A silent witness
After lunch, I wrote a letter to Sylvia, briefly explaining the state
of affairs, and, having given it to our maid to deliver, I took the
precaution to go out and saunter towards Kentish Town with the object
of engaging the spy’s attention and preventing him from following my
messenger to North End. The rest of the day I spent at home and
occupied my time in writing a long letter to Thorndyke in which I gave
a pretty detailed account of my recent experiences; which letter was
duly posted by Mrs. Blunt herself in time for the evening collection.
I had barely seated myself at the breakfast table on the following
morning when a telegram was brought to me. On opening it I found that
it was from Thorndyke, advising me that a letter had been dispatched
by hand and asking me to stay at home until I had received it; which I
did; and within an hour it arrived and was delivered into my own hands
by a messenger boy.
It was curt and rather peremptory in tone, desiring me to meet him at
one o’clock at Salter’s Club in a turning off St. James’s Street and
concluding with these somewhat remarkable instructions: “I want you to
wear an overcoat and hat of a distinctive and easily recognizable
character and to take every means that you can of being seen and, if
possible, followed to the club. You had better put a few necessaries
in a bag or suit-case and tell your landlady that you may not be home
to-night. Follow these instructions to the letter and bring this note
with you.”
At the latter part of these directions I was somewhat disposed to
boggle, remembering my worthy teacher’s threat to put me somewhere out
of harm’s way. But Thorndyke was a difficult man to disobey. Suave and
persuasive as his manners were, he had a certain final and compelling
way with him that silenced objections and produced a sort of
frictionless obedience without any sense of compulsion. Hence,
notwithstanding a slight tendency to bluster and tell myself that I
would see him hanged before I would submit to being mollycoddled like
an idiot, I found myself, presently, walking down the Grove in a buff
overcoat and a grey felt hat, carrying a green canvas suit-case in
which were packed the necessaries for a brief stay away from home, and
bearing in my pocket the incriminating letter.
I walked slowly as far as the Junction Road in order to give any
pursuer a fair opportunity to take up the chase and to make the
necessary observations on my tasteful turn-out. At the Junction I
waited for a tram and carefully abstained from staring about in a
manner which would have embarrassed any person who might wish
unobserved to share the conveyance with me; and from the terminus at
Euston Road I proceeded in leisurely fashion on foot, still resisting
the temptation to look about and see if I had picked up a companion by
the way.
Salter’s Club was domiciled in a typical West End house situated in a
quiet street of similar houses, graced at one end by a cabstand. I
timed my arrival with such accuracy that a neighbouring church-clock
struck one as I ascended the steps; and on my entering the hall, I was
met by an elderly man in a quiet livery who seemed to expect me, for,
when I mentioned Thorndyke’s name, he asked, “Dr. Jardine, sir?” and,
hardly waiting for my reply, showed me to the cloak-room.
“Dr. Thorndyke,” said he, “will be with you in a few minutes. When you
have washed, I will show you to the dining room where he wished you to
wait for him.”
I was just a little surprised at even this short delay, for Thorndyke
was the soul of punctuality. However, I had not to wait long. I had
been sitting less than three minutes at a small table laid for two in
the deep bay window, scanning the street through the wire-gauze
blinds, when he arrived.
“I needn’t apologize, I suppose, Jardine,” he said, shaking my hand
heartily. “You will have guessed why I have kept you waiting.”
“You flatter me, sir,” I replied with a slight grin. “I haven’t your
powers of instantaneous deduction.”
“You hardly needed them,” he retorted. “Of course I was watching your
approach and observing the corner by which you entered the street to
see who came after you.”
“Did anyone come after me?”
“Several persons. I examined them all very carefully with a prism
binocular that magnifies twelve times linear, and an assistant is now
at the same window--the one over this--following the fortunes of those
persons with the same excellent glass.”
“Did you spot anyone in particular as looking a likely person?”
“Yes. The second man who came after you seemed to be sauntering in a
rather unpurposive fashion and looking a little obtrusively
unconcerned. I noticed, too, that he was carrying an umbrella in his
left hand. But we needn’t concern ourselves. If anyone is shadowing
you we are certain to see him. He must expose himself to view from
time to time, for he can’t afford to lose sight of our doorway for
more than a few seconds, and there is practically no cover in this
street.”
“He might hide in a doorway,” I suggested.
“Oh, might he! These are all clubs in this street. He’d very soon have
the servants out wanting to know his business. No; he’ll have to keep
on the move and he’ll have to keep mostly in sight of this house. And
meanwhile we are going to take our lunch at our leisure and have a
little talk to while away the time.”
The lunch was on a scale that my youthful appetite approved strongly,
though the number of courses and irrelevant, time-consuming kickshaws
struck me as rather unusual. And I never saw a man eat so slowly and
delay a meal so much as Thorndyke did on that occasion. I believe that
it took him fully twenty minutes to consume a fried sole; and even
then he created a further delay by drawing my attention to the
skeleton on his plate as an illustration of inherited deformity
adjusted to special environmental conditions. But all the time,
whether eating or talking, I noticed that his eye continually
travelled up and down the stretch of street that was visible through
the wire blinds.
