The mystery of Angelina Frood
side-door that gave on to the passage between the two houses. Both of
them were painted a dark green and both yielded obvious finger-marks,
and though these were mere oval smudges, devoid of any trace of
pattern, their size and their groupings showed clearly enough that
they appertained to a small hand. But we got more conclusive
confirmation from a small aluminium frying-pan that had been left on
the gas stove; for, on powdering the handle, Thorndyke brought into
view a remarkably clear thumb-print, which was obviously identical
with that on the water-bottle.
“I think,” said he, “that settles the question. If Mrs. Gillow has not
touched anything in these premises--as she assures us that she has
not--then we can safely assume that these are Mrs. Frood’s
finger-prints.”
“Are you going to annex the frying-pan to produce in evidence?” I
asked.
“No,” he replied. “This verification is for our own information: to
secure us against the chance of producing Cobbledick’s finger-prints
to identify the body. I propose, for the present, to say nothing to
anyone as to our possessing this knowledge. When the time comes we can
tell what we know. Until then we shall keep our own counsel.”
Once more I found myself dimly surprised at my friend’s apparently
unnecessary secrecy, but, assuming that he knew best, I made no
comment, but watched with somewhat puzzled curiosity his further
proceedings. His interest in the place was extraordinary. In a queer,
cat-like fashion he prowled about the premises, examining the most
trivial objects with almost ludicrous attention. He went carefully
through the cooking appliances and the glass and china; he peered into
cupboards, particularly into a large, deep cupboard in which spare
crockery was stored, and which was, oddly enough, provided with a Yale
lock; he sorted out the meagre contents of the refuse-bin, and
incidentally salved from it a couple of cardboard boxes that had
originally contained groceries, and he explored the, now somewhat
unsavoury, larder.
“I suppose,” he said reflectively, “the dustman must have used the
side door. Do you happen to know?”
“I don’t,” said I, inwardly wondering what the deuce the dustman had
to do with the case. “I understand that the door of the passage was
not used.”
“But she couldn’t have had the dust-bin carried up the stairs and out
at the front door,” he objected.
“I should think not,” said I. “Perhaps we could judge better if we had
a look at the passage.”
He adopted the suggestion and we opened the side-door--which had a
Yale night-latch--and went out into the covered passage that was
common to the two houses. The door that opened on to the street was
bolted on the inside, but the bolts were in good working order, as we
ascertained by drawing them gently; so this gave no evidence one way
or the other. Then Thorndyke carefully examined the hard gravel floor
of the passage, apparently searching for dropped fragments, or the
dustman’s foot-prints; but though there were traces suggesting that
the side-doors had been used, there were no perceptible tracks leading
to the street or in any way specifically suggestive of dustmen.
“Japp seems fond of Yale locks,” observed Thorndyke, indicating the
second side-door, which was also fitted with one. “I wonder where he
keeps his dust-bin.”
“Would it be worth while to ask him?” said I, more and more mystified
by this extraordinary investigation.
“No,” he replied, very definitely. “A question often gives more
information than it elicits.”
“It might easily do that in my case,” I remarked with a grin; upon
which he laughed softly and led the way back into the house. There I
gathered up the two boxes and the insufflator and made my way up to
the bed-room, he following with the tumbler and the water-bottle. Then
came the critical business of packing these two precious objects in
the boxes in such a way as to protect the finger-prints from contact
with the sides; which was accomplished very neatly with the aid of a
number of balls of plasticine from the inexhaustible research-case.
“This is a little disappointing,” said Thorndyke, looking at the
hair-brush and comb as he took off his gloves. “I had hoped to collect
a useful sample of hair. But her excessive tidiness defeats us. There
seems to be only one or two short hairs and one full length. However,
we may as well have them. They won’t be of much use for comparison
with the naked eye, but even a single hair can be used as a colour
control under the microscope.”
He combed the brush until the last hair was extracted from it, and
then drew the little collection from the comb and arranged it on a
sheet of paper. There were six short hairs, from two to four inches
long, and one long hair, which seemed to have been broken off, as it
had no bulb.
“Many ladies keep a combing-bag,” he remarked, as he bestowed the
collection in a seed-envelope from the research-case; “but I gather
from your description that Mrs. Frood’s hair was luxuriant enough to
render that economy unnecessary. At any rate, there doesn’t seem to be
such a bag. And now I think we have finished, and we haven’t done so
badly.”
“We have certainly got an excellent set of finger-prints,” said I.
“But it seems rather doubtful whether there will ever be an
opportunity of using them; and if there isn’t, we shan’t be much more
forward for our exploration. Of course, there is the hair.”
“Yes,” said Thorndyke, “there is the hair. That may be quite valuable.
And perhaps there are some other matters--but time will show.”
With this somewhat cryptic conclusion he proceeded with great care to
pack the two boxes in his suit-case, wedging them with his pyjamas so
that they should not get shaken in transit.
