A silent witness
after the other, when the powder disappeared from their surfaces,
leaving visible one or two shapeless whitened smears but never a trace
of a finger-print or even the shape of a hand.
Thorndyke rose and slipped the bottle back in his pocket.
“Apparently,” said he, “the cylinders were moved by our unknown
friend, with the same careful precautions as on the first occasion. A
wary gentleman, this, Jervis. He’ll give us a run for our money, at
any rate.”
“Yes,” agreed Jervis, “he doesn’t mean to give himself away. He
preserves his incognito most punctiliously. I’ll say that for him.”
“And meanwhile,” said Thorndyke, “we had better proceed with our
measures for drawing him out of this modest retirement. I want you,
Jardine, to look round this cellar and tell us if any of the things
that you see in it reminds you of anything that has happened to you,
or suggests any thought or reflection.”
I looked round, I am afraid rather vacantly. A more unsuggestive
collection of objects I have never looked upon.
“There are the gas cylinders,” I said, feebly; “but I have told you
about them. I don’t see anything else excepting a few oddments of
rubbish.”
“Then take a good look at the rubbish,” said he. “Remember that it may
be necessary at some future time for you to recall exactly what this
cellar was like, and what it contained. You may even have to make a
sworn statement. So cast your eye round and tell us what you see.”
I did so, wondering inwardly what the deuce I was expected to see and
what might be the importance of my seeing it.
“I see,” said I, “a mouldy-looking cellar about fifteen feet by
twelve, with very bad brick walls, a plaster ceiling in an advanced
stage of decay, and a concrete floor. In the left hand wall is a hole
about six inches square opening into the adjoining cellar. The
contents are ten gas cylinders, all apparently empty, a key or spanner
which seems to have been used to turn the cocks, a large packing-case,
which, to judge by its shape, seems to have contained gas cylinders--”
“The word ‘large,’” interrupted Thorndyke, “is not a particularly
exact one.”
“Well, then, a packing-case about seven feet long by two and a half
feet wide and deep.”
“That’s better,” said Thorndyke. “Always give your dimensions in
quantitative terms if possible. Go on.”
“There are a couple of waterproof sheets,” said I. “I don’t see quite
what they can have been used for.”
“Never mind their use,” said Thorndyke. “Note the fact that they are
here.”
“I have,” said I; “and that seems to complete the list with the
exception of the straw in which I suppose the gas cylinders were
packed. There is a large quantity of that, but not more than would
seem necessary for the purpose. And that seems to complete the
inventory, and, I may say, that none of these things conveys any
suggestion whatever to my mind.”
“Probably not,” said Thorndyke, “and it is quite possible that none of
these things has any particular significance at all. But as they are
the only facts offered us, we must make the best of them. There is one
other cellar that we have not yet looked into, I think.”
We came out, and, walking along the passage, came to another door
which stood slightly ajar. Thorndyke opened it, and, throwing in the
light of his lamp, revealed a considerable stack of long iron gas
bottles, and one or two packing-cases similar to the one I had already
seen.
“I presume,” said he, “that these are full cylinders; the store from
which our friend got his supply, but we may as well make sure.”
He ran back into the adjoining cellar, and returned with the spanner,
with which he proceeded to turn the cock of one of the topmost
cylinders; upon which a loud hiss and a thin, snowy cloud showed that
his surmise was correct.
He had just closed the cock and stepped out into the passage to take
back the spanner, when I saw him stop suddenly as if listening. And
then he sniffed once or twice.
“What is it?” asked Jervis; but Thorndyke, without replying, ran
quickly along the passage and up the steps, and I heard him trying the
door at the top.
“Bring up one of the empty cylinders,” he said quietly. “They have
bolted us in and apparently set fire to the place.”
We did not require much urging to act quickly. Picking up one of the
long, ponderous iron cylinders, we ran with it along the passage
towards the light of Thorndyke’s lamp. As we ascended the steps I
became plainly aware of the smell of burning wood and of a crackling
sound, faintly audible through the massive door.
“There is only one bolt,” said Thorndyke; “I noticed it as we came in.
I will throw my light on the part of the door where it is fixed, and
you two must batter on that spot with the cylinder.”
The door was, as I have said, a massive one, but it would have been a
massive door indeed that could have withstood the blows of that
ponderous iron cylinder, wielded by two strong men whose lives
depended on their efforts. At the very first crash of the
battering-ram, a tiny chink opened and at each thundering blow, the
building shook. Furiously we pounded at the thick, plank-built door,
and slowly the chink widened as the screws of the bolt tore out of the
woodwork. And as the chink opened, a thin reek of pungent smoke
filtered in, and the cold light of Thorndyke’s lantern became
contrasted with a red glare from without. And then suddenly, the door,
under the heavy battering, burst from its fastenings and swung open. A
blinding, choking cloud of smoke and sparks rolled in upon us, through
which we could see in the corridor outside a pile of straw and crates
and broken packing-cases, blazing and cracking furiously. It looked as
if we were cut off beyond all hope.
Jervis and I had dropped the now useless cylinder and were gazing in
horror at the blazing mass that filled the corridor and cut off our
only means of escape, when we were recalled by the voice of Thorndyke,
speaking in his usual quiet and precise manner.
