The blue scarab
five consecutive Post Office Directories, which I had already noticed
ranged along the end of the table, told me that he had not only formed
a hypothesis on the subject, but had probably either confirmed or
disproved it. For the Post Office Directory was one of Thorndyke’s
favourite books of reference; and the amount of curious and recondite
information that he succeeded in extracting from its matter-of-fact
pages would have surprised no one more than it would the compilers of
the work.
At this moment the sound of footsteps ascending our stairs became
audible. It was late for business callers, but we were not
unaccustomed to late visitors; and a familiar rat-tat of our little
brass knocker seemed to explain the untimely visit.
“That sounds like Superintendent Miller’s knock,” said Thorndyke, as
he strode across the room to open the door. And the Superintendent it
turned out to be. But not alone.
As the door opened, the officer entered with two gentlemen, both
natives of India, and one of whom was our friend Mr. Byramji.
“Perhaps,” said Miller, “I had better look in a little later.”
“Not on my account,” said Byramji. “I have only a few words to say and
there is nothing secret about my business. May I introduce my kinsman,
Mr. Khambata, a student of the Inner Temple?”
Byramji’s companion bowed ceremoniously. “Byramji came to my chambers
just now,” he explained, “to consult me about this dreadful affair,
and he chanced to show me your card. He had not heard of you, but
supposed you to be an ordinary medical practitioner. He did not
realize that he had entertained an angel unawares. But I, who knew of
your great reputation, advised him to put his affairs in your
hands--without prejudice to the official investigations,” Mr. Khambata
added hastily, bowing to the Superintendent.
“And I,” said Mr. Byramji, “instantly decided to act on my kinsman’s
advice. I have come to beg you to leave no stone unturned to secure
the punishment of my cousin’s murderer. Spare no expense. I am a rich
man and my poor cousin’s property will come to me. As to the ruby,
recover it if you can, but it is of no consequence. Vengeance--justice
is what I seek. Deliver this wretch into my hands, or into the hands
of justice, and I give you the ruby or its value, freely--gladly.”
“There is no need,” said Thorndyke, “of such extraordinary inducement.
If you wish me to investigate this case, I will do so and will use
every means at my disposal, without prejudice, as your friend says, to
the proper claims of the officers of the law. But you understand that
I can make no promises. I cannot guarantee success.”
“We understand that,” said Mr. Khambata. “But we know that if you
undertake the case, everything that is possible will be done. And now
we must leave you to your consultation.”
As soon as our clients had gone, Miller rose from his chair with his
hand in his breast pocket. “I dare say, Doctor,” said he, “you can
guess what I have come about. I was sent for to look into this Byramji
case, and I heard from Mr. Byramji that you had been there and that
you had made a minute examination of the missing man’s hat. So have I;
and I don’t mind telling you that I could learn nothing from it.”
“I haven’t learnt much myself,” said Thorndyke.
“But you’ve picked up something,” urged Miller, “if it is only a hint;
and we have just a little clue. There is very small doubt that this is
the same man--‘The New Jersey Sphinx,’ as the papers call him--that
committed those other robberies; and a very difficult type of criminal
he is to get hold of. He is bold, he is wary, he plays a lone hand,
and he sticks at nothing. He has no confederates, and he kills every
time. The American police never got near him but once; and that once
gives us the only clues we have.”
“Finger-prints?” inquired Thorndyke.
“Yes, and very poor ones, too. So rough that you can hardly make out
the pattern. And even those are not absolutely guaranteed to be his;
but in any case, finger-prints are not much use until you’ve got the
man. And there is a photograph of the fellow himself. But it is only a
snapshot, and a poor one at that. All it shows is that he has a mop of
hair and a pointed beard--or at least he had when the photograph was
taken. But for identification purposes it is practically worthless.
Still, there it is; and what I propose is this: we want this man and
so do you; we’ve worked together before and can trust one another. I
am going to lay my cards on the table and ask you to do the same.”
“But, my dear Miller,” said Thorndyke, “I haven’t any cards. I haven’t
a single solid fact.”
The detective was visibly disappointed. Nevertheless, he laid two
photographs on the table and pushed them towards Thorndyke, who
inspected them through his lens and passed them to me.
“The pattern is very indistinct and broken up,” he remarked.
“Yes,” said Miller; “the prints must have been made on a very rough
surface, though you get prints something like those from fitters or
other men who use files and handle rough metal. And now, Doctor, can’t
you give us a lead of any kind?”
Thorndyke reflected a few moments. “I really have not a single real
fact,” said he, “and I am unwilling to make merely speculative
suggestions.”
“Oh, that’s all right,” Miller replied cheerfully. “Give us a start. I
shan’t complain if it comes to nothing.”
“Well,” Thorndyke said reluctantly, “I was thinking of getting a few
particulars as to the various tenants of No. 51, Clifford’s Inn.
Perhaps you could do it more easily and it might be worth your while.”
“Good!” Miller exclaimed gleefully. “He ‘gives to airy nothing a local
habitation and a name.’”
“It is probably the wrong name,” Thorndyke reminded him.
