“So much for the general aspects of the incident—which I should have thought would have been obvious to Miller. We, however, were not concerned only with the general aspects. We had special knowledge and special experience. I have told you how, in the early days of my practice, when I had little to do, I used to occupy myself in the invention of crimes of an unusual and ingenious kind and in devising methods of detection to counter them. It was time and effort well spent; for each crime that I invented—and circumvented—though it was imaginary, yet furnished actual experience which prepared me to deal with such a crime if I should encounter it in real life. Now, among the criminal methods which I devised was the use of a cigar as the means for administering poison.”
“Yes,” said I, “I remember; and very fortunate it was for you that you did. The fact that the possibility was in your mind probably saved your life when our friend, Hornby, sent you that poisoned cheroot.”
“Exactly,” he agreed. “The imaginary case had the effect of a real case; and when the real case occurred, it found me prepared. And now let us apply these facts to the present case. You heard Miller’s sketch of the tragedy as he had heard it told through the telephone, and you will remember that he put his finger on the point that most needed explanation. How had Badger been put out of the carriage on to the line? According to the report, no gross injuries had been found. He had not been shot or stabbed or bludgeoned. He seemed simply to have been thrown out. Yet how could such a thing be possible? A Metropolitan police-officer is a formidable man, and Badger was a fine specimen of his class—big, powerful, courageous, and highly trained in the arts of offence and defence. He could not have been off his guard, for he knew that he was travelling with a criminal and must have been prepared for an attack. How then could he have been thrown out? That was Miller’s difficulty, and it was a real one, assuming that the report had given the true facts.
“The train journey down gave us time to think it over. That time I employed in turning over every explanation that I could think of. Since direct violence seemed to be ruled out, the only reasonable supposition was that, in some way, Badger must have been rendered insensible or helpless. But in what way? You heard Miller’s suggestions; and you could see that none of them was practicable. To me, it appeared that poison in some form was the most likely method. But how do you set to work to poison a man in a railway carriage?
“I considered the various methods that were physically possible. The most obvious was to offer a drink from a flask. That would be effective enough—but not with a detective inspector of the C.I.D. Badger would have refused to a certainty; and poisoned sweets would have been still more hopeless. Then the possibility of a poisoned cigar occurred to me. The idea seemed a little extravagant; but, still, the method had actually been used within my own experience. And there was no denying that it would have met the case perfectly. The offer of a cigar would have appeared, even to a cautious police officer, a quite unsuspicious action. And we know that Badger liked a cigar and would almost certainly have accepted one. So, in spite of the fact that, as I have said, the suggestion seemed rather far-fetched, I made a mental note to keep the possibility in mind.
“At Greenhithe the absence of any traces of violence was confirmed. Then we went into the tunnel; and behold! almost the first object that we notice is a half-smoked cigar. There was not much need for intuitions.”
I admitted a little shamefacedly that there was not. It was the old story. An item of knowledge or experience that was once in Thorndyke’s mind was there for ever; and what is more, it was available for use at any moment, and in any set of circumstances. I had not this gift. My memory was good enough; but I had not his constructive imagination. I could only use my experiences when analogous circumstances recurred. The poisoned cheroot had come by post. Thereafter, I should have looked with suspicion on any cigar that arrived by post from an unknown source. But Thorndyke had the idea in his mind, ready to apply it to any new set of circumstances. It was a vital difference.
Having settled this question, I passed on to another that had exercised my mind a good deal.
“You seem,” I said, “to have decided pretty clearly how the actual murder was carried out. Have you carried the matter any farther? Have you any theory of the general modus operandi of the crime?”
“Only in quite general terms,” he replied. “I think we are forced to certain conclusions. For instance, the fact that the murderer had the poisoned cigar available compels us to assume that the crime was not only premeditated but very definitely planned. My impression is that poor Badger was under a delusion. He thought that he was stalking a criminal, whereas, in fact, the criminal was stalking him. I suspect that he knew what was going on at Maidstone, and that he kept Badger in sight. I believe that he saw him into the train at Maidstone and travelled with him in that train to Strood.”
“There seem to be at least two objections to that theory,” said I. “To begin with, he could hardly have avoided being seen at Maidstone. For, leaving Badger out of the picture, there was Cummings, who certainly knew him by sight and would surely have spotted him at the station.”
“I see,” said Thorndyke, “that you are adopting Miller’s view that the murderer was the man Smith. That view seems to me quite untenable. I have never entertained it for a moment.”
“You are not forgetting the resemblance between the two men? That both men had red hair and a noticeably red nose? It would be a remarkable coincidence, if they were different men.”
“Very true,” he agreed. “But don’t let us lose sight of the collateral circumstances. If we assume that this was a carefully planned murder, as it appears to have been, we have to be on the lookout for such ordinary precautions as a murderer would probably take. Now a red nose with red hair is a rather uncommon combination; and, as you say, its occurrence in two men in these peculiar circumstances would be a remarkable coincidence. But there are such things as wigs and rouge and grease-paint; and these are just the circumstances in which we might look to see them used. The very simplest make-up would do. Consider how easy it would have been. Supposing a dark man with close-cropped hair gets into an empty carriage at Maidstone. Just before reaching Strood, he slips on a red wig and gives his nose an infinitesimal touch of rouge. On arriving at Strood, he hops out, and at once makes for the stairs leading to the subway. There, or elsewhere, he waits for the arrival of the London train, and, when it comes in, he emerges, boldly, on to the platform, and lets himself be plainly seen.”
