Here he paused, but neither of us made any comment. Guided by long experience, we waited for the inevitable story to emerge; and sure enough, after a brief interval, our friend resumed:
“Three ropes we lost after the marks was put in, and we got back two. The first one I found in a junk shop in Shadwell ’Igh Street. The bloke said he bought it of a stranger, and p’raps he did. Nobody could say he didn’t, so there was no use in makin’ a rumpus. I just collared the rope and told him to keep a sharper look out in future. The second rope I spotted laying in a boat alongside Hermitage Stairs. Nearly missed it, I did, too, for the artful blighters had gone and dyed it with cutch. Made it look just like a ky-ar rope. But I looks at it a bit hard and I thinks it looks uncommon like our rope, barrin’ the colour; four strands, same size, looked about the same length as ours—ten fathoms, that is, to a inch—and it seemed to be laying spare in the boat. So I jumps down—there wasn’t nobody in the boat at the time—and I has a look at the cut end. And there was our marks quite plain in spite of the cutch.
“Now it happened that while I was overhauling that rope, a bobby came out on the head of the stairs and stood there a-twiggin’ of me.
“‘That your boat?’ he says.
“‘No,’ I says, ‘it ain’t.’
“‘Then,’ he says, ‘what are you doin’ with that rope?’ he says.
“So I nips up the stairs with the rope in my hand and tells him how things is and who I am.
“‘Well,’ says he, ‘are you goin’ to charge this man with stealin’ the rope?’
“‘No,’ I says, ‘I ain’t,’ I says. ‘I’m a-goin’ to pinch this rope,’ I says, ‘and you’ve caught me in the very act, and you’re goin’ to run me in, and you’re goin’ to bring this bloke along to make the charge and to swear to his property.’
“The copper grins at this. ‘You seem to be a pretty fly old bird,’ he says, ‘but it’s a sound wheeze. You’ll catch him on the hop if he swears to the rope.’
“Just then two blokes come down to the stairs. They take a long squint at me and the copper and then down they goes to the boat. One of ’em was a regler Thames water rat and the other was one of them foreign sheenies—hair down on his shoulders and a beard what looked as if he’d pinched it out of a horse hair mattress. The copper grabs hold of my wrist and runs me down after them.
“‘Here,’ he says to the water rat, ‘is this your boat?’
“Water rat didn’t seem quite sure whether it was or not, but at last he said he supposed it was.
“‘Well,’ says the copper, ‘I’ve just caught this man stealing rope out of your boat, and I’m going to take him along to the station, and you two have got to come along with me to identify your property.’
“Then I saw that my wheeze wasn’t going to work. Water rat bloke had rumbled me—seen me at the dock, I expect.
“‘Wot property are yer talkin’ about,’ says he, beginning to cast off his painter from the ring. ‘That there rope don’t belong to me. Someone must have dropped it into the boat while we was up at the pub.’
“The copper reaches out and grabs the painter so that they couldn’t hike off and he says: ‘Well, it’s somebody’s rope and it’s been pinched, and you’ve got to come along to the station to tell us about it.’
“I thought those coves was going to give trouble, but just then a Thames Police gig came along and the copper beckoned to ’em. So they pulls in and one of the water police helped us to take the two blokes to the station. I went along quite quiet, myself. When we got there, the Inspector asks the water rat what his name was. Water rat didn’t seem quite sure about it but at last he says: ‘Frederick Walker,’ he says, ‘is my name,’ he says.
“‘No, it isn’t,’ says the Inspector. ‘Think again,’ he says. ‘Last time you was James Trout and you lived in King David Lane, Shadwell. Live there still?’
“‘Yus,’ says Trout. ‘If you knowed, what did you ask me for?’
“‘We don’t want any of your sauce,’ says the Inspector; and then he turns to the sheeny. ‘What’s your name and address?’ he says.
“The sheeny shakes his head like as if he was trundling a mop. ‘No speak Anglish,’ says he.
