The Third R. Austin Freeman Megapack

by R. Austin Freeman

  “The doctor said I was to show you this,” said Polton, laying an open envelope beside my plate.

  I drew out the enclosed letter, which I found to be a short and civil note from Mr. Northbrook, inviting us informally to lunch at the Clarendon Club. The invitation was for the current day, and the note was endorsed by Thorndyke: “I have accepted, and shall be at the club at one o’clock. Come if you can.”

  I was a little surprised, for Thorndyke was evidently full of business, and I suspected that Northbrook merely wanted to extract comments on the inquest; but it was quite convenient for me to go, and, as Thorndyke clearly wished me to—quite possibly for some definite reason—I strolled forth in good time and made my way to the rendezvous by the pleasant way of St. James’s and the Green Park.

  Northbrook’s intentions were as I had supposed, and I have no doubt that, in the course of a very pleasant lunch, he may have elicited some interesting comments on the previous day’s proceedings. But Thorndyke was an extremely difficult man to pump; the more so as he had the manner of discussing affairs without any appearance of reservation. But I noted that no inkling was conveyed to Northbrook of any dissent from the finding of the jury.

  I found myself speculating from time to time on Thorndyke’s object in wasting rather valuable time on this leisurely and apparently purposeless conversation. But towards the end of the meal I received a sudden enlightenment. “This,” he said, “I take to be the table at which Sir Edward usually took his meals?”

  “Yes,” replied Northbrook, “and a very pleasant table it is, looking out right across the Green Park. You judged, no doubt, by the fact that Joseph Wood is waiting on us?”

  “You are quite right,” said Thorndyke; “and that reminds me that I should like to have a word or two with Joseph Wood, presently.”

  “But certainly, my dear sir. You shall have an opportunity of interviewing him in the strictest privacy.”

  “Oh, that is not necessary at all,” said Thorndyke. “There are no secrets. I merely wanted him to amplify one of the points in his evidence. Perhaps I may ask him now, as I see he is coming with the coffee.”

  “Do so, do so, by all means,” said Northbrook, evidently delighted at the chance of hearing the “amplification.”

  Thus invited, Thorndyke addressed the waiter as he placed the coffee on the table.

  “I wanted to ask you one or two questions about your evidence at the inquest concerning the hansom in which Sir Edward drove away.”

  “Yessir,” said Wood, standing stiffly at attention.

  “It seemed to me that you had an impression that there was someone in it when it drew up for him to get in.”

  “Yessir. I had. I didn’t say so at the inquest, because I was there to tell what I saw, not what I thought.”

  “You were perfectly right,” said Thorndyke. “It was for the coroner to ask for your opinions if he wanted them. But you did think so?”

  “Yessir. I didn’t see Sir Edward hail the cab, and I don’t think he did. He just stopped and the cab drew up. Then he got in and the cab drove away. I didn’t see him speak to the cabman, and I don’t believe he did, for the man started off and whipped up his horse as if he knew where he had to go.”

  “You said you didn’t notice the number of the cab. Of course, you would not.”

  “No, sir. I hadn’t no occasion to.”

  “Did you notice what the cab was like—whether there was anything unusual in its appearance?

  “Yessir, I did notice that. You couldn’t help noticing it. That cab,” he continued solemnly, “must have been the great-grandfather of all the cabs in London. You never see such a shabby old rattle-trap. Got an old round dickey with a sheet-iron back, like I remember when I was a boy, and, if you will believe me, sir, iron tyres! Iron tyres in this twentieth century! Why that cab must have been fifty years old if it was a day.”

  “Why didn’t you say that in your evidence, Wood?” Northbrook demanded.

  “Nobody asked me, sir,” was the very reasonable reply.

  “No. And, after all, I suppose it didn’t very much matter what the cab was like. Do you think so, doctor?