“I don’t care,” said Miller. “But why shouldn’t we go together? It’s
too late to-night, and I can’t manage to-morrow morning. But say
to-morrow afternoon. Two heads are better than one, you know,
especially when the second one is yours. Or perhaps,” he added, with a
glance at me, “three would be better still.”
Thorndyke considered for a moment or two and then looked at me.
“What do you say, Jervis?” he asked.
As my afternoon was unoccupied, I agreed with enthusiasm, being as
curious as the Superintendent to know how Thorndyke had connected this
particular locality with the vanished criminal; and Miller departed in
high spirits with an appointment for the morrow at three o’clock in
the afternoon.
For some time after the Superintendent’s departure I sat wrapped in
profound meditation. In some mysterious way the address, 51,
Clifford’s Inn, had emerged from the formless data yielded by the
derelict hat. But what had been the connection? Apparently the
fragment of the addressed envelope had furnished the clue. But how had
Thorndyke extended “----n” into “51, Clifford’s Inn”? It was to me a
complete mystery.
Meanwhile, Thorndyke had seated himself at the writing table, and I
noticed that of the two letters which he wrote, one was written on our
headed paper and the other on ordinary plain notepaper. I was
speculating on the reason for this when he rose, and as he stuck on
the stamps, said to me, “I am just going out to post these two
letters. Do you care for a short stroll through the leafy shades of
Fleet Street? The evening is still young.”
“The rural solitudes of Fleet Street attract me at all hours,” I
replied, fetching my hat from the adjoining office; and we accordingly
sallied forth together, strolling up King’s Bench Walk and emerging
into Fleet Street by way of Mitre Court. When Thorndyke had dropped
his letters into the post office box he stood awhile gazing up at the
tower of St. Dunstan’s Church.
“Have you ever been in Clifford’s Inn, Jervis?” he inquired.
“Never,” I replied (we passed through it together on an average a
dozen times a week), “but it is not too late for an exploratory
visit.”
We crossed the road, and entering Clifford’s Inn Passage, passed
through the still half-open gate, crossed the outer court and threaded
the tunnel-like entry by the hall to the inner court, near the middle
of which Thorndyke halted, and looking up at one of the ancient
houses, remarked, “No. 51.”
“So that is where our friend hangs out his flag,” said I.
“Oh, come, Jervis,” he protested, “I am surprised at you; you are as
bad as Miller. I have merely suggested a possible connection between
these premises and the hat that was left at Bedford Place. As to the
nature of that connection I have no idea, and there may be no
connection at all. I assure you, Jervis, that I am on the thinnest
possible ice. I am working on a hypothesis which is in the highest
degree speculative, and I should not have given Miller a hint, but
that he was so eager and so willing to help--and also that I wanted
his finger-prints. But we are really only at the beginning, and may
never get any farther.”
I looked up at the old house. It was all in darkness excepting the top
floor, where a couple of lighted windows showed the shadow of a man
moving rapidly about the room. We crossed to the entry and inspected
the names painted on the door-posts. The ground floor was occupied by
a firm of photoengravers, the first floor by a Mr. Carrington, whose
name stood out conspicuously on its oblong of comparatively fresh
white paint, while the tenants of the second floor--old residents, to
judge by the faded and discoloured paint in which their names were
announced--were Messrs. Burt & Highley, metallurgists.
“Burt has departed,” said Thorndyke, as I read out the names; and he
pointed to two red lines of erasure which I had not noticed in the dim
light, “so the active gentleman above is presumably Mr. Highley, and
we may take it that he has residential as well as business premises. I
wonder who and what Mr. Carrington is--but I dare say we shall find
out to-morrow.”
With this he dismissed the professional aspects of Clifford’s Inn, and
changing the subject to its history and associations, chatted in his
inimitable, picturesque manner until our leisurely perambulations
brought us at length to the Inner Temple Gate.
On the following morning we bustled through our work in order to leave
the afternoon free, making several joint visits to solicitors from
whom we were taking instructions. Returning from the last of these--a
City lawyer--Thorndyke turned into St. Helen’s Place and halted at a
doorway bearing the brass plate of a firm of assayists and refiners. I
followed him into the outer office where, on his mentioning his name,
an elderly man came to the counter.
“Mr. Grayson has put out some specimens for you, sir,” said he. “They
are about thirty grains to the ton--you said that the content was of
no importance--and I am to tell you that you need not return them.
They are not worth treating.” He went to a large safe from which he
took a canvas bag, and returning to the counter, turned out on it the
contents of the bag, consisting of about a dozen good-sized lumps of
quartz and a glittering yellow fragment, which Thorndyke picked out
and dropped in his pocket.
“Will that collection do?” our friend inquired.
“It will answer my purpose perfectly,” Thorndyke replied, and when the
specimens had been replaced in the bag, and the latter deposited in
Thorndyke’s handbag, my colleague thanked the assistant and we went on
our way.
“We extend our activities into the domain of mineralogy,” I remarked.
Thorndyke smiled an inscrutable smile. “We also employ the suction
pump as an instrument of research,” he observed. “However, the
strategic uses of chunks of quartz--otherwise than as missiles--will
develop themselves in due course, and the interval may be used for
reflection.”
It was. But my reflections brought no solution. I noticed, however,