“‘Oh, rats!’ says the Inspector, ‘you can’t have forgot the English language in a couple of months. Last time you was Solomon Gomorrah and you lived in Pentecost Grove and was a tailor by trade. Any change?’
“‘No,’ says Solomon. ‘It vas chust ze same.’
“‘Well,’ says the Inspector, ‘you’ll have to stay here while I send a man round to see that the addresses are correct. Sure you don’t want to make any change?’
“They said no; so I left the rope with the Inspector and came away.”
“And what was the end of it?” Thorndyke asked.
“That was,” our friend replied. He expectorated scornfully and continued: “Both of ’em swore before the beak that it wasn’t their rope, and we couldn’t prove that it was, so he dismissed the case and told ’em to be more careful in future.”
“And with regard to the third rope that you lost?”
“Ah,” said the dock-keeper, regretfully, “I’m afraid that’s a goner. Now that they know it’s got a secret mark, they’ll most likely have traded it away with some foreigner.”
“You haven’t done so badly,” said Thorndyke. “I must compliment you on the smart way in which you found the lost sheep. And we needn’t despair of the third rope. If you can give me the exact dates and the names and addresses, I may be able to help you, and you will certainly help me. I want to get a list of these rope thieves.”
Our friend hereupon produced from his pocket a portentous notebook, the leaves of which he turned over rapidly. Having at last found the entry of the transaction, he read out the particulars, which Thorndyke duly entered in his own notebook.
“The length of these ropes, you say, is ten fathoms?”
“Ten fathoms exactly to a inch. I cut ’em off the coil myself and put on the whippings at the ends.”
“I should have thought you would want them longer than ten fathoms,” Thorndyke remarked.
“Why?” our friend demanded. “It’s long enough for a man overboard. Of course, if he was going for a channel swim that would be a different matter. We haven’t provided for that.”
“Naturally,” said Thorndyke. “And now, perhaps I had better make a note of your name and address in case I have any information to give you.”
“My name,” said the dock-keeper, “is Stephen Waters, and any letters addressed to me at the office here—Black Eagle Dock, Wapping—will find me. And I may as well have your name and address, if you don’t mind.”
Thorndyke produced a card from his case and handed it to Waters with the remark: “Better not mention to anyone that you have been in communication with me. The less we tell other people, the more we are likely to learn.”
Mr. Waters warmly agreed with these sentiments (though his own practice had not been strikingly illustrative of them), and when we had thanked him for having so far taken us into his confidence, we bade him adieu and made our way out of the dock premises.
“Well,” I exclaimed as we turned out into the High Street, “this has been a regular windfall. But how did you discover the place?”
“Oh, that was simple enough,” replied Thorndyke. “I just took a list of rope-merchants and ship chandlers from the Post Office Directory and started systematically to call on them. One was bound, sooner or later, to strike the right one. But I was lucky from the beginning, for the second rope-merchant whom I called on gave me the name of a rope-maker who made a speciality of private ropes of unusual construction and particularly of marked ropes. So I went straight off to that maker and gave him the description of our rope, when it turned out that it was one of his own make. He had a big coil of it actually in stock and was good enough to give me a sample (when I had given him my card) as well as a direction to Black Eagle Dock. That was a stroke of luck, for I obt
ained, after a couple of hours’ search, information that I had been prepared to spend a week on. But this meeting with Waters is a much bigger stroke of luck. We could, and should, have discovered eventually all that he has told us, but it would have involved a long and tedious investigation. This has been an excellent day’s work.”
“By Jove, it has!” I exclaimed. “With the Polish-Hebrew cab-driver and Mr. William Trout and the venerable Sodom-and-Gomorrah, we seem to have gathered up the whole party.”
“We mustn’t let our conclusions get ahead of our facts,” Thorndyke protested. “We are doing extremely well. Our great need was to give to certain unknown persons ‘a local habitation and a name.’ We seem to have done that; but we have to make sure that it is the right habitation and the right name. Possibly the fingerprints may dispose of that question definitely.”