  “It would have been helpful if we could have identified the cab and ascertained if anyone was in it and where it went to. That might have enabled us to fill in the picture. However, we can’t; but, all the same, I must thank you, Wood, for telling me what you noticed.”

  After this little episode, I was not surprised when Thorndyke became suddenly conscious of the passage of time.

  “Dear me!” he exclaimed with a glance at his watch, “how the minutes slip away in pleasant society! We shall have to get on the road, Jervis, and let Mr. Northbrook retire to his office. It was most kind of you to invite us, Mr. Northbrook, and we have both enjoyed a very agreeable interlude in the day’s work.”

  He finished his coffee and we both stood up; and after a few more exchanges of compliments, we took our departure. As we descended the steps, a disengaged hansom approached and drew up in response to Thorndyke’s hail. I stepped in, and, as my colleague followed, I heard him give the destination: “New Scotland Yard, Whitehall Gate.”

  “That waiter man’s information was rather startling—at least, it was to me,” I remarked as the cab horse padded away to the accompaniment of his softly tinkling bell.

  “It is a very valuable addition to our small stock of facts,” Thorndyke replied. “And how extraordinarily opportune Northbrook’s invitation was. I was casting about for some way of getting a talk with Wood without making a fuss, and behold! Northbrook solves the difficulty in the simplest fashion. What did you think of the other point; the possible presence of some other person in the cab?

  “I think it is more than merely possible. I should say it is very highly probable, especially in view of the peculiarity of the cab. And, of course, this new information confirms very strongly your suspicion that the Stratford vehicle was really a hansom.”

  “It does,” he agreed; “in fact I am assuming as a working hypothesis that the cab which bore Sir Edward away from the club, conveyed his body to Piper’s Row. On that assumption I am now going to Scotland Yard to find out what facilities there are for tracing a cab the number of which is unknown. I should like to see Miller in the first place if we are lucky enough to catch him.”

  By this time our ‘gondola’ was turning from Trafalgar Square into Whitehall, and I was noting how strikingly it contrasted with the ‘rattle-trap’ that Wood had described. This was a typical West End hansom, as smart and clean as a private carriage; furnished with gay silken blinds and at each side with a little mirror and a flower-holder containing a bunch of violets; and it slid along as smoothly as a sleigh, without a sound beyond the gentle and musical tinkle-tinkle of the bell on the horse’s collar.

  “If you want to catch Miller,” said I, as we approached the main gateway of the Police Head quarters, “you are just in time. I see him coming out across the courtyard.”

  In effect, the Superintendent emerged into Whitehall just as we got out of the hansom, and, observing us, stopped to wait for us.

  “Were you wanting to see me?” he asked with an inflection that subtly conveyed the earnest hope that we were not. Thorndyke evidently caught that faint overtone, for he replied: “Only for a moment. Which way are you going?”

  “Westminster Station—underground.”

  “So are we; so we can talk as we go. What I want to know is this: there are still in London a few old hansom cabs with unconverted iron tyres. Now, could your people produce a list of those cabs?”

  Miller shook his head. “No,” he replied. “The register doesn’t give particulars of the furnishing of particular cabs. Of course, we could find out by means of what they call an ad hoc investigation. But it would be a troublesome business. Possibly Inspector Radcliffe might be able to give you some information. He is our principal specialist in public vehicles.”

  He paused and seemed to reflect for a few moments. Then, suddenly, he e
mitted a soft laugh as if he had remembered something amusing. Which, in fact, turned out to be the case, for he resumed: “Talking of iron-tired cabs, Radcliffe told me a rather quaint story some time ago. Nothing much in it, but your question brought it to mind. It seems that a certain constable whose beat included Dorchester Square was going his round rather late one evening when he noticed a hansom cab drawn up about the middle of the south side of the square. There was no sign of the driver, and no one minding the horse; and as this was not quite according to Cocker, it naturally attracted his attention. But what specially tickled him was the way the horse was secured. The reins were made fast to a lamp-post with a clove hitch, just as a waterman makes fast his boat’s painter to a railing or a thin iron post. The constable was a Margate man and familiar with the ways of boatmen, so it struck him as rather funny to see a cab moored to the lamp-post like a boat.

