The Third R. Austin Freeman Megapack

by R. Austin Freeman

  Peck turned the sheet over and glanced at the certificate; then he turned it back and once more read through the letter.

  “It’s an astonishing thing,” said he. “The blackmail works out at two thousand a year. Gillum must have had some pretty hefty secrets if he was prepared to pay that. But I don’t quite see where I come in.”

  “You come in,” said Thorndyke, “at precisely the point which you, yourself have indicated: the identity of the blackmailer and the subject of the blackmail.”

  Peck looked at him in astonishment. “I don’t understand what you mean,” said he. “This man, Gillum, travelled on my ship from Australia to Europe. He came on board a complete stranger to me; he went ashore at Marseilles, and I never saw him again. Moreover, I have been abroad for nearly two years, and I came back only a couple of months ago. How could I know anything about Gillum or his blackmailers?”

  “It had occurred to me,” Thorndyke replied, “that the blackmailers might have been some of his fellow passengers on that voyage, and that the blackmail might have been based on some incidents that had occurred on board. What do you say to that?”

  “It is quite possible,” replied Peck, “but I know of nothing to support the idea. Gillum seemed to be on good terms with everybody, and, as to the other passengers, I knew very little about them. A much more likely source of information would be the purser, if you could get into touch with him. He knew Gillum better than I did, and he knew more about the passengers. Get hold of him if you can. His name is Webb. Abel Webb.”

  “Abel Webb is dead,” said Thorndyke. “He was found dead about a week after the date of that letter.”

  Dr. Peck stared at Thorndyke, round-eyed and open-mouthed. “Good God!” he exclaimed. “Found dead! Don’t tell me that he committed suicide, too.”

  “It was suggested that he did,” Thorndyke replied, “but it is more probable that he was murdered. The jury returned an open verdict.”

  For some seconds Peck sat motionless and silent, his wide-open blue eyes fixed, with an expression of horror, on Thorndyke’s face. At length he said in a low tone, as if deeply moved: “You are making my flesh creep, doctor. Two of the ship’s company cut off by violence in a few months! I almost ask myself if it will be my turn next.”

  There was a long pause, during which Peck and Thorndyke looked at each other in silence and I continued my observation of the former. He was a rather good-looking man, clean-shaved and well groomed, with close-cropped light-brown hair and clear blue eyes. His manners were easy and pleasant, and he had an undeniably engaging personality. And yet, somehow, I did not very much like him; and I liked him least when he smiled and exposed an unpleasing array of false teeth, mingled with one or two rather discoloured “aboriginals.” He had better have kept his moustache.

  Well, doctor,” he said, suddenly recovering himself and handing the letter back to Thorndyke—who replaced it in the portfolio—“you see what my position is. I should have liked to help you, but I really have no connection with the business at all.”

  “No,” Thorndyke agreed, “that appears to be the case. But I am not greatly disappointed. It was, as I said, only a forlorn hope. Nevertheless,” he added, as he rose and pocketed the portfolio, “I am greatly obliged to you for having received us so kindly and given us so much of your time.”

  “Not at all,” Peck replied, opening the side door, which gave access to the landing, “I am only sorry that your time has been occupied to so little purpose. Good morning, doctor. Good morning, Dr. Jervis.” He bowed and dismissed us with a genial smile, and we retreated down the shabby stairs and out into the busy High Street.

  CHAPTER XIV

  Further Explorations

  The advantages of modern transport do not include facilities for conversation. The fact was recognised by us both as we sat in the motor omnibus which bore us at lightning speed—when it was not held up by an immovable jam of other lightning speeders—from the cosmopolitan region in which Dr. Peck had pitched his tent towards the less picturesque but more respectable west. But even in a motor-bus thought is possible; and thus I was able to beguile the—intermittently—swift journey by cogitating upon our recent interview.

