The Third R. Austin Freeman Megapack

by R. Austin Freeman

  There was a moment’s silence as we both gazed at it in astonishment and Thorndyke regarded us with a quizzical smile. Then Polton, whose eyes seemed ready to drop out, exclaimed:

  “God bless my soul! Why, they are Mr. Haire’s teeth!”

  Thorndyke nodded. “Good!” said he. “You recognize these teeth as being similar to those of Gus Haire?

  “They aren’t similar,” said Polton; “they are identically the same. Of course, I know that they can’t actually be his teeth, but they are absolutely the same in appearance: the same white, chalky patches, the same brown stains, and the same little blackish-brown specks. I recognized them in a moment, and I have never seen anything like them before or since. Now, I wonder how you got hold of them.”

  “Yes,” said I, “that is what I have been wondering. Perhaps the time has come for the explanation of the mystery.”

  “There is not much mystery,” he replied. “These teeth are examples of the rare and curious condition known as “mottled teeth,” of which perhaps the most striking feature is the very local distribution. It is known in many different places, and has been studied very thoroughly in the United States, but wherever it is met with it is confined to a quite small area, though within that area it affects a very large proportion of the inhabitants; so large that it is almost universal. Now, in this country, the most typically endemic area is Maldon; and, naturally, when Polton described Gus Haire’s teeth and told us that Gus was a native of Essex, I thought at once of Maldon.”

  “I wonder, sir,” said Polton, “what there is about Maldon that affects people’s teeth in this way. Has it been explained?”

  “Yes,” Thorndyke replied. “It has been found that wherever mottled teeth occur, the water from springs and wells contains an abnormal amount of fluorine, and the quantity of the fluorine seems to be directly related to the intensity of the mottling. Mr. Ainsworth, whose admirable paper in the British Dental Journal is the source of my information on the subject, collected samples of water from various localities in Essex and analysis of these confirmed the findings of the other investigators. That from Maldon contained the very large amount of five parts per million.”

  “And how did you get this specimen?” I asked.

  “I got into touch with a dental surgeon who practises in Maldon and explained what I wanted. He was most kind and helpful, and, as he has taken an interest in mottled teeth and carefully preserved all his extractions, he was able to supply me not only with this model to produce in court if necessary, but with a few spare teeth for experiments such as section-cutting.”

  “You seem to have taken a lot of trouble,” I remarked, “but I don’t quite see why.”

  “It was just a matter of verification,” he replied. “Polton’s description was clear enough for us as we know Polton; but for the purposes of evidence, the actual identification on comparison is infinitely preferable. Now we may say definitely that Gus Haire’s teeth were true mottled teeth; and if Gus Haire and Gustavus Haire are one and the same person, as they appear to be, then we can say that Mr. Haire has mottled teeth.”

  “But,” I objected, “does it matter to us what his teeth are like?”

  “Ah!” said he, “that remains to be seen. But if it should turn out that it does matter, we have the fact.”

  “And are we going to pass the fact on to Blandy? It seems to be more his concern than ours.”

  “I think,” he replied, “that, as a matter of principle, we ought to, though I agree with Polton that the information will not be of much value to him. Perhaps we might invite him to drop in and see the specimen and take Polton’s depositions. Will you communicate with him?”

  I undertook to convey the invitation; and when the specimen had been put away in the cabinet, we dismissed the subject of mottled teeth and returned to our task of revision.

  But that invitation was never sent; for, on the following morning, the inspector forestalled it by ringing us up on the telephone to ask for an interview, he having, as he informed us, some new and important facts which he would like to discuss with us. Accordingly, with Thorndyke’s concurrence, I made an appointment for that evening, which happened to be free of other engagements.

  It was natural that I should speculate with some interest on the nature of the new facts that Blandy had acquired. I even attempted to discuss the matter with Thorndyke, but he, I need not say, elected to postpone discussion until we had heard the facts. Polton, on the other hand, was in a twitter of curiosity, and I could see that he had made up his mind by hook or by crook to be present at the interview; to which end, as the hour of the appointment drew near, he first placed an easy-chair for the inspector, flanked by a small table furnished with a decanter of sherry and a box of cigarettes, and then covered the main table with a portentous array of microscopes, slide-trays, and cabinets. Having made these arrangements, he seated himself opposite a microscope and looked at his watch; and I noticed thereafter that the watch got a good deal more attention than the microscope.

