The magic casket
We had nearly reached the ground floor when I became aware of quick
footsteps descending the stairs behind us. Near the entry our follower
overtook us, and as we stood aside to let him pass, I had a brief
vision of a shortish, dapper, smartly-dressed coloured man--apparently
an African or West Indian--who carried a small suit-case and a set of
golf-clubs.
“Now,” said I, in a low tone, “I wonder if that gentleman is the late
owner of that negro hair that I picked up. It seems intrinsically
probable as he appears to live in this building, and would be a near
neighbour of Herrington’s.” I halted at the entry and read out the
only name painted on the door-post as appertaining to the second
floor--Mr. Kwaku Essien, which, I decided, seemed to fit a gentleman
of colour.
But Thorndyke was not listening. His long legs were already carrying
him, with a deceptively leisurely air, across Tanfield Court in the
wake of Mr. Essien, and at about the same pace. I put on a spurt and
overtook him, a little mystified by his sudden air of purpose and by
the fact that he was not walking in the direction of our chambers.
Still more mystified was I when it became clear that Thorndyke was
following the African and keeping at a constant distance in rear of
him; but I made no comment until, having pursued our quarry to the top
of Middle Temple Lane, we saw him hail a taxi and drive off. Then I
demanded an explanation.
“I wanted to see him fairly out of the precincts,” was the reply,
“because I have a particular desire to see what his chambers are like.
I only hope his door has a practicable latch.”
I stared at him in dismay.
“You surely don’t contemplate breaking into his chambers!” I
exclaimed.
“Certainly not,” he replied. “If the latch won’t yield to gentle
persuasion, I shall give it up. But don’t let me involve you, Jervis.
I admit that it is a slightly irregular proceeding.”
“Irregular!” I repeated. “It is housebreaking, pure and simple. I can
only hope that you won’t be able to get in.”
The hope turned out to be a vain one, as I had secretly feared. When
we had reconnoitred the stairs and established the encouraging fact
that the third floor was untenanted, we inspected the door above which
our victim’s name was painted; and a glance at the yawning
key-hole--diagnostic of an old-fashioned draw-latch--told me that the
deed was as good as done.
“Now, Jervis,” said Thorndyke, producing from his pocket the curious
instrument that he described as a “smoker’s companion”--it was an
undeniable picklock, made by Polton under his direction--“you had
better clear out and wait for me at our chambers.”
“I shall do nothing of the kind,” I replied. “I am an accessory before
the fact already, so I may as well stay and see the crime committed.”
“Then in that case,” said he, “you had better keep a look-out from the
landing window and call me if anyone comes to the house. That will
make us perfectly safe.”
I accordingly took my station at the window, and Thorndyke, having
knocked several times at the “oak” without eliciting any response, set
to work with the smoker’s companion. In less than a minute the latch
clicked, the outer door opened, and Thorndyke, pushing the inner door
open, entered, leaving both doors ajar. I was devoured by curiosity as
to what his purpose was. Obviously it must be a very definite one to
justify this most extraordinary proceeding. But I dared not leave my
post for a moment seeing that we were really engaged in a very serious
breach of the law, and it was of vital importance that we should not
be surprised in the act. I was therefore unable to observe my
colleague’s proceedings, and I waited impatiently to see if anything
came of this unlawful entry.
I had waited thus some ten minutes, keeping a close watch on the
pavement below, when I heard Thorndyke quickly cross the room and
approach the door. A moment later he came out on the landing, bearing
in his hand an object which, while it enlightened me as to the purpose
of the raid, added to my mystification.
“That looks like the missing sword from Herrington’s room!” I
exclaimed, gazing at it in amazement.
“Yes,” he replied. “I found it in a drawer in the bedroom. Only it
isn’t a sword.”
“Then, what the deuce is it?” I demanded, for the thing looked like a
broad-bladed sword in a soft leather scabbard of somewhat rude native
workmanship.
By way of reply he slowly drew the object from its sheath, and as it
came into sight, I uttered an exclamation of astonishment. To the
inexpert eye it appeared an elongated body about nine inches in length
covered with coarse, black leather, from either side of which sprang a
multitude of what looked like thick, black wires. Above, it was
furnished with a leather handle which was surmounted by a suspension
loop of plaited leather.
“I take it,” said I, “that this is an elephant’s tail.”
“Yes,” he replied, “and a rather remarkable specimen. The hairs are of
unusual length. Some of them, you see, are nearly eighteen inches
long.”
“And what are you going to do now?” I asked.
“I am going to put it back where I found it. Then I shall run down to
Scotland Yard and advise Miller to get a search warrant. He is too
discreet to ask inconvenient questions.”
I must admit that it was a great relief to me when, a minute later,
Thorndyke came out and shut the door; but I could not deny that the
raid had been justified by the results. What had, presumably, been a
mere surmise had been converted into a definite fact on which action
could confidently be taken.
“I suppose,” said I, as we walked down towards the Embankment en route
for Scotland Yard, “I ought to have spotted this case.”
