The Third R. Austin Freeman Megapack

by R. Austin Freeman

  “It was fortunate for me, Polton,” said he, “that you would not go to bed. But for that remarkable shot of yours, I think Hornby would have settled his account with me, after all.”

  Polton crinkled apologetically and gave a little embarrassed cough as he replied:

  “Yes, sir, I thought I might be useful. You see, sir, when I was younger, I used to take a good deal of practice at the coco-nuts on Hampstead Heath. I got to be quite a dab at ’em; and the Aunt Sallies, too.”

  At this moment, the gallery door opened, and Mrs. Gibbins entered spectrally, bearing a lighted candle in a bedroom candlestick.

  “I’ve come to tell you, sir,” she said, addressing Woodburn, “that I have laid supper in the dining-room. Mr. Miller is coming back to join you when he has seen the other officers off in the car.”

  It was an undeniably welcome announcement; and, when Woodburn had extinguished the lamps, we switched on our electric lanterns and followed the housekeeper along the winding corridor.

  CHAPTER XVIII

  Postscript

  With the arrest of Walter Hornby, this history—which is that of an investigation—naturally comes to an end. In the course of the events that followed, nothing transpired that could be regarded as a new discovery. Certain details were filled in, and certain conclusions which had been arrived at by inference were confirmed by actual demonstration. Thus, at the inquest, it was proved that Mr. Toke had died from a deep knife wound, and the evidence left no doubt that it had been inflicted, as Thorndyke had suggested, just as he was in the act of emerging from the tomb. The wound corresponded exactly with the knife which was on Hornby’s person when he was arrested. And, though that knife had been carefully washed, when Polton, under Thorndyke’s supervision, unriveted and removed the wooden handle, considerable traces of blood were discovered; sufficient, in fact, to admit of a biochemical test which showed it to be human blood.

  At the trial, there was practically no defence, nor was there any appeal from the conviction and sentence. The prisoner was indicted for the murder of Mr. Toke, the other crime being held back for a further indictment in the unlikely event of an acquittal. But of an acquittal there was never the remotest chance. For, in addition to the profoundly incriminating fact that Hornby had been captured in actual occupation of the murdered man’s premises and in command of the secret passages in which the body was concealed, there was the utterly damning fact that Mr. Toke’s signet ring was found in his pocket when he was searched after his arrest.

  It was unavoidable that the trial and its dreadful sequel should be a cause of pain to many estimable people, including his cousin Reuben—against whom he had hatched such a dastardly plot in the years gone by. To my wife, who had been almost in the position of a relative, the whole sordidly tragic affair was so harrowing that we tacitly agreed not to speak of it. Even I, who had known the man in the days of his prosperity and respectability, could hardly bring myself to contemplate his present terrible plight; and I was almost disposed to resent Thorndyke’s calm, impersonal interest in the trial and his satisfaction at the conviction and the sentence. For a man so kindly by nature, this callousness—as it appeared to me—seemed surprising and hardly natural. I think I must have given expression to some such sentiments on the day, I remember, when the execution had just taken place, and he was calmly collecting the notes and memoranda of the case to put away in the files where the records were kept. His reply was characteristic and, looking back, I am not much disposed to cavil at it.

  “I understand, Jervis,” said he, “your personal discomfort in contemplating this tragedy; the shipwreck of a life that started with so much promise and had such potentialities of usefulness and success. But it is a mistake to grow sentimental over the Nemesis that awaits the criminal. The most far-reaching mercy that can be exercised in social life is to safeguard the liberties of those who respect the liberties of others. Believe me, Jervis, the great purveyor of human happiness is not philanthropy, which seeks to soften the lot of the unworthy, but justice, which secures to the worthy the power to achieve their own happiness, by protecting them from the wrong-doer and the social parasite.”

  DR THORNDYKE INTERVENES (1933) [Part 1]

  CHAPTER I

  Of a Strange Treasure Trove and a Double Life

  The attendant at the cloak room at Fenchurch Street Station glanced at the ticket which had just been handed to him by a tall, hawk-faced and rather anxious-looking man, and ran an inquiring eye over the assemblage of trunks, bags and other objects that crowded the floor of the room.