  As to the results achieved, they were, so far as I was concerned, exactly what I had expected. The man had been absent from England during the whole of the blackmailing period and had nothing whatever to tell. And if Thorndyke had learned anything of his personality—which I had not—the knowledge could be only curious and irrelevant. For the one fact that had emerged was that, for the purposes of our inquiry, Dr. Peck was completely outside the picture.

  When the bus delivered us at Holborn Circus and we strode away along the broad pavement, I ventured to present my views as aforesaid, adding: “It doesn’t seem to me that Snuper’s inquiries have helped us very much, but, of course, I don’t know what discoveries he made.”

  “They were not very sensational,” Thorndyke replied, “and mainly they agree with our own. Peck has just squatted in Whitechapel. His practice consists, at present, of a brass plate and an empty waiting-room, and his arrangements dispense with the inconveniences of a night-bell.”

  “He doesn’t live there, then?”

  “No. He lives at Loughton, on the skirts of Epping Forest, quite accessible to East London, and very delightful in the summer but rather bleak and muddy in the winter.”

  “It is not very obvious why he gave up his chambers,” said I. “Staple Inn is nearer to Whitechapel than Loughton. What else did Snuper find out about him?”

  “Very little. He ascertained that Peck seems to be a solitary man with no discoverable friends or acquaintances; that he spends his spare time in wandering about the far east of London or in long walks in the forest; and also—which is the most curious discovery—that he, apparently, has three banks, and that he visits each of them regularly twice a week.”

  “That really is odd,” said I. “What on earth can he want with three banks? And for what purpose can he make these regular visits? If he has no practice there can be no cash to pay in, and he can’t draw out twice a week, and from three banks, too.”

  Thorndyke smiled in his exasperating way. “There, Jervis,” said he, “is quite a pretty little problem for you to excogitate. Why should a man who has no visible cash income pay in to three banks at once; or, alternatively, why should a man whose visible expenditure is negligible draw out twice a week from three banks?

  “Is there any answer to it?” I asked dismally as we turned into Fetter Lane.

  “There must be,” he replied. “Probably several, and one of them will be the right one. I strongly recommend the problem for your consideration. Attack it constructively. Think of all possible explanations, and then consider which of them is applicable to the present case. And, meanwhile, I suggest that we drop in at Clifford’s Inn and see how Polton is progressing.”

  “What is Polton doing at Clifford’s Inn?” I asked.

  “My dear fellow,” he replied, “he is carrying out your own suggestion; collecting dust for microscopical examination.”

  I smiled acidly at this outrageous fiction; for, of course, my suggestion had been made ironically as an example of superlative futility. The idea had been Thorndyke’s own; and since there must have been some reasonable purpose behind it, I was now all agog to discover what that purpose was. It was not discoverable, however, from Polton’s activities, for they exhibited only the method of procedure, which was, characteristically, orderly and systematic. The vacuum cleaner that he was using consisted of a sort of steel jar, into which the suction tube opened, the latter having a nozzle on which a gauze bag could be fastened. Thus, when the air-tight lid was on the jar and the machine was set working, a stream of dust-laden air was discharged into the bag, which detained the dust and let the air escape through its pores. Polton had provided himself with half a dozen or so of these bags, and, by the time when we arrived—letting ourselves in with a duplicate key of his manufacture—most of them had bee
n filled and now stood in a row on the mantelpiece, each fitted with a label describing the source of its contents and referring to a sketch plan of the premises.

  “You see, sir, I have nearly finished,” said Polton, as Thorndyke glanced along the row of bags and scanned the labels. “I’ve done the bedroom, the kitchen and the larder, and now I am going over this room in sections. But,” he added gloomily, “I’m afraid it will be a poor harvest. The floors are terribly clean. That carpet-sweeper must have taken off the cream of the really valuable dust, and they seem to have used it to a most unnecessary extent. However,” he concluded, “I’ve got what I could out of that sweeper. I’ve combed the brushes and vacuumed the inside thoroughly.”

