The Third R. Austin Freeman Megapack

by R. Austin Freeman

  Thorndyke seemed, for a moment, inclined to pursue the argument. But then he gave up the attempt to convince the Superintendent and changed the subject.

  “What was the charge against Smith?” he asked.

  “He was charged with uttering counterfeit paper money,” Miller replied. “It was a silly affair, really. I can’t think how the magistrate came to commit him. It seems that he went into a pub in Maidstone for a drink and tendered a ten-shilling note. The publican spotted it at once as a bad one and he gave Smith in charge. At the police station he was searched and two more notes were found on him. But they were both genuine and so was the rest of the money that he had about him. His statement was that the note had been given to him in change, and that he did not know that it was bad; which was probably true. At any rate, I feel pretty sure that the Grand Jury would have thrown out the bill. He was a mug to complicate matters by bolting.”

  “So, as an actual fact, there is no evidence that he was a criminal at all. He may have been a perfectly respectable working-man.”

  “That is so,” Miller agreed rather reluctantly, “excepting that Badger seemed to have been satisfied that he was the crook that he had been on the lookout for.”

  “As he never saw the man,” said Thorndyke, “that is not very conclusive. Do you know how the escape was managed?”

  “Only in a general way,” replied Miller. “It doesn’t particularly concern me. I gather that it was one of those muddles that are apt to occur when prisoners are wearing their own clothes. Got himself mixed up with a gang of workmen. But he’d better have stayed where he was.”

  “Much better,” Thorndyke agreed with some emphasis. “But, to return to the case of the unknown man who prepared the poisoned cigar, I think you will agree with me that we had better keep our own counsel about the whole affair.”

  “I suppose so,” answered Miller. “At any rate, I think you are right to keep away from the inquest. The coroner might ask you to give evidence, and then you’d have to tell all you know, and the story would be in every blessed newspaper in the country. I take it you are prepared to swear to the poison in that cigar?

  “Certainly; and to produce the poison in evidence.”

  “And you are going to let me have a photograph of those fingerprints?”

  “Of course. There is a set ready for you now, including two of Badger’s. And, as to those from the cigar, it is just possible that you may find them to be those of some known person.”

  “It’s possible,” Miller admitted, “but I don’t think it very likely.”

  “Nor do I,” said Thorndyke, with a faint smile; by which I judged that he realized, as I did, that Miller’s suspicions, even in the matter of the cigar, were still riveted on the elusive Smith.

  “With regard to this paper of Smith’s,” said Thorndyke, as he handed Miller the set of photographs that had been reserved for him; “I should like to take a copy of it for reference. A photographic copy, I mean, of the portraits and the fingerprints.”

  Miller looked a little unhappy. “It wouldn’t be quite in order,” he objected. “An official document, you know, and a secret one at that. Is it of any importance?”

  “It is impossible to say, in advance,” replied Thorndyke. “But I shall be working at the case on your behalf and in collaboration with you. It might be important, on some occasion, to be able to recognize a face or a fingerprint. Still, if it is not in order, I won’t press the matter. The chances are that the copy will never be needed.”

  But Miller had reconsidered the question. He was not going to put any obstacles in Thorndyke’s way.

  “If you think a copy would be helpful,” said he, “I’ll take the responsibility of letting you have one. But I can’t let the document go out of my possession. Can you take it now?”

  “Yes,” Thorndyke replied. “It will be only a matter of a minute or two, to make one or two exposures.”

  Without more ado, he took the document and went off with it to the laboratory. As he disappeared, the Superintendent commented admiringly on the efficiency of our establishment.

  “Yes,” I replied, with some complacency (though the efficiency was none of my producing), “the copying camera is a great asset. There it is, always ready at a moment’s notice to give us a perfect facsimile of any thing that is set before it—an infallible copy that will be accepted in any court of law. But you have quite as good an outfit at the Yard.”

