The Third R. Austin Freeman Megapack

by R. Austin Freeman

  “I think,” said Benson, “Mortimer can tell us something about that, and I believe he has some suspicions as to who these people are.”

  “We will hear what Mr. Mortimer has to tell us presently,” said Thorndyke. “Meanwhile let us consider the second point. That raises the question whether it is, in fact, expedient to take any action, even with a chance of success.”

  “Expedient?” Benson repeated. “Is there any thing against it besides the difficulty?”

  “I think,” said Thorndyke, “that if we consider the circumstances as they are known to us, we shall see certain objections to taking the kind of action that you contemplate. May I ask whether your cousin was at all a nervous or timorous man? A man easily intimidated?”

  “Most certainly not,” replied Benson. “He was a decidedly bold, self-reliant man.”

  “Very well,” said Thorndyke, “then consider his position at the time of his death. He was being blackmailed by at least one person, and that at the v of two thousand pounds a year. Now, you know, Mr. Benson, it is not usually possible to levy blackmail on a person who has nothing to conceal unless that person is more than ordinarily easily frightened. But your cousin was not easily frightened; and yet he was paying this enormous amount. More over, as you believe, he was so distressed by his position that he took his life to escape from the persecution. What are we to infer from this? Is it possible to resist the inference that there was something in his life that he was compelled to conceal at any price?”

  Benson was evidently a good deal taken aback by Thorndyke’s blunt statement of the case. He remained silent for some moments; then he replied: “It had occurred to me that some mud might be stirred up if we were to bring the blackmailers to justice, but I hadn’t put it as strongly as you have.”

  “It is necessary to face the facts squarely,” said Thorndyke, “and those facts suggest very strongly that your cousin was concealing something highly discreditable; and it could have been no trivial scandal. In that case he could have appealed to the police and would have been given ample protection without any inquisition. The amount which he paid suggests something of extreme gravity; something which he dared not allow to come to light. Therefore, I ask you again, would it not be wiser to let sleeping dogs lie?”

  Once more Benson reflected before replying, but he was not long in coming to a decision. “It might be wiser,” he admitted, “but it would be against justice and common morality. As to the scandal, poor old Jack is dead, so it won’t affect him. And I don’t suppose it was anything that would lessen my respect for him. At any rate, I feel strongly that those devils who drove him to a miserable death ought to be dragged out into the light of day and made to pay their debt.”

  “Yes,” Thorndyke agreed, “I think you are right in principle. But I must finally remind you of the difficulties of the case. Remember that, not only are we without any clue as to who these people were—unless Mr. Mortimer can supply one—but, even if we could discover them, the principal witness—the vital witness, in fact—is dead, and it might easily turn out to be impossible to make out a case against them, or, at any rate, to prove it. Furthermore, the proceedings, involving the employment of private enquiry agents, might prove to be extremely costly; and in the very probable event of total failure, a vast amount of money would have been wasted.”

  “I know,” said Benson, “and it is very good of you to put the matter so clearly. But my mind is made up. Whatever it costs, if you are prepared to undertake the case, I should like you to get on with it. I am a man of ample means, and I am a bachelor; and if I spend every penny that I have, and even if we fail after all, I shall feel that the money was well 1 in trying to bring Jack Gillum’s murderers to the punishment that they deserve.”

  I could see that Benson’s attitude had secured Thorndyke’s warm sympathy, as, indeed, it had secured mine. But I think both of us rather regretted that he should have embarked on an enterprise that was almost certain to end in disappointment.

  “Well, Benson,” my colleague said cordially, “I congratulate you on your courage and your very proper desire for justice. I will certainly do what I can to get you satisfaction; but I warn you that, if the case turns out to be quite impossible, I shall not waste my time and your money in pursuing a will-o’-the-wisp.”

  “Thank you,” replied Benson. “I put myself entirely in your hands, and I promise you to abide loyally by your decision.”

  “Then,” said Thorndyke, “as we are agreed on the conditions, we may as well make a start and see exactly what our position is. You said that Mr. Mortimer could give us some useful information. Perhaps we had better begin with that.”

  He looked enquiringly at Mortimer, who, in his turn, looked a little sheepish.

  “I am afraid,” said he, “that I haven’t much to tell. It is only a matter of suspicion.”

  “Suspicions,” remarked Thorndyke, “are of no use as evidence, but they may be quite useful as indicating a line of enquiry. At any rate, let us have them.”

  “They relate,” said Mortimer, “to some people named Foucault who run a gaming house in Gerrard Street. I went there with Gillum on one occasion; on the very night, in fact, when I first made his acquaintance in a social sense. They were an obviously shady lot; but what specially struck me was that Madame Foucault made a dead set at Gillum—flirted with him, or made a show of doing so, in the most ostentatious, almost indecent, manner before the whole roomful of gamesters.”

  “And was Gillum responsive?” Thorndyke asked.

