The magic casket
drawn from the wood when it was forced open. At length he put away his
note-book, closed the research-case and announced that he had
finished, adding the inquiry: “How do you get to the ‘Red Lion’ from
here?”
“It’s only a few minutes’ walk,” said Miller. “I’ll show you the way.
But you’re wasting your time, doctor, you are indeed. You see,” he
continued, when he had locked up the mortuary and pocketed the key,
“that suggestion of Chapman’s is ridiculous on the face of it. Just
imagine a man bringing a portmanteau full of human remains into the
luggage-room of a commercial hotel, opening it and opening another
man’s box, and swapping the contents of the one for the other with the
chance of one of the commercials coming in at any moment. Supposing
one of ’em had, what would he have had to say? ‘Hallo!’ says the
baggy, ‘you seem to have got somebody’s arm in your box.’ ‘So I have,’
says Chapman. ‘I expect it’s my wife’s. Careless woman! must have
dropped it in when she was packing the box.’ Bah! It’s a fool’s
explanation. Besides, how could he have got Chapman’s box open? We
couldn’t. It was a first-class lock. We had to break it open, but it
hadn’t been broken open before. No, sir, that cat won’t jump. Still,
you needn’t take my word for it. Here is the place, and here is Mr.
Butt, himself, standing at his own front door looking as pleasant as
the flowers in May, like the lump of sugar that you put in a fly-trap
to induce ’em to walk in.”
The landlord, who had overheard--without difficulty--the concluding
passage of Miller’s peroration, smiled genially; and when the purpose
of the visit had been explained, suggested a “modest quencher” in the
private parlour as an aid to conversation.
“I wanted,” said Thorndyke, waiving the suggestion of the “quencher,”
“to ascertain whether Chapman’s theory of an exchange of contents
could be seriously entertained.”
“Well, sir,” said the landlord, “the fact is that it couldn’t. That
room is a public room, and people may be popping in there at any time
all day. We don’t usually keep it locked. It isn’t necessary. We know
most of our customers, and the contents of the packages that are
stowed in the room are principally travellers’ samples of no
considerable value. The thing would have been impossible in the
daytime, and we lock the room up at night.”
“Have you had any strangers staying with you in the interval between
Chapman’s going away and the discovery of the remains?”
“Yes. There was a Mr. Doler; he had two cabin trunks and a uniform
case which went to the luggage-room. And then there was a lady, Mrs.
Murchison. She had a lot of stuff in there: a small, flat trunk, a
hat-box, and a big dress-basket--one of these great basket
pantechnicons that ladies take about with them. And there was another
gentleman--I forget his name, but you will see it in the visitors’
book--he had a couple of largish portmanteaux in there. Perhaps you
would like to see the book?”
“I should,” said Thorndyke; and when the book was produced and the
names of the guests pointed out, he copied the entries into his
note-book, adding the particulars of their luggage.
“And now, sir,” said Miller, “I suppose you won’t be happy until
you’ve seen the room itself?”
“Your insight is really remarkable, superintendent,” my colleague
replied. “Yes, I should like to see the room.”
There was little enough to see, however, when we arrived there. The
key was in the door, and the latter was not only unlocked but stood
ajar; and when we pushed it open and entered we saw a small room,
empty save for a collection of portmanteaux, trunks, and Gladstone
bags. The only noteworthy fact was that it was at the end of a
corridor, covered with linoleum, so that anyone inside would have a
few seconds’ notice of another person’s approach. But evidently that
would have been of little use in the alleged circumstances. For the
hypothetical criminal must have emptied Chapman’s box of the jewellery
before he could put the incriminating objects into it; so that, apart
from the latter, the arrival of an inopportune visitor would have
found him apparently in the act of committing a robbery. The
suggestion was obviously absurd.
“By the way,” said Thorndyke, as we descended the stairs, “where is
the central character of this drama--Chapman? He is not here, I
suppose?”
“Yes, he is,” replied Miller. “He is committed for trial, but we are
keeping him here until we know where the inquest is to be held. You
would probably like to have a few words with him? Well, I’ll take you
along to the police station and tell them who you are, and then
perhaps you would like to come back here and have some lunch or dinner
before you return to town.”
I warmly seconded the latter proposal, and the arrangement having been
made, we set forth for the police station, which we gathered from
Miller was incorporated with a small local prison. Here we were shown
into what appeared to be a private office, and presently a sergeant
entered, ushering in a man whom we at once recognized from his
resemblance to our client, Mr. George Chapman, disguised though it was
by his pallor, his unshaven face, and his air of abject misery. The
sergeant, having announced him by name, withdrew with the
superintendent and locked the door on the outside. As soon as we were
alone, Thorndyke rapidly acquainted the prisoner with the
circumstances of his brother’s visit and then continued:
“Now, Mr. Chapman, you want me to undertake your defence. If I do so,
I must have all the facts. If there is anything known to you that your
brother has not told me, I ask you to tell it to me without
reservation.”
Chapman shook his head wearily.
“I know nothing more than you know,” said he. “The whole affair is a
mystery that I can make nothing of. I don’t expect you to believe me.
