A silent witness
Something--well eerie; rather uncanny and almost sinister. Don’t you
think so?”
“I have always thought her a rather weird woman, but this is the
weirdest appearance she has made. How on earth came her face on that
canvas?”
“It _is_ an odd coincidence. And yet I don’t know that it is. She may
have been some relative of that rather eccentric artist, or even his
wife. I don’t know why it shouldn’t be so.”
Neither did I. But the coincidence remained a very striking one, to
me, at least; much more so than Sylvia realized; though what its
significance might be--if it had any--I could not guess. Nor was there
any opportunity to discuss it at the moment, for it was high time for
me to be gone.
“You will send me a telegram when you get back, to say that you have
arrived home safely, won’t you,” said Sylvia, as we descended the
stairs with our arms linked together. “Of course nothing is going to
happen to you, but I can’t help feeling a little nervous. And you’ll
go down to the station by the High Street, and keep to the main roads.
That is a promise, isn’t it?”
I made the promise readily having decided previously to take every
possible precaution, and, when I had wished Sylvia “good-bye” at some
length, I proceeded to execute it; making my way down the
well-populated High Street and keeping a bright look-out both there
and at the station. Once more I was fortunate in the matter of trains,
and, having taken a hansom from Broad Street to the Temple, was set
down in King’s Bench Walk soon after half-past six.
As I approached our building, I looked up with some anxiety at the
sitting-room windows; and when I saw them brightly lighted, a
suspicion that Thorndyke had returned earlier than usual filled me
with foreboding. I had had my dance and now I was going to pay the
piper, and I did not much enjoy the prospect; in fact, as I ascended
the stairs and took my latch-key from my pocket, I was as nervous as a
school-boy who has been playing truant. However, there was no escape
unless I sneaked up to my bed-room, so, inserting the key into the
lock, I turned it as boldly as I could, and entered.
CHAPTER XVIII.
A VISITOR FROM THE STATES
As I pushed open the inner door and entered the room I conceived the
momentary hope of a reprieve from the wrath to come, for I found my
two friends in what was evidently a business consultation with a
stranger, and was on the point of backing out when Thorndyke stopped
me.
“Don’t run away, Howard,” said he. “There are no secrets being
disclosed--at least, I think not. We have finished with your affairs,
Mr. O’Donnell, haven’t we?”
“Yes, doctor,” was the answer; “you’ve run me dry with the exception
of your own little business.”
“Then, come in and sit down, Howard, and let me present you to Mr.
O’Donnell who is a famous American detective and has been telling us
all sorts of wonderful things.”
Mr. O’Donnell paused in the act of returning a quantity of papers to a
large attaché case and offered his hand.
“The doctor,” he remarked, “is blowing his trumpet at the wrong end. I
haven’t come here to give information but to get advice. But I guess I
needn’t tell you that.”
“I hope that isn’t quite true,” said Thorndyke. “You spoke just now of
my little business; haven’t you anything to tell me?”
“I have; but I fancy it isn’t what you wanted to hear. However, we’ll
just have a look at your letter to Curtis and take your questions one
by one. By the way, what made you write to Curtis?”
“I saw, when I inspected Maddock’s will at Somerset House, that he had
left a small legacy to Curtis. Naturally, I inferred that Curtis knew
him and could give me some account of him.”
“It struck you as a bit queer, I reckon, that he should be leaving a
legacy to the head of an American detective agency.”
“The circumstance suggested possibilities,” Thorndyke admitted.
O’Donnell laughed. “I can guess what possibilities suggested
themselves to you, if you knew Maddock. Your letter and the lawyer’s,
announcing the legacy, came within a mail or two of one another.
Curtis showed them both to me and we grinned. We took it for granted
that the worthy testator was foxing. But we were wrong. And so are
you, if that is what you thought.”
“You assumed that the will was not a genuine one?”
“Yes; we thought it was a fake, put up with the aid of some shyster to
bluff us into giving up Mr. Maddock as deceased. So, as I had to come
across about these other affairs, Curtis suggested that I should look
into the matter. And a considerable surprise I got when I did; for the
will is perfectly regular and so is everything else. That legacy was a
sort of posthumous joke, I guess.”
“Then do I understand that Mr. Curtis was not really a friend of
Maddock’s?”
O’Donnell chuckled. “Not exactly a friend, doctor,” said he. “He felt
the warmest interest in Maddock’s welfare, but they weren’t what you
might call bosom friends. The position was this: Curtis was the chief
of our detective agency; Maddock was a gentleman whom he had been
looking for and not finding for a matter of ten years. At last he
found him; and then he lost him again; and this legacy, I take it, was
a sort of playful hint to show which hole he’d gone down.”
“Was Maddock in hiding all that time?” asked Thorndyke.
“In hiding!” repeated O’Donnell. “Bless your innocent heart, doctor,
he had a nice convenient studio in one of the best blocks in New York
a couple of doors from our agency, and he used to send us cards for
his private views. No, sir, our dear departed friend wasn’t the kind
that lurks out of sight in cellars or garrets. It was Maddock, sure
enough, that Curtis wanted, only he didn’t know it. But I guess I’m
fogging you. I’d better answer the questions that you put to Curtis.