“But don’t you think Badger would have spotted the wig?” I objected.
“I feel pretty sure that he would,” Thorndyke replied. “But why not? The stranger was there for the express purpose of being spotted. And you notice a further use that the make-up would have had. For, after the murder, he could have doffed the wig and cleaned off the rouge; and forthwith he would have been a different person. The description of him, as he had been seen at Strood, no longer applied to him. He could show himself boldly at Dartford and leave no trace. What is the second objection?”
“I was thinking of the fact—if it is a fact—that he took the risk of stealing Smith’s fingerprint papers from the body. It was a very serious risk. For if he had been stopped and searched and they had been found on his person, that would have convicted him of the murder beyond any question. And, moreover, the very fact that they were taken furnishes evidence, of murder and effectually excludes the possibility of misadventure. The taking of such a risk points to a very strong motive. But they were Smith’s fingerprints; and if he were not Smith, what strong motive could he have had for taking them?”
“Admirably argued,” Thorndyke commented. “But perhaps we had better postpone the consideration of that point until we have actually ascertained that the papers were really taken from the body. The point is of importance in more than one respect. As you, very justly remark, the taking away of these papers converts what might have been accepted as a misadventure into an undeniable murder. And the man w
ho took them—if he did take them—could not have failed to realize this. You are certainly right as to the strength of the motive. The question that remains to be solved is, What might have been the nature of that motive? But I think we shall have to adjourn this discussion.”
As he spoke, I became aware of footsteps ascending the stairs, and growing rapidly more audible. Their cessation coincided with a knock at the door, which I instantly recognized as Miller’s. I sprang up and threw the door open, whereupon the Superintendent entered and fixed a mock-reproachful eye on the uncleared breakfast-table.
“Well, gentlemen,” he said, by way of greeting, “I thought I would just drop in and give you the news in case you were starting early. You needn’t. The post-mortem is fixed for two-thirty, and there is nothing else for you to do.”
“Thank you, Miller,” said Thorndyke. “It was good of you to come round. But, as a matter of fact, we are not going—at least, I am not, and I don’t think Jervis is.”
The Superintendent’s jaw dropped. “I am sorry to hear that,” said he in a tone of very real disappointment. “I was rather banking on your getting us some thing definite to go on. We haven’t got much in the way of positive evidence.”
“That,” Thorndyke answered, “is why we are not going. We have got some positive evidence; and we think—and so will you—that we had better keep it to ourselves, at least for the present.”
The Superintendent cast an astonished glance at my colleague.
“You have got some positive evidence!” he exclaimed. “Why; how the deuce—but there, that doesn’t matter. What have you discovered?”
Thorndyke opened a drawer and produced from it a pack of mounted photographs and the two cards bearing Badger’s fingerprints, which he laid on the table.
“You may remember, Miller,” he said, “pointing out to me in the tunnel that someone had thrown away a half-smoked cigar.”
“I remember,” the Superintendent replied. “An uncommon good weed it looked, too. I had half a mind to pick it up and finish it—in a holder, of course.”
“It’s just as well that you did not,” Thorndyke chuckled. “However, I picked it up. I thought there might possibly be some fingerprints on it. And there were. Some of them were Badger’s. But there were some others as well.”
“How were you able to spot Badger’s fingerprints?” Miller demanded in a tone of astonishment.
“I took the records from the body,” Thorndyke replied, “on the chance that we might want them.”
Miller stared at my colleague in silent amazement.
“You are a most extraordinary man, Doctor,” he exclaimed, at length. “You seem to have the gift of second sight. What on earth could have made you—but there, it’s no use asking you. Are these poor Badger’s prints?”
“Yes,” Thorndyke answered, “and these are the photographs of the cigar with the prints developed on it.”
Miller pored eagerly over the photographs and compared them with the prints on the cards.
“Yes,” said he, after a careful inspection, “they are clear enough. There is poor old Badger’s thumb as plain as a pikestaff. And here is one—looks like a thumb, too—that certainly is not Badger’s. Now we are going to see whose it is.”
He spoke in a tone of triumph, and as he spoke, he whisked out of his pocket, with something of a flourish, a large leather wallet. From this he extracted a blue document and spread it out on the table. On it, among other matter, were four sets of fingerprints—the “tips” of the two hands, both sets complete, and the two sets of “rolled impressions,” of which those of the right hand consisted only of two perfect impressions and a smear. Miller confined his attention principally to the tips, glancing backward and forward from them to the photographs, which were spread out on the table. And, watching him, I was sensible of a gradual change in his demeanour. The triumphant air slowly faded away, giving place, first to doubt and bewilderment, and finally to quite definite disappointment.
