A silent witness
“And what about Batson?” I asked. “Shall we tell him anything?”
“I think we must,” said Thorndyke, “if only to put him on his guard;
for your unknown enemy may be his enemy, too.”
At this moment the street door banged loudly, a quick step danced
along the hall, and Batson himself burst into the room.
“Good Lord!” he exclaimed, halting abruptly at the door and gazing in
dismay at our little council. “What’s the matter? Anything happened?”
Thorndyke laughed as he shook the hand of his quondam pupil.
“Come, come, Batson,” said he, “don’t make me out such a bird of
ill-omen.”
“I was afraid something awkward might have occurred, police job or
inquest or something of that sort.”
“You weren’t so very far wrong,” said Thorndyke. “When you are at
liberty I’ll tell you about it.”
“I’m at liberty now,” said Batson, dropping into a chair and glaring
at Thorndyke through his spectacles. “No scandal, I hope.”
Thorndyke reassured him on this point and gave him a brief account of
my adventure and our proposed visit to the works; to which he listened
with occasional ejaculations of astonishment and relief.
“By Gum!” he exclaimed, “what a mercy you got there in time. If you
hadn’t there’d have been an inquest and a devil of a fuss. I should
never have heard the last of it. Ruined the practice and worried me
into a lunatic asylum. Oh, and about those works. I wouldn’t go there
if I were you.”
“Why not?” Thorndyke asked.
“Well, you may have to answer some awkward questions, and we don’t
want this affair to get about, you know. No use raising a dust. Rumpus
of any kind plays the deuce with a medical practice.”
Thorndyke smiled at my principal’s frank egoism. “Jervis and I went
over last night,” said he, “and had a hasty look round and we found
the place quite deserted. Probably it is so still.”
“Then you won’t be able to get in. How jer get in last night?”
“I happened to have a piece of stiff wire in my pocket,” Thorndyke
replied impassively.
“Ha!” said Batson. “Wire, eh? Picklock in fact. I wouldn’t, if I were
you. Devil of a bobbery if anyone sees you. Hallo! There goes the
bell. Patient. Let him wait. ’Tisn’t six yet, is it?”
“Two minutes past,” replied Thorndyke, rising and looking at his
watch. “Perhaps we had better be starting as it’s now dark, and the
business at the works, if there is any, is probably over for the day.”
“Hang the works!” exclaimed Batson. “I wouldn’t go nosing about there.
What’s the good? Jardine’s alright and the chappie isn’t likely to be
on view. You’ll only raise a stink for nothing and bring in a crowd of
beastly reporters humming about the place. There’s that damn bell
again. Well, if you won’t stay, perhaps you’ll look me up some other
time. Always d’lighted to see you. Jervis too. You’re not going,
Jardine. I’ve got to settle up with you and hear your report.”
“I’ll look in later,” said I; “when you’ve finished the evening’s
work.”
“Right you are,” said Batson, opening the door and adroitly edging us
out. “Sorry you can’t stay. Good-night! Good-night!”
He shepherded us persuasively and compellingly down the hall, with a
skill born of long practice with garrulous patients, and, having
exchanged us on the doorstep for a stout woman with two children,
returned into the house with his prey and was lost to sight.
CHAPTER VII.
AN UNSEEN ENEMY
From my late principal’s house we walked away quickly down the
lamplit street, all, I think, dimly amused at the circumstances of our
departure.
“Is Batson always like that?” Thorndyke asked.
“Always,” I replied. “Hurry and bustle are his normal states.”
“Dear, dear,” commented Thorndyke, “what a terrible amount of time he
must waste. Of course, one can understand now how that cremation
muddle came about. Your incurable hustler is always thinking of the
things he has got to do next instead of the thing that he is doing at
the moment. By the way, Jardine, I am taking it for granted that you
would like to inspect these premises. It is not essential. Jervis and
I had a preliminary look round last night, and I daresay we picked up
most of the facts that are likely to be of importance if we should be
going farther into the matter.”
“I think it would be as well for me to take a look at the place and
show you exactly where and how the affair happened.”
“I think so too,” said Thorndyke. “It was all pretty evident, but you
might be able to show us something that we had overlooked. Here we
are. I wonder if Mr. Gill is on the premises--supposing him still to
frequent them.”
He looked up and down the street, and, taking a key from his pocket,
inserted it into the lock.
“Why, how on earth did you get the key?” I asked. Thorndyke looked at
me slyly.
“We keep a tame mechanic,” said he, as he turned the key and opened
the wicket.
“Yes, but how did he get the pattern of the lock?” I asked.
Thorndyke laughed softly. “It is only a simple trade lock. The fact
is, Jardine, that in our branch of practice we have occasionally to
take some rather irregular proceedings. For instance, I usually carry
a small set of picklocks--fortunately for you. That is how I got in
last night. Then I never go abroad without a little box of moulding
wax; a most invaluable material, Jardine, for collecting certain kinds
of evidence. Well, with a slip of wood and a bit of wax I was able to
furnish my man with the necessary data for filing up a blank key. One
doesn’t want to be seen using a picklock. Now, can you show us the
way?”
He flashed a pocket electric lamp on the ground, and we advanced over
the rough cobbles until we reached a door at the side.