  “Not in the least,” replied Mortimer. “But Monsieur Foucault was. He watched them closely the whole of the time that they were together, and his expression as he looked at Gillum was positively murderous. And I gathered that there had been some trouble on previous occasions, for Gillum remarked to me on Foucault’s jealousy and made rather a joke of it. And there was no mistaking Foucault’s hostility to Gillum. I noticed it when we met in the restaurant before we followed them to the gambling den.”

  “Have you any further knowledge of these people?” Thorndyke asked.

  “No,” Mortimer answered. “That was the only occasion on which I met them, and I know nothing more than what I have told you. I must confess that there doesn’t seem to be very much in it.”

  “I am inclined to agree with you,” said Thorndyke. “A little made-up scandal of the kind that you suggest might account for an attempt at blackmail on a modest scale. But the one which we are considering seems to have been something much more formidable. Still, I will get you to let me have the names and address of these people so that we may make a few enquiries. And now, as we have squeezed Mr. Mortimer dry, let us hear what Mr. Benson has to tell us.”

  “I am afraid,” said Benson, “that I have nothing at all to tell. You see, it is two years since Gillum left Australia and I know nothing about his doings or way of living since he came to England.”

  “No,” said Thorndyke, “we have to depend on Mr. Mortimer for that. But there is his life in Australia. I want you to review that. Blackmail is usually related to the past, and often to a rather remote past. I ask you to try to recall the circumstances of Gillum’s life in Australia and consider whether there may not have been some incident which could have been the subject of blackmail.”

  “I will think that question over,” said Benson, “but, at the moment, I can recall nothing that could possibly have been used against him to extort money. He had no enemies, he never, to my knowledge, had any troubles with women, and I never heard of any sort of scandal.”

  “Well,” said Thorndyke, “turn the question over at your leisure. Now, as we seem to have drawn a blank in Australia, let us take the next stage, his voyage to England. Do you know anything of the incidents of that voyage?”

  “Not in much detail,” replied Benson; “but I came to England in the same ship, and I had some talk about him with the captain and the first officer.”

  “Then,” said Thorndyke, “try to recall what you learned from them
and consider whether there was anything—in his relations with the other passengers, for instance—that might be worth enquiring into.”

  “I don’t think he had much to do with the other passengers. There were only a few of them—the ship was chiefly a cargo ship—and they were mostly men in the meat trade. I gathered that Gillum spent most of his time playing cards with the doctor and the purser in their cabins, particularly in the purser’s room. Those two men were his special cronies, and, by all accounts, he struck up a very close friendship with them both.”

  “Then,” said Thorndyke, “they ought to be able to tell us all about the voyage and who the other passengers were.”

  “Why do you suppose anything happened on the ship?” Benson asked.

  “I am merely considering it as a possibility,” Thorndyke replied. “Remember, Benson, that something happened somewhere. That blackmail was not paid for nothing; and as we have not yet found a starting-point for an inquiry, we must trace Gillum’s doings and his contacts with other persons as well as we can. Probably these two men are at present not available for inquiries. I suppose the ship is now outward bound?”

  “Yes,” replied Benson, “but neither of those men is on board. Both of them left the ship and the service at the end of the voyage. I learned that when I was on board.”

  “You meau that they both left the ship at the same time as Gillum?” Thorndyke asked.

  “Not actually at the same time,” Benson replied. “Gillum went ashore at Marseilles and travelled over land, making a leisurely journey across France so as to see something of the country. I think he arrived in England about six weeks or two months after the others. But I know that the doctor and the purser both left the service at the end of the voyage, when they had settled their business with the owners.”

  “Then,” said Thorndyke, “it is possible that their relations with Gillum may have continued during the time of his residence in England, in fact, it is rather likely. You don’t, I suppose, know where it would be possible to find them?

  “I asked about them at the shipping office,” replied Benson. “As to the doctor, they knew nothing but that he had some idea of going into practice or else getting a job on a different line. But the purser is certainly beyond our reach. He is dead. They told me about him when I called at the office. It seems that he died under rather mysterious circumstances, for there was some uncertainty as to whether he had committed suicide or had been murdered. But I don’t know any of the details. As the man was a stranger to me, I didn’t go into the matter.”

  “No,” said Thorndyke, “but I think we shall have find out what the circumstances were. A suicide, and still more a murder, seems to demand investigation. Do you remember the purser’s name?”

  “Yes,” replied Benson, “his name was Abel Webb.”

  “Abel Webb!” Mortimer exclaimed in a tone of the utmost astonishment. “Why, that was the name of the man whose body I discovered in the porch of St. Michael’s Church. It is a most astonishing coincidence. And what makes it still more so is the fact that the finding of that body was the occasion of my making Gillum’s acquaintance.”

  “You had better tell us about that,” said Thorndyke. “I mean as to Gillum’s connection with your discovery. The case itself I remember quite clearly.”

  “It happened this way,” said Mortimer. “I had seen the police carry the body down to the ambulance and was standing there in the crowd waiting to see it move off when someone came up and asked me what the excitement was about and whether it was a motor accident. I turned round to answer, and then I recognised the questioner as one of the bank’s customers, Mr. Gillum. I told him what had happened, and I also told him, and he could see for himself that I was a good deal upset by the affair. He was extremely kind and sympathetic and eventually insisted on taking me off in a taxi to dine with him at a restaurant. And it was that same evening after dinner, that I went with him to the gaming house that I told you about.”

