The magic casket
thousands of vans fitted with these tyres; they are the favourite type
for light covered vans, and when new they are all alike and
indistinguishable. Yet this tyre--of the off hind-wheel--has acquired
a character which would enable one to pick it out with certainty from
ten thousand others. First, you see, there is a deep cut in the tyre
at an angle of forty-five, then a kidney-shaped ‘Blakey’ has stuck in
the outer tyre without puncturing the inner; and finally some adhesive
object--perhaps a lump of pitch from a newly-mended road--has become
fixed on just behind the ‘Blakey.’ Now, if we make a rough sketch of
those three marks and indicate their distance apart, thus”--here he
made a rapid sketch in his note-book, and wrote in the intervals in
inches--“we have the means of swearing to the identity of a vehicle
which we have never seen.”
“And which,” I added, “had for some reason swerved over to the wrong
side of the road. Yes, I should say that tyre is certainly unique. But
surely most tyres are identifiable when they have been in use for some
time.”
“Exactly,” he replied. “That was my point. The standardized thing is
devoid of character only when it is new.”
It was not a very subtle point, and as it was fairly obvious I made no
comment, but presently reverted to the case of Pedley deceased.
“I don’t quite see why you are taking all this trouble. The insurance
claim is not likely to be contested. No one can prove that it was a
case of suicide, though I should think no one will feel any doubt that
it was, at least that is my own feeling.”
Thorndyke looked at me with an expression of reproach.
“I am afraid that my learned friend has not been making very good use
of his eyes,” said he. “He has allowed his attention to be distracted
by superficial appearances.”
“You don’t think that it was suicide, then?” I asked, considerably
taken aback.
“It isn’t a question of thinking,” he replied. “It was certainly not
suicide. There are the plainest indications of homicide; and, of
course, in the particular circumstances, homicide means murder.”
I was thunderstruck. In my own mind I had dismissed the case somewhat
contemptuously as a mere commonplace suicide. As my friend had truly
said, I had accepted the obvious appearances and let them mislead me,
whereas Thorndyke had followed his golden rule of accepting nothing
and observing everything. But what was it that he had observed? I knew
that it was useless to ask, but still I ventured on a tentative
question.
“When did you come to the conclusion that it was a case of homicide?”
“As soon as I had had a good look at the place where the body was
found,” he replied promptly.
This did not help me much, for I had given very little attention to
anything but the search for the keys. The absence of those keys was,
of course, a suspicious fact, if it was a fact. But we had not proved
their absence; we had only failed to find them.
“What do you propose to do next?” I asked.
“Evidently,” he answered, “there are two things to be done. One is to
test the murder theory--to look for more evidence for or against it;
the other is to identify the murderer, if possible. But really the two
problems are one, since they involve the questions, Who had a motive
for killing Cyrus Pedley? and Who had the opportunity and the means?”
Our discussion brought us to the station, where, outside the hotel, we
found Mr. Pedley waiting for us.
“I am glad you have come,” said he. “I was beginning to fear that we
should lose this train. I suppose there is no new light on this
mysterious affair?”
“No,” Thorndyke replied. “Rather there is a new problem. No keys were
found in your brother’s pockets, and we have failed to find them in
the ditch; though, of course, they may be there.”
“They must be,” said Pedley. “They must have fallen out of his pocket
and got buried in the mud, unless he lost them previously, which is
most unlikely. It is a pity, though. We shall have to break open his
cabinets and drawers, which he would have hated. He was very
fastidious about his furniture.”
“You will have to break into his flat, too,” said I.
“No,” he replied, “I shan’t have to do that. I have a duplicate of his
latch-key. He had a spare bedroom which he let me use if I wanted to
stay in town.” As he spoke, he produced his key-bunch and exhibited a
small Chubb latch-key. “I wish we had the others, though,” he added.
Here the up-train was heard approaching and we hurried on to the
platform, selecting an empty first-class compartment as it drew up. As
soon as the train had started, Thorndyke began his inquiries, to which
I listened attentively.
“You said that your brother had been anxious and depressed lately. Was
there anything more than this? Any nervousness or foreboding?”
“Well, yes,” replied Pedley. “Looking back, I seem to see that the
possibility of death was in his mind. A week or two ago he brought his
will to me to see if it was quite satisfactory to me as the principal
beneficiary; and he handed to me his last receipt for the insurance
premium. That looks a little suggestive.”
“It does,” Thorndyke agreed. “And as to his occupation and his
associates, what do you know about them?”
“His private friends are mostly my own, but of his official associates
I know nothing. He was connected with the Foreign Office; but in what
capacity I don’t know at all. He was extremely reticent on the
subject. I only know that he travelled about a good deal, presumably
on official business.”
This was not very illuminating, but it was all our client had to tell;
and the conversation languished somewhat until the train drew up at
Marylebone, when Thorndyke said, as if by an after-thought:
“You have your brother’s latch-key. How would it be if we just took a
glance at the flat? Have you time now?”
“I will make time,” was the reply, “if you want to see the flat. I
don’t see what you could learn from inspecting it; but that is your
affair. I am in your hands.”
