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Title: The Case of Oscar Brodski
   [Story #1 of "The Famous Cases of Dr. Thorndyke"]
Author: Freeman, R. Austin [Richard Austin] (1862-1943)
Date of first publication in this form: July 1929
   ["The Famous Cases of Dr. Thorndyke"]
Edition used as base for this ebook:
   London: Hodder & Stoughton, 1952
   [reprint of the 1929 omnibus]
Date first posted: 1 July 2018
Date last updated: 1 July 2018
Project Gutenberg Canada ebook #1544

This ebook was produced by
Delphine Lettau, Mark Akrigg, Jen Haines
& the Online Distributed Proofreading Canada Team
at http://www.pgdpcanada.net


PUBLISHER'S NOTE

Italics in the original printed edition are indicated _thus_.

Obvious typographical errors have been silently corrected.

As part of the conversion of the book to its new digital
format, we have made certain minor adjustments in its layout.







THE CASE OF OSCAR BRODSKI

by R. Austin Freeman





I. THE MECHANISM OF CRIME


A surprising amount of nonsense has been talked about conscience. On the
one hand remorse (or the "again-bite," as certain scholars of
ultra-Teutonic leanings would prefer to call it); on the other hand "an
easy conscience": these have been accepted as the determining factors of
happiness or the reverse.

Of course there is an element of truth in the "easy conscience" view,
but it begs the whole question. A particularly hardy conscience may be
quite easy under the most unfavourable conditions--conditions in which
the more feeble conscience might be severely afflicted with the
"again-bite." And, then, it seems to be the fact that some fortunate
persons have no conscience at all; a negative gift that raises them
above the mental vicissitudes of the common herd of humanity.

Now, Silas Hickler was a case in point. No one, looking into his
cheerful, round face, beaming with benevolence and wreathed in perpetual
smiles, would have imagined him to be a criminal. Least of all, his
worthy, high-church housekeeper, who was a witness to his unvarying
amiability, who constantly heard him carolling light-heartedly about the
house and noted his appreciative zest at meal-times.

Yet it is a fact that Silas earned his modest, though comfortable,
income by the gentle art of burglary. A precarious trade and risky
withal, yet not so very hazardous if pursued with judgment and
moderation. And Silas was eminently a man of judgment. He worked
invariably alone. He kept his own counsel. No confederate had he to turn
King's Evidence at a pinch; no "doxy" who might bounce off in a fit of
temper to Scotland Yard. Nor was he greedy and thriftless, as most
criminals are. His "scoops" were few and far between, carefully planned,
secretly executed, and the proceeds judiciously invested in "weekly
property."

In early life Silas had been connected with the diamond industry, and he
still did a little rather irregular dealing. In the trade he was
suspected of transactions with I.D.B.s, and one or two indiscreet
dealers had gone so far as to whisper the ominous word "fence." But
Silas smiled a benevolent smile and went his way. He knew what he knew,
and his clients in Amsterdam were not inquisitive.

Such was Silas Hickler. As he strolled round his garden in the dusk of
an October evening, he seemed the very type of modest, middle-class
prosperity. He was dressed in the travelling suit that he wore on his
little continental trips; his bag was packed and stood in readiness on
the sitting-room sofa. A parcel of diamonds (purchased honestly, though
without impertinent questions, at Southampton) was in the inside pocket
of his waistcoat, and another more valuable parcel was stowed in a
cavity in the heel of his right boot. In an hour and a half it would be
time for him to set out to catch the boat train at the junction;
meanwhile there was nothing to do but to stroll round the fading garden
and consider how he should invest the proceeds of the impending deal.
His housekeeper had gone over to Welham for the week's shopping, and
would probably not be back until eleven o'clock. He was alone in the
premises and just a trifle dull.

He was about to turn into the house when his ear caught the sound of
footsteps on the unmade road that passed the end of the garden. He
paused and listened. There was no other dwelling near, and the road led
nowhere, fading away into the waste land beyond the house. Could this be
a visitor? It seemed unlikely, for visitors were few at Silas Hickler's
house. Meanwhile the footsteps continued to approach, ringing out with
increasing loudness on the hard, stony path.

Silas strolled down to the gate, and, leaning on it, looked out with
some curiosity. Presently a glow of light showed him the face of a man,
apparently lighting his pipe; then a dim figure detached itself from the
enveloping gloom, advanced towards him and halted opposite the garden.
The stranger removed a cigarette from his mouth and, blowing out a cloud
of smoke, asked--

"Can you tell me if this road will take me to Badsham Junction?"

"No," replied Hickler, "but there is a footpath farther on that leads to
the station."

"Footpath!" growled the stranger. "I've had enough of footpaths. I came
down from town to Catley intending to walk across to the junction. I
started along the road, and then some fool directed me to a short cut,
with the result that I have been blundering about in the dark for the
last half-hour. My sight isn't very good, you know," he added.

"What train do you want to catch?" asked Hickler.

"Seven fifty-eight," was the reply.

"I am going to catch that train myself," said Silas, "but I shan't be
starting for another hour. The station is only three-quarters of a mile
from here. If you like to come in and take a rest, we can walk down
together and then you'll be sure of not missing your way."

"It's very good of you," said the stranger, peering, with spectacled
eyes, at the dark house, "but--I think----"

"Might as well wait here as at the station," said Silas in his genial
way, holding the gate open, and the stranger, after a momentary
hesitation, entered and, flinging away his cigarette, followed him to
the door of the cottage.

The sitting-room was in darkness, save for the dull glow of the expiring
fire, but, entering before his guest, Silas applied a match to the lamp
that hung from the ceiling. As the flame leaped up, flooding the little
interior with light, the two men regarded one another with mutual
curiosity.

"Brodski, by Jingo!" was Hickler's silent commentary, as he looked at
his guest. "Doesn't know me, evidently--wouldn't, of course, after all
these years and with his bad eyesight. Take a seat, sir," he added
aloud. "Will you join me in a little refreshment to while away the
time?"

Brodski murmured an indistinct acceptance, and, as his host turned to
open a cupboard, he deposited his hat (a hard, grey felt) on a chair in
a corner, placed his bag on the edge of the table, resting his umbrella
against it, and sat down in a small arm-chair.

"Have a biscuit?" said Hickler, as he placed a whisky-bottle on the
table together with a couple of his best star-pattern tumblers and a
siphon.

"Thanks, I think I will," said Brodski. "The railway journey and all
this confounded tramping about, you know----"

"Yes," agreed Silas. "Doesn't do to start with an empty stomach. Hope
you don't mind oat-cakes; I see they're the only biscuits I have."

Brodski hastened to assure him that oat-cakes were his special and
peculiar fancy; and in confirmation, having mixed himself a stiff jorum,
he fell to upon the biscuits with evident gusto.

Brodski was a deliberate feeder, and at present appeared to be somewhat
sharp set. His measured munching being unfavourable to conversation,
most of the talking fell to Silas; and, for once, that genial
transgressor found the task embarrassing. The natural thing would have
been to discuss his guest's destination and perhaps the object of his
journey; but this was precisely what Hickler avoided doing. For he knew
both, and instinct told him to keep his knowledge to himself.

Brodski was a diamond merchant of considerable reputation, and in a
large way of business. He bought stones principally in the rough, and of
these he was a most excellent judge. His fancy was for stones of
somewhat unusual size and value, and it was well known to be his custom,
when he had accumulated a sufficient stock, to carry them himself to
Amsterdam and supervise the cutting of the rough stones. Of this Hickler
was aware, and he had no doubt that Brodski was now starting on one of
his periodical excursions; that somewhere in the recesses of his rather
shabby clothing was concealed a paper packet possibly worth several
thousand pounds.

Brodski sat by the table munching monotonously and talking little.
Hickler sat opposite him, talking nervously and rather wildly at times,
and watching his guest with a growing fascination. Precious stones, and
especially diamonds, were Hickler's speciality. "Hard stuff"--silver
plate--he avoided entirely; gold, excepting in the form of specie, he
seldom touched; but stones, of which he could carry off a whole
consignment in the heel of his boot and dispose of with absolute safety,
formed the staple of his industry. And here was a man sitting opposite
him with a parcel in his pocket containing the equivalent of a dozen of
his most successful "scoops"; stones worth perhaps---- Here he pulled
himself up short and began to talk rapidly, though without much
coherence. For, even as he talked, other words, formed subconsciously,
seemed to insinuate themselves into the interstices of the sentences,
and to carry on a parallel train of thought.

"Gets chilly in the evenings now, doesn't it?" said Hickler.

"It does indeed," Brodski agreed, and then resumed his slow munching,
breathing audibly through his nose.