  “Oh yes,” Miller agreed, “our equipment and organization are good enough. But, in a public department, you can’t get the flexibility and adaptability of a private establishment like yours, where you make your own rules and use your own judgment as to obeying them. This can’t be the Doctor, already.”

  It was, however. Thorndyke had just made the exposures and left the development to be done later. He now returned the document to the Superintendent, who, having carefully bestowed it in his pocket with the photographs, rose to take his departure.

  “I hope, Doctor,” he said, as he shook hands with Thorndyke, “that I haven’t seemed unappreciative of all that you have done. That discovery of yours was a most remarkable exploit—a positive stroke of genius. And it has given us the only piece of real evidence that we have. Please don’t think that I’m not grateful.”

  “Tut, tut,” said Thorndyke, “there is no question of gratitude. We all want to catch the villain who murdered our old friend. Are you going to the inquest?”

  “No,” replied Miller. “I am not wanted there; and, now that you have given me this new information, I feel, like you, that I had better keep away, for fear of being compelled to let the cat out of the bag. You said you were sending a shorthand reporter down to take notes for you.”

  “Yes,” said Thorndyke; “Polton has made all the arrangements, and has told our man to type the notes out in duplicate so that you can have a copy.”

  “Thanks, Doctor,” said Miller. “I think they may be useful, after all, particularly the station-master’s evidence concerning the man he saw at Strood.”

  “Yes,” agreed Thorndyke. “It will be a great point if he can recognize the prison photograph—and an almost equally great one if he cannot.”

  I seemed to gather from the Superintendent’s expression that he did not view the latter contingency with any great enthusiasm. But he made no rejoinder beyond again wishing us “Good morning,” and at length took his departure, escorted to the landing by Thorndyke.

  CHAPTER VIII

  A Review of the Evidence

  When Thorndyke re-entered the room, closing the oak door behind him, he appeared to be in a thoughtful and slightly puzzled frame of mind. For a minute or more, he stood before the fireplace filling his pipe in silence and apparently reflecting profoundly. Suddenly he looked up at me and asked:

  “Well, Jervis; what do you think of it all?”

  “As to Miller? I think that he has his nose glued to the trail of Mr. Frederick Smith.”

  “Yes,” said he. “The Smith idea almost amounts to an obsession; and that is a very dangerous state of mind for a detective superintendent. It may easily lead to a bad miscarriage of justice.”

  “Still,” I said, “there is something to be said for Miller’s point of view. The man who got into the train at Strood did certainly agree, at least superficially, with the official description of the man Smith.”

  “That is quite true,” Thorndyke admitted. “The report of the evidence at the inquest will show what sort of description the station-master is prepared to swear to. But I don’t feel at all happy as to Miller’s attitude. We shall have to watch events closely. For we are deeply concerned in this investigation. And it will be just as well if we go over the facts that are known to us and consider what our own attitude must be.”

  He took up a pencil and a note-block, and, dropping into an easy chair, lit his pipe and opened the discussion.

  “I think, Jervis,” he began, “we are justified in assuming that the man who got into the carriage at Strood i
s the man who murdered Badger.”

  “I think so,” I agreed. “That is, if we assume that it was really a case of murder. Personally, I have no doubt on the subject.”

  “I am assuming that the document was really in Badger’s pocket when he started, and that it was not there when his body was examined by the sergeant. The inquest notes will confirm or exclude those assumptions. At present, our information is to the effect that they are true. And if they are true, the document must have been taken from Badger’s pocket; and that fact furnishes prima facie evidence of murder. But if Badger was murdered, the Strood man must be presumed to be the murderer, since no other possibility presents itself. Hence, the question that we have to settle, or at least to form a definite opinion on, is, Who was the Strood man?

  “Now, our information is to the effect that he had red or reddish hair and a noticeably red nose. But the man Smith has dark-red hair and a noticeably red nose. Then it is possible that the Strood man may have been Smith. But mere coincidence in these two characteristics does not afford positive evidence that he was. For two men resembling one another in these respects might be otherwise very different.”