  At length, punctually to the minute, the inspector’s modest rat-tat sounded on the knocker, and Polton, as if actuated by a hidden spring, shot up from his chair like a Jack-in-the-box and tripped across to the door. Throwing it open, with a flourish, he announced “Inspector Blandy,” whereupon Thorndyke and I rose to receive our guest, and, having installed him in his chair, filled his, glass and opened the cigarette-box while Polton stole back to his seat and glued his eye to the microscope.

  My first glance at the inspector as he entered assured me that he expected to spring a surprise on us. But I didn’t intend to let him have it all his own way. As he sipped his sherry and selected a cigarette from the box, I anticipated his offensive and took the initiative. “Well, Blandy, I suppose we may assume that you have caught your Haire?”

  “I deprecate the word ‘caught’ as applied to Mr. Haire,” he answered, beaming on me, “but, in fact, we have not yet had the pleasure of meeting him. It is difficult to trace a man of whom one has no definite description.”

  “Ah!” said I, “that is where we are going to help you. We can produce the magic touchstone which would identify the man instantly.”

  Here I took the denture-box from the table, where it had been placed in readiness, and, having taken out the model, handed it to him. He regarded it for a while with an indulgent smile and then looked enquiringly at me.

  “This is a very singular thing, Dr. Jervis,” said he. “Apparently a dentist’s casting-model. But the teeth look like natural teeth.”

  “They look to me like deuced unnatural teeth,” said I, “but, such as they are, they happen to be an exact facsimile of Mr. Haire’s teeth.”

  Blandy was visibly impressed, and he examined the model with a new interest.

  “I am absolutely astounded,” said he; “not so much at the strange appearance of the teeth, though they are odd enough, as by your apparently unbounded resources. May I ask how you made this extraordinary discovery?”

  Thorndyke gave him a brief account of the investigation which Polton confirmed and amplified, to which he listened with respectful attention.

  “Well,” he commented, “it is a remarkable discovery and would be a valuable one if the identity had to be proved. In the existing circumstances it is not of much value, for Mr. Haire is known to wear a moustache, and we may take it that his facial expression is not at all like that of the Cheshire Cat. And you can’t stop a stranger in the street and ask him to show you his teeth.”

  He handed the model back to me, arid, having refreshed himself with a sip of wine, opened the subject of his visit.

  “Speaking of identity, I have learned some new facts concerning the body which was found in Mr. Haire’s house. I got my information from a rather unexpected source. Now, I wonder whether you can guess the name of my informant.”

  Naturally, I could not, and, as Thorndyke refused to hazard a guess, the inspector disclosed his secret with the air of a conjuror producing a goldfish from a hat box.
“My informant,” said he, “is Mr. Cecil Moxdale.”

  “What!” I exclaimed, “the dead man!”

  “The dead man,” he repeated; “thereby refuting the common belief that dead men tell no tales.”

  “This is most extraordinary,” said I, “though, as a matter of fact, the body was never really identified. But why did Moxdale not come forward sooner?”

  “It seems,” replied Blandy, “that he was travelling in the South of France at the time of the fire and, naturally, heard nothing about it. He has only just returned, and, in fact, would not have come back so soon but for the circumstance that he happened to see a copy of The Times in which the legal notice appeared in connection with his uncle’s death.”

  “Then I take it,” said Thorndyke, “that he made his first appearance at the solicitor’s office.”

  “Exactly,” replied Blandy; “and there he learned about his supposed death, and the solicitors communicated with me. I had left them my address and asked them to advise me in the case of any new developments.”

  There was a short pause, during which we all considered this “new development.” Then Thorndyke commented: “The reappearance of Moxdale furnishes conclusive negative evidence as to the identity of the body. Could he give any positive evidence?”