"Five thousand at least," the subconscious train of thought resumed;
"probably six or seven, perhaps ten." Silas fidgeted in his chair and
endeavoured to concentrate his ideas on some topic of interest. He was
growing disagreeably conscious of a new and unfamiliar state of mind.

"Do you take any interest in gardening?" he asked. Next to diamonds and
"weekly property," his besetting weakness was fuchsias.

Brodski chuckled sourly. "Hatton Garden is the nearest approach----" He
broke off suddenly, and then added, "I am a Londoner, you know."

The abrupt break in the sentence was not unnoticed by Silas, nor had he
any difficulty in interpreting it. A man who carries untold wealth upon
his person must needs be wary in his speech.

"Yes," he answered absently, "it's hardly a Londoner's hobby." And then,
half consciously, he began a rapid calculation. Put it at five thousand
pounds. What would that represent in weekly property? His last set of
houses had cost two hundred and fifty pounds apiece, and he had let them
at ten shillings and sixpence a week. At that rate, five thousand pounds
represented twenty houses at ten and sixpence a week--say ten pounds a
week--one pound eight shillings a day--five hundred and twenty pounds a
year--for life. It was a competency. Added to what he already had, it
was wealth. With that income he could fling the tools of his trade into
the river and live out the remainder of his life in comfort and
security.

He glanced furtively at his guest across the table, and then looked away
quickly as he felt stirring within him an impulse the nature of which he
could not mistake. This must be put an end to. Crimes against the person
he had always looked upon as sheer insanity. There was, it is true, that
little affair of the Weybridge policeman, but that was unforeseen and
unavoidable, and it was the constable's doing after all. And, there was
the old housekeeper at Epsom, too, but, of course, if the old idiot
would shriek in that insane fashion--well, it was an accident, very
regrettable, to be sure, and no one could be more sorry for the mishap
than himself. But deliberate homicide!--robbery from the person! It was
the act of a stark lunatic.

Of course, if he had happened to be that sort of person, here was the
opportunity of a lifetime. The immense booty, the empty house, the
solitary neighbourhood, away from the main road and from other
habitations; the time, the darkness--but, of course, there was the body
to be thought of; that was always the difficulty. What to do with the
body---- Here he caught the shriek of the up express, rounding the curve
in the line that ran past the waste land at the back of the house. The
sound started a new train of thought, and, as he followed it out, his
eyes fixed themselves on the unconscious and taciturn Brodski, as he sat
thoughtfully sipping his whisky. At length, averting his gaze with an
effort, he rose suddenly from his chair and turned to look at the clock
on the mantelpiece, spreading out his hands before the dying fire. A
tumult of strange sensations warned him to leave the house. He shivered
slightly, though he was rather hot than chilly, and, turning his head,
looked at the door.

"Seems to be a confounded draught," he said, with another slight shiver;
"did I shut the door properly, I wonder?" He strode across the room and,
opening the door wide, looked out into the dark garden. A desire, sudden
and urgent, had come over him to get out into the open air, to be on the
road and have done with this madness that was knocking at the door of
his brain.

"I wonder if it is worth while to start yet," he said, with a yearning
glance at the murky, starless sky.

Brodski roused himself and looked round. "Is your clock right?" he
asked.

Silas reluctantly admitted that it was.

"How long will it take us to walk to the station?" inquired Brodski.

"Oh, about twenty-five minutes to half-an-hour," replied Silas,
unconsciously exaggerating the distance.

"Well," said Brodski, "we've got more than an hour yet, and it's more
comfortable here than hanging about the station. I don't see the use of
starting before we need."

"No; of course not," Silas agreed. A wave of strange emotion,
half-regretful, half-triumphant, surged through his brain. For some
moments he remained standing on the threshold, looking out dreamily into
the night. Then he softly closed the door; and, seemingly without the
exercise of his volition, the key turned noiselessly in the lock.

He returned to his chair and tried to open a conversation with the
taciturn Brodski, but the words came faltering and disjointed. He felt
his face growing hot, his brain full and tense, and there was a faint,
high-pitched singing in his ears. He was conscious of watching his guest
with a new and fearful interest, and, by sheer force of will, turned
away his eyes; only to find them a moment later involuntarily returning
to fix the unconscious man with yet more horrible intensity. And ever
through his mind walked, like a dreadful procession, the thoughts of
what that other man--the man of blood and violence--would do in these
circumstances. Detail by detail the hideous synthesis fitted together
the parts of the imagined crime, and arranged them in due sequence until
they formed a succession of events, rational, connected and coherent.

He rose uneasily from his chair, with his eyes still riveted upon his
guest. He could not sit any longer opposite that man with his hidden
store of precious gems. The impulse that he recognised with fear and
wonder was growing more ungovernable from moment to moment. If he stayed
it would presently overpower him, and then---- He shrank with horror
from the dreadful thought, but his fingers itched to handle the
diamonds. For Silas was, after all, a criminal by nature and habit. He
was a beast of prey. His livelihood had never been earned; it had been
taken by stealth or, if necessary, by force. His instincts were
predaceous, and the proximity of unguarded valuables suggested to him,
as a logical consequence, their abstraction or seizure. His
unwillingness to let these diamonds go away beyond his reach was fast
becoming overwhelming.

But he would make one more effort to escape. He would keep out of
Brodski's actual presence until the moment for starting came.

"If you'll excuse me," he said, "I will go and put on a thicker pair of
boots. After all this dry weather we may get a change, and damp feet are
very uncomfortable when you are travelling."

"Yes; dangerous too," agreed Brodski.

Silas walked through into the adjoining kitchen, where, by the light of
the little lamp that was burning there, he had seen his stout, country
boots placed, cleaned and in readiness, and sat down upon a chair to
make the change. He did not, of course, intend to wear the country
boots, for the diamonds were concealed in those he had on. But he would
make the change and then alter his mind; it would all help to pass the
time. He took a deep breath. It was a relief, at any rate, to be out of
that room. Perhaps, if he stayed away, the temptation would pass.
Brodski would go on his way--he wished that he was going alone--and the
danger would be over--at least--and the opportunity would have gone--the
diamonds----

He looked up as he slowly unlaced his boot. From where he sat he could
see Brodski sitting by the table with his back towards the kitchen door.
He had finished eating, now, and was composedly rolling a cigarette.
Silas breathed heavily, and, slipping off his boot, sat for a while
motionless, gazing steadily at the other man's back. Then he unlaced the
other boot, still staring abstractedly at his unconscious guest, drew it
off, and laid it very quietly on the floor.

Brodski calmly finished rolling his cigarette, licked the paper, put
away his pouch, and, having dusted the crumbs of tobacco from his knees,
began to search his pockets for a match. Suddenly, yielding to an
uncontrollable impulse, Silas stood up and began stealthily to creep
along the passage to the sitting-room. Not a sound came from his
stockinged feet. Silently as a cat he stole forward, breathing softly
with parted lips, until he stood at the threshold of the room. His face
flushed duskily, his eyes, wide and staring, glittered in the lamplight,
and the racing blood hummed in his ears.

Brodski struck a match--Silas noted that it was a wooden vesta--lighted
his cigarette, blew out the match and flung it into the fender. Then he
replaced the box in his pocket and commenced to smoke.

Slowly and without a sound Silas crept forward into the room, step by
step, with catlike stealthiness, until he stood close behind Brodski's
chair--so close that he had to turn his head that his breath might not
stir the hair upon the other man's head. So, for half-a-minute, he stood
motionless, like a symbolical statue of Murder, glaring down with
horrible, glittering eyes upon the unconscious diamond merchant, while
his quick breath passed without a sound through his open mouth and his
fingers writhed slowly like the tentacles of a giant hydra. And then, as
noiselessly as ever, he backed away to the door, turned quickly and
walked back into the kitchen.

He drew a deep breath. It had been a near thing. Brodski's life had hung
upon a thread. For it had been so easy. Indeed, if he had happened, as
he stood behind the man's chair, to have a weapon--a hammer, for
instance, or even a stone----

He glanced round the kitchen and his eye lighted on a bar that had been
left by the workmen who had put up the new greenhouse. It was an odd
piece cut off from a square, wrought-iron stanchion, and was about a
foot long and perhaps three-quarters of an inch thick. Now, if he had
had that in his hand a minute ago----

He picked the bar up, balanced it in his hand and swung it round his
head. A formidable weapon this: silent, too. And it fitted the plan that
had passed through his brain. Bah! He had better put the thing down.

But he did not. He stepped over to the door and looked again at Brodski,
sitting, as before, meditatively smoking, with his back towards the
kitchen.

Suddenly a change came over Silas. His face flushed, the veins of his
neck stood out and a sullen scowl settled on his face. He drew out his
watch, glanced at it earnestly and replaced it. Then he strode swiftly
but silently along the passage into the sitting-room.