  “That is so,” said I. “But you must admit that it is a rather remarkable coincidence. And you have often pointed out, with great justice, that coincidences call for very careful consideration.”

  “Precisely,” said he. “And that is what I am going to insist on now. We have to note the coincidence and ask ourselves what its significance may be. It is, as you say, a quite remarkable coincidence. Neither of these peculiarities is at all common. If you were to examine any considerable collection of men, such, for example, as a battalion of infantry, how many men with dark-red hair would you find in it? Not more than one or two. Perhaps not one. But, of the one or two, or say half a dozen, that you found, bow many would have noticeably red noses? Most probably none. Improbabilities become rapidly cumulative as you multiply the characteristics that are postulated us appearing coincidently.

  “The position, then, in regard to the Strood man is this: In two salient personal characteristics, he resembled the man Smith. That resemblance can be accounted for by three hypotheses, one of which must be true:

  “1. That the Strood man was Smith.

  “2. That he was another man who happened to resemble Smith.

  “3. That he was another man who had been purposely made up or disguised so as to resemble Smith.

  “Those are the only possibilities and, as I said, one of them must be true. Let us take them in order and consider their respective probabilities. We begin with the first hypothesis, that the Strood man was Smith. Now, in order to judge of the probability of this, we have to consider what we know of the personality of Smith and of the Strood man respectively and to decide whether what we know of the one is compatible with what we know of the other.

  “Now, what do we know of Smith? First, we have the fact that he described himself as a plumber and gas-fitter. As that description seems to have been accepted by the prison officials, we may assume that it fitted his appearance and manner; and we see that his face is of the type characteristic of the lower class of working-man. We know, further, that he had just escaped from prison, and that he was known and could have been recognized by several persons at the prison, including Chief Officer Cummings. It is probable that when he escaped, his pockets were empty and he may have been hatless.

  “Now as to the Strood man. It is almost certain that he had a first-class ticket; that he travelled from Maidstone in Badger’s train, and, if so, he must have been on the platform at Maidstone at the same time as Badger and Cummings. He carried in his pocket a cigar which had been treated with a poison which is practically unprocurable commercially and which he must almost certainly have prepared himself. Now, Jervis, does it seem to you possible that those two descriptions could apply to one and the same person?”

  “No,” I replied, “it certainly does not, though you omitted to mention that Smith is probably a burglar.”

  “That is not known to us, though I admit that it is not improbable. But it really has no bearing. Even if we knew that he was a burglar, all the obvious discrepancies would remain. I submit that the hypothesis that the Strood man was the escaped prisoner, Smith, must be rejected as untenable.

  “We pass on, then, to the next possibility, that the Strood man was not Smith, but was a man who happened to resemble Smith these two physical characteristics. In order to state the probabilities, it is necessary to note that the Strood man was apparently in this train with the premeditated purpose of murdering a police officer, and that a few hours previously a man with dark-red hair and a noticeably red nose had escaped from a Maidstone prison and was still at large. Bearing in mind the rarity of this combination of physical characters, what do you think of the probability of the coincidence?”

  “Well,” I replied, “obviously, the chances against are a good many thousands to one. But that is not quite the same thing as certainty.”

  “Very true, Jervis,” he agreed, “and very necessary to remember. It is by no means safe to apply the laws of chance to individual cases. A prize of £30,000 in a lottery or sweepstake necessarily implies sixty thousand ten-shilling tickets, of which all but one must be blanks; so that the chances against any ticket holder are fifty-nine thousand nine hundred and ninety-nine to one. Nevertheless, in spite of that enormous adverse chance, someone does win the prize. You are quite right. Long odds against do not exclude a possibility. But, still, we have to bear the odds in mind; and, if we do, we shall be very indisposed to accept this coincidence.