“We must get the full cylinders up as quickly as possible,” said he;
and, running down the steps he made straight for the end cellar,
whither we followed him. Picking up one of the cylinders, we carried
it quickly to the top of the steps.
“Lay it down,” said Thorndyke, “and fetch another.”
Jervis and I ran back to the cellar, and taking up another cylinder,
brought it along the passage. As we were ascending the steps, there
suddenly arose a loud, penetrating hiss, and as we reached the top, we
saw Thorndyke disengaging the spanner from the cock of the cylinder
out of which a jet of liquid was issuing, mingled with a dense, snowy
cloud.
An instantaneous glance, as we laid down the fresh cylinder, reassured
me very considerably. The icy, volatile liquid and the falling cloud
of intensely cold carbonic acid snow had produced an immediate effect;
as was evident in a blackened, smouldering patch in the midst of the
blazing mass. With reviving hope I followed Jervis once more down the
steps and along the passage to the end cellar, from which we brought
forth a third cylinder.
By this time the passage was so filled with smoke that it was
difficult either to see or to breathe, and the bright light that had
at first poured in through the open doorway had already pulled down so
far that Thorndyke’s figure, framed in the opening, loomed dim and
shadowy amidst the smoke and against the dusky red background. We
found him, when we reached the top of the steps, holding the great gas
bottle and directing the stream of snow and liquid on to those parts
of the wood and straw from which flames still issued.
“It will be all right,” he said in his calm, unemotional way; “the
fire had not really got an effective start. The straw made a great
show, but that is nearly all burnt now, and all this carbonic acid gas
will soon smother the burning wood. But we must be careful that it
doesn’t smother us too. The steps will be the safest place for the
present.”
He opened the cock of the new cylinder and, having placed it so that
it played on the most refractory part of the burning mass, backed to
the steps where Jervis and I stood looking through the doorway. The
fire was, as he has said, rapidly dying down. The volumes of gas
produced by the evaporation of the liquid and the melting snow, cut
off the supply of air so that, in place of the flames that had, at
first, looked so alarming, only a dense reek of smoke arose.
“Now,” said Thorndyke, after we had waited on the steps a couple of
minutes more, “I think we might make a sortie and put an end to it. If
we can get the smouldering stuff off that wooden floor down on to the
stone, the danger will be over.”
He led the way cautiously into the corridor, and, once more bringing
his electric lamp into requisition, began to kick the smouldering
cases and crates and the blackened masses of straw down the steps on
to the stone floor of the passage, whither we followed them and
scattered them with our feet until they were completely safe from any
chance of re-ignition.
“There,” said Jervis, giving a final kick at a small heap of smoking
straw, “I should think that ought to do. There’s no fear of that stuff
lighting up again. And, if I may venture to make the remark, the
sooner we are off these premises the happier I shall be. Our friend’s
methods of entertaining his visitors are a trifle too strenuous for my
taste. He might try dynamite next.”
“Yes,” I agreed; “or he might take pot shots at us with a revolver
from some dark corner.”
“It is much more likely,” said Thorndyke, “that he has cleared off in
anticipation of the alarm of fire. Still, it is undeniable that we
shall be safer outside. Shall I go first and show you a light?”
He piloted us along the corridor and up the cobbled yard, putting away
his lamp as he unlocked the wicket. There was no sign of anyone about
the premises nor, when we had passed out of the gate, was there anyone
in sight in the street. I looked about, expecting to see some sign of
the fire; but there was no smoke visible, and only a slight smell of
burning wood. The smoke must have drifted out at the back.
“Well,” Thorndyke remarked, “it has been quite an exciting little
episode. And a highly satisfactory finish, as things turned out;
though it might easily have been very much the reverse. But for the
fortunate chance of those gas-bottles being available, I don’t think
we should be alive at this moment.”
“No,” agreed Jervis. “We should be in much the same condition by this
time as Batson’s late patient, Mr. Maddock, or at least, well on our
way to that disembodied state. However, all’s well that ends well. Are
you coming our way, Jardine?”
“I will walk a little way with you,” said I. “Then I must go back to
Batson to settle up and fetch my traps.”
I walked with them to Oxford Street, and we discussed our late
adventure as we went.
“It was a pretty strong hint to clear out, wasn’t it?” Jervis
remarked.
“Yes,” replied Thorndyke; “it didn’t leave us much option. But the
affair can’t be left at this. I shall have a watch set on those
premises, and I shall make some more particular enquiries about Mr.
Gill. By the way, Jardine, I haven’t your address. I’d better have it
in case I want to communicate with you; and you’d better have my card
in case anything turns up which you think I ought to know.”
We accordingly exchanged cards, and, as we had now reached the corner
of Oxford Street, I wished my friends adieu and thoughtfully retraced
my steps to Jacob Street.
CHAPTER VIII.
“IT’S AN ILL WIND--”
London is a wonderful place. From the urban greyness of Jacob Street
to the borders of Hampstead Heath was, even in those days of the slow
horse tram, but a matter of minutes--a good many minutes, perhaps, but