“Nothing doing,” he reported, handing the paper to Thorndyke. “They are not Smith’s fingerprints. Pity. I’d hoped they would have been. If they had been, they would have fixed the murder on him beyond any doubt. Now we shall have to grub about for some other kind of evidence. At present, we’ve got nothing but the evidence of the station-master at Strood.”
Thorndyke looked at him with slightly raised eyebrows.
“You seem,” said he, “to be overlooking the importance of those other fingerprints. If they are not Smith’s, they are somebody’s; and the person who made them is the person who gave Badger that cigar.”
“No doubt,” Miller agreed. “But what about it? Does it matter who gave him the cigar?”
“As it happens,” Thorndyke replied, “it matters a great deal. We have analysed that cigar and we found that it contained a very large dose of a deadly volatile poison.”
Miller was thunderstruck. For some moments he stood, silently gazing at Thorndyke, literally open-mouthed. At length, he exclaimed in a low, almost awe-stricken tone:
“Good God, Doctor. This is new evidence with a vengeance! Now we can understand how poor old Badger was got out on to the line. But, how in the name of fortune came you to analyse the cigar?”
“There was just the bare possibility,” Thorndyke replied. “We thought we might as well make the trial.”
Miller shook his head. “It’s second sight, Doctor. There’s, no other name for it. It looks as if you had spotted the poison in the cigar as it lay on the ground in the tunnel. You are a most astonishing man. But the question is, how the deuce he got hold of that cigar.”
“Who?” demanded Thorndyke. “You don’t, surely, mean Smith?”
“Certainly I do,” Miller replied, doggedly. “Who else?”
“But,” Thorndyke protested with a shade of impatience, “you have just ascertained, beyond any reasonable doubt, that the cigar was given to Badger by some other person.”
But the Superintendent was not to be moved from the conviction that apparently had possession of his mind. “Those other prints,” he insisted, “must be the prints of the man from whom Smith got the cigar. We shall have to find out who he is, of course. But it is the murderer we want. And the murderer is Frederick Smith, or whatever his real name is.”
Thorndyke’s sense of humour apparently got the better of his vexation, for he remarked with a low chuckle:
“It seems odd for me to pose as the champion of fingerprint evidence. But, really, Miller, you are flying in the face of all the visible facts and probabilities. There is absolutely nothing to connect the man Smith with that cigar.”
“He may have worn gloves,” suggested Miller.
“He may have worn a cocked hat,” retorted Thorndyke. “But there is no reason to believe that he did. Why do you cling to the unfortunate Smith in this tenacious fashion?”
“Why,” rejoined Miller, “look at the description on his paper and then recall what the station-master at Strood said.”
Thorndyke took up the paper and read aloud:
“‘Height, 67 inches; weight, 158 pounds; rather thick-set, muscular build. Hair, darkish red; eyes, reddish brown; complexion, fresh; nose, straight, medium size, rather thick and distinctly red.’ Yes, that seems to agree with the station-master’s description. I see that he gives no address, but describes himself as a plumber and gas-fitter.”
“Probably that is right,” said Miller. “A considerable proportion of the men who take to burglary started life as plumbers and gas-fitters. Their professional training gives them an advantage.”
“It must,” I remarked a little bitterly, recalling the ravages of a gas-fitter on my own premises. “There seems to be a natural connection between gas-fitting and house-breaking.”
“At any rate,” said Thorndyke, who was now inspecting the photographs—one profile and one full face—“the description fits the man’s presumed avocation, without insisting on the gas-fitting. It is a coarse, common face. Not very characteristic. He mig
ht be a burglar or just simply a low-class working-man.”
“Exactly,” the Superintendent agreed. “It’s the sort of mug that you can see by the dozen in the yard at Brixton or in any local prison. Just a common, low-grade man. But that hasn’t much bearing on our little problem.”
“I don’t think I quite agree with you there, Miller,” said Thorndyke. “The man’s general type and make up seem to have a rather important bearing. We are dealing with a crime that is distinctly subtle and ingenious, and which seems to involve a good deal more knowledge than we should expect an ordinary working-man to possess. The face fits the assumed character of the man; but it does not fit the crime. Don’t you agree with me?”
“I’ll not deny,” the Superintendent conceded, grudgingly, “that there is something in what you say. Probably, we shall find that there was some man of a different class behind Smith.”
“But why insist upon Smith at all? The poisoned cigar is the one solid fact that we have and can prove. And, as you have admitted, we have not a particle of evidence that connects him with it. On the contrary, the evidence of the fingerprints clearly connects it with someone else. Why not drop Smith, at least provisionally?”
Miller shook his head with an air of resolution that I recognised as hopeless.
“Theory is all very well, Doctor,” he replied, “and I realise the force of what you have pointed out. But you remember the old story of the dog and the shadow. The dog who let go the piece of meat that he had in order to grab the other piece that he saw reflected in the water was a foolish dog. I’m not going to follow his example. This man, Smith, was seen to get into the carriage with Badger. He must have been in the carriage when Badger was killed; and no one else was there. If he didn’t murder Badger, it’s for him to explain how the thing happened. And I fancy he’ll find the explanation a bit difficult.”
The Third R. Austin Freeman Megapack Page 118