Lorimer and the judge both smiled appreciatively at Thorndyke’s ingenious evasion, and his Lordship replied:
“That is quite true, though it does not answer the learned counsel’s objection. But the question of identity has been raised, and it has evidently got to be settled before the other issue can be considered. So the problem now is, what is to be done about it? You mentioned at the opening that you might ask for an adjournment to enable you to file affidavits in answer or to call witnesses. Are you going to apply for an adjournment now?”
“I think, my Lord,” replied Thorndyke, “that, in view of the conflict of testimony, some new evidence is required, and I should wish to call witnesses; but, as those witnesses would have to attend for cross-examination, there seems to be no object in filing affidavits, and time would be saved by not doing so. We are now at the weekend, and I submit that if your Lordship would consent and my learned friend would agree, he and I might confer in the interval and thereby avoid the necessity for an adjournment.”
The judge looked a little dubious at this suggestion, but, as Lorimer signified his agreement and was evidently anxious to get on with the case, his Lordship consented to the arrangement and adjourned the hearing for the weekend.
As the court rose, Lorimer turned to Thorndyke, and spoke to him in a low tone. Then they walked together to the solicitors’ table and apparently held a short discussion with Turner and Longford; at the end of which they came back and we set forth in company towards the Temple.
“We have arranged about the conference,” said Thorndyke. “The solicitors prefer to leave the matter for counsel to settle, so Lorimer and I are going to dine together and then adjourn to his chambers for the pow-wow. That will leave us a free weekend.”
Accordingly, when he had shed his wig and gown, he went off with his learned opponent and I saw him no more until about eleven o’clock, when he turned up at our chambers in obviously good spirits.
“Well,” I asked, “how did you get on with Lorimer?”
“Admirably,” he replied. “He is quite a reasonable fellow and I had no difficulty in getting him to see my point of view. I had to tell him more than I wanted to, but as we were alone it didn’t matter.”
“And what did you arrive at?”
“We agreed to treat the question of identity as a separate issue to be settled definitely before going on to the main issue. I made him understand that whichever way it went the result would not affect his case.”
“The devil you did!” I exclaimed. “I should like you to make me understand that. It seems to me that if you make out your contention of two different persons, his case collapses at once.”
He regarded me with an exasperating smile. “That, you know, Jervis, is because you have not been following the evidence in this case, or have not reflected sufficiently on its significance. Turn it over in your mind between this and next Monday and see if you cannot anticipate the revelation that I hope to make at the next hearing.”
With that tantalizing hint I had to be content. Of course, I did not trouble to “turn it over in my mind.” I realized that Polton had been right as usual. Thorndyke’s devilish machinations in his laboratory had been the prelude to “a little surprise for somebody,” and I was going to be one of the surprised.
CHAPTER XVI
Superintendent Miller intervenes
Of what took place during the weekend I am not very clear. On the Saturday Thorndyke was out and about most of the day making, as I assumed, his final arrangements; which assumption was confirmed by a late telephone message from Superintendent Miller asking me to “let the Doctor know that Miss Rendell had been warned and would attend in court on Monday.” Who Miss Rendell might be I had no idea and I did not inquire. For the time being my curiosity was in abeyance.
One small piece of enlightenment I did indeed acquire. Finding Polton at a loose end in the laboratory, I attacked him facetiously on the subject of Mr. Snuper’s watch, which I suggested was a disgrace to an establishment that included on its staff a first-class artificer. “Really,” I concluded, “I think you ought to provide him with something less prehistoric for the credit of the house. Just get him to show it to you.”
Polton regarded me with a cunning and crinkly smile. “I’ve seen it, sir; in fact I made it. But it isn’t a watch, though it has hands that you can set to time for the sake of appearances. It is really a camera; but Mr. Snuper carries his watch in another compartment of the same pocket.”
“A camera!” I exclaimed. “But it can only be a mere toy.”
“Well,” Polton admitted, “it isn’t much of a camera; just a makeshift. But it answers Mr. Snuper’s purpose, as you can use it anywhere without being noticed, and a poor photograph is, for him, better than no photograph. It is a record, you know, sir.”
“And what sort of picture does it give?”
“Better than you would think, sir. The negative is half an inch by five-eighths, and it will bear enlarging up to four inches by five. It has a beautiful little lens and the definition is perfect. Perhaps you would like to see it. I’ve got it in for recharging.”
He produced the illusive turnip from a drawer and exhibited it with excusable pride; for it was a miracle of ingenuity, with its arrangement for changing the film, which also set the shutter, and that for setting the hands. But almost more surprising were the tiny negatives, microscopically sharp, which Polton also showed me, and the clear and admirable enlargements; which caused me to view the turnip and its creator with a new respect.
The following day Thorndyke spent mostly in his private laboratory, making, as I supposed, some final preparations for the resumed hearing. But I had no idea what they might be, nor did I speculate on the subject. I had given the problem up, and reserved my curiosity for the promised revelation on the morrow.