A pace away from his victim's chair he halted and took deliberate aim.
The bar swung aloft, but not without some faint rustle of movement, for
Brodski looked round quickly even as the iron whistled through the air.
The movement disturbed the murderer's aim, and the bar glanced off his
victim's head, making only a trifling wound. Brodski sprang up with a
tremulous, bleating cry, and clutched his assailant's arms with the
tenacity of mortal terror.

Then began a terrible struggle, as the two men, locked in a deadly
embrace, swayed to and fro and trampled backwards and forwards. The
chair was overturned, an empty glass swept from the table and, with
Brodski's spectacles, crushed beneath stamping feet. And thrice that
dreadful, pitiful, bleating cry rang out into the night, filling Silas,
despite his murderous frenzy, with terror lest some chance wayfarer
should hear it. Gathering his great strength for a final effort, he
forced his victim backwards on to the table and, snatching up a corner
of the table-cloth, thrust it into his face and crammed it into his
mouth as it opened to utter another shriek. And thus they remained for a
full two minutes, almost motionless, like some dreadful group of tragic
allegory. Then, when the last faint twitchings had died away, Silas
relaxed his grasp and let the limp body slip softly on to the floor.

It was over. For good or for evil, the thing was done. Silas stood up,
breathing heavily, and, as he wiped the sweat from his face, he looked
at the clock. The hands stood at one minute to seven. The whole thing
had taken a little over three minutes. He had nearly an hour in which to
finish his task. The goods train that entered into his scheme came by at
twenty minutes past, and it was only three hundred yards to the line.
Still, he must not waste time. He was now quite composed, and only
disturbed by the thought that Brodski's cries might have been heard. If
no one had heard them it was all plain sailing.

He stooped, and, gently disengaging the table-cloth from the dead man's
teeth, began a careful search of his pockets. He was not long finding
what he sought, and, as he pinched the paper packet and felt the little
hard bodies grating on one another inside, his faint regrets for what
had happened were swallowed up in self-congratulations.

He now set about his task with business-like briskness and an attentive
eye on the clock. A few large drops of blood had fallen on the
table-cloth, and there was a small bloody smear on the carpet by the
dead man's head. Silas fetched from the kitchen some water, a nail-brush
and a dry cloth, and, having washed out the stains from the
table-cover--not forgetting the deal table-top underneath--and cleaned
away the smear from the carpet and rubbed the damp places dry, he
slipped a sheet of paper under the head of the corpse to prevent further
contamination. Then he set the table-cloth straight, stood the chair
upright, laid the broken spectacles on the table and picked up the
cigarette, which had been trodden flat in the struggle, and flung it
under the grate. Then there was the broken glass, which he swept up into
a dust-pan. Part of it was the remains of the shattered tumbler, and the
rest the fragments of the broken spectacles. He turned it out on to a
sheet of paper and looked it over carefully, picking out the larger
recognisable pieces of the spectacle-glasses and putting them aside on a
separate slip of paper, together with a sprinkling of the minute
fragments. The remainder he shot back into the dust-pan and, having
hurriedly put on his boots, carried it out to the rubbish-heap at the
back of the house.

It was now time to start. Hastily cutting off a length of string from
his string-box--for Silas was an orderly man and despised the oddments
of string with which many people make shift--he tied it to the dead
man's bag and umbrella and slung them from his shoulder. Then he folded
up the paper of broken glass, and, slipping it and the spectacles into
his pocket, picked up the body and threw it over his shoulder. Brodski
was a small, spare man, weighing not more than nine stone; not a very
formidable burden for a big, athletic man like Silas.

The night was intensely dark, and, when Silas looked out of the back
gate over the waste land that stretched from his house to the railway,
he could hardly see twenty yards ahead. After listening cautiously and
hearing no sound, he went out, shut the gate swiftly behind him and set
forth at a good pace, though carefully, over the broken ground. His
progress was not as silent as he could have wished, for, though the
scanty turf that covered the gravelly land was thick enough to deaden
his footfalls, the swinging bag and umbrella made an irritating noise;
indeed, his movements were more hampered by them than by the weightier
burden.

The distance to the line was about three hundred yards. Ordinarily he
would have walked it in from three to four minutes, but now, going
cautiously with his burden and stopping now and again to listen, it took
him just six minutes to reach the three-bar fence that separated the
waste land from the railway. Arrived here he halted for a moment and
once more listened attentively, peering into the darkness on all sides.
Not a living creature was to be seen or heard in this desolate spot, but
far away, the shriek of an engine's whistle warned him to hasten.

Lifting the corpse easily over the fence, he carried it a few yards
farther to a point where the line curved sharply. Here he laid it face
downwards, with the neck over the near rail. Drawing out his
pocket-knife, he cut through the knot that fastened the umbrella to the
string and also secured the bag; and when he had flung the bag and
umbrella on the track beside the body, he carefully pocketed the string,
excepting the little loop that had fallen to the ground when the knot
was cut.

The quick snort and clanking rumble of an approaching goods train began
now to be clearly audible. Rapidly, Silas drew from his pockets the
battered spectacles and the packet of broken glass. The former he threw
down by the dead man's head, and then, emptying the packet into his
hand, sprinkled the fragments of glass around the spectacles.

He was none too soon. Already the quick, laboured puffing of the engine
sounded close at hand. His impulse was to stay and watch; to witness the
final catastrophe that should convert the murder into an accident or
suicide. But it was hardly safe: it would be better that he should not
be near lest he should not be able to get away without being seen.
Hastily he climbed back over the fence and strode away across the rough
fields, while the train came snorting and clattering towards the curve.

He had nearly reached his back gate when a sound from the line brought
him to a sudden halt; it was a prolonged whistle accompanied by the
groan of brakes and the loud clank of colliding trucks. The snorting of
the engine had ceased and was replaced by the penetrating hiss of
escaping steam.

The train had stopped!

For one brief moment Silas stood with bated breath and mouth agape like
one petrified; then he strode forward quickly to the gate, and, letting
himself in, silently slid the bolt. He was undeniably alarmed. What
could have happened on the line? It was practically certain that the
body had been seen; but what was happening now? and would they come to
the house? He entered the kitchen, and having paused again to
listen--for somebody might come and knock at the door at any moment--he
walked through the sitting-room and looked round. All seemed in order
there. There was the bar, though, lying where he had dropped it in the
scuffle. He picked it up and held it under the lamp. There was no blood
on it; only one or two hairs. Somewhat absently he wiped it with the
table-cover, and then, running out through the kitchen into the back
garden, dropped it over the wall into a bed of nettles. Not that there
was anything incriminating in the bar, but, since he had used it as a
weapon, it had somehow acquired a sinister aspect to his eye.

He now felt that it would be well to start for the station at once. It
was not time yet, for it was barely twenty-five minutes past seven; but
he did not wish to be found in the house if anyone should come. His soft
hat was on the sofa with his bag, to which his umbrella was strapped. He
put on the hat, caught up the bag and stepped over to the door; then he
came back to turn down the lamp. And it was at this moment, when he
stood with his hand raised to the burner, that his eye, travelling by
chance into the dim corner of the room, lighted on Brodski's grey felt
hat, reposing on the chair where the dead man had placed it when he
entered the house.

Silas stood for a few moments as if petrified, with the chilly sweat of
mortal fear standing in beads upon his forehead. Another instant and he
would have turned the lamp down and gone on his way; and then---- He
strode over to the chair, snatched up the hat and looked inside it. Yes,
there was the name, "Oscar Brodski," written plainly on the lining. If
he had gone away, leaving it to be discovered, he would have been lost;
indeed, even now, if a search-party should come to the house, it was
enough to send him to the gallows.

His limbs shook with horror at the thought, but in spite of his panic he
did not lose his self-possession. Darting through into the kitchen, he
grabbed up a handful of the dry brush-wood that was kept for lighting
fires and carried it to the sitting-room grate where he thrust it on the
extinct, but still hot, embers, and crumpling up the paper that he had
placed under Brodski's head--on which paper he now noticed, for the
first time, a minute bloody smear--he poked it in under the wood, and,
striking a wax match, set light to it. As the wood flared up, he hacked
at the hat with his pocket knife and threw the ragged strips into the
blaze.

And all the while his heart was thumping and his hands a-tremble with
the dread of discovery. The fragments of felt were far from inflammable,
tending rather to fuse into cindery masses that smoked and smouldered,
than to burn away into actual ash. Moreover, to his dismay, they emitted
a powerful resinous stench mixed with the odour of burning hair, so that
he had to open the kitchen window (since he dared not unlock the front
door) to disperse the reek. And still, as he fed the fire with small cut
fragments, he strained his ears to catch, above the crackling of the
wood, the sound of the dreaded footsteps, the knock on the door that
should be as the summons of Fate.