  “However, he didn’t take any notice but went off on his beat. When he came round the square the next time, the cab was still there and there was still no sign of the driver. He began to think it a bit queer, but he didn’t want to make a fuss unnecessarily. But when he came round the third time and found the cab still there, he began to look into things. First he noticed that the cab was a most shocking old ramshackle—battered old round-backed dickey and iron tires—sort of cab that Queen Elizabeth might have driven about in; and then he looked at the horse and saw that it looked ready to drop with exhaustion. Just then as the sergeant happened to come round, the constable drew his attention to the cab, and the sergeant detailed another constable to take it round to a livery stable. There they gave the poor old horse a drink and a feed, and they say that he went for the oats as if he’d never tasted any before and nearly swallowed the nose-bag.

  “Next morning, having found out from the register that the cab came from a little private yard down Mile End way, one of our men took it there and interviewed the owner, who drove it himself. It was a queer affair. The owner was a Polish Jew, about as unlike a horsey man as you can imagine. But what struck our man principally was that the fellow seemed to be in a blue funk. His story was that he had gone into a pub to get a drink, leaving the cab in charge of a man who happened to be loafing outside, and when he’d had his drink and come out, the cab was gone. Asked why he hadn’t given information to the police, he said he hadn’t thought of it, he was so upset. And that was all our man could get out of him. But as it was obvious that there was something behind the affair, our man took the fellow’s name—though it was on the register—and reported the incident to Radcliffe.

  “That’s the story. I don’t know whether it is of any interest to you, but if it is, I will tell Radcliffe to let you have particulars if you care to look him up. And he might be able to tell you about some other cabs with iron tyres.”

  Thorndyke thanked the Superintendent and said that he would certainly avail himself of the assistance thus kindly offered. Then, as the train began to slow down he rose. (I have not interrupted Miller’s narrative to describe our movements but I may explain that, at Westminster, we had all taken tickets, Miller’s being for Bishopsgate and ours for the Monument and that we had all boarded the same east-bound train.) When the train stopped we shook hands with the Superintendent and got out, leaving him to pursue his journey.

  “That Polish gentleman sounds suspiciously like one of our friends,” I remarked as we made our way out of the station.

  “He does,” Thorndyke agreed. “The man and the cab seem to fit the circumstances. It remains to be seen whether the date will. But I shall take an early opportunity of calling on Inspector Radcliffe and getting more precise details.”

  “Where are we going now?” I asked, having noted that our course seemed to be riverward.

  “The Old Swan Pier,” he replied, “whence we shall embark for a short voyage. The object of that voyage will, I hope, appear later.”

  As Thorndyke’s answer, while withholding the explanation, did not deprecate speculation on my part, I gave the possibilities due consideration by the light of our further proceedings. From the Old Swan Pier we boarded one of the excellent and convenient river steamers which plied on the Thames in those days, by which we were borne eastward beneath the Tower Bridge and down the busy Pool. Cherry Gardens Pier was reached and left behind without supplying any hint, nor was I any the wiser when, as the boat headed in towards The Tunnel Pier, Wapping, my colleague rose and moved towards the gangway.

  From the head of the pier, Thorndyke turned west ward along High Street, Wapping, commenting on our surroundings as he went.

  “A queer, romantic old neighbourhood, this, Jervis; dull and squalid to look at now but rich in memories of those more stirring and eventful days which we think of fondly with the advantage of not having had to live in them. We are now passing Execution Dock, still, I believe, so called though it is now a mere work-a-day wharf. But a century or so ago you could have stood here and looked on a row of pirates hanging in chains.”

  “I shouldn’t mind if you could now,” I remarked, “if I could have the choosing of the pirates.”