  “Nothing that you could call evidence,” replied Blandy. “Of course, he knows nothing. But he has done a bit of guessing; and there may be something in what he says.”

  “As to the identity of the body?” Thorndyke asked.

  “Yes. He thinks it possible that the dead man may have been a man named O’Grady. The relations between Haire and O’Grady seem to have been rather peculiar; intimate but not friendly. In fact, Haire appears to have had an intense dislike for the other man, but yet they seem to have associated pretty constantly, and Moxdale has a strong impression that O’Grady used to “touch” Haire for a loan now and again, if they were really loans. Moxdale suspects that they were not; in short, to put it bluntly he suspects that Haire was being blackmailed by O’Grady.”

  “No details, I suppose?”

  “No. It is only a suspicion. Moxdale doesn’t know anything and he doesn’t want to say too much; naturally, as Haire is his cousin.”

  “But how does this bear on the identity of the body?”

  “Doesn’t it seem to you to have a bearing? The blackmailing, I mean, if it can be established. Blackmailers have a way of dying rather suddenly.”

  “But,” I objected, “it hasn’t been established. It is only a suspicion, and a rather vague one at that.”

  “True,” he admitted, “and very justly observed. Yet we may bear the suspicion in mind, especially as we have a fact which, taken in connection with that suspicion, has a very direct bearing on the identity of the body. Moxdale tells me that O’Grady had an appointment with Haire at his, Haire’s, rooms in the forenoon of the fourteenth of April; the very day on which Haire must have started for Dublin. He knows this for a fact, as he heard O’Grady make the appointment. Now, that appointment, at that place and on that date, strikes me as rather significant.”

  “Apparently, Moxdale finds it significant, too,” said I. “The suggestion seems to be that Haire murdered O’Grady and went away, leaving his corpse in the rooms.”

  “Moxdale didn’t put it that way,” said Blandy.

  “He suggested that O’Grady might have had the use of the rooms while Haire was away. But that is mere speculation, and he probably doesn’t believe it himself. Your suggestion is the one that naturally occurs to us; and if it is correct, we can understand why Haire is keeping out of sight. Don’t you think so?”

  The question was addressed to Thorndyke with a persuasive smile. But my colleague did not seem to be impressed.

  “The figure of O’Grady,” he said, “seems to be rather shadowy and elusive, as, in fact, does the whole story. But perhaps Moxdale gave you a more circumstantial account of the affair.”

  “No, he did not,” replied Blandy. “But my talk with him was rather hurried and incomplete. I dropped in on him without an appointment and found him just starting out to keep an engagement, so I only had a few minutes with him. But he voluntarily suggested a further meeting to go into matters in more detail; and I then ventured to ask if he would object to your being present at the interview, as you represent the insurance people, and he had no objection at all.

  “Now, how would you like me to bring him along here so that you could hear his account in detail and put such questions as you might think necessary to elucidate it? I should be glad if you would let me, as you know so much about the case. What do you say?”

  Thorndyke was evidently pleased at the proposal and made no secret of the fact, for he replied: “It is very good of you, Blandy, to make this suggestion. I shall be delighted to meet Mr. Moxdale and see if we can clear up the mystery of that body. Does your invitation include Jervis?”

  “Of course it does,” Blandy replied, heartily, “as he is a party to the inquiry; and Mr. Polton, too, for that matter, seeing that he discovered the crucial fact. But, you understand that Moxdale knows nothing about that.”

  “No,” said Thorndyke; “but if it should seem expedient for the purposes of the examination to let him know that the fire was raised by Haire, do you agree to my telling him?”

  The inspector looked a little dubious. “We don’t want to make any unnecessary confidences,” said he. “But, still, I think I had better leave it to your discretion to tell him anything that may help the inquiry.”

  Thorndyke thanked him for the concession, and, when one of two dates had been agreed on for the interview, the inspector took his leave, wreathed in smiles and evidently well satisfied with the evening’s work.

  CHAPTER XVIII

  Thorndyke Administers a Shock

  “I wonder, sir,” said Polton, as the hour approached I for the arrival of our two visitors, “how we had better arrange the room. Don’t want it to look too much like a committee meeting. But there’s rather a lot of us for a confidential talk.”