The time, too, was speeding on. Twenty-one minutes to eight! In a few
minutes more he must set out or he would miss the train. He dropped the
dismembered hat-brim on the blazing wood and ran up-stairs to open a
window, since he must close that in the kitchen before he left. When he
came back, the brim had already curled up into a black, clinkery mass
that bubbled and hissed as the fat, pungent smoke rose from it
sluggishly to the chimney.

Nineteen minutes to eight! It was time to start. He took up the poker
and carefully beat the cinders into small particles, stirring them into
the glowing embers of the wood and coal. There was nothing unusual in
the appearance of the grate. It was his constant custom to burn letters
and other discarded articles in the sitting-room fire: his housekeeper
would notice nothing out of the common. Indeed, the cinders would
probably be reduced to ashes before she returned. He had been careful to
notice that there were no metallic fittings of any kind in the hat,
which might have escaped burning.

Once more he picked up his bag, took a last look round, turned down the
lamp and, unlocking the door, held it open for a few moments. Then he
went out, locked the door, pocketed the key (of which his housekeeper
had a duplicate) and set off at a brisk pace for the station.

He arrived in good time after all, and, having taken his ticket,
strolled through on to the platform. The train was not yet signalled,
but there seemed to be an unusual stir in the place. The passengers were
collected in a group at one end of the platform, and were all looking in
one direction down the line; and, even as he walked towards them, with a
certain tremulous, nauseating curiosity, two men emerged from the
darkness and ascended the slope to the platform, carrying a stretcher
covered with a tarpaulin. The passengers parted to let the bearers pass,
turning fascinated eyes upon the shape that showed faintly through the
rough pall; and, when the stretcher had been borne into the lamp-room,
they fixed their attention upon a porter who followed carrying a
hand-bag and an umbrella.

Suddenly one of the passengers started forward with an exclamation.

"Is that his umbrella?" he demanded.

"Yes, sir," answered the porter, stopping and holding it out for the
speaker's inspection.

"My God!" ejaculated the passenger; then, turning sharply to a tall man
who stood close by, he said excitedly: "That's Brodski's umbrella. I
could swear to it. You remember Brodski?" The tall man nodded, and the
passenger, turning once more to the porter, said: "I identify that
umbrella. It belongs to a gentleman named Brodski. If you look in his
hat you will see his name written in it. He always writes his name in
his hat."

"We haven't found his hat yet," said the porter; "but here is the
station-master coming up the line." He awaited the arrival of his
superior and then announced: "This gentleman, sir, has identified the
umbrella."

"Oh," said the station-master, "you recognise the umbrella, sir, do you?
Then perhaps you would step into the lamp-room and see if you can
identify the body."

The passenger recoiled with a look of alarm.

"Is it--is he--very much injured?" he asked tremulously.

"Well, yes," was the reply. "You see, the engine and six of the trucks
went over him before they could stop the train. Took his head clean off,
in fact."

"Shocking! shocking!" gasped the passenger. "I think, if you don't
mind--I'd--I'd rather not. You don't think it's necessary, doctor, do
you?"

"Yes, I do," replied the tall man. "Early identification may be of the
first importance."

"Then I suppose I must," said the passenger.

Very reluctantly he allowed himself to be conducted by the
station-master to the lamp-room, as the clang of the bell announced the
approaching train. Silas Hickler followed and took his stand with the
expectant crowd outside the closed door. In a few moments the passenger
burst out, pale and awe-stricken, and rushed up to his tall friend. "It
is!" he exclaimed breathlessly, "it's Brodski! Poor old Brodski!
Horrible! horrible! He was to have met me here and come on with me to
Amsterdam."

"Had he any--merchandise about him?" the tall man asked; and Silas
strained his ears to catch the reply.

"He had some stones, no doubt, but I don't know what. His clerk will
know, of course. By the way, doctor, could you watch the case for me?
Just to be sure it was really an accident or--you know what. We were old
friends, you know, fellow townsmen, too; we were both born in Warsaw.
I'd like you to give an eye to the case."

"Very well," said the other. "I will satisfy myself that--there is
nothing more than appears, and let you have a report. Will that do?"

"Thank you. It's excessively good of you, doctor. Ah! here comes the
train. I hope it won't inconvenience you to stay and see to this
matter."

"Not in the least," replied the doctor. "We are not due at Warmington
until to-morrow afternoon, and I expect we can find out all that is
necessary to know and still keep our appointment."

Silas looked long and curiously at the tall, imposing man who was, as it
were, taking his seat at the chessboard, to play against him for his
life. A formidable antagonist he looked, with his keen, thoughtful face,
so resolute and calm. As Silas stepped into his carriage he looked back
at his opponent, and thinking with deep discomfort of Brodski's hat, he
hoped that he had made no other oversight.




II. THE MECHANISM OF DETECTION

(Related by Christopher Jervis, M.D.)


The singular circumstances that attended the death of Mr. Oscar Brodski,
the well-known diamond merchant of Hatton Garden, illustrated very
forcibly the importance of one or two points in medico-legal practice
which Thorndyke was accustomed to insist were not sufficiently
appreciated. What those points were, I shall leave my friend and teacher
to state at the proper place; and meanwhile, as the case is in the
highest degree instructive, I shall record the incidents in the order of
their occurrence.

The dusk of an October evening was closing in as Thorndyke and I, the
sole occupants of a smoking compartment, found ourselves approaching the
little station of Ludham; and, as the train slowed down, we peered out
at the knot of country people who were waiting on the platform. Suddenly
Thorndyke exclaimed in a tone of surprise: "Why, that is surely
Boscovitch!" and almost at the same moment a brisk, excitable little man
darted at the door of our compartment and literally tumbled in.

"I hope I don't intrude on this learned conclave," he said, shaking
hands genially and banging his Gladstone with impulsive violence into
the rack; "but I saw your faces at the window, and naturally jumped at
the chance of such pleasant companionship."

"You are very flattering," said Thorndyke; "so flattering that you leave
us nothing to say. But what in the name of fortune are you doing
at--what's the name of the place?--Ludham?"

"My brother has a little place a mile or so from here, and I have been
spending a couple of days with him," Mr. Boscovitch explained. "I shall
change at Badsham Junction and catch the boat train for Amsterdam. But
whither are you two bound? I see you have your mysterious little green
box up on the hat-rack, so I infer that you are on some romantic quest,
eh? Going to unravel some dark and intricate crime?"

"No," replied Thorndyke. "We are bound for Warmington on a quite prosaic
errand. I am instructed to watch the proceedings at an inquest there
to-morrow on behalf of the Griffin Life Insurance Office, and we are
travelling down to-night as it is rather a cross-country journey."

"But why the box of magic?" asked Boscovitch, glancing up at the
hat-rack.

"I never go away from home without it," answered Thorndyke. "One never
knows what may turn up; the trouble of carrying it is small when set off
against the comfort of having one's appliances at hand in case of an
emergency."

Boscovitch continued to stare up at the little square case covered with
Willesden canvas. Presently he remarked: "I often used to wonder what
you had in it when you were down at Chelmsford in connection with that
bank murder--what an amazing case that was, by the way, and didn't your
methods of research astonish the police!" As he still looked up
wistfully at the case, Thorndyke good-naturedly lifted it down and
unlocked it. As a matter of fact he was rather proud of his "portable
laboratory," and certainly it was a triumph of condensation, for, small
as it was--only a foot square by four inches deep--it contained a fairly
complete outfit for a preliminary investigation.

"Wonderful!" exclaimed Boscovitch, when the case lay open before him,
displaying its rows of little reagent bottles, tiny test-tubes,
diminutive spirit-lamp, dwarf microscope and assorted instruments on the
same Lilliputian scale; "it's like a doll's house--everything looks as
if it was seen through the wrong end of a telescope. But are these tiny
things really efficient? That microscope now----"

"Perfectly efficient at low and moderate magnifications," said
Thorndyke. "It looks like a toy, but it isn't one; the lenses are the
best that can be had. Of course, a full-sized instrument would be
infinitely more convenient--but I shouldn't have it with me, and should
have to make shift with a pocket-lens. And so with the rest of the
under-sized appliances; they are the alternative to no appliances."

Boscovitch pored over the case and its contents, fingering the
instruments delicately and asking questions innumerable about their
uses; indeed, his curiosity was but half appeased when, half-an-hour
later, the train began to slow down.

"By Jove!" he exclaimed, starting up and seizing his bag, "here we are
at the junction already. You change here too, don't you?"