  “That was a capital idea,” said Thorndyke. “The sweeper is probably quite a storehouse of ancient dust, and of the most useful kind for our purpose. By the way, did you have time to make that key?”

  “Yes, sir,” replied Polton. “I’ve got it here. It’s only a skeleton. There was no use in fiddling about with wards, so I just cut the middle of the bit right out. But it opens the lock all right. I’ve tried it.”

  With this, he produced from his pocket a monstrous skeleton key, such as might have been fabricated by Jack Sheppard to open the gates of Newgate, and handed it to Thorndyke, who remarked as he took it that “they liked good, substantial keys in the days when these houses were built.”

  “What key is it?” I asked.

  “It belongs to—or rather, it opens—the door on the landing, which I have assumed to be that of the staircase leading up to the lumber-room above which you heard Mr. Weech refer to. I hope there isn’t another locked door at the top. Shall we go and see?

  I assented and followed him out to the landing, speculating on his object—if he had one—in surveying the lumber-room. But I asked no question and made no comment. His proceedings in this case were getting out of my depth.

  The big key seemed to fit the lock snugly and shot the bolt back with unexpected ease, but the ancient hinges groaned when Thorndyke pulled the door open and exposed the bottom of a flight of rude steps, a sort of compromise between stairs and a ladder. Only the lower steps were visible, for they rapidly faded upward into the total darkness of the chimney-like cavity, but we both noticed that they bore distinct footprints on their dusty treads. Thorndyke went first, lighting our way with the little electric lamp that he always carried, until we were near the top, when a faint glimmer from above mitigated the darkness, and increased as we ascended.

  There was no landing at the top, but just a space cut out of the floor to accommodate the steps, so that we came up into the room like a couple of stage demons rising through a trap. When he reached the floor level Thorndyke stepped sideways, clear of the well, and stood motionless, peering into the dim interior. I followed him in the same way, to avoid having the dangerous staircase well behind me, and stood beside him, looking about me with mild curiosity.

  It was a rather eerie place; a great, bare room, little lighter than the staircase. For, though there were three large windows, they were all closely shuttered, and what vestiges of light there were filtered in through the cracks and joints at the hinges and folds. But to our accustomed eyes the general features of the place were visible in the dim twilight; the disorderly piles of “junk,” ranged along the sides of the room, shadowy forms of chairs, cupboards, baths, tables, rejected and forgotten and probably ruinous, chandeliers, lengths of water-pipe, and multitudinous indistinguishable objects, the accumulations, it might be, of a century or more. But it was not the “junk” that had attracted Thorndyke’s attention. Along the clear space in the middle of the room a double row of footprints could be seen, extending from the head of the staircase and fading away into the darkness at the farther end.

  “Someone has been up here comparatively recently,” said he, “and went directly to the farther end either to fetch or to deposit something. Perhaps we shall be able to judge which. But before we disturb anything I think we had better take a record of these footprints. Polton has the small camera downstairs as there were one or two photographs to take. I’ll just go and fetch him up. And, meanwhile, you might open one set of shutters, if you can get at the window.”

  He handed me his lamp, and, when I had seen him safely on to the steps, I approached the only accessible window and investigated the fastenings of the shutters. They were simple enough, consisting of a thick wooden bar resting in wooden sockets and requiring merely to be lifted out; and when I had done this I was able to pull back the shutters and let in the light of day. And now I could see how the footprints had come to be so surprisingly distinct on the bare floor. In the years during which this room had lain undisturbed, the dust had been settling continuously until it now formed a thick grey mantle on every horizontal surface and the footprints were almost as clear as if they had been in snow or on a sandy shore. In some the very brads in the soles and heels could be seen.

  I was still examining them and speculating on Thorndyke’s unaccountable interest in them, when the staircase became brightly illuminated and my colleague appeared carrying an inspection lamp and followed by Polton with the camera slung over his shoulder and the tripod under his arm. Apparently he had his instructions, for he proceeded at once to walk along parallel to the tracks, minutely examining each footprint until he found one that satisfied him. Then he opened the tripod, fixed the camera to the attachment specially designed for the purpose, laid a footrule down beside the print, and proceeded to focus them both.