  “I take it,” said Thorndyke, “that you did not know at the time who the dead man was.”

  “No,” answered Mortimer. “I learned that first at the inquest.”

  “Did Gillum come forward to give any evidence as to deceased at the inquest or afterwards?”

  “He couldn’t have come forward before the inquest because the identity of the deceased had not been disclosed. But I should say that he never did.”

  “Do you know whether Gillum ever learned who the dead man was?”

  “I know he did, for I discussed the case with him. He had read a very full report of the inquest and seemed to remember all about the evidence. And the report contained not only the name of the deceased but his description as a former purser of one of the Dominion Line ships.”

  “Did he tell you much about his relations with Webb?”

  “No,” replied Mortimer, “the astonishing thing is that he never let drop the faintest hint that he had ever heard of the man before. In our talk about the inquest, he spoke of the dead man as if he had been a complete stranger.”

  “That is very extraordinary,” exclaimed Benson.

  “It is,” Mortimer agreed, “though Gillum’s reticence in this case is less remarkable than another man’s would have been, for he was reticent about everything; I might almost say, secretive. He never told me anything about himself—excepting his gambling exploits. He was confidential enough about those. But he was extraordinarily close respecting his private affairs. You will hardly believe it, but until after his death I never knew that he had been in Australia.”

  When Mortimer had finished speaking, a rather curious silence fell on us all. Benson looked puzzled, but he made no remark and put no question to Mortimer. But I could see that the latter’s statement had made a deep impression on Thorndyke, as it had on me; and when the discussion was resumed, the drift of his questions made it clear to me that what had struck me had also struck him.

  “I think,” said he, “that Webb’s death occurred about a year ago. Do you happen to remember the approximate date, Mortimer?”

  “I remember the exact date,” was the reply. “It was the ninth of last September.”

  Thorndyke made a note of the date and then remarked: “The fact that Abel Webb met a violent death makes it necessary to look rather more closely into the incidents of the voyage to England. Of course, there may be no’ connection; but it is an abnormal circumstance and we are bound to take note of it. And as Abel Webb has gone out of our ken, the only person left from whom we could get any in is the doctor. Benson can’t tell us where he is to be found, but a doctor is usually easy to trace, as he is bound to keep the Registrar informed as to changes of address. What was his name?”

  “His name was Peck,” replied Benson. “Augustus Peck.”

  “I will look him up in the directory,” said Thorndyke “or at the Registrar’s office and see if we can get into touch with him. And now, Mortimer, to return to the evidences of blackmail. Apart from the large drafts that you have mentioned, evidently connected with the letters that were found, is there any positive suggestion of other payments, earlier in date. It is important that we should fix, if possible, the time when the blackmailing began. Can you tell us anything definite about that?”

  “Yes,” replied Mortimer, “I think I can. Quite recently I have gone into the question afresh. Benson has kindly lent me Gillum’s pass-book so that I could study it at home. I have gone through it very care fully, and it occurred to me that if I made a graph of the dates and amounts, any small periodic fluctuations would be made visible.”

  “Excellent,” said Thorndyke. “And what did your graph show?”

  “It showed a small periodic rise corresponding roughly with the ordinary quarter days. This began quite early, within a month of the opening of the account, and it went on until the big drafts began.”

  “Do you say,” Thorndyke asked, “that the small rises ceased when the large drafts began, or were you unable to ascertain that?”

  “I am disp
osed to think that the small rises ceased when the large quarterly payments began, though they might have become merged in higher rises of the curve due to the big payments. But, allowing for the possibility of this confusion, the smaller payments ceased and were replaced by the larger.”

  “What were the amounts of the smaller payments?”

  “So far as I could judge, the excess above the ordinary withdrawals would be about two hundred pounds a quarter.”

  “What did you infer from this? Did it seem to you to suggest that there was more than one blackmailer?”

  “No,” replied Mortimer. “My reading of it was that there was only one; that for about a year he had been satisfied with a payment of something like eight hundred a year, and that he had then suddenly raised his demands. That would account for the smaller payments ceasing when the larger ones began.”

  “Yes,” Thorndyke agreed, “that appears to be a a reasonable inference. But it is difficult to judge. We really want to know more about Gillum’s private life and habits; but I don’t see where we are to gain the knowledge.”

  “I think,” said Benson, “that Mortimer may be able to help you in that. He is writing some sort of account of his connection with my cousin. How are you getting on with it, Mortimer?”

  “I have finished it,” Mortimer replied, “but I don’t think it would be of much use to Dr. Thorndyke. You see,” he continued in response to an enquiring glance from my colleague, “it occurred to me after the inquest that it would be rather interesting to put on record, while the facts were still fresh in my memory, the whole incident of my acquaintance with John Gillum; and I have found it quite interesting to write, but I don’t think it would be very thrilling to read. And I doubt whether it would be of any use to you, for I wrote it without any thought of an inquiry such as you are engaged in.”