"Yes," replied Thorndyke. "We take the branch train on to Warmington."

As we stepped out on to the platform, we became aware that something
unusual was happening or had happened. All the passengers and most of
the porters and supernumeraries were gathered at one end of the station,
and all were looking intently into the darkness down the line.

"Anything wrong?" asked Mr. Boscovitch, addressing the
station-inspector.

"Yes, sir," the official replied; "a man has been run over by the goods
train about a mile down the line. The station-master has gone down with
a stretcher to bring him in, and I expect that is his lantern that you
see coming this way."

As we stood watching the dancing light grow momentarily brighter,
flashing fitful reflections from the burnished rails, a man came out of
the booking-office and joined the group of onlookers. He attracted my
attention, as I afterwards remembered, for two reasons: in the first
place his round, jolly face was excessively pale and bore a strained and
wild expression, and, in the second, though he stared into the darkness
with eager curiosity, he asked no questions.

The swinging lantern continued to approach, and then suddenly two men
came into sight bearing a stretcher covered with a tarpaulin, through
which the shape of a human figure was dimly discernible. They ascended
the slope to the platform, and proceeded with their burden to the
lamp-room, when the inquisitive gaze of the passengers was transferred
to a porter who followed carrying a hand-bag and umbrella and to the
station-master who brought up the rear with his lantern.

As the porter passed, Mr. Boscovitch started forward with sudden
excitement.

"Is that his umbrella?" he asked.

"Yes, sir," answered the porter, stopping and holding it out for the
speaker's inspection.

"My God!" ejaculated Boscovitch; then, turning sharply to Thorndyke, he
exclaimed: "That's Brodski's umbrella. I could swear to it. You remember
Brodski?"

Thorndyke nodded, and Boscovitch, turning once more to the porter, said:
"I identify that umbrella. It belongs to a gentleman named Brodski. If
you look in his hat, you will see his name written in it. He always
writes his name in his hat."

"We haven't found his hat yet," said the porter; "but here is the
station-master." He turned to his superior and announced: "This
gentleman, sir, has identified the umbrella."

"Oh," said the station-master, "you recognise the umbrella, sir, do you?
Then perhaps you would step into the lamp-room and see if you can
identify the body."

Mr. Boscovitch recoiled with a look of alarm. "Is it--is he--very much
injured?" he asked nervously.

"Well, yes," was the reply. "You see, the engine and six of the trucks
went over him before they could stop the train. Took his head clean off,
in fact."

"Shocking! shocking!" gasped Boscovitch. "I think--if you don't
mind--I'd--I'd rather not. You don't think it necessary, doctor, do
you?"

"Yes, I do," replied Thorndyke. "Early identification may be of the
first importance."

"Then I suppose I must," said Boscovitch; and, with extreme reluctance,
he followed the station-master to the lamp-room, as the loud ringing of
the bell announced the approach of the boat train. His inspection must
have been of the briefest, for, in a few moments, he burst out, pale and
awe-stricken, and rushed up to Thorndyke.

"It is!" he exclaimed breathlessly, "it's Brodski! Poor old Brodski!
Horrible! horrible! He was to have met me here and come on with me to
Amsterdam."

"Had he any--merchandise about him?" Thorndyke asked; and, as he spoke,
the stranger whom I had previously noticed edged up closer as if to
catch the reply.

"He had some stones, no doubt," answered Boscovitch, "but I don't know
what they were. His clerk will know, of course. By the way, doctor,
could you watch the case for me? Just to be sure it was really an
accident or--you know what. We were old friends, you know, fellow
townsmen, too; we were both born in Warsaw. I'd like you to give an eye
to the case."

"Very well," said Thorndyke. "I will satisfy myself that there is
nothing more than appears, and let you have a report. Will that do?"

"Thank you," said Boscovitch. "It's excessively good of you, doctor. Ah,
here comes the train. I hope it won't inconvenience you to stay and see
to the matter."

"Not in the least," replied Thorndyke. "We are not due at Warmington
until to-morrow afternoon, and I expect we can find out all that is
necessary to know and still keep our appointment."

As Thorndyke spoke, the stranger, who had kept close to us with the
evident purpose of hearing what was said, bestowed on him a very curious
and attentive look; and it was only when the train had actually come to
rest by the platform that he hurried away to find a compartment.

No sooner had the train left the station than Thorndyke sought out the
station-master and informed him of the instructions that he had received
from Boscovitch. "Of course," he added, in conclusion, "we must not move
in the matter until the police arrive. I suppose they have been
informed?"

"Yes," replied the station-master; "I sent a message at once to the
Chief Constable, and I expect him or an inspector at any moment. In
fact, I think I will slip out to the approach and see if he is coming."
He evidently wished to have a word in private with the police officer
before committing himself to any statement.

As the official departed, Thorndyke and I began to pace the now empty
platform, and my friend, as was his wont, when entering on a new
inquiry, meditatively reviewed the features of the problem.

"In a case of this kind," he remarked, "we have to decide on one of
three possible explanations: accident, suicide or homicide; and our
decision will be determined by inferences from three sets of facts:
first, the general facts of the case; second, the special data obtained
by examination of the body, and, third, the special data obtained by
examining the spot on which the body was found. Now the only general
facts at present in our possession are that the deceased was a diamond
merchant making a journey for a specific purpose and probably having on
his person property of small bulk and great value. These facts are
somewhat against the hypothesis of suicide and somewhat favourable to
that of homicide. Facts relevant to the question of accident would be
the existence or otherwise of a level crossing, a road or path leading
to the line, an enclosing fence with or without a gate, and any other
facts rendering probable or otherwise the accidental presence of the
deceased at the spot where the body was found. As we do not possess
these facts, it is desirable that we extend our knowledge."

"Why not put a few discreet questions to the porter who brought in the
bag and umbrella?" I suggested. "He is at this moment in earnest
conversation with the ticket collector and would, no doubt, be glad of a
new listener."

"An excellent suggestion, Jervis," answered Thorndyke. "Let us see what
he has to tell us." We approached the porter and found him, as I had
anticipated, bursting to unburden himself of the tragic story.

"The way the thing happened, sir, was this," he said, in answer to
Thorndyke's question: "There's a sharpish bend in the road just at that
place, and the goods train was just rounding the curve when the driver
suddenly caught sight of something lying across the rails. As the engine
turned, the head-lights shone on it and then he saw it was a man. He
shut off steam at once, blew his whistle, and put the brakes down hard,
but, as you know, sir, a goods train takes some stopping; before they
could bring her up, the engine and half-a-dozen trucks had gone over the
poor beggar."

"Could the driver see how the man was lying?" Thorndyke asked.

"Yes, he could see him quite plain, because the head-lights were full on
him. He was lying on his face with his neck over the near rail on the
down side. His head was in the four-foot and his body by the side of the
track. It looked as if he had laid himself out a-purpose."

"Is there a level crossing thereabouts?" asked Thorndyke.

"No, sir. No crossing, no road, no path, no nothing," said the porter,
ruthlessly sacrificing grammar to emphasis. "He must have come across
the fields and climbed over the fence to get on to the permanent way.
Deliberate suicide is what it looks like."

"How did you learn all this?" Thorndyke inquired.

"Why, the driver, you see, sir, when him and his mate had lifted the
body off the track, went on to the next signal-box and sent in his
report by telegram. The station-master told me all about it as we walked
down the line."

Thorndyke thanked the man for his information, and, as we strolled back
towards the lamp-room, discussed the bearing of these new facts.

"Our friend is unquestionably right in one respect," he said; "this was
not an accident. The man might, if he were near-sighted, deaf or stupid,
have climbed over the fence and got knocked down by the train. But his
position, lying across the rails, can only be explained by one of two
hypotheses: either it was, as the porter says, deliberate suicide, or
else the man was already dead or insensible. We must leave it at that
until we have seen the body, that is, if the police will allow us to see
it. But here comes the station-master and an officer with him. Let us
hear what they have to say."

The two officials had evidently made up their minds to decline any
outside assistance. The divisional surgeon would make the necessary
examination, and information could be obtained through the usual
channels. The production of Thorndyke's card, however, somewhat altered
the situation. The police inspector hummed and hawed irresolutely, with
the card in his hand, but finally agreed to allow us to view the body,
and we entered the lamp-room together, the station-master leading the
way to turn up the gas.

The stretcher stood on the floor by one wall, its grim burden still
hidden by the tarpaulin, and the hand-bag and umbrella lay on a large
box, together with the battered frame of a pair of spectacles from which
the glasses had fallen out.

"Were these spectacles found by the body?" Thorndyke inquired.

"Yes," replied the station-master. "They were close to the head and the
glass was scattered about on the ballast."