  “Wooden, iron-bound case, you said?” he remarked.

  “Yes. Name of Dobson on the label. That looks like the one,” he added, craning over the barrier and watching eagerly as the attendant threaded his way among the litter of packages.

  “Dobson it is,” the man confirmed, stooping over the case, and, with an obviously puzzled expression, comparing the ticket that had been pasted on it with the counterfoil which he held in his hand. “Rum affair, though,” he added. “It seems to be your case but it has got the wrong number on it. Will you come in and have a look at it and see that it is all right?”

  The presumptive owner offered no objection. On the contrary, he raised the bar of the barrier with the greatest alacrity and took the shortest route among the trunks and portmanteaux until he arrived at the place where the case was standing. And then his expression became even more puzzled than that of the attendant.

  “This is very extraordinary,” he exclaimed.

  “What is?” demanded the attendant.

  “Why!” the other explained, “it is the right name and the same sort of case; but this is not the label that I wrote and I don’t believe that it is the same case.”

  The attendant regarded him with a surprised grin and again remarked that “it was a rum affair,” adding, after a reflective pause: “It rather looks as if there had been some mistake, as there easily might be with two cases exactly alike and the same name on both. Were the contents of your case of any particular value?”

  “They were, indeed!” the owner exclaimed in an agitated tone. “That case contained property worth several thousand pounds.”

  The attendant whistled and apparently began to see things in a new light, for he asked a little anxiously: “When do you say you deposited the case?”

  “Late on Saturday evening.”

  “Yes, I thought I remembered,” said the attendant. “Then the muddle, if there has been one, must have happened yesterday. I wasn’t here then. It was my Sunday off. But are you quite sure that this is really not your case?”

  “It certainly is not the label that I wrote,” was the reply. “But I won’t swear that it is a different case; though I don’t think that it is the right one. But you see, as the name on the label is my name and the address is my address, it can’t be a matter of a simple mistake. It looks like a case of deliberate substitution. And that seems to be borne out by the fact that the change must have been made on a Sunday when the regular attendant was not here.”

  “Yes,” the other agreed, “there’s no denying that it does look a bit fishy. But look here, sir; if your name and address is on the label, you are entitled to assume that this is your case. As you say, it is either yours or it is a deliberate substitute, and, in either case, you have the right to open it and see if your property is inside. That will settle the question right away. I can lend you a screw-driver.”

  The presumptive owner caught eagerly at the suggestion and began forthwith to untie the thick cord which surrounded the case. The screw-driver was produced, and, while the official turned away to attend to two other clients, it was plied vigorously on the eight long screws by which the lid of the case was secured.

  The two newcomers, of whom one appeared to be an American and the other an Englishman, had come to claim a number of trunks and travelling-bags; and as some of these, especially those belonging to the American gentleman, were of imposing dimensions, the attendant prudently admi
tted them that they might identify their packages and so save unnecessary hauling about. While they were carrying out their search he returned to Mr. Dobson and watched him as he extracted the last of the screws.

  “Now we shall see whether there has been any jiggery pokery,” he remarked, when the screw had been laid down with the others, and Mr. Dobson prepared to raise the lid. And in fact they did see; and a very singular effect the sight had on them both. Mr. Dobson sprang back with a gasp of horror and the attendant uttered the single word “Golly!”

  After staring into the case incredulously for a couple of amazed seconds, Dobson slammed down the lid and demanded, breathlessly, “Where can I find a policeman?”

  “You’ll find one somewhere near the barrier or else just outside the station. Or you could get on the phone and—”

  Mr. Dobson did not wait to hear the conclusion of the sentence but darted out towards the barrier and disappeared in the direction of the main entrance. Meanwhile, the two strangers, who had apparently overheard Mr. Dobson’s question, abandoned for the time being the inspection of their luggage and approached the case, on which the attendant’s eyes were still riveted.

  “Anything amiss?” the Englishman asked.

