The magic casket
circumstances I perceived the cogency of Thorndyke’s suggestion.
Bilsky had been present when Manford dismissed the night-watchman. He
knew that there would be no interruption. The inflammable and
explosive materials were there, ready to his hand. Then Bilsky had
gone down to the door alone instead of being conducted down and let
out; a very striking circumstance, this. Again, no jewels had been
found, though the meeting had been ostensibly for the purpose of a
deal; and the bank-notes had vanished utterly. This was very
remarkable. In view of the large sum, it was nearly certain that the
notes would be in a close bundle, and we all know how difficult it is
to burn tightly-folded paper. Yet they had vanished without leaving a
trace. Finally, there was Bilsky himself. Who was he? Apparently a
dealer in stolen property--a hawker of the products of robbery and
murder committed during the revolution.
“Yes,” I admitted, “the theory of homicide is certainly tenable. But
unless some new facts can be produced, it must remain a matter of
speculation.”
“I think, Jervis,” he rejoined, “you must be overlooking the facts
that are known to us. We were there. We saw the place within a few
minutes of the explosion and we examined the body. What we saw
established a clear presumption of homicide, and what we have heard
this morning confirms it. I may say that I communicated my suspicions
the very next day to the coroner and to Superintendent Miller.”
“Then you must have seen more than I did,” I began. But he shook his
head and cut short my protestations.
“You saw what I saw, Jervis, but you did not interpret its meaning.
However, it is not too late. Try to recall the details of our
adventure and what our visitors have told us. I don’t think you will
then entertain the idea of suicide.”
I was about to put one or two leading questions, but at this moment
footsteps became audible ascending our stairs. The knock which
followed informed me that our visitor was Superintendent Miller, and I
rose to admit him.
“Just looked in to report progress,” he announced as he subsided into
an arm-chair. “Not much to report, but what there is supports your
view of the case. Bilsky has made a clean bolt. Never went home to his
hotel. Evidently meant to skedaddle, as he has left nothing of any
value behind. But it was a stupid move, for it would have raised
suspicion in any case. The notes were a consecutive batch. All the
numbers are known, but, of course, none of them have turned up yet. We
have made inquiries about Bilsky, and gather that he is a shady
character; practically a fence who deals in the jewellery stolen from
those unfortunate Russian aristocrats. But we shall have him all
right. His description has been circulated at all the seaports, and he
is an easy man to spot with his lame foot and his stick and a finger
missing from his right hand.”
Thorndyke nodded, and seemed to reflect for a moment. Then he asked:
“Have you made any other inquiries?”
“No; there is nothing more to find out until we get hold of our man,
and when we do, we shall look to you to secure the conviction. I
suppose you are quite certain as to your facts?”
Thorndyke shook his head with a smile.
“I am never certain until after the event. We can only act on
probabilities.”
“I understand,” said the superintendent, casting a sly look at me;
“but your probabilities are good enough for me.”
With this, he picked up his hat and departed, leaving us to return to
the occupations that our visitors had interrupted.
I heard no more of the Manford case for about a week, and assumed that
Thorndyke’s interest in it had ceased. But I was mistaken, as I
discovered when he remarked casually one evening:
“No news of Bilsky, so far; and time is running on. I am proposing to
make a tentative move in a new direction.” I looked at him
inquiringly, and he continued: “It appears, ‘from information
received,’ that Elliott had some dealings with him, so I propose to
call at his house to-morrow and see if we can glean any news of the
lost sheep.”
“But Elliott is abroad,” I objected.
“True; but his wife isn’t; and she evidently knows all about his
affairs. I have invited Miller to come with me in case he would like
to put any questions; and you may as well come, too, if you are free.”
It did not sound like a very thrilling adventure, but one never knew
with Thorndyke. I decided to go with him, and at that the matter
dropped, though I speculated a little curiously on the source of the
information. So, apparently, had the superintendent, for when he
arrived on the following morning he proceeded to throw out a few
cautious feelers, but got nothing for his pains beyond vague
generalities.
“It is a purely tentative proceeding,” said Thorndyke, “and you
mustn’t be disappointed if nothing comes of it.”
“I shall be, all the same,” replied Miller, with a sly glance at my
senior, and with this we set forth on our quest.
The Elliotts’ house was, as I knew, in some part of Wimbledon, and
thither we made our way by train. From the station we started along a
wide, straight main street from which numbers of smaller streets
branched off. At the corner of one of these I noticed a man standing,
apparently watching our approach; and something in his appearance
seemed to me familiar. Suddenly he took off his hat, looked curiously
into its interior, and put it on again. Then he turned about and
walked quickly down the side street. I looked at his retreating figure
as we crossed the street, wondering who he could be. And then it
flashed upon me that the resemblance was to a certain ex-sergeant
Barber whom Thorndyke occasionally employed for observation duties.
Just as I reached this conclusion, Thorndyke halted and looked about
him doubtfully.
“I am afraid we have come too far,” said he. “I fancy we ought to have
gone down that last turning.”
We accordingly faced about and walked back to the corner, where
Thorndyke read out the name, Mendoza Avenue.