  Thorndyke chuckled. “Yes,” he said, “there was no nonsense about legal procedure in those days. If the intermediate stages were not all that could be desired, the final ones had the merit of conclusiveness. Here we approach The Town of Ramsgate Inn and Wapping Old Stairs, the latter a little disappointing to look at. The art of seasoning squalor with picturesqueness seems to have been lost. This is the goal of our pilgrimage.”

  As he spoke, he turned in at the gateway of a small dock and began to walk at a reduced pace along the quay. I looked around in search of some object that might be of interest to us but my glance met nothing beyond the craft in the basin—mostly lighters and Thames barges—the dreary dock buildings, the massive mooring-posts and bollards and here and there a life-buoy stand. Suddenly, however, I became aware that these last, which my eye had passed almost without notice, were not viewed with the same indifference by Thorndyke, for he walked straight up to the nearest one and halted before it with an air of obvious interest. And then, in a moment, I saw what we had come for.

  The lifebuoy stand was in the form of a screen supported on two stanchions. In the middle of the screen, under a little pent-house, was a massive wooden hook on which was hung the life-buoy and a coil of smallish rope. Neither the buoy nor the rope was secured in any way, but either or both could be freely lifted off the hook. I thought at first that Thorndyke was about to lift off the coil, but he merely sought one of the ends of the rope, and, having found it, looked at it for a few moments with close attention. Then, having spread out with his thumb the little brush of fibres that projected beyond the whipping, he made a more minute examination with the aid of his pocket lens. Finally, without comment, he handed the end of the rope and the lens to me.

  A moment’s careful inspection through the glass was sufficient.

  “Yes,” I said, “there is no doubt about it. I can see the red and the green threads plainly enough through the lens though they are mighty hard to see with the naked eye. Which is unkind to the thief as giving him a false sense of security.”

  “It is for the thief, like the rest of us, to know his job,” said Thorndyke, producing from his pocket the invaluable calliper gauge. He took the rope from me, and having measured the diameter, continued: “The agreement is perfect. This is a four-strand rope three eighths of an inch in diameter and having the two ‘rogues’ threads’ of the same colour and similarly placed. So we may say that the place of origin of the Piper’s Row rope is established beyond doubt.”

  At this moment an amphibious-looking person in a peaked cap who had been approaching slowly and with a somewhat stealthy manner, made his presence known.

  “What’s the game?” he enquired, and then, by way of elucidation: “What are yer up to with that rope?”

  Thorndyke faced him genially.

  “You, I take it, are the dock keeper?”

  “I ham,” was the concise reply. “And what
abaat it?”

  “I should like, if you would not mind,” said Thorndyke, “to ask you one or two questions. I may explain that I am a lawyer and am, at the moment, rather interested in the subject of rope-stealing. These life-lines look to me very exposed and easy to steal.”

  “So they are,” our friend replied in a slightly truculent tone, “but what else can you do? Make ’em fast with a padlock, I suppose! And then you’d be in a pretty fine ’ole if a bloke went overboard and nobody hadn’t got the key.”

  “Very true,” said Thorndyke. “They must be free to lift off at a moment’s notice. I see that. But I expect you find one missing now and again.”

  “Now and again!” repeated the dock-keeper. “I tell you, the way them ropes used to disappear was somethink chronic.”

  “That was before you took to marking them, I suppose?”

  “How did you know we marked ’em?” our friend enquired suspiciously; and as Thorndyke silently held up the free end, he continued: “If you spotted them marks, you won’t be much good to the spectacle trade. But you are quite right. Before we took to marking ’em they used to go one after the other. Couldn’t keep one no how. And we lost one or two—three altogether—after we took to the marks. But we got back two of ’em and dropped on the coves that pinched one of ’em; and now they’ve ogled that there’s something wrong with our ropes and they leaves ’em alone—leastways they have for the last week or two.”