Unfortunately, however, they did not. As we entered the Temple by the Tudor Street gate, we perceived Superintendent Miller advancing towards us from the direction of the Mitre Court entrance. He quickened his pace on seeing us and we met almost on our own threshold.
“Well, Doctor,” he said as we turned into the entry together, “I thought I would come along and give you the news, though it isn’t very good news. I’m afraid you’ve drawn a blank.”
“Finger-prints unknown or undecipherable?” asked Thorndyke.
“Both,” replied Miller. “Most of the marks are just smears, no visible pattern at all. There are two prints that Singleton says he could identify if they were in the records. But they are not. They are strangers. So that cat won’t jump. Then there is a print—or rather part of a print, and bad at that—which Singleton thought, at first, that he could spot. But he decided afterwards that it was only a resemblance. You do get general resemblances in fingerprints, of course, but they don’t stand systematic checking, character by character.”
“And this one failed to pass the test?” asked Thorndyke.
“Well, it wasn’t that so much,” replied Miller. “It was a bad print and the identification was very uncertain; and when we came to look up the records, it didn’t seem possible that the identification could be right. The print in the register that it resembled was taken from a man named Maurice Zichlinsky who was tried under extradition procedure for conspiracy to murder. The alleged crime was committed at St. Petersburg, and, as the extradition court convicted him, he was handed over to the Russian police, and a note on the record says that he was tried in Russia and sentenced to imprisonment for life. Consequently, as he is presumably in a Russian prison at this moment, it seems to be physically impossible that this print can be his. That is, if these are recent fingerprints.”
“They are,” said Thorndyke. “So I am afraid it is an absolute blank. Can you show me which are the possible prints?”
“Yes,” replied Miller. “Singleton marked them on the photograph and wrote the particulars on the back. Here they are,” he continued, laying the photograph on the table; “these are the two possibles and this one, numbered ‘three,’ is the one that might have been the Russian’s.”
“And with regard to the second photograph?”
“Ah,” said Miller, producing it from his pocket, “Singleton was rather interested in that. Thought the prints looked as if they had been taken from a dead body.”
“He was quite right,” said Thorndyke. “They were; and the question was whether there was any trace of them on the other photograph.”
“There was not,” said Miller. “Of course, negative evidence is not conclusive, but Singleton couldn’t find the least sign of them and he is pretty sure that they are not there. You see, even a smear may give you a hint if you know what you are looking for.”
“Then,” said Thorndyke, “we have not drawn an utter blank. We can take it that our known prints are not among the group, and that is something gained.”
I now inducted the Superintendent into an easy chair while Thorndyke placed by his side a decanter of whisky, a siphon and a box of cigars. It has sometimes struck me that my learned colleague would have made an excellent innkeeper, judging by the sympathetic attention that he gave to the tastes of his visitors in the matter of refreshments. Brodribb delighted in a particular kind of dry and ancient port and Thorndyke kept a special bin for his exclusive gratification. Miller’s more modern tastes inclined to an aged and mellow type of Scotch whisky and a particular brand of obese and rather full-flavoured cigar; and his fancy also received due consideration.
“I was going to ask you,” said Thorndyke, when the Superintendent’s cigar was well alight, “at what time Radcliffe is usually to be found in his office.”
“You needn’t find him at all,” replied Miller. “I thought you would probably want particulars of that hansom I told you about, so I got them for you when I saw him this afternoon.”
“That was very thoughtful of you, Miller,” said Thorndyke, watching with lively interest the extraction of a large pocket-book from the Millerian pocket.
“Not a bit,” was the reply. “You are always ready to give me a bit of help. The driver’s name, which is also that of the owner, as they are one and the same person, is Louis Shemrofsky—there’s a name for a hansom cab driver!—and he keeps his blooming antique at a stable yard in Pentecost Grove; that is one of those little back streets somewhere between Commercial Road East and Shadwell—a pretty crummy neighbourhood, if you ask me—full of foreign crooks and shady Jews and what they call refugees.”
“I suppose,” said Thorndyke, “you didn’t happen to note the date on which the cab was found in Dorchester Square?”