  The attendant made no reply but silently lifted the lid of the case, held it up for a moment or two and then let it drop.

  “Good Lord!” exclaimed the Englishman, “it looks like a man’s head!”

  “It is a man’s head,” the attendant confirmed. And, in fact, there was no doubt about it, though only a hairy crown was visible, through a packing of clothes or rags.

  “Who is the chappie who has just bolted out?” the Englishman inquired. “He seemed mightily taken aback.”

  “So would you have been,” the attendant retorted, “if you had come to claim a package and found this in its place.” He followed up this remark with a brief summary of the circumstances.

  “Well!” observed the American, “I have heard it said that exchange is no robbery, but I guess that the party who made this exchange got the best of the deal.”

  The Englishman grinned. “You are right there, Mr. Pippet,” said he. “I’ve heard of a good many artful dodges for disposing of a superfluous corpse, but I have never heard of a murderer swapping it for a case of jewellery or bullion.”

  The three men stood silently looking at the case and occasionally glancing round in the direction of the entrance. Presently the American inquired:

  “Is there any particular scarcity of policemen in this city?”

  The attendant looked round again anxiously towards the entrance.

  “He is a long time finding that policeman,” said he in reply to the implied comment.

  “Yes,” rejoined Mr. Pippet; “and I guess that policeman will be a long time finding him.”

  The attendant turned on him with a distinctly startled expression.

  “You don’t think he has done a bunk, do you?” he asked uneasily.

  “Well,” replied Pippet, “he didn’t waste any time in getting outside, and he doesn’t seem to have had much luck in what he went for. I reckon one of us had better have a try. You know the place better than I do, Buffham.”

  “Yes, sir, if you would,” urged the attendant. “I can’t leave the place myself. But I think we ought to have a constable as soon as possible, and it does rather look as if that gent had mizzled.”

  On this, Mr. Buffham turned and rapidly made his way through the litter of trunks and packages and strode away towards the entrance through which he vanished, while the attendant reluctantly tore himself away from the mysterious case to hand out one or two rugs and suitcases, and Mr. Pippet resumed his salvage operations on his trunks and portmanteaux. In less than three minutes Mr. Buffham was seen returning with a constable, and the attendant raised the barrier to admit them. Apparently, Mr. Buffham had given the officer a general sketch of the circumstances as they had come along, for the latter remarked, as he eyed the case:

  “So this is the box of mystery, is it? And you say that there is a person’s head inside it?”

  “You can see for yourself,” said the attendant; and with this he raised the lid, and, having peered in, he looked at the constable, who, after an impassive and judicial survey, admitted that it did look like a man’s head, and produced from his pocket a portentous, black note book.

  “The first question,” said he, “is about this man who has absconded. Can you give me a description of him?”

  The three men consulted and between them evolved a description which might have been illuminating to anyone who was intimately acquainted with the absent stranger, but furnished indifferent material for the identification of an unknown individual. They agreed, however, that he was somewhat tall and dark, with a thin face, a Torpedo beard and moustache, and a rather prominent nose; that he was dressed in dark-coloured clothing and wore a soft felt hat. Mr. Pippet further expressed the opinion that the man’s hair and beard were dyed.

  “Yes,” said the constable, closing his note book, “he seems to have been a good deal like other people. They usually are. That’s the worst of it. If people who commit crimes would only be a bit more striking in their appearance and show a little originality in the way they dress, it would make things so much more simple for us. But it’s a queer affair. The puzzle is what he came here for, and why, having come, he proceeded to do a bolt. He couldn’t have known what was in the case, or he wouldn’t have come. And, if the case wasn’t his, I don’t see why he should have hopped it and put himself under suspicion. I had better take your names and addresses, gentlemen, as you saw him, though you don’t seem to have much to tell. Then I think I will get on the phone to headquarters.”

  He re-opened the note book and, having taken down the names and addresses of the two gentlemen, went out in search of the telephone.

  As he departed, Mr. Pippet, apparently dismissing the mysterious case from his mind as an affair finished and done with, reverted to the practical business of sorting out his luggage, in which occupation he was presently joined by Mr. Buffham.