“First, do we know anything about Maddock? Yes, we do. But we didn’t
know that his name was Maddock until a few months ago. Isaac Vandamme
was the name we knew him by, and it seems that he had one or two other
names that he used on occasion. We now know that the gay Isaac was a
particularly versatile kind of crook, and a mighty uncommon kind, too,
the Lord be praised; for, if there were many more like him we should
have to raise our prices some. He wasn’t the kind of fool that makes a
million dollar coup and then goes on the razzle and drops it all. That
sort of man is easy enough to deal with. When he’s loaded up with
dollars everybody knows it, and he’s sure to be back in a week or two
with empty pockets, ready for another scoop. Isaac wasn’t that sort.
When he made a little pile, he invested his winnings like a sensible
man and didn’t live beyond his means; and the only mystery to me is
that, when he died, he didn’t leave more pickings. I see from his
will--which I’ve had a look at--that the whole estate couldn’t have
been above five thousand dollars. He had a lot more than that at one
time.”
“He may have disposed of the bulk of his property by gift just before
his death,” Jervis suggested.
“That’s possible,” agreed O’Donnell. “He’d escape the death dues that
way. However, to return to his engaging little ways. His leading line
was penmanship--forgery--and he did it to an absolute finish. He was
the most expert penman that I have ever known. But where he had us all
was that he didn’t only know _how_ to write another man’s name; he
knew _when_ to write it. I reckon that the great bulk of his forgeries
were never spotted at all, and, of the remainder very few got beyond
the bare suspicion that they _were_ forgeries. In the case of the few
that were actually spotted as forgeries, his tracks were covered up so
cleverly that no one could guess who the forger was.”
“And how did you come to suspect him eventually?” Thorndyke asked.
“Ah!” said O’Donnell. “There you are. Every crook--even the
cleverest--has a strain of the fool in him. Isaac’s folly took the
form of suspicion. He suspected us of suspecting him. We didn’t; but
he thought we did, and then he started to dodge and make some false
clues for us. That drew our attention to him. We looked into his
record, traced his little wanderings and then we began to find things
out. A nice collection there was, too, by the time we had worked a
month or two at his biography; forgeries, false notes, and, at least,
two murders that had been a complete mystery to us all. We made ready
to drop on Isaac, but, at that psychological moment, he disappeared.
It looked as if he had left the States, and, as we have no great
affection for extradition cases, we let the matter rest, more or less,
expecting that he would turn up again, sooner or later. And then came
this lawyer’s letter and yours, announcing his decease. Of course
Curtis and I thought he was at the old game; that it was a bit of that
sort of extra caution that won’t let well alone. So, as I was coming
over, I thought I’d just look into the affair as I told you; and, to
my astonishment, I found everything perfectly regular; the will
properly proved, the death certificate made out correctly and a second
certificate signed by two doctors.”
“Did you go into the question of identity?” asked Thorndyke.
“Oh, yes. I called on one of the doctors, a man named Batson, and
ascertained that it was all correct. Batson’s eyesight seemed to be
none of the best, but he made it quite clear to me that his late
patient was certainly our friend Isaac, or Maddock. So that’s the end
of the case. And if you want to go into it any further you’ve got to
deal with a little pile of bone ash, for our friend is not only dead;
he’s cremated. That’s enough for us. We don’t follow our clients to
the next world. We are not so thorough as you seem to be.”
“You are flattering me unduly,” said Thorndyke. “I’m not so thorough
as that; but our clients, when they betake themselves to the happy
hunting-ground, usually leave a few of their friends behind to
continue their activities. Do you happen to know what Maddock’s
original occupation was? Had he any profession?”
“He was originally an engraver, and a very skilful engraver, too, I
understand. That was what made him so handy in working the flash note
racket. Then he went on the stage for a time, and didn’t do badly at
that; but I fancy he was more clever at making-up and mimicry than at
acting in the dramatic sense. For the last ten years or so he was
practising as a painter--chiefly of landscape, though he could do a
figure subject or a portrait at a pinch. I don’t fancy he sold much,
or made any great efforts to sell his work. He liked painting and the
art covered his real industries, for he used to tour about in search
of subjects and so open up fresh ground for the little operations that
actually produced his income.”
“Was his work of any considerable merit?” Thorndyke asked.
“Well, in a way, yes. It was rather in the American taste, though
Maddock was really an Englishman. Our taste, as you know, runs to
technical smartness and novelty of handling; and Maddock’s work was
very peculiar and remarkably smart and slick in handling. He used the
knife more than the brush and he used it uncommonly cleverly. In fact,
he was unusually skilful in many ways; and that’s the really
surprising thing about him, when one considers his
extraordinary-looking paws.”
“What was there peculiar about his hands?” asked Thorndyke. “Were they
noticeably clumsy in appearance?”
“Clumsy!” exclaimed O’Donnell. “They were more than that. They were
positively deformed. A monkey’s hands would be delicate compared with
Maddock’s. They were short and thick like the paws of an animal.
There’s some jaw-twisting name for the deformity that he suffered
from; bronchodactilious, or something like that.”
“Brachydactylous,” suggested Thorndyke.
“That’s the word; and I daresay you know the sort of paw I mean. It