“Oh, didn’t I?” replied Miller. “Do you suppose I don’t appreciate the importance of dates? The cab was found in the Square on Friday, the nineteenth of June, at about ten-fifteen P.M.”
Thorndyke probably experienced the faint sense of disappointment of which I was myself aware. For, of course, it was the wrong date. Meanwhile, Miller watched him narrowly, and, after a short interval, was fain to let the cloven hoof come plainly into view.
“That interest you particularly?” he asked with suppressed eagerness.
Thorndyke looked at him thoughtfully for a few moments before replying. At length he answered:
“Yes, Miller, it does. Jervis and I have a case in hand—a queer, intricate case with very important issues, and I think that this man, Shemrofsky, comes into the picture. We have quite a lot of evidence, but that evidence is in isolated patches with wide spaces between.”
“Why not let me try to fill up some of the spaces,” said Miller, eagerly, evidently smelling a case with possibilities of glory.
“I am going to ask for your collaboration presently,” Thorndyke replied. “But just at the moment, the case is more suitable to my methods than to yours. And there is no urgency. Our activities are entirely unsuspected.”
The Superintendent grinned. “I know,” said he. “I’ve seen you do it before. Just work away out of sight until you are ready and then pounce. Well, Doctor, when you want me you know where to find me, and meanwhile, I’ll do anything you want done without troubling you with inconvenient questions.”
When the Superintendent had gone, I ventured to raise a question that had arisen in my mind during the conversation.
“Aren’t you a little over-critical, Thorndyke? You spoke of spaces between patches of evidence but it seems to me that the case comes together very completely.”
“No, Jervis,” he replied. “It does not. We are getting on admirably, but we have not made out a coherent case. We have facts and we have probabilities. But the facts and the probabilities do not make complete contact.”
“I do not quite follow you,” said I.
“Let us look at our evidence critically,” he replied. “The vehicle which went to Piper’s Row was probably a hansom. Very probably but not certainly. That probable hansom was probably Shemrofsky’s hansom and probably driven by Shemrofsky. We have to turn those probabilities into certainties. Again, the rope which was used to hang Si
r Edward was stolen from Black Eagle Dock. We may treat that as a fact. It was dyed with cutch. That again is a fact. The rope found in the possession of Trout and Gomorrah was stolen from Black Eagle Dock and it was dyed with cutch. That is a fact. That it was stolen by, and was the temporary property of, one or both of them is highly probable but cannot be proved. The magistrate dismissed it as unproved. Gomorrah lives in Pentecost Grove. Shemrofsky’s cab is kept in Pentecost Grove. Those are facts. The inference that Gomorrah and Trout and Shemrofsky were concerned in conveying that dyed rope (together with the body) to Piper’s Row is very highly probable, but it cannot be certainly connected with the known facts.
“Again, the murder of Sir Edward we may regard as a known fact. He was probably murdered in a house in which is a tailor’s work-room. Therefore he was probably murdered in Gomorrah’s house. Still it is only a probability. And here there is a considerable space in our evidence. For Sir Edward was murdered by being drowned in salt water in which numerous herring-scales were suspended. Now, we have not traced that salt water or those herring-scales.”
“No, we have not; and I can’t even make a guess at what they may have been. Have you formed any theory on the subject?”
“Yes, I have a very definite opinion. But that is of no use. We have an abundance of excellent inferences. What we want is some new facts.”
“But surely, Thorndyke,” I protested, “a body of facts such as you have here, affording a series of probabilities all pointing in the same direction, is virtually equivalent to proof?”
“I don’t think so,” he answered. “I distrust a case that rests entirely on circumstantial evidence. A learned judge has told us that circumstantial evidence, if there is enough of it, is not only as good as but better than direct evidence, because direct evidence may be false. I do not agree with him. In the first place, direct evidence which may possibly be false is not evidence at all. But the evil of circumstantial evidence is that it may yield false inferences, as it has often done, and then the whole scheme is illusory. My feeling is that circumstantial evidence requires at least one point of direct evidence to establish a real connection of its parts with the question that is to be proved.
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