Apparently I was not alone in this attitude, for, when we took our places in court on the Monday morning, I detected in Mr. Lorimer an air of lively expectancy; and the judge, as soon as he had nipped into his seat, glanced at the counsel for the applicant with evident curiosity; whereupon Lorimer rose to make his announcement.
“During the weekend, my Lord, I have conferred with my learned friend, and we have agreed, with your Lordship’s consent, to treat the question of identity as a separate issue, to be disposed of before taking tny further evidence on the main issue.”
“That seems a reasonable proceeding,” said the judge. “Evidently it would be futile to consider the presumption of death until we know whose death it is sought to presume. Are there any new witnesses?”
“Yes, my Lord. I am calling Mr. Carl Schiller, the testatrix’s husband, whose affidavit has been filed. When he has given his evidence, as I have no other witnesses to identity, I have agreed that my learned friend should, with your Lordship’s consent, produce his evidence forthwith.”
The judge nodded, and thereupon Mr. Schiller stepped into the witness-box and stood there, listening attentively while his affidavit was read. It was quite short, setting forth merely that he had not seen or heard of, or from, his wife for more than three years, and that he had no knowledge whether she was alive or dead. When the reading was finished, Lorimer took the portfolio, which was handed to him by Thorndyke, and passed it across to the witness.
“There is some conflict of testimony, Mr. Schiller,” said he, “as to which of the portraits in this portfolio is a true portrait of your wife. Will you kindly look through them and see whether you can settle the question for us?”
Mr. Schiller opened the portfolio and went systematically through the whole of its contents—some seven or eight photographs. Having looked at them all, he selected one and held it up for inspection; and I saw that it was Pedley’s drawing, or rather the reproduction of it.
“This,” said he, speaking with a perceptible German accent, “is the only one that seems to me to resemble my wife, and it is quite a fair likeness. The others I do not recognize at all.”
I was a good deal surprise
d, and so, I think, was the judge; for Schiller’s evidence directly contradicted that of Miss Dalton (who was not present on this occasion). However, there was nothing to be said as the witness had looked carefully through the whole set of photographs, and, as neither the judge nor Thorndyke questioned the evidence, the witness was released and returned to his seat, or rather to a seat at the extreme end of the bench, and Thorndyke called his first witness, a Mrs. Matilda Wharton; whereupon a pleasant-looking elderly woman stepped into the box.
“What is your full address, Mrs. Wharton?” Thorndyke asked.
“I live at 16 Corby Street, which is a turning out of the Linton Green Road.”
“Have you ever been acquainted with Mrs. Lotta Schiller?”
“Yes. She lodged with me for about three years.”
“Did her husband live with her?”
“No. He travelled about a good deal, but when he was in London he used to call on her and they used to go out together. But he never lived in the house. I think he used to stay at hotels.”
“On what kind of terms were they?”
“They seemed quite friendly though not affectionate; but shortly before she left there seemed to have been some sort of disagreement, for she became rather strange in her manner and appeared to avoid him.”
“When, and in what circumstances, did she leave you?”
“She left me on the 13th of June 1930. She went out one morning and never came back; but she sent me a telegram saying that she had gone away and would write. She never did write, but a couple of days later her husband came to the house and told me that she had been suddenly called abroad and that she would not be coming back for some months. He paid what was owing and took away her belongings, including her violin. I have never seen or heard of her since.”
“Was there anything remarkable about the manner of her departure?”
“Well, it was rather strange. She said nothing about going away before she went out, and she had nothing with her but the things that she stood up in.”
“During the time that she lodged with you, did she receive many visitors?”
“No. The two Miss Daltons used sometimes to call to see her or to take her out; and once or twice Mr. Montagu—the poor gentleman who was murdered—came to see her or to fetch her out.”
Here Thorndyke gave me—and not me alone—the first of the surprises by producing from the suitcase a small oil painting, which I recognized as a sketch of Pedley’s that I had seen hanging on the wall of Polton’s private room.
“I want you, Mrs. Wharton,” said he, passing it across to her, “to look at this painting and tell me whether the figures in it suggest any particular persons to you.”
The witness examined the painting closely and then at arm’s length.
“Of course,” she said cautiously, “I can’t recognize any of these people, but the woman looks to me very much like Mrs. Schiller.”
“In what respect is she like Mrs. Schiller?”
“I think it is chiefly the dress. It’s rather a peculiar dress and Mrs. Schiller had one just like it; in fact she was wearing that very dress on the morning that she went away. But the figure is like her, too, and the colour of her hair. Still, it is only a resemblance. I don’t say it actually is her. You see, there are no features to recognize it by.”
“And as to the other figures; do they seem to suggest anybody that you have known?”
Mrs. Wharton again looked at the picture critically. At length she replied, in a rather doubtful tone:
“It’s only a mere guess as they have their backs to us, but I think the taller of the two men rather reminds me of Mr. Montagu. I often used to see him in the street and he was always dressed in this way, and he had a habit of gesticulating with his umbrella as he talked, as this man seems to be doing; and the umbrella in the picture seems to have an ivory handle as his had. And he seems to be about the right height, comparing him with the other man. Still, I don’t profess to be able to recognize him.”