As we walked home I reflected on Thorndyke’s last remark. It seemed to
contain a suggestion that the mystery of Angelina’s death was not so
complete to him as it was to me. For my own part, I could see no
glimmer of light in any direction. She seemed to have vanished without
leaving a trace excepting those few derelict objects which had been
washed ashore and which told us nothing. But was it possible that
those objects bore some significance that I had overlooked? That they
were charged with some message that I had failed to decipher? I
recalled a certain reticence on the part of Cobbledick which had made
me suspect him of concealing from me some knowledge that he held or
some inferences that he had drawn; and now there was this cryptic
remark of Thorndyke’s, offering the same suggestion. Might it possibly
be that the profound obscurity was only in my own mind, the product of
my inexperience, and that to these skilled investigators the problem
presented a more intelligible aspect? It might easily be. I determined
cautiously to approach the question.
“You seemed,” said I, “to imply, just now, that there are certain data
for forming hypotheses as to the solution of this mystery that
envelops the disappearance of Mrs. Frood. But I am not aware of any
such data. Are you?”
“Your question, Strangeways,” he replied, “turns on the meaning of the
word ‘aware.’ If two men, one literate and the other illiterate, look
at a page of a printed book, both may be said to be aware of it; that
is to say that in both it produces a retinal image which makes them
conscious of it as a visible object having certain optical properties.
In the case of the illiterate man the perception of the optical
properties is the total effect. But the literate man has something in
his consciousness already, and this something combines, as it were,
with the optical perception, and makes him aware of certain secondary
properties of the printed characters. To both, the page yields a
visual impression; but to one only does it yield what we may call a
psychical impression. Are they both aware of the page?”
“I appreciate your point,” said I, with a sour smile, “and I seem to
be aware of a rather skilful evasion of my question.”
He smiled in his turn and rejoined: “Your question was a little
indirect. Shall we have it in a more direct form?”
“What I wanted to know,” said I, “though I suppose I have no right to
ask, is whether there appears to you to be any prospect whatever of
finding any solution of the mystery of Mrs. Frood’s death.”
“The answer to that question,” he replied, “is furnished by my own
proceedings. I am not a communicative man, as you may have noticed,
but I will say this much: that I have taken, and am taking, a good
deal of trouble with this case, and am prepared to take more, and that
I do not usually waste my efforts on problems that appear to be
unsolvable. I am not disposed to say more than that, excepting to
refer you again to the instance of the printed page and to remind you
that whatever I know I have either learned from you or from the
observation, in your company, of objects equally visible to both of
us.”
This reply, if not very illuminating, at least answered my question,
as it conveyed to me that I was not likely to get much more
information out of my secretive friend. Nevertheless, I asked:
“About the man Frood: you were saying that you had some hopes of
running him to earth.”
“Yes, I have made a start. I have ascertained that he did apparently
set out for Brighton the day before Mrs. Frood’s disappearance, but he
never arrived there. That is all I know at present. He was seen
getting into the Brighton train, but he did not appear at the Brighton
barrier--my informant had the curiosity to watch all the passengers go
through--and he never made the visit which was the ostensible object
of his journey. So he must have got out at an intermediate station. It
may be difficult to trace him, but I am not without hope of succeeding
eventually. Obviously, his whereabouts on the fatal day is a matter
that has to be settled. At present he is the obvious suspect; but if
an alibi should be proved in his case, a search would have to be
initiated in some other direction.”
This conversation brought us to my house in time to relieve Mrs.
Dunk’s anxieties on the subject of dinner; and as the daylight was
already gone, the photographic operations were postponed until the
following morning. Indeed, Thorndyke had thought of taking the objects
to his chambers, where a more efficient outfit was available, but, on
reflection, he decided to take the photographs in my presence so that
I could, if necessary, attest their genuineness on oath. Accordingly,
on the following morning, we very carefully extracted the tumbler and
the bottle from their respective boxes and set them up, with a black
coat of mine for a background, at the end of a table. Then Thorndyke
produced his small folding camera--which pulled out to a surprising
length--and, having fitted it with a short-focus objective, made the
exposures, and developed the plates in a dark cupboard by the light of
a little red lamp from the research case. When the plates were dry we
inspected them through a lens, and found them microscopically sharp.
Finally, at Thorndyke’s suggestion, I scratched my initials with a
needle in the corner of each plate.
“Well,” I said, when he had finished, “you have got the evidence that
you wanted, and in a very complete form. It remains to be seen now
whether you will ever get an opportunity to use it.”
“Don’t be pessimistic, Strangeways,” said he. “We have had exceptional
luck in getting this splendid series of finger-prints. Let us hope
that Fortune will not desert us after making us these gifts.”
“What is to be done with the originals?” I asked. “Shall I put them
back where we found them?”
“I think not,” he replied. “If you have a safe or a secure lock-up
cupboard, where they could be put away, out of sight, and from whence