  “It isn’t so particularly confidential,” I replied. “If there are any secrets to be revealed, they are not Moxdale’s. He didn’t pose as a dead man. The deception was Haire’s.”

  “That’s true, sir,” Polton rejoined with evident relief. “Still, I think I won’t make myself too conspicuous, as he may regard me as an outsider.”

  The plan that he adopted seemed to me to have exactly the opposite effect to that intended, for, having arranged four chairs around the fireplace with a couple of small tables for wine and cigars, he placed a microscope and some trays of slides on the large table, drew up a chair and prepared to look preoccupied.

  At eight o’clock precisely our visitors arrived, and, as I admitted them, I glanced with natural curiosity at “the deceased,” and was impressed rather favourably by his appearance. He was a good-looking man, about five feet nine or ten in height, broad-shouldered, well set-up, and apparently strong and athletic; with a pleasant, intelligent face, neither dark nor fair, a closely-cropped dark moustache and clear grey eyes. He greeted me with a friendly smile, but I could see that, in spite of Polton’s artful plans, he was a little taken aback by the size of the party, and especially by the apparition of Polton, himself; seated necromantically behind his microscope.

  But Thorndyke soon put him at his ease, and, when the introductions had been effected (including “Mr. Polton, our technical adviser”), we took our seats and opened the proceedings with informal and slightly frivolous conversation.

  “We should seem to be quite old acquaintances, Mr. Moxdale,” said Thorndyke, “seeing that I have had the honour of testifying to a coroner’s jury as to the cause of your death. But that sort of acquaintanceship is rather one-sided.”

  “Yes,” Moxdale agreed, “it is a queer position. I come back to England to find myself the late Mr. Moxdale and have to introduce myself as a resurrected corpse. It is really quite embarrassing.”

  “It must be,” Thorndyk
e agreed, “and not to you alone; for, since you have resigned from the role of the deceased, you have put on us the responsibility of finding a name for your understudy. But the inspector tells us that you can give us some help in our search.”

  “Well,” said Moxdale, “it is only a guess, and I may be all abroad. But there was someone in that house when it was burned, and, as I was not that someone, I naturally ask myself who he could have been. I happen to know of one person who might have been there, and I don’t know of any other. That’s the position. Perhaps there isn’t much in it, after all.”

  “A vulgar saying,” Blandy remarked, “has it that half a loaf is better than no bread. A possible person is at least something to start on. But we should like to know as much as we can about that person. What can you tell us?”

  “Ah!” said Moxdale, “there is the difficulty. I really know nothing about Mr. O’Grady. He is little more than a name to me, and only a surname at that. I can’t even tell you his Christian name.”

  “That makes things a bit difficult,” said Blandy, “seeing that we have got to trace him and find out whether he is still in existence. But at any rate, you have seen him and can tell us what he was like.”

  “Yes, I have seen him—once, as I told you—and my recollection of him is that he was a strongly-built man about five feet nine or ten inches high, medium complexion, grey eyes, dark hair and moustache and no beard. When I saw him, he was wearing a black jacket, striped trousers, grey overcoat, and a light-brown soft felt hat.”

  “That is quite a useful description,” said Blandy, “for excluding the wrong man, but not so useful for identifying the right one. It would apply to a good many other men; and the clothes were not a permanent feature. You told me about your meeting with him. Perhaps you wouldn’t mind repeating the account for Dr. Thorndyke’s benefit.”

  “It was a chance meeting,” said Moxdale. “I happened to be in the neighbourhood of Soho one day about lunch-time and it occurred to me to drop in at a restaurant that Haire had introduced me to; Moroni’s in Wardour Street. I walked down to the further end of the room and was just looking for a vacant table when I caught sight of Haire, himself; apparently lunching with a man who was a stranger to me. As Haire had seen me, I went up to him and shook hands, and then, as I didn’t know his friend, was going off to another table when he said: “Don’t go away, Cecil. Come and take a chair at this table and let me introduce you to my friend, O’Grady. You’ve heard me speak of him and he has heard me speak of you.’