“This is where I went in,” said I. “It opens into a sort of corridor,
and at the end is a door opening on some steps that lead down to the
passage below.”
Thorndyke tried the handle of the door and pushed, but it was
evidently locked or bolted.
“I left this door unlocked last night,” said he; “so it is clear that
someone has been here since. I hardly expected that. I thought our
friend would have cleared off for good. But it is possible that Gill
had nothing to do with the attempt. The premises may have been used by
someone who happened to know that they were unoccupied. It would have
been quite easy for such a person to gain admittance; as you see.”
While speaking, he had produced from his pocket a little bunch of
skeleton keys, with one of which he now quietly unlocked the door.
“These builders’ locks,” said he, “are merely symbolic of security.
You are not expected to unfasten them without authority, but you can
if you like and happen to have a bit of stiff wire.”
We entered the corridor, and, as we proceeded, looked into the rooms
that opened out of it. One of them was meagrely furnished as an
office, but the thick layer of dust on the desk and stools showed
clearly that it had been long disused; the other rooms were empty and
desolate, and showed no trace of use or occupation.
“The worthy Gill,” said Jervis, “seems to have been able, like
Diogenes, to get on with a very modest outfit.”
“Yes,” agreed Thorndyke, “it is a little difficult to guess what his
occupation is. The place looks as if it had never been used at all.
Shall I go first?”
He halted for a moment, passing the light of his lamp over the massive
door at the head of the steps, and then began to descend. It was
certainly a horrible and repulsive place, especially to my eyes, with
the recollection of my late experience fresh in my mind. The rough
brick walls, covered with the crumbling remains of old white-wash, the
black masses of cobwebs that drooped like funereal stalactites from
the ceiling, the fungi that sprouted in corners, and the snail-tracks
that glistened in the lamplight on the stone floor, all contributed to
a vault-like sepulchral effect that was most unpleasantly suggestive
of what might have been and very nearly had been.
My late prison was easily distinguished by the two holes in the door.
We looked in; but that cellar was completely empty save for a few
chips of wood and a pinch or two of sawdust; memorials of my sojourn
in the lethal chamber at which I could hardly look without a shudder.
Then we passed on to the next cellar--the one adjoining my prison--and
this was an object of no little curiosity to me. Here, while I was
securely bolted into my cell, that unknown villain had, deliberately
and in cold blood, made all the arrangements for my murder;
arrangements which he little suspected that I should survive to look
upon.
Thorndyke, too, was interested. He stood at the open door, looking in
as if considering the positions of various objects. As in fact he was.
“Someone has been here since last night, Jervis,” said he.
“Yes,” agreed Jervis. “That gas bottle has been taken down from the
opening. You see, Jardine,” he continued, “he had stood that big
packing-case up on end and laid the gas bottle along the top, with its
nozzle just opposite the hole. Two other bottles were standing upright
with their nozzles upwards.”
“I understand,” said Thorndyke, “that you heard three bottles only
turned on?”
“Yes,” I answered; “there was the one opposite the hole and two
others.”
“I ask,” Thorndyke said, “because there are, as you see, seven other
bottles, lying by the wall. Those are all empty. We tried them when we
came here last night.”
“I know nothing about those others,” said I. “The three bottles that I
have mentioned I heard distinctly, and after he had turned on the
third, the man went out of the cellar and closed up the door.”
“Then,” said Thorndyke, “the other seven were presumably used for some
other--and let us hope, more legitimate--purpose. I wonder why our
friend has been at the trouble of moving the cylinders.”
“Perhaps,” suggested Jervis, “he thought that the arrangement might be
a little too illuminating for the police, if they should happen to pay
a visit to the place. He may not be aware that the apparatus had
already been inspected _in situ_ by us. Or, again, the cylinders may
have been moved by someone else. We are assuming that he is a lawful
occupant of the premises; but he may be a mere secret intruder like
ourselves, who has discovered that the place is more or less
unoccupied and has made use of the premises and plant for his own
benevolent purposes.”
“Yes,” agreed Thorndyke, “that is perfectly true. But we can put the
matter to the test, at least negatively. If the cylinders have been
moved by an innocent stranger they will bear the prints of hands.”
“But why shouldn’t the man himself leave the prints of his hands on
the cylinders?” I asked.
“Because, my dear Jardine, he is too knowing a bird. Jervis and I went
carefully over the cylinders last night in the hope of getting a few
finger-prints to submit to Scotland Yard; but not a vestige could we
find. Our friend had seen to that. We assumed that he had operated in
gloves and your description of him confirmed our assumption. Which, in
its way, is an interesting fact, for a man who is knowing enough to
take these precautions has probably had some previous experience of
crime, or, at least, has some acquaintance with the ways of criminals.
The suggestion, in fact, is that, although this is not an ordinary
professional crime, the perpetrator may be a professional criminal.
And the further suggestion is, of course, that of very deliberate
premeditation.”
While he had been speaking he had produced from his pocket a small,
flattened bottle fitted with a metal cap and filled with a yellowish
powder. Removing the cap and uncovering a perforated inner cap, like
that of an iodoform dredger, he proceeded to shake a cloud of the
light powder over the three upper cylinders, jarring them with his
foot to make the powder spread. Then he blew sharply on them, one