Dr. Thorndyke Omnibus Vol 4

by R. Austin Freeman

  Mr. Penfield took snuff viciously. "Woodstock's view is—I can hardly speak of it with patience—that as the thief is dead, the inquiry comes automatically to an end."

  "And Hollis, I take it, does not agree?"

  "Indeed he does not. He wants his property traced and recovered."

  "And do I understand that you instruct me to proceed with my investigations?

  "Most certainly; especially in view of what you have told me."

  "I am glad of that," said Thorndyke. "I dislike exceedingly leaving an inquiry uncompleted. In fact, I should have completed the case for my own satis faction and as a matter of public policy. For if Osmond stole these gems, the fact ought to be proved lest any other person should be suspected; and if he did not, his character ought to be cleared as a matter of common justice."

  "That is exactly my own feeling," said Mr. Penfield. "And then, of course, there is the property. That ought to be recovered if possible, especially if, as you seem to think, it is still intact. And now," he added, draining his glass and rising, "it is time for me to depart. I have to thank you for a most interesting and pleasant evening."

  As Thorndyke stood on the landing looking down upon his retreating guest, he was dimly aware of a presence on the stair above; and when he turned to re-enter his chambers, the presence materialized into the form of Polton. With silent and stealthy tread the "familiar spirit" stole down the stairs and followed his principal into the room, where, having closed both doors with a secret and portentous air, he advanced to the table.

  "What have you got under your arm, Polton?" Thorndyke asked.

  By way of reply, Polton regarded his employer with a smile of the most extraordinary crinkliness and began very deliberately to untie the string of a small parcel. From the latter he at length disengaged a kind of leathern wallet marked in gold lettering with what appeared to be a tradesman's name and address. This he bore, slowly and ceremoniously, to the table, where with a sudden movement he unrolled it, displaying a glittering constellation of metal buttons.

  "Well done, Polton!" Thorndyke exclaimed. "What a man you are! Now, where might you have unearthed this relic?"

  "I discovered it, sir," replied Polton, blushing with pleasure like a dried apricot, "in a little, old-fashioned tailor's trimming-shop in one of the courts off Carnaby Street. It is quite a well preserved specimen, sir."

  "Yes, it is in wonderful condition, considering its age. Mr. Wampole will be delighted with it. He will be set up with buttons for life. I think, Polton, it would add to his pleasure if you were to run down and make the presentation in person. Don't you?"

  Polton's features crinkled to the point of obliteration. "I do, indeed, sir," he replied. "At his private residence, I think, sir."

  "Certainly; at his private residence. And we shall have to find out at what time he usually returns from the office."

  "We shall, sir," Polton agreed; and thereupon proceeded to crinkle to a perfectly alarming extent.

  XVII. THE LAPIDARY

  In a small street hard by Clerkenwell Green is a small shop of antique and mouldy aspect, the modest window of which is so obscured by a coat of paint on the inside as to leave the unaided observer to speculate in vain as to the kind of wares concealed within. A clue to the mystery is, however, furnished by an inscription in faded gilt lettering on the fascia above, which sets forth that the tenant's name is Lambert and that his vocation is that of a lapidary and dealer in precious stones.

  On a certain afternoon a few days after his interview with Mr. Penfield, Dr. John Thorndyke might have been seen to turn into the small street with a brisk, decisive air suggestive of familiarity with the neighbourhood and a definite purpose; and the latter suggestion would have been confirmed when, having arrived at the shop, he pushed open the door and entered. A faded, elderly man confronted him across the counter and inquired what might be his pleasure.

  "I have called," said Thorndyke, "to make some inquiries concerning artificial stones."

  "Did you want them for theatrical purposes?"

  "No. Those are usually cast or moulded, aren't they?"

  "Sometimes. Not as a rule. Can't get much sparkle out of moulded glass, you know. But what was the class of goods you were wanting?"

  "I wanted a set of imitation gems made to given shapes and dimensions to form a collection such as might be suitable for purposes of instruction in a technical school."

  "Would the shapes and dimensions have to be exact?"

  "Yes, quite exact. They are intended to be copies of existing specimens and the settings are already made."