Who would, with all this evidence against me? But I swear to God that
I know nothing of this abominable crime. When I brought that box down
here, it contained my stock of jewellery and nothing else; and after I
put it in the luggage-room, I never opened it.”
“Do you know of anybody who might have had a motive for getting rid of
Rebecca Mings?”
“Not a soul,” replied Chapman. “She led me the devil’s own life, but
she was popular enough with her own friends. And she was an attractive
woman in her way: a fine, well-built woman, rather big--she stood
five-feet-seven--with a good complexion and very handsome golden hair.
Such as her friends were--they were a shady lot--I think they were
fond of her, and I don’t believe she had any enemies.”
“Some hyoscine was found in your house,” said Thorndyke. “Do you know
anything about it?”
“Yes. I got it when I suffered from neuralgia. But I never took any.
My doctor heard about it and sent me to the dentist. The bottle was
never opened. It contained a hundred tablets.”
“And with regard to the box,” said Thorndyke. “Had you had it long?”
“Not very long. I bought it at Fletchers, in Holborn, about six months
ago.”
“And you have nothing more to tell us?”
“No,” he replied. “I wish I had;” and then, after a pause, he asked
with a wistful look at Thorndyke: “Are you going to undertake my
defence, sir? I can see that there is very little hope, but I should
like to be given just a chance.”
I glanced at Thorndyke, expecting at the most a cautious and
conditional reply. To my astonishment he answered:
“There is no need to take such a gloomy view of the case, Mr. Chapman.
I shall undertake the defence, and I think you have quite a fair
chance of an acquittal.”
On this amazing reply I reflected, not without some self-condemnation,
during our walk to the hotel and the meal that preceded our departure.
For it was evident that I had missed something vital. Thorndyke was a
cautious man and little given to making promises or forecasts of
results. He must have picked up some evidence of a very conclusive
kind; but what that evidence could be, I found it impossible to
imagine. The superintendent, too, was puzzled, I could see, for
Thorndyke made no secret of his intention to go on with the case. But
Miller’s delicate attempts to pump him came to nothing; and when he
had escorted us to the station and our train moved off, I could see
him standing on the platform, gently scratching the back of his head
and gazing speculatively at our retreating carriage.
As soon as we were clear of the station, I opened my attack.
“What on earth,” I demanded, “did you mean by giving that poor devil,
Chapman, hopes of acquittal? I can’t see that he has a dog’s chance.”
Thorndyke looked at me gravely.
“My impression is, Jervis,” he said, “that you have not kept an open
mind in this case. You have allowed yourself to fall under the
suggestive influence of the obvious; whereas the function of the
investigator is to consider the possible alternatives of the obvious
inference. And you have not brought your usual keen attention to bear
on the facts. If you had considered George Chapman’s statement
attentively, you would have noticed that it contained some very
curious and significant suggestions; and if you had examined those
dismembered remains critically, you would have seen that they
confirmed those suggestions in a very remarkable manner.”
“As to George Chapman’s statement,” said I, “the only suggestive point
that I recall is the reference to those Maori heads. But, as you,
yourself, pointed out, the dealers in those heads don’t do the
dismemberment.”
Thorndyke shook his head a little impatiently.
“Tut, tut, Jervis,” said he, “that isn’t the point at all. Any fool
can cut up a dead body as this one has been cut up. The point is that
that statement, carefully considered, yields a definite and consistent
alternative to the theory that Samuel Chapman killed this woman and
dismembered her body; and that alternative theory is supported by the
appearance of these remains. I think you will see the point if you
recall Chapman’s statement, and reflect on the possible bearing of the
various incidents that he described.”
In this, however, Thorndyke was unduly optimistic. I recalled the
statement completely enough, and reflected on it frequently and
profoundly during the next few days; but the more I thought of it the
more conclusive did the case against the accused appear.
Meanwhile, my colleague appeared to be taking no steps in the matter,
and I assumed that he was waiting for the inquest. It is true that,
when, on one occasion, he had accompanied me towards the City, and
leaving me in Queen Victoria Street disappeared into the premises of
Messrs. Burden Brothers, lock manufacturers, I was inclined to
associate his proceedings with his minute examination of the lock at
Stoke Varley. And, again, when our laboratory assistant, Polton, was
seen to issue forth, top-hatted and armed with an umbrella and an
attaché-case, I suspected some sort of “private inquiries,” possibly
connected with the case. But from Thorndyke I could get no information
at all. My tentative “pumpings” elicited one unvarying reply. “You
have the facts, Jervis. You heard George Chapman’s statement, and you
have seen the remains. Give me a reasonable theory and I will discuss
it with pleasure.” And that was how the matter remained. I had no
reasonable theory--other than that of the police--and there was
accordingly no discussion.
On a certain evening, a couple of days before the inquest--which had
been postponed in the hope that some further remains might be
discovered--I observed signs of an expected visitor: a small table
placed by the supernumerary arm-chair and furnished with a tray
bearing a siphon, a whisky-decanter and a box of cigars. Thorndyke
caught my inquiring glance at these luxuries, for which neither of us
had any use, and proceeded to explain.