“You had the means,” Thorndyke replied. “At your first visit you
learned that an object of some kind had disappeared from the wall. It
seemed to be a trivial object of no value, and not likely to be
connected with the crime. So you disregarded it. But it had
disappeared. Its disappearance was not accounted for, and that
disappearance seemed to coincide in time with the death of Herrington.
It undoubtedly called for investigation. Then you found on the floor
an object the nature of which was unknown to you. Obviously, you ought
to have ascertained what it was.”
“Yes, I ought,” I admitted, “though I am not sure that I should have
been much forrarder even then. In fact, I am not so very much
forrarder even now. I don’t see how you spotted this man Essien, and I
don’t understand why he took all this trouble and risk and even
committed a murder to get possession of this trumpery curio. Of course
I can make a vague guess. But I should like to hear how you ran the
man and the thing to earth.”
“Very well,” said Thorndyke. “Let me retrace the train of discoveries
and inferences in their order. First I learned that an object,
supposed to be a barbaric sword of some kind, had disappeared about
the time of the murder--if it _was_ a murder. Then we heard from
Carston that Sir Gilbert Herrington had appropriated the insignia and
ceremonial objects belonging to the King of Bekwè; that some had
subsequently been restored, but others had been given to friends as
curios. As I listened to that story, the possibility occurred to me
that this curio which had disappeared might be one of the missing
ceremonial objects. It was not only possible: it was quite probable.
For Giles Herrington was a very likely person to have received one of
these gifts, and his morose temper made it unlikely that he would
restore it. And then, since such an object would be of great value to
somebody, and since it was actually stolen property, there would be
good reasons why some interested person should take forcible
possession of it. This, of course, was mere hypothesis of a rather
shadowy kind. But when you produced an object which I at once
suspected, and then proved, to be an elephant’s hair, the hypothesis
became a reasonable working theory. For, among the ceremonial objects
which form what we may call the regalia of a West African king, is the
elephant’s tail which is carried before him by a special officer as a
symbol of his power and strength. An elephant’s tail had pretty
certainly been stolen from the king, and Carston said nothing about
its having been restored.
“Well, when we went to Herrington’s chambers just now, it was clear to
me that the thing which had disappeared was certainly not a sword. The
phantom shape on the wall did not show much, but it did show plainly
that the object had hung from the nail by a large loop at the end of
the handle. But the suspension loop of a sword or dagger is always on
the scabbard, never on the hilt. But if the thing was not a sword,
what was it? The elephant’s hair that you found on the floor seemed to
answer the question.
“Now, as we came in, I had noticed on the door-post the West African
name, Kwaku Essien. A man whose name is Kwaku is pretty certainly a
negro. But if this was an elephant’s tail, its lawful owner was a
negro, and that owner wanted to recover it and was morally entitled to
take possession of it. Here was another striking agreement. The
chambers over Herrington’s were occupied by a negro. Finally, you
found among the floor dust a negro’s hair. Then a negro had actually
been in this room. But from what we know of Herrington, that negro was
not there as an invited visitor. All the probabilities pointed to Mr.
Essien. But the probabilities were not enough to act on. Then we had a
stroke of sheer luck. We got the chance to explore Essien’s chambers
and seek the crucial fact. But here we are at Scotland Yard.”
That night, at about eight o’clock, a familiar tattoo on our knocker
announced the arrival of Mr. Superintendent Miller, not entirely
unexpected, as I guessed.
“Well,” he said, as I let him in, “the coloured nobleman has come
home. I’ve just had a message from the man who was detailed to watch
the premises.”
“Are you going to make the arrest now?” asked Thorndyke.
“Yes, and I should be glad if you could come across with me. You know
more about the case than I do.”
Thorndyke assented at once, and we set forth together. As we entered
Tanfield Court we passed a man who was lurking in the shadow of an
entry, and who silently indicated the lighted windows of the chambers
for which we were bound. Ascending the stairs up which I had lately
climbed with unlawful intent, we halted at Mr. Essien’s door, on which
the superintendent executed an elaborate flourish with his stick,
there being no knocker. After a short interval we heard a bolt
withdrawn, the door opened a short distance, and in the interval a
black face appeared, looking out at us suspiciously.
“Who are you, and what do you want?” the owner of the face demanded
gruffly.
“You are Mr. Kwaku Essien, I think?” said Miller, unostentatiously
insinuating his foot into the door opening.
“Yes,” was the reply. “But I don’t know you. What is your business?”
“I am a police officer,” Miller replied, edging his foot in a little
farther, “and I hold a warrant to arrest you on the charge of having
murdered Mr. Giles Herrington.”
Before the superintendent had fairly finished his sentence, the dusky
face vanished and the door slammed violently--on to the
superintendent’s massive foot. That foot was instantly reinforced by a
shoulder and for a few moments there was a contest of forces, opposite
but not equal. Suddenly the door flew open and the superintendent
charged into the room. I had a momentary vision of a flying figure,
closely pursued, darting through into an inner room, of the slamming
of a second door--once more on an intercepting foot. And then--it all
seemed to have happened in a few seconds--a dejected figure, sitting
on the edge of a bed, clasping a pair of manacled hands and watching