Thorndyke made a note in his pocket-book, and then, as the inspector
removed the tarpaulin, he glanced down on the corpse, lying limply on
the stretcher and looking grotesquely horrible with its displaced head
and distorted limbs. For fully a minute he remained silently stooping
over the uncanny object, on which the inspector was now throwing the
light of a large lantern; then he stood up and said quietly to me: "I
think we can eliminate two out of the three hypotheses."

The inspector looked at him quickly, and was about to ask a question,
when his attention was diverted by the travelling-case which Thorndyke
had laid on a shelf and now opened to abstract a couple of pairs of
dissecting forceps.

"We've no authority to make a _post mortem_, you know," said the
inspector.

"No, of course not," said Thorndyke. "I am merely going to look into the
mouth." With one pair of forceps he turned back the lip and, having
scrutinised its inner surface, closely examined the teeth.

"May I trouble you for your lens, Jervis?" he said; and, as I handed him
my doublet ready opened, the inspector brought the lantern close to the
dead face and leaned forward eagerly. In his usual systematic fashion,
Thorndyke slowly passed the lens along the whole range of sharp, uneven
teeth, and then, bringing it back to the centre, examined with more
minuteness the upper incisors. At length, very delicately, he picked out
with his forceps some minute object from between two of the upper front
teeth and held it in the focus of the lens. Anticipating his next move,
I took a labelled microscope-slide from the case and handed it to him
together with a dissecting needle, and, as he transferred the object to
the slide and spread it out with the needle, I set up the little
microscope on the shelf.

"A drop of Farrant and a cover-glass, please, Jervis," said Thorndyke.

I handed him the bottle, and, when he had let a drop of the mounting
fluid fall gently on the object and put on the cover-slip, he placed the
slide on the stage of the microscope and examined it attentively.

Happening to glance at the inspector, I observed on his countenance a
faint grin, which he politely strove to suppress when he caught my eye.

"I was thinking, sir," he said apologetically, "that it's a bit off the
track to be finding out what he had for dinner. He didn't die of
unwholesome feeding."

Thorndyke looked up with a smile. "It doesn't do, inspector, to assume
that anything is off the track in an inquiry of this kind. Every fact
must have some significance, you know."

"I don't see any significance in the diet of a man who has had his head
cut off," the inspector rejoined defiantly.

"Don't you?" said Thorndyke. "Is there no interest attaching to the last
meal of a man who has met a violent death? These crumbs, for instance,
that are scattered over the dead man's waistcoat. Can we learn nothing
from them?"

"I don't see what you can learn," was the dogged rejoinder.

Thorndyke picked off the crumbs, one by one, with his forceps, and,
having deposited them on a slide, inspected them, first with the lens
and then through the microscope.

"I learn," said he, "that shortly before his death, the deceased partook
of some kind of wholemeal biscuits, apparently composed partly of
oatmeal."

"I call that nothing," said the inspector. "The question that we have
got to settle is not what refreshments had the deceased been taking, but
what was the cause of his death: did he commit suicide? was he killed by
accident? or was there any foul play?"

"I beg your pardon," said Thorndyke, "the questions that remain to be
settled are, who killed the deceased and with what motive? The others
are already answered as far as I am concerned."

The inspector stared in sheer amazement not unmixed with incredulity.

"You haven't been long coming to a conclusion, sir," he said.

"No, it was a pretty obvious case of murder," said Thorndyke. "As to the
motive, the deceased was a diamond merchant and is believed to have had
a quantity of stones about his person. I should suggest that you search
the body."

The inspector gave vent to an exclamation of disgust. "I see," he said.
"It was just a guess on your part. The dead man was a diamond merchant
and had valuable property about him; therefore he was murdered." He drew
himself up, and, regarding Thorndyke with stern reproach, added: "But
you must understand, sir, that this is a judicial inquiry, not a prize
competition in a penny paper. And, as to searching the body, why, that
is what I principally came for." He ostentatiously turned his back on us
and proceeded systematically to turn out the dead man's pockets, laying
the articles, as he removed them, on the box by the side of the hand-bag
and umbrella.

While he was thus occupied, Thorndyke looked over the body generally,
paying special attention to the soles of the boots, which, to the
inspector's undissembled amusement, he very thoroughly examined with the
lens.

"I should have thought, sir, that his feet were large enough to be seen
with the naked eye," was his comment; "but perhaps," he added, with a
sly glance at the station-master, "you're a little near-sighted."

Thorndyke chuckled good-humouredly, and, while the officer continued his
search, he looked over the articles that had already been laid on the
box. The purse and pocket-book he naturally left for the inspector to
open, but the reading-glasses, pocket-knife and card-case and other
small pocket articles were subjected to a searching scrutiny. The
inspector watched him out of the corner of his eye with furtive
amusement; saw him hold up the glasses to the light to estimate their
refractive power, peer into the tobacco pouch, open the cigarette book
and examine the watermark of the paper, and even inspect the contents of
the silver matchbox.

"What might you have expected to find in his tobacco pouch?" the officer
asked, laying down a bunch of keys from the dead man's pocket.

"Tobacco," Thorndyke replied stolidly; "but I did not expect to find
fine-cut Latakia. I don't remember ever having seen pure Latakia smoked
in cigarettes."

"You do take an interest in things, sir," said the inspector, with a
side glance at the stolid station-master.

"I do," Thorndyke agreed; "and I note that there are no diamonds among
this collection."

"No, and we don't know that he had any about him; but there's a gold
watch and chain, a diamond scarf-pin, and a purse containing"--he opened
it and tipped out its contents into his hand--"twelve pounds in gold.
That doesn't look much like robbery, does it? What do you say to the
murder theory now?"

"My opinion is unchanged," said Thorndyke, "and I should like to examine
the spot where the body was found. Has the engine been inspected?" he
added, addressing the station-master.

"I telegraphed to Bradfield to have it examined," the official answered.
"The report has probably come in by now. I'd better see before we start
down the line."

We emerged from the lamp-room and, at the door, found the
station-inspector waiting with a telegram. He handed it to the
station-master, who read it aloud.

"The engine has been carefully examined by me. I find small smear of
blood on near leading wheel and smaller one on next wheel following. No
other marks." He glanced questioningly at Thorndyke, who nodded and
remarked: "It will be interesting to see if the line tells the same
tale."

The station-master looked puzzled and was apparently about to ask for an
explanation; but the inspector, who had carefully pocketed the dead
man's property, was impatient to start and, accordingly, when Thorndyke
had repacked his case and had, at his own request, been furnished with a
lantern, we set off down the permanent way, Thorndyke carrying the light
and I the indispensable green case.

"I am a little in the dark about this affair," I said, when we had
allowed the two officials to draw ahead out of earshot; "you came to a
conclusion remarkably quickly. What was it that so immediately
determined the opinion of murder as against suicide?"

"It was a small matter but very conclusive," replied Thorndyke. "You
noticed a small scalp-wound above the left temple? It was a glancing
wound, and might easily have been made by the engine. But--the wound had
bled; and it had bled for an appreciable time. There were two streams of
blood from it, and in both the blood was firmly clotted and partially
dried. But the man had been decapitated; and this wound if inflicted by
the engine, must have been made after the decapitation, since it was on
the side most distant from the engine as it approached. Now a
decapitated head does not bleed. Therefore this wound was inflicted
before the decapitation.

"But not only had the wound bled: the blood had trickled down in two
streams at right angles to one another. First, in the order of time as
shown by the appearance of the stream, it had trickled down the side of
the face and dropped on the collar. The second stream ran from the wound
to the back of the head. Now, you know, Jervis, there are no exceptions
to the law of gravity. If the blood ran down the face towards the chin,
the face must have been upright at the time; and if the blood trickled
from the front to the back of the head, the head must have been
horizontal and face upwards. But the man, when he was seen by the
engine-driver, was lying _face downwards_. The only possible inference
is that when the wound was inflicted, the man was in the upright
position--standing or sitting; and that subsequently, and while he was
still alive, he lay on his back for a sufficiently long time for the
blood to have trickled to the back of his head."

"I see. I was a duffer not to have reasoned this out for myself," I
remarked contritely.

"Quick observation and rapid inference come by practice," replied
Thorndyke. "But, tell me, what did you notice about the face?"

"I thought there was a strong suggestion of asphyxia."

"Undoubtedly," said Thorndyke. "It was the face of a suffocated man. You
must have noticed, too, that the tongue was very distinctly swollen and
that on the inside of the upper lip were deep indentations made by the
teeth, as well as one or two slight wounds, obviously caused by heavy
pressure on the mouth. And now observe how completely these facts and
inferences agree with those from the scalp wound. If we knew that the
deceased had received a blow on the head, had struggled with his
assailant and been finally borne down and suffocated, we should look for
precisely those signs which we have found."