  “I am going to get a taxi,” said the former, “to take me to my hotel—the Pendennis in Great Russell Street. Can I put you down anywhere? I see you’re travelling pretty light.”

  Mr. Buffham cast a deprecating eye on the modest portmanteau which contained his entire outfit and a questioning eye on the imposing array of trunks and bags which appertained to his companion, and reflected for a moment.

  “The taxi-man will jib at your lot,” said he, “without adding mine to it.”

  “Yes,” agreed Pippet, “I shall have to get two taxis in any case, so one of them can’t complain of an extra package. Where are you putting up?”

  “I am staying for a few days at a boarding house in Woburn Place; not so very far from you. But I was thinking that, when we have disposed of our traps, you might come and have some dinner with me at a restaurant that I know of. What do you say?”

  “Why, the fact is,” said Pippet, “that I was just about to make the very same proposal, only I was going to suggest that we dine together at my hotel. And, if you don’t mind, I think it will be the better plan, as I have got a suite of rooms that we can retire to after dinner for a quiet yarn. Do you mind?”

  Mr. Buffham did not mind. On the contrary, he accepted with something approaching eagerness. For his own reasons, he had resolved to cultivate the not very intimate acquaintanceship which had been established during the voyage from New York to Tilbury, and he was better pleased to do so at Mr. Pippet’s expense than at his own; and the mention of the suite of rooms had strongly confirmed him in his resolution. A man who chartered a suite of rooms at a London hotel must be something more than substantial. But Mr. Pippet’s next observation gave him less satisfaction.

  “You are wondering, I suppose, what a solitary male like me can want with a suite of rooms all to himself. The explanation is that I am not all by myself. I am expecting my daughter and sister over from Paris tomorrow, and I can�
�t have them hanging about in the public rooms with no corner to call their own. But, until they arrive, I am what they call en garçon over there.”

  Having thus made clear his position, Mr. Pippet went forth and shortly returned accompanied by two taxi-men of dour aspect and taciturn habit, who silently collected the baggage and bore it out to their respective vehicles, which, in due course, set forth upon their journey.

  Before following them, we may linger awhile to note the results of the constable’s mission. They were not very sensational. In the course of a few minutes, an inspector arrived, and, having made a brief confirmatory inspection, called for the screws and the screwdriver and proceeded in an impassive but workmanlike manner to replace the former in their holes and drive them home. Then he, in his turn, sent out for a taxi-man, by whom the case with its gruesome contents was borne out unsuspectingly to the waiting vehicle and spirited away to an unknown destination.

  When Mr. Buffham’s solitary portmanteau had been dumped down in the hall of a somewhat seedy house in Woburn Place, the two taxis moved on to the portals of the quiet but select hotel in Great Russell Street, where the mountainous pile of baggage was handed over to the hotel porter with brief directions as to its disposal. Then the two men, after the necessary ablutions, made their way to the dining-room and selected a table in a comparatively retired corner, where Mr. Buffham waited in some anxiety as to the quality of the entertainment. His experience of middle-aged American men had given him the impression that they were not, as a class, enthusiastic feeders, and it was with sensible relief that he discovered in his host the capacity to take a reasonable interest in his food. In fact, the gastronomic arrangements were so much to his satisfaction that, for a time, they engaged his entire attention; for, if the whole truth must be told, this dinner was not an entirely unforeseen contingency, and, as he had providently modified his diet with that possibility in view, he was now in a condition to do complete justice to the excellent fare provided. Presently, however, when the razor-edge had been taken off his appetite, his attention reverted to larger interests and he began cautiously to throw out feelers. Not that an extreme amount of caution was really necessary, for Mr. Pippet was a simple, straightforward, open-minded man; shrewd enough in the ordinary business of life and gifted with a massive common-sense. But he was quite devoid of cunning, and trustful of his fellow-creatures to an extent that is somewhat unusual in citizens of the United States. He was, in fact, the exact opposite in mental and moral type of the man who faced him across the table.