“Yes,” he said, “this is the way,” and we thereupon turned down the
Avenue, following it to the bottom, where it ended in a cross-road,
the name of which, Berners Park, I recognized as that which I had seen
on Elliott’s letter.
“Sixty-four is the number,” said Thorndyke, “so as this corner house
is forty-six and the next is forty-eight, it will be a little way
along on this side, just about where you can see that smoke--which, by
the way, seems to be coming out of a window.”
“Yes, by Jove!” I exclaimed. “The staircase window, apparently. Not
our house, I hope!”
But it was. We read the number and the name, “Green Bushes,” on the
gate as we came up to it, and we hurried up the short path to the
door. There was no knocker, but when Miller fixed his thumb on the
bell-push, we heard a loud ringing within. But there was no response;
and meanwhile the smoke poured more and more densely out of the open
window above.
“Rum!” exclaimed Miller, sticking to the bell-push like a limpet.
“House seems to be empty.”
“I don’t think it is,” Thorndyke replied calmly.
The superintendent looked at him with quick suspicion, and then
glanced at the ground-floor window.
“That window is unfastened,” said he, “and here comes a constable.”
Sure enough, a policeman was approaching quickly, looking up at the
houses. Suddenly he perceived the smoke and quickened his pace,
arriving just as Thorndyke had pulled down the upper window-sash and
was preparing to climb over into the room. The constable hailed him
sternly, but a brief explanation from Miller reduced the officer to a
state of respectful subservience, and we all followed Thorndyke
through the open window, from which smoke now began to filter.
“Send the constable upstairs to give the alarm,” Thorndyke instructed
Miller in a low tone. The order was given without question, and the
next moment the officer was bounding up the stairs, roaring like a
whole fire brigade. Meanwhile, the superintendent browsed along the
hall through the dense smoke, sniffing inquisitively, and at length
approached the street door. Suddenly, from the heart of the reek, his
voice issued in tones of amazement.
“Well, I’m hanged! It’s a plumber’s smoke-rocket. Some fool has stuck
it through into the letter-cage!”
In the silence which followed this announcement I heard an angry voice
from above demand:
“What is all this infernal row about? And what are you doing here?”
“Can’t you see that the house is on fire?” was the constable’s stern
rejoinder. “You’d better come down and help to put it out.”
The command was followed by the sound of descending footsteps, on
which Thorndyke ran quickly up the stairs, followed by the
superintendent and me. We met the descending party on the landing,
opposite a window, and here we all stopped, gazing at one another with
mutual curiosity. The man who accompanied the constable looked
distinctly alarmed--as well he might--and somewhat hostile.
“Who put that smoke-rocket in the hall?” Miller demanded fiercely.
“And why didn’t you come down when you heard us ringing the bell?”
“I don’t know what you are talking about,” the man replied sulkily,
“or what business this is of yours. Who are you? And what are you
doing in my house?”
“In your house?” repeated Thorndyke. “Then you will be Mr. Elliott?”
The man turned a startled glance on him and replied angrily:
“Never you mind who I am. Get out of this house.”
“But I do mind who you are,” Thorndyke rejoined mildly. “I came here
to see Mr. Elliott. Are you Mr. Elliott?”
“No, I’m not. Mr. Elliott is abroad. If you like to send a letter here
for him, I will forward it when I get his address.”
While this conversation had been going on, I had been examining the
stranger, not without curiosity. For his appearance was somewhat
unusual. In the first place, he wore an unmistakable wig, and his
shaven face bore an abundance of cuts and scratches, suggesting a
recently and unskilfully mown beard. His spectacles did not disguise a
pronounced divergent squint of the left eye; but what specially caught
my attention was the ear--a large ear, lobeless and pointed at the tip
like the ear of a satyr. As I looked at this, and at the scraped face,
the squint and the wig, a strange suspicion flashed into my mind; and
then, as I noted that the nose was markedly deflected to the left, I
turned to glance at Thorndyke.
“Would you mind telling us your name?” the latter asked blandly.
“My name is--is--Johnson; Frederick Johnson.”
“Ah,” said Thorndyke. “I thought it was Manford--James Manford, and I
think so still. I suggest that you have a scar on the right side of
your forehead, just under the wig. May we see?”
As Thorndyke spoke the name, the man turned a horrible livid grey and
started back as if to retreat up the stairs. But the constable blocked
the way; and as the man was struggling to push past, Miller adroitly
snatched off the wig; and there, on the forehead, was the tell-tale
scar.
For an appreciable time we all stood stock-still like the figures of a
tableau. Then Thorndyke turned to the superintendent.
“I charge this man, James Manford, with the murder of Stephan Bilsky.”
Again there was a brief interval of intolerable silence. In the midst
of it, we heard the street door open and shut, and a woman’s voice
called up the stairs: “Whatever is all this smoke? Are you up there,
Jim?”
I pass over the harrowing details of the double arrest. I am not a
policeman, and to me such scenes are intensely repugnant. But we must
needs stay until two taxis and four constables had conveyed the
prisoners away from the still reeking house to the caravanserai of the
law. Then, at last, we went forth with relief into the fresh air and
bent our steps towards the station.