  Thorndyke's answer seemed to occasion some surprise, for the man to whom he made it reflected profoundly for a few moments and then looked round at a younger man who was sorting samples from the stock at a side-bench.

  Odd, isn't it, Fred?" said the former.

  "What is odd?" inquired Thorndyke.

  "Why, you see, sir, we had someone come in only a few days ago making the very same inquiry. You remember him, Fred?"

  "Yes, I remember him, Mr. Lambert. Crinkly-faced little blighter."

  "That's the man," said Mr. Lambert. "I rather wondered at the time what his game was. Seemed to know a lot about the trade, too; but you have to mind what you are about making strass facsimiles."

  "Of course you have," Thorndyke agreed, "especially when you are dealing with these crinkly-faced people."

  "Exactly," said Mr. Lambert, "But, of course, sir, in your case we know where we are."

  "It is very good of you to say so," rejoined Thorndyke. "But I gather that you are not often asked to make sets of facsimile imitations."

  "No, not sets. Occasionally we get an order from a jeweller to duplicate the stones of a diamond necklace or tiara to be used while the original is in pawn, or for safety in a crowd. But not a collection such as you are speaking of. In fact, during all the thirty-five years that I have been in business, I have only had one order of the kind. That was between four and five years ago. A gentleman named Scofield wanted a set to offer to some local museum, and he wanted them to be copies of stones in various public collections. He got the shapes and dimensions from the catalogues—so I understood."

  "Did you execute the order?"

  "Yes; and quite a big order it was."

  "I wonder," said Thorndyke, "whether he happened to have selected any of the stones that are in my list. Mine are mostly from the Hollis collection. But I suppose you don't keep records of the work you do?"

  "I expect all the particulars are in the order book. We can soon see."

  He went over to a shelf on which was ranged a row of books of all ages, and running his hand along, presently drew out a leather volume which he laid on the counter and opened.

  "Ah! Here we are," said he, after a brief search. "Mr. Scofield. Perhaps you would like to glance over his list. You see there are quite a lot of them."

  He pushed the book across to Thorndyke, who had already produced a note-book from his pocket, the entries in which he now proceeded to compare with those in Mr. Scofield's list. Mr. Lambert watched him with close interest as he placed his finger on one after another of the entries in the book, and presently remarked:

  "You seem to be finding some duplicates of your own lot."

  "It is most remarkable," said Thorndyke "—and yet perhaps it isn't—but his selection coincides with mine in over a dozen instances. May I tick them off with a pencil?"

  "Do, by all means," said Lambert. "Then I can copy them out afterwards—that is, if you want me to get the duplicates cut."

  "I do, certainly. I will mark off those that I want, and, when you have cut those, I will give you a further list. And I may add that I should like you to use the best-quality strass that you can get. I want them to be as much like real stones as possible."

  "I should do that in any case for good cut work," said Lambert; and he added: "I suppose there is no special hurry for these stones?

  "None at all," replied Thorndyke. "If you will send me a
card to this address when they are ready, I will call for them. Or, perhaps, if I pay for them now you could send them to me."

  The latter alternative was adopted, and while the prices were being reckoned up and the bill was being made out, Thorndyke occupied himself in making, in shorthand, a copy of the list in the order book. He had finished and put away his note-book by the time the account was ready; when, having laid a visiting-card on the counter, he paid his score and began to put on his gloves.

  "By the way," said he, "your customer would not happen to be Mr. Scofield of the Middle Temple, I suppose?

  "I really couldn't say, sir," replied Lambert. "He never gave any address. But I had an idea that he came up from the country. He used to give his orders and then he would call, at longish intervals, and take away as many of the stones as were ready. He was a middle-aged man, a bit on the shady side; tallish, clean-shaved, iron-grey hair, and not too much of it."

  "Ah, then I don't think that would be the same Mr. Scofield. It is not a very uncommon name. Good-afternoon."