  “We are left with the third hypothesis: that the Strood man was an unknown man, deliberately disguised or made up to resemble the escaped prisoner, Smith. This suggestion, though it has certain positive elements of probability, has also certain weighty objections, as I have no doubt you have noticed.”

  “I see one objection,” said I, “that seems to exclude the suggestion altogether. If the Strood man had made up to resemble Smith, he must have had the means with him, provided in advance. He couldn’t have gone about, habitually, with a red wig and a bottle of rouge in his pocket. But the escape of Smith was a contingency that couldn’t have been foreseen. If we accept the idea of the make-up, we have to suppose that, after hearing of Smith’s escape, this man was able to provide himself with the wig and the rouge. That seems to be quite incredible.”

  Thorndyke nodded, approvingly.

  “Very true,” said he. “My learned friend has made a palpable hit. It is a very serious objection, and, as you say, it appears, at the first glance, to be insuperable—to render the hypothesis quite untenable. But if you consider the circumstances more thoroughly, you will see that it does not. The probability is that we are dealing with one of those combinations of chance and design that are always so puzzling and so misleading. Let us exercise our imaginations a little further and make one or two more hypotheses. Let us suppose I that this man had already decided to avail himself of Smith’s conspicuous peculiarities and to personate him to that extent—presumably for some unlawful purpose. He would then have had the wig and the rouge in readiness. Suppose that he is staying in Maidstone, perhaps keeping a watch on Smith. Smith, however, is in custody, with the certain result that his personal peculiarities will be noticed in detail and recorded.

  “This will make him much better worth personating. If the stranger is keeping a watch on Smith, he will know about the prosecution, and he will know that there is a good chance of an acquittal. Suppose, now, at this point, two unforeseen events happen: Smith makes his escape, and then Badger turns up in Maidstone. The stranger has, as the murder pretty clearly proves, some strong reason for getting rid of Badger. But here is a set of unforeseen circumstances that creates a first-class opportunity. The apparent impossibility of the disguise is an additional favourable factor.”

  I was impressed by my colleague’s ingenuity and said so, perhaps with some faint suggestion of irony in my tone.

  “
Of course,” I hastened to add, “all that you suggest is quite possible. The trouble is, that it is quite imaginary. There is not a particle of direct evidence to suggest that it is true—that what you postulate as having possibly happened, really did happen.”

  “No,” Thorndyke admitted, “there is not. It is hypothesis, pure and simple. So far, I do not contest your objection. But I remind you of our position. We have three hypotheses which represent all the imaginable possibilities. One of the three must be the true one. But we have already excluded two as being quite untenable on the grounds of extreme improbability. The third is admittedly difficult to accept; but it is far less improbable than either of the other two. And you notice that, if we make the assumptions that I suggest, what follows presents a high degree of probability. I mean that a man, setting out to commit a murder, under circumstances in which he must be seen in the company of his prospective victim, would be taking a very ordinary precaution if he should so alter his appearance that a description of the murderer would not be a description of himself. And if he had the opportunity to make up so as to resemble some other person, and that other person an escaped prisoner, it would be very much to his advantage to take it. How great the advantage would be, we can see for ourselves by the attitude of our old friend, the Superintendent.”

  “Yes, by Jove!” said I. “The deception, if it is one, has operated most effectively on Miller. And, if your suggestion is correct, it will explain another rather incomprehensible thing—I mean the taking from the body of the prison record. That naturally suggested that the murderer was the man whose description was on the stolen document. In fact, my impression is that it is the document as much as the personal resemblance that is sticking in Miller’s gullet.”

  “I think you are right,” said Thorndyke. “At any rate, the combined effect of the two facts—the theft of the document and the personal characteristics—is undoubtedly responsible for his state of mind. But, to return to our discussion, I think that, out of the three hypotheses from which we have to choose, we are forced to adopt the third, at least provisionally: that the man who murdered Badger is not Smith, but is some unknown man who had deliberately made up to the end that he might be mistaken for Smith.”