  When he had made the exposure—carefully timed by his watch—and changed the film, he picked up the rule and moved along a few paces, when he halted by a specially clear impression of a left foot, and, having drawn Thorndyke’s attention to its remarkable sharpness, fetched the camera and repeated his former procedure.

  “And now,” said Thorndyke, as Polton carefully re-packed his apparatus, “let us see if we can find out what was the object of this visit; to take something away or to get rid of some unwanted article. The latter seems the more probable.”

  He followed the double line of footprints to a dark corner at the farther end of the room, where they became confused with various large objects—including a big copper bath—which had evidently been moved, as we could see by the marks on the dusty floor. Behind these, and close to the wall, was a pile of dismembered remains—a small cupboard door, a broken tabletop, some odd shelves, pieces of board and fragments of some kind of box or case. A glance at the pile made it evident that the collection had been disturbed, for there were traces of finger-marks on some of the fragments and others seemed to have been wiped, while the heap, as a whole, was free from the thick mantle of dust which shrouded all the untouched objects in the room. Apparently this pile had been the object of the unknown visitor’s activities.

  “It is evident,” said Thorndyke, “that all these things have been moved, and that they were piled up as we see them by the person who made the footprints. Now, the question is: did he take something away or did he add something to the pile? And if he added something, what is it that he added?”

  “It is impossible to say,” I replied, “whether he took anything away, but some of those pieces of wood at the bottom look newer than the rest, and, if they are, they are probably what he added, though it is curious that they should be at the bottom. What do you say, Polton, as a practical wood-worker?”

  “If you mean those bits of a chest or case,” he replied, “I should say they are not more than six months old, and the broken edges are quite fresh. Shall I get them out?”

  Without waiting for an answer he scrambled over the obstructions and proceeded to lift off the upper members of the pile, handing them to Thorndyke and me as he removed them, until he came down to six pieces of board, the clean surfaces of which contrasted noticeably with the ancient grime of the objects that had been removed. When he had handed these out he scrambled back, and he and Thorndyke began a systematic examination of the fragments—rather to my surprise; for there w
as nothing remarkable in their appearance. They seemed to be just the remains of a broken box or case of some kind.

  “What puzzles me,” said Polton, who was keenly interested because he saw that Thorndyke was, “is how these pieces got broken. Sound one-inch board like this takes some breaking. It couldn’t have been an accident; yet why should anyone want to, break up a good piece of board?”

  “What do you suppose it was, originally?” I asked. “Was it some sort of packing-case?”

  “No, sir,” he replied, “it couldn’t have been that. The stuff is too good—prime yellow deal, excepting that bit of American white wood—and so is the workmanship. You see that there are three glued joints and they have all held. It was the wood that broke, not the joints; which means that whoever made it was a proper tradesman who could plane a joint true. Besides, all these pieces were stained on both sides and varnished on one, which must have been the outside. I should say it was a permanent case made to carry some particular thing. You see, there are three grooves in the side piece, so there were three partitions. But whatever it was meant to carry must have been pretty heavy to require one inch board throughout. And just look at the screw-holes. Number eight screws they will have been, and plenty of them, too.”

  “I suppose they are all parts of the same thing?” said I.

  “They seem to be,” he replied, running his footrule along one piece and then resting them upright on the floor. “They are all one length—thirty-nine inches—and these three broken pieces fit together to make a complete top or bottom twenty inches wide, while the other two broken ones seem to make two-thirds of a similar top or bottom; and the screw-holes in them correspond to those in what must have been one of the long sides. That’s what I make of them, sir.”

  As he concluded, he looked enquiringly at Thorndyke, who agreed that the reconstruction appeared to be correct. “But,” he added, “I think we might consider them more conveniently in our own premises. I suppose you have a bit of string about you, Polton?”