  With this Thorndyke took up his stick and, emerging from the shop, set a course southward for the Temple, walking quickly, as was his wont, with a long, swinging stride, and turning over in his mind the bearings of what he had just learned. In reality he had not learned much. Still, he had added one or two small items to his stock of facts, and in circumstantial evidence every added fact gives additional weight to all the others. He sorted out his new acquirements and considered each in turn.

  In the first place, it was clear that Mr. Scofield's collection was a facsimile of the missing part of Hollis's. The list in Lambert's book was identical with the one in his own pocket-book; which, in its turn, was a list of the forgeries. The discovery of the maker of the forgeries (a result of extensive preliminary scouting on the part of Polton) was of little importance at the moment, though it might be of great value in the future. For, since the forgeries existed, it was obvious that someone must have made them. Much more to the point was the identity of the person for whom they were made. Whoever "Mr. Scofield" might have been, he certainly was not John Osmond. And this set Thorndyke once more puzzling over the really perplexing feature of this curious case. Why had Osmond absconded? That he had really done so, Thorndyke had no doubt, though he would have challenged the use of the word by anyone else. But why? There had been nothing to implicate him in any way. Beyond the hairs in the boxes—of which he could not have known and which were not at all conclusive—there was nothing to implicate him now but his own flight. All the other evidence seemed to point away from him. Yet he had absconded.

  Thorndyke put to himself the various possibilities and argued them one at a time. There were three imaginable hypotheses. First, that Osmond had committed the robbery alone and unassisted; second, that he had been an accessory or worked with a confederate; third, that he had had no connection with the robbery at all.

  The first hypothesis could be excluded at once, for Mr. Scofield must have been, at least, an accessory; and Mr. Scofield was not John Osmond. The second was much more plausible. It not only agreed with the known facts, but might even furnish some sort of explanation of the flight. Thus, supposing Osmond to have planned and executed the robbery with the aid of a confederate in the expectation that, even if discovered, it would never be traced to the office, might it not have been that, when, unexpectedly, it was so traced, Osmond had decided to take the onus on himself, and by absconding, divert suspicion from his accomplice? The thing was quite conceivable. It was entirely in agreement with Osmond's character as pictured by Mr. Wampole; that of a rash, impulsive, rather unreasonable man. And if it were further assumed that there had been known to him some incriminating fact which he had expected to leak out, but which had not leaked out, then the whole set of facts, including the flight, would appear fairly consistent.

  Nevertheless, consistent as the explanation might be, Thorndyke did not find it convincing. The aspect of Osmond's rooms, with their suggestion of hardy simplicity and a robust asceticism, still lingered in his memory. Nor had he forgotten the impressive face of the gentlewoman whose portrait he had looked on with such deep interest in those rooms. These were, perhaps, but mere impressions, of no evidential weight; but yet they refused to be lightly dismissed.

  As to the third hypothesis, that Osmond had not been concerned in the robbery at all, it would have been quite acceptable but for the irreconcilable fact of the flight. That seemed, beyond any question, to connect him with the crime. Of course it was conceivable that he might have some other reason for his flight. But no such reason had been suggested; whereas the circumstances in which he had elected to disappear—at the exact moment when the crime had been traced to the office—made it idle to look for any other explanation. And so, once more, Thorndyke found himself involved in a tangle of contradictions from which he could see no means of escape.

  The end of his train of thought coincided with his arrival at the entry to his chambers. Ascending the stairs, he became aware of a light above as from an open door; and a turn of the staircase showed him that door—his own—framing a small, restless figure.

  "Why, Polton," he exclaimed, "you are early, aren't you? I didn't expect you for another hour or two."

  "Yes, sir," replied Polton, "I got away early. But I've seen it, sir. And you were perfectly right—absolutely right. It is a sparrowhawk, stuck in a little log of cherry wood. Exactly as you said."

  "I didn't say a sparrowhawk," Thorndyke objected.

  "You said, sir, that it was a stake or a bec iron or some kind of small anvil, and a sparrowhawk is a kind of small anvil."

  "Very well, Polton," Thorndyke conceded. "But tell me how you managed it and why you are home so early."