“You haven’t told me why you sent for me, sir,” I said, after waiting
patiently for him to open the subject.
“I dare say you have guessed,” he replied; “but we may as well thrash
the matter out now. You realize that you are running an enormous and
unnecessary risk by going abroad with this man at your heels?”
“Well, I don’t suppose he is following me about from sheer affection.”
“No. I thought it possible that he might be a plain-clothes policeman,
but I have ascertained that he is not. Who he is we don’t know, but we
have the strongest reasons for suspecting his intentions. There have
been three very determined attempts on your life. They were all made
with such remarkable caution and foresight that, though they failed,
practically no traces have been left. Those attempts imply a strong
motive, though to us, an unknown one; and that motive, presumably,
still exists. Your enemy may well be getting desperate, and may be
prepared to take greater risks to get rid of you; and if he is, the
chances are that he will succeed sooner or later. Murder isn’t very
difficult to a cool-headed man who means business.”
“Then what do you propose, sir?”
“I propose that you disappear from your ordinary surroundings and come
and stay, for a time, at my chambers in the Temple.”
This was no more than I had expected, but my jaw dropped considerably,
notwithstanding.
“It’s awfully good of you, sir,” I stammered--and so, to be sure, it
was--“but don’t you think it would be simpler to turn the tables on
this Johnnie and shadow him?”
“An excellent idea, Jardine, and one, I may say, that I am acting on
at this moment. But there isn’t so much in it as you seem to think.
Supposing we identify this man and even run him to earth? What then?
We have nothing against him. We know of no crime that has been
committed. We may suspect that the man whom you saw at Hampstead had
been murdered. But we can’t prove it. We can’t produce the body or
even prove that the man was dead. And we couldn’t connect this person
with the affair because nobody was known to be connected with it. I
should like to know who this man is, but I don’t want to put him on
his guard; and above all, I can’t agree to your going about as a sort
of live-bait to enable us to locate him. By the way, that man on the
opposite side of the street is the one whom I selected as being
probably your attendant. Apparently I was right, as this is the third
time he has passed. Do you recognize him?”
I looked attentively at the uncharacteristic figure on the farther
side of the street, but could find nothing familiar in his appearance.
“No,” I replied; “he doesn’t look to me like the same man. He is
dressed differently--but that’s nothing, as he has been dressed
differently on each occasion--and that torpedo beard and full
moustache are quite unlike, though there’s nothing in that either; but
the man looks different altogether--distinctly taller, for instance.”
Thorndyke chuckled. “Good,” said he. “Now look at his feet, as he
passes opposite. Did you ever see an instep set at that angle to the
sole? And does not your anatomical conscience cry out at a foot of
that thickness?”
“Yes, by Jove!” I exclaimed; “there’s room for a double row of
metatarsals. It is a fake of some kind, I suppose?”
“Cork ‘raisers’ inside high-heeled boots. Through the glasses I could
see that the boots gaped considerably at the instep, as they will when
there is a pad inside as well as a foot. But you notice, also, that
the man is dressed for height. He has a tall hat, a long coat, and his
shoulders are obviously raised by padding. I think there is very
little doubt that he is our man.”
“It must be a dull job,” I remarked, “hanging about by the hour to see
a man come out of a house.”
“Very,” Thorndyke agreed. “I am quite sorry for the worthy person,
especially as we are going to play him a rather shabby trick
presently.”
“What are we going to do?” I asked.
“We are going to let him in for one of the longest waits he has ever
had, I am afraid. Perhaps I had better give you the particulars of our
_modus operandi_. First, I shall send down to the stand for a hansom,
which will draw up opposite the club; and thereupon I have no doubt
our friend will hurry down to the cabstand to be in readiness. At any
rate, I shall let him get down to that end of the street before I do
anything more. Then I shall take the liberty of putting on your coat
and hat and go out to the cab with your suit-case in my hand; I shall
stand on the kerb long enough to let our friend get a good view of my
back, I shall get into the cab, give the driver the direction through
the trap to drive to the hospital, and pay the fare in advance.”
“Why in advance?” I asked.
“So that I shall not have to turn round and show my face when I get
out at the hospital entrance. I assume that your friend will follow me
in another hansom. Also that he will alight at the outer gates,
whereas I shall drive into the courtyard right up to the main
entrance, so that he will merely see your hat, coat and suit-case
disappear into the building. Then, as I say, he will be in for an
interminable vigil. I have a lecture to give this afternoon, and, when
I have finished, I shall come away in a black overcoat and tall hat
(which are at this moment hanging up in the curator’s room), leaving
your friend to wait for the reappearance of your coat, hat and
suit-case. I only hope he won’t wait too long.”
“Why?”
“Because he may wear out the patience of my assistant. I have a
plain-clothes man keeping a watch from the window above. If your
friend sets off in pursuit of your garments, as I anticipate, the
plain-clothes man will go straight to the hospital and take up his