“I should like to look round the rooms,” Thorndyke answered; and as
our client assented, we approached a taxi-cab and entered while Pedley
gave the driver the necessary directions. A quarter of an hour later
we drew up opposite a tall block of buildings, and Mr. Pedley, having
paid off the cab, led the way to the lift.
The dead man’s flat was on the third floor, and, like the others, was
distinguished only by the number on the door. Mr. Pedley inserted the
key into the latch, and having opened the door, preceded us across the
small lobby into the sitting-room.
“Ha!” he exclaimed, as he entered, “this solves your problem.” As he
spoke, he pointed to the table, on which lay a small bunch of keys,
including a latch-key similar to the one that he had shown us.
“But,” he continued, “it is rather extraordinary. It just shows what a
very disturbed state his mind must have been in.”
“Yes,” Thorndyke agreed, looking critically about the room; “and as
the latch-key is there, it raises the question whether the keys may
have been out of his possession. Do you know what the various locked
receptacles contain?”
“I know pretty well what is in the bureau; but as to the cupboard
above it, I have never seen it open and don’t know what he kept in it.
I always assumed that he reserved it for his official papers. I will
just see if anything seems to have been disturbed.”
He unlocked and opened the flap of the old-fashioned bureau and pulled
out the small drawers one after the other, examining the contents of
each. Then he opened each of the larger drawers and turned over the
various articles in them. As he closed the last one, he reported:
“Everything seems to be in order--cheque-book, insurance policy, a few
share certificates, and so on. Nothing seems to have been touched. Now
we will try the cupboard, though I don’t suppose its contents would be
of much interest to anyone but himself. I wonder which is the key.”
He looked at the keyhole and made a selection from the bunch, but it
was evidently the wrong key. He tried another and yet another with a
like result, until he had exhausted the resources of the bunch.
“It is very remarkable,” he said. “None of these keys seems to fit. I
wonder if he kept this particular key locked up or hidden. It wasn’t
in the bureau. Will you try what you can do?”
He handed the bunch to Thorndyke, who tried all the keys in succession
with the same result. None of them was the key belonging to the lock.
At length, having tried them all, he inserted one and turned it as far
as it would go. Then he gave a sharp pull; and immediately the door
came open.
“Why, it was unlocked after all!” exclaimed Mr. Pedley. “And there is
nothing in it. That is why there was no key on the bunch. Apparently
he didn’t use the cupboard.”
Thorndyke looked critically at the single vacant shelf, drawing his
finger along it in two places and inspecting his finger-tips. Then he
turned his attention to the lock, which was of the kind that is
screwed on the inside of the door, leaving the bolt partly exposed. He
took the bolt in his fingers and pushed it out and then in again; and
by the way it moved I could see that the spring was broken. On this he
made no comment, but remarked:
“The cupboard has been in use pretty lately. You can see the trace of
a largish volume--possibly a box-file--on the shelf. There is hardly
any dust there, whereas the rest of the shelf is fairly thickly
coated. However, that does not carry us very far; and the appearance
of the rooms is otherwise quite normal.”
“Quite,” agreed Pedley. “But why shouldn’t it be? You didn’t
suspect----”
“I was merely testing the suggestion offered by the absence of the
keys,” said Thorndyke. “By the way, have you communicated with the
Foreign Office?”
“No,” was the reply, “but I suppose I ought to. What had I better say
to them?”
“I should merely state the facts in the first instance. But you can,
if you like, say that I definitely reject the idea of suicide.”
“I am glad to hear you say that,” said Pedley. “Can I give any reasons
for your opinion?”
“Not in the first place,” replied Thorndyke. “I will consider the case
and let you have a reasoned report in a day or two, which you can show
to the Foreign Office and also to the insurance company.”
Mr. Pedley looked as if he would have liked to ask some further
questions, but as Thorndyke now made his way to the door, he followed
in silence, pocketing the keys as we went out. He accompanied us down
to the entry and there we left him, setting forth in the direction of
South Kensington Station.
“It looked to me,” said I, as soon as we were out of ear-shot, “as if
that lock had been forced. What do you think?”
“Well,” he answered, “locks get broken in ordinary use, but taking all
the facts together, I think you are right. There are too many
coincidences for reasonable probability. First, this man leaves his
keys, including his latch-key, on the table, which is an extraordinary
thing to do. On that very occasion, he is found dead under
inexplicable circumstances. Then, of all the locks in his rooms, the
one which happens to be broken is the one of which the key is not on
the bunch. That is a very suspicious group of facts.”
“It is,” I agreed. “And if there is, as you say--though I can’t
imagine on what grounds--evidence of foul play, that makes it still
more suspicious. But what is the next move? Have you anything in
view?”
“The next move,” he replied, “is to clear up the mystery of the dead
man’s movements on the day of his death. The railway receipt shows
that on that day he travelled down somewhere into Essex. From that
place, he took a long, cross-country journey of which the destination
was a ditch by a lonely meadow in Buckinghamshire. The questions that