"By the way, what was it that you found wedged between the teeth? I did
not get a chance to look through the microscope."

"Ah!" said Thorndyke, "there we not only get confirmation, but we carry
our inferences a stage further. The object was a little tuft of some
textile fabric. Under the microscope I found it to consist of several
different fibres, differently dyed. The bulk of it consisted of wool
fibres dyed crimson, but there were also cotton fibres dyed blue, and a
few which looked like jute, dyed yellow. It was obviously a
parti-coloured fabric and might have been part of a woman's dress,
though the presence of the jute is much more suggestive of a curtain or
rug of inferior quality."

"And its importance?"

"Is that, if it is not part of an article of clothing, then it must have
come from an article of furniture, and furniture suggests a habitation."

"That doesn't seem very conclusive," I objected.

"It is not; but it is valuable corroboration."

"Of what?"

"Of the suggestion offered by the soles of the dead man's boots. I
examined them most minutely and could find no trace of sand, gravel or
earth, in spite of the fact that he must have crossed fields and rough
land to reach the place where he was found. What I did find was fine
tobacco ash, a charred mark as if a cigar or cigarette had been trodden
on, several crumbs of biscuit, and, on a projecting brad, some coloured
fibres, apparently from a carpet. The manifest suggestion is that the
man was killed in a house with a carpeted floor, and carried from thence
to the railway."

I was silent for some moments. Well as I knew Thorndyke, I was
completely taken by surprise; a sensation, indeed, that I experienced
anew every time that I accompanied him on one of his investigations. His
marvellous power of co-ordinating apparently insignificant facts, of
arranging them into an ordered sequence and making them tell a coherent
story, was a phenomenon that I never got used to; every exhibition of it
astonished me afresh.

"If your inferences are correct," I said, "the problem is practically
solved. There must be abundant traces inside the house. The only
question is, which house is it?"

"Quite so," replied Thorndyke; "that is the question, and a very
difficult question it is. A glance at that interior would doubtless
clear up the whole mystery. But how are we to get that glance? We cannot
enter houses speculatively to see if they present traces of a murder. At
present, our clue breaks off abruptly. The other end of it is in some
unknown house, and, if we cannot join up the two ends, our problem
remains unsolved. For the question is, you remember, Who killed Oscar
Brodski?"

"Then what do you propose to do?" I asked.

"The next stage of the inquiry is to connect some particular house with
this crime. To that end, I can only gather up all available facts and
consider each in all its possible bearings. If I cannot establish any
such connection, then the inquiry will have failed and we shall have to
make a fresh start--say, at Amsterdam, if it turns out that Brodski
really had diamonds on his person, as I have no doubt he had."

Here our conversation was interrupted by our arrival at the spot where
the body had been found. The station-master had halted, and he and the
inspector were now examining the near rail by the light of their
lanterns.

"There's remarkably little blood about," said the former. "I've seen a
good many accidents of this kind and there has always been a lot of
blood, both on the engine and on the road. It's very curious."

Thorndyke glanced at the rail with but slight attention: that question
had ceased to interest him. But the light of his lantern flashed on to
the ground at the side of the track--a loose, gravelly soil mixed with
fragments of chalk--and from thence to the soles of the inspector's
boots, which were displayed as he knelt by the rail.

"You observe, Jervis?" he said in a low voice, and I nodded. The
inspector's boot-soles were covered with adherent particles of gravel
and conspicuously marked by the chalk on which he had trodden.

"You haven't found the hat, I suppose?" Thorndyke asked, stooping to
pick up a short piece of string that lay on the ground at the side of
the track.

"No," replied the inspector, "but it can't be far off. You seem to have
found another clue, sir," he added, with a grin, glancing at the piece
of string.

"Who knows?" said Thorndyke. "A short end of white twine with a green
strand in it. It may tell us something later. At any rate we'll keep
it," and, taking from his pocket a small tin box containing, among other
things, a number of seed envelopes, he slipped the string into one of
the latter and scribbled a note in pencil on the outside. The inspector
watched his proceedings with an indulgent smile, and then returned to
his examination of the track, in which Thorndyke now joined.

"I suppose the poor chap was near-sighted," the officer remarked,
indicating the remains of the shattered spectacles; "that might account
for his having strayed on to the line."

"Possibly," said Thorndyke. He had already noticed the fragments
scattered over a sleeper and the adjacent ballast, and now once more
produced his "collecting-box," from which he took another seed envelope.
"Would you hand me a pair of forceps, Jervis," he said; "and perhaps you
wouldn't mind taking a pair yourself and helping me to gather up these
fragments."

As I complied, the inspector looked up curiously.

"There isn't any doubt that these spectacles belonged to the deceased,
is there?" he asked. "He certainly wore spectacles, for I saw the mark
on his nose."

"Still, there is no harm in verifying the fact," said Thorndyke, and he
added to me in a lower tone, "Pick up every particle you can find,
Jervis. It may be most important."

"I don't quite see how," I said, groping amongst the shingle by the
light of the lantern in search of the tiny splinters of glass.

"Don't you?" returned Thorndyke. "Well, look at these fragments; some of
them are a fair size, but many of these on the sleeper are mere grains.
And consider their number. Obviously, the condition of the glass does
not agree with the circumstances in which we find it. These are thick
concave spectacle-lenses broken into a great number of minute fragments.
Now how were they broken? Not merely by falling, evidently: such a lens,
when it is dropped, breaks into a small number of large pieces. Nor were
they broken by the wheel passing over them, for they would then have
been reduced to fine powder, and that powder would have been visible on
the rail, which it is not. The spectacle-frames, you may remember,
presented the same incongruity: they were battered and damaged more than
they would have been by falling, but not nearly so much as they would
have been if the wheel had passed over them."

"What do you suggest, then?" I asked.

"The appearances suggest that the spectacles had been trodden on. But,
if the body was carried here, the probability is that the spectacles
were carried here too, and that they were then already broken; for it is
more likely that they were trodden on during the struggle than that the
murderer trod on them after bringing them here. Hence the importance of
picking up every fragment."

"But why?" I inquired, rather foolishly, I must admit.

"Because, if, when we have picked up every fragment that we can find,
there still remains missing a larger portion of the lenses than we could
reasonably expect, that would tend to support our hypothesis and we
might find the missing remainder elsewhere. If, on the other hand, we
find as much of the lenses as we could expect to find, we must conclude
that they were broken on this spot."

While we were conducting our search, the two officials were circling
around with their lanterns in quest of the missing hat; and, when we had
at length picked up the last fragment, and a careful search, even aided
by a lens, failed to reveal any other, we could see their lanterns
moving, like will-o'-the-wisps, some distance down the line.

"We may as well see what we have got before our friends come back," said
Thorndyke, glancing at the twinkling lights. "Lay the case down on the
grass by the fence; it will serve for a table."

I did so, and Thorndyke, taking a letter from his pocket, opened it,
spread it out flat on the case, securing it with a couple of heavy
stones, although the night was quite calm. Then he tipped the contents
of the seed envelope out on the paper, and, carefully spreading out the
pieces of glass, looked at them for some moments in silence. And, as he
looked, there stole over his face a very curious expression; with sudden
eagerness he began picking out the larger fragments and laying them on
two visiting-cards which he had taken from his card-case. Rapidly and
with wonderful deftness he fitted the pieces together, and, as the
reconstituted lenses began gradually to take shape on their cards I
looked on with growing excitement, for something in my colleague's
manner told me that we were on the verge of a discovery.

At length the two ovals of glass lay on their respective cards, complete
save for one or two small gaps; and the little heap that remained
consisted of fragments so minute as to render further reconstruction
impossible. Then Thorndyke leaned back and laughed softly.

"This is certainly an unlooked-for result," said he.

"What is?" I asked.

"Don't you see, my dear fellow? _There's too much glass._ We have almost
completely built up the broken lenses, and the fragments that are left
over are considerably more than are required to fill up the gaps."

I looked at the little heap of small fragments and saw at once that it
was as he had said. There was a surplus of small pieces.

"This is very extraordinary," I said. "What do you think can be the
explanation?"

"The fragments will probably tell us," he replied, "if we ask them
intelligently."

He lifted the paper and the two cards carefully on to the ground, and,
opening the case, took out the little microscope, to which he fitted the
lowest-power objective and eye-piece--having a combined magnification of
only ten diameters. Then he transferred the minute fragments of glass to
a slide, and, having arranged the lantern as a microscope-lamp,
commenced his examination.

