin Freeman Megapack Page 48