  "Well, sir, you see," Polton explained, fidgeting about the room as if he were afflicted with St. Vitus's dance, "it came off much easier than I had expected. I got to his house a good hour too soon. His house keeper opened the door and wanted me to call again. But I said I had come down from London and would like to wait. And then I told her about the buttons and explained how valuable they were and asked her if she would like to see them; and she said she would. So she took me upstairs to his sitting-room and there I undid the parcel and showed her the buttons.

  "Then I got talking to her about the rooms; remarked what a nice place Mr. Wampole had got and how beautifully it was kept."

  "Really, Polton!" Thorndyke chuckled, "I had no idea you were such a humbug."

  "No more had I, sir," replied Polton, with a complacent crinkle. "But, you see, it was a case of necessity; and besides, the room was wonderfully neat and tidy. Well, I got her talking about the house, and very proud she seemed to be of it. So I asked her all the questions I could think of: whether she had a good kitchen and whether there was pipe water or a pump in the scullery, and so on. And she got so interested and pleased with herself that presently she offered to let me see over the house if I liked, and of course, I said that there was nothing in the world that I should like better. So she took me down and showed me the kitchen and the scullery and her own little sitting-room and a couple of big cupboards for linen and stores, and it was all as neat and clean as a new pin. Then we went upstairs again, and as we passed a door on the landing she said, 'That's a little room that Mr. Wampole does his tinkering in.'

  'Ah!' says I, 'but I'll warrant that room isn't quite so neat and tidy. I do a bit of tinkering myself and I know what a workroom looks like.'

  Oh, it isn't so bad,' says she. 'Mr. Wampole is a very orderly man. You shall see for yourself, if it isn't locked. He usually locks it when he has a job in hand.'

  "Well, it wasn't locked; so she opened the door and in we went; and the very moment I put my head inside, I saw it—on the table that he used for a bench. It was set in a little upright log, such as you get from the trimmings of fruit trees. And, my word! it was fairly riddled.—like a sponge—and where it stood on the bench there was a regular ring of powder round it.

  "'That's a rare old bl
ock that his anvil is set in,' says I, going across to look at it.

  "'Not so old as you'd think,' says she. 'He got it about five years ago, when we had the cherry tree lopped. You can see the tree in the garden from this window.'

  She went over to the window and I followed her; and as I passed the bench I picked up a pinch of the dust between my finger and thumb and put my hand in my pocket, where I had a pill-box that I had brought in case I should get a chance to collect a sample. As we were looking out of the window, I managed to work the lid off the pill-box and drop the pinch of dust in and slip the lid on again. Then I was happy; and as I had done all that I came to do, I thought I would rather like to clear off."

  "Why?" asked Thorndyke.

  "Well, sir," said Polton in a slightly apologetic tone, "the fact is that I wasn't very anxious to meet Mr. Wampole. It wouldn't have been quite pleasant, under the circumstances, to present those buttons and have him thanking me and shaking my hand. I should have felt rather like Pontius Pilate."

  "Why Pontius Pilate?" asked Thorndyke.

  "Wasn't he the chap—or was it Judas Iscariot? At any rate, I had a sudden feeling that I didn't want to hand him those buttons. So I looked up my time table and discovered that I couldn't wait to see him. 'But, however,' I said, 'it doesn't matter. I can leave the buttons with you to give him; and I will leave my card, too, so that he can send me a line if he wants to.' So with that I gave her the roll of buttons and nipped off to the station, just in time to catch the earlier train to town. I hope I didn't do wrong, sir."

  "Not at all," Thorndyke replied heartily. "I quite understand your feeling on the matter; in fact, I think I should have done the same. Shall we look at that pill-box? I didn't expect such good fortune as to get a specimen."

  Polton produced the little box, and having opened it to make sure that the contents were intact, handed it to Thorndyke, who forthwith made a preliminary inspection of the dust with the aid of his lens.

  "Yes," he reported, "it is evidently the same dust as was in the other samples, so that aspect of the case is complete. I must compliment you, Polton, on the masterly way in which you carried out your really difficult and delicate mission. You have made a brilliant success of it. And you have been equally successful in another direction. I have just come from Lambert's, where I had a very instructive interview. You were perfectly correct. It was Lambert who cut those dummy stones."