“Of course you can’t,” said Thorndyke; “but I must compliment you on your memory and powers of observation. And now I will try you with something that it is more possible to be certain about.”
Here he produced the inevitable portfolio and passed it across to her. Meanwhile the picture was handed up to the judge, who looked at it curiously and returned it; and I noticed that Lorimer examined it with more than his usual faint interest in exhibits. But attention was now focused on Mrs. Wharton, who, at Thorndyke’s request, was looking very carefully through the collection of portraits. When she had examined them all, she very deliberately selected two, which she held up with their faces towards us, and which I could see were the two that Miss Dalton had recognized.
“These,” said she, “are portraits of Mrs. Schiller. They aren’t very flattering, but they are quite good likenesses.”
The judge inspected them with a surprised and rather puzzled expression and then glanced at Thorndyke; who, as he received the portfolio, took from it Pedley’s drawing and passed it across to the witness.
“What do you say to this? It is supposed to be a portrait of Mrs. Schiller. Is it a good likeness?”
The witness looked at it with evident surprise. After a prolonged inspection she handed it back, shaking her head.
“I don’t think it can have been meant for Mrs. Schiller,” said she. “It doesn’t seem to me to be like her at all. It looks like quite a different person.”
This evidently completed his Lordship’s perplexity, for he asked that the portfolio should be passed up to him, and, when he had it, he laid the three portraits in a row on his desk and made a prolonged and careful comparison. But clearly he could make nothing of them, for he finally gathered them up, and, glancing at Thorndyke with raised eyebrows, handed back the portfolio.
Among the new arrivals in court I had noticed a rather prim-looking lady dressed in a neat and becoming uniform which associated itself in my mind with the idea of “chokee”—formerly known familiarly as “the jug.” And so it turned out to be; for, when Mrs. Wharton had vacated the box—there being no cross-examination—the lady in question took her place, and, facing Thorndyke with professional composure, introduced herself as Miss Julia Rendell, a Female Officer at Holloway Prison. Thereupon, Thorndyke produced the everlasting portfolio; but he did not on this occasion pass it across to the witness. Instead, he opened it, and, selecting from the collection the two photographs which Mrs. Wharton had identified, sent them across for the lady’s inspection.
“Do you recognize those two photographs, Miss Rendell?” he asked.
“Yes,” she replied promptly. “They are incomplete copies of two prison portraits of a prisoner named, or known as, Louisa Saunders.”
“Do you recognize these two?” he asked, handing over two other photographs which he had just fished out of the suitcase.
“Yes. They are the original portraits, or facsimile copies of them.”
“Are they good likenesses of Louisa Saunders?”
“Yes, quite good. I recognized them at once.”
“When did you first see Louisa Saunders?”
“On the 13th of June 1930 at the evening receptions. She had been arrested that morning and remanded in custody.”
“Do you know any particulars of the charge on which she was arrested?”
“Yes. I accompanied her, with some other remands, to the police court and was present at the hearing. She was charged with having uttered a forged one-pound note and with having in her possession four other forged notes.”
“Did she plead ‘Guilty’ or ‘Not guilty’?”
“Not guilty.’ She said that the notes had been given to her in a bundle and that she had no suspicion of their being bad notes.”
“Was any evidence given to show that she knew the notes to be bad notes?”
“No. The only evidence against her was that she had offered the bad note in payment for some goods that she had bought, and that she had the other notes in her poss
ession. But, as she would not give any account of herself or say where she had obtained the notes or who had given them to her, she was convicted and sentenced to six months’ imprisonment.”
“Is that, in your experience, a usual sentence for this offence?”
“No. I should say that it was an unusually lenient one.”
“Did the prisoner give any address?”
“No. She would give no account of herself whatever except her name.”
“Was there any evidence that Louisa Saunders was her real name?”
“None beyond the fact that her clothing was marked with the initials ‘L. S.’”
“Was she a married woman or a spinster?”
“She refused any information about herself, but, as she was wearing a wedding ring, we entered her as a married woman.”
“While she was in prison, was her hair cut?”
“No. It was rather short when she came in, and, as she was perfectly clean, there was no necessity.”
“Do you remember how long it was when she was discharged?”
“So far as I remember, it was about down to her shoulders.”
“On what date was she discharged?”
“On the 12th of December 1930, at noon.”
“I suppose you don’t know whether anybody met her when she left the prison?”
“As a matter of fact, I do. I happened to be going out of the prison at the same time, and I saw a man who seemed to be waiting for her at the corner of Hilmarton Road. At any rate, she crossed the road and joined him.”
“Do you remember what he was like?”
“Not very clearly. I did not notice him particularly and should not know him if I were to see him. All that I remember about him is that he seemed to be a fairly well-dressed man and rather short.”
“You saw the prisoner, Saunders, at receptions on the day of her arrest; you accompanied her to the police court; and you saw her in the street when she left the prison. Do you remember how she was dressed on those occasions?”
The Third R. Austin Freeman Megapack Page 284