"Ha!" he exclaimed presently. "The plot thickens. There is too much
glass and yet too little; that is to say, there are only one or two
fragments here that belong to the spectacles; not nearly enough to
complete the building up of the lenses. The remainder consists of a
soft, uneven, moulded glass, easily distinguished from the clear, hard
optical glass. These foreign fragments are all curved, as if they had
formed part of a cylinder, and are, I should say, portions of a
wine-glass or tumbler." He moved the slide once or twice, and then
continued: "We are in luck, Jervis. Here is a fragment with two little
diverging lines etched on it, evidently the points of an eight-rayed
star--and here is another with three points--the ends of three rays.
This enables us to reconstruct the vessel perfectly. It was a clear,
thin glass--probably a tumbler--decorated with scattered stars; I dare
say you know the pattern. Sometimes there is an ornamented band in
addition, but generally the stars form the only decoration. Have a look
at the specimen."

I had just applied my eye to the microscope when the station-master and
the inspector came up. Our appearance, seated on the ground with the
microscope between us, was too much for the police officer's gravity,
and he laughed long and joyously.

"You must excuse me, gentlemen," he said apologetically, "but really,
you know, to an old hand, like myself, it does look a little--well--you
understand--I dare say a microscope is a very interesting and amusing
thing, but it doesn't get you much forrader in a case like this, does
it?"

"Perhaps not," replied Thorndyke. "By the way, where did you find the
hat, after all?"

"We haven't found it," the inspector replied, a little sheepishly.

"Then we must help you to continue the search," said Thorndyke. "If you
will wait a few moments, we will come with you." He poured a few drops
of xylol balsam on the cards to fix the reconstituted lenses to their
supports and then, packing them and the microscope in the case,
announced that he was ready to start.

"Is there any village or hamlet near?" he asked the station-master.

"None nearer than Corfield. That is about half-a-mile from here."

"And where is the nearest road?"

"There is a half-made road that runs past a house about three hundred
yards from here. It belonged to a building estate that was never built.
There is a footpath from it to the station."

"Are there any other houses near?"

"No. That is the only house for half-a-mile round, and there is no other
road near here."

"Then the probability is that Brodski approached the railway from that
direction, as he was found on that side of the permanent way."

The inspector agreeing with this view, we all set off slowly towards the
house, piloted by the station-master and searching the ground as we
went. The waste land over which we passed was covered with patches of
docks and nettles, through each of which the inspector kicked his way,
searching with feet and lantern for the missing hat. A walk of three
hundred yards brought us to a low wall enclosing a garden, beyond which
we could see a small house; and here we halted while the inspector waded
into a large bed of nettles beside the wall and kicked vigorously.
Suddenly there came a clinking sound mingled with objurgations, and the
inspector hopped out holding one foot and soliloquising profanely.

"I wonder what sort of a fool put a thing like that into a bed of
nettles!" he exclaimed, stroking the injured foot. Thorndyke picked the
object up and held it in the light of the lantern, displaying a piece of
three-quarter inch rolled iron bar about a foot long. "It doesn't seem
to have been there very long," he observed, examining it closely; "there
is hardly any rust on it."

"It has been there long enough for me," growled the inspector, "and I'd
like to bang it on the head of the blighter that put it there."

Callously indifferent to the inspector's sufferings, Thorndyke continued
calmly to examine the bar. At length, resting his lantern on the wall,
he produced his pocket-lens, with which he resumed his investigation, a
proceeding that so exasperated the inspector that that afflicted
official limped off in dudgeon, followed by the station-master, and we
heard him, presently, rapping at the front door of the house.

"Give me a slide, Jervis, with a drop of Farrant on it," said Thorndyke.
"There are some fibres sticking to this bar."

I prepared the slide, and, having handed it to him together with a
cover-glass, a pair of forceps and a needle, set up the microscope on
the wall.

"I'm sorry for the inspector," Thorndyke remarked, with his eye applied
to the little instrument, "but that was a lucky kick for us. Just take a
look at the specimen."

I did so, and, having moved the slide about until I had seen the whole
of the object, I gave my opinion. "Red wool fibres, blue cotton fibres
and some yellow, vegetable fibres that look like jute."

"Yes," said Thorndyke; "the same combination of fibres as that which we
found on the dead man's teeth and probably from the same source. This
bar has probably been wiped on that very curtain or rug with which poor
Brodski was stifled. We will place it on the wall for future reference,
and meanwhile, by hook or by crook, we must get into that house. This is
much too plain a hint to be disregarded."

Hastily repacking the case, we hurried to the front of the house, where
we found the two officials looking rather vaguely up the unmade road.

"There's a light in the house," said the inspector, "but there's no one
at home. I have knocked a dozen times and got no answer. And I don't see
what we are hanging about here for at all. The hat is probably close to
where the body was found, and we shall find it in the morning."

Thorndyke made no reply, but, entering the garden, stepped up the path,
and having knocked gently at the door, stooped and listened attentively
at the key-hole.

"I tell you there's no one in the house, sir," said the inspector
irritably; and, as Thorndyke continued to listen, he walked away,
muttering angrily. As soon as he was gone, Thorndyke flashed his lantern
over the door, the threshold, the path and the small flower-beds; and,
from one of the latter, I presently saw him stoop and pick something up.

"Here is a highly instructive object, Jervis," he said, coming out to
the gate, and displaying a cigarette of which only half-an-inch had been
smoked.

"How instructive?" I asked. "What do you learn from it?"

"Many things," he replied. "It has been lit and thrown away unsmoked;
that indicates a sudden change of purpose. It was thrown away at the
entrance to the house, almost certainly by someone entering it. That
person was probably a stranger, or he would have taken it in with him.
But he had not expected to enter the house, or he would not have lit it.
These are the general suggestions; now as to the particular ones. The
paper of the cigarette is of the kind known as the 'Zig-Zag' brand; the
very conspicuous watermark is quite easy to see. Now Brodski's cigarette
book was a 'Zig-Zag' book--so called from the way in which the papers
pull out. But let us see what the tobacco is like." With a pin from his
coat, he hooked out from the unburned end a wisp of dark, dirty brown
tobacco, which he held out for my inspection.

"Fine-cut Latakia," I pronounced, without hesitation.

"Very well," said Thorndyke. "Here is a cigarette made of an unusual
tobacco similar to that in Brodski's pouch and wrapped in an unusual
paper similar to those in Brodski's cigarette book. With due regard to
the fourth rule of the syllogism, I suggest that this cigarette was made
by Oscar Brodski. But, nevertheless, we will look for corroborative
detail."

"What is that?" I asked.

"You may have noticed that Brodski's matchbox contained round wooden
vestas--which are also rather unusual. As he must have lighted the
cigarette within a few steps of the gate, we ought to be able to find
the match with which he lighted it. Let us try up the road in the
direction from which he would probably have approached."

We walked very slowly up the road, searching the ground with the
lantern, and we had hardly gone a dozen paces when I espied a match
lying on the rough path and eagerly picked it up. It was a round wooden
vesta.

Thorndyke examined it with interest and having deposited it, with the
cigarette, in his "collecting-box," turned to retrace his steps. "There
is now, Jervis, no reasonable doubt that Brodski was murdered in that
house. We have succeeded in connecting that house with the crime, and
now we have got to force an entrance and join up the other clues." We
walked quickly back to the rear of the premises, where we found the
inspector conversing disconsolately with the station-master.

"I think, sir," said the former, "we had better go back now; in fact, I
don't see what we came here for, but---- Here! I say, sir, you mustn't
do that!" For Thorndyke, without a word of warning, had sprung up
lightly and thrown one of his long legs over the wall.

"I can't allow you to enter private premises, sir," continued the
inspector; but Thorndyke quietly dropped down on the inside and turned
to face the officer over the wall.

"Now, listen to me, inspector," said he. "I have good reasons for
believing that the dead man, Brodski, has been in this house--in fact, I
am prepared to swear an information to that effect. But time is
precious; we must follow the scent while it is hot. And I am not
proposing to break into the house off-hand. I merely wish to examine the
dust-bin."

"The dust-bin!" gasped the inspector. "Well, you really are a most
extraordinary gentleman! What do you expect to find in the dust-bin?"

"I am looking for a broken tumbler or wine-glass. It is a thin glass
vessel decorated with a pattern of small, eight-pointed stars. It may be
in the dust-bin or it may be inside the house."

The inspector hesitated, but Thorndyke's confident manner had evidently
impressed him.

"We can soon see what is in the dust-bin," he said, "though what in
creation a broken tumbler has to do with the case is more than I can
understand. However, here goes." He sprang up on to the wall, and, as he
dropped down into the garden, the station-master and I followed.

Thorndyke lingered a few moments by the gate examining the ground, while
the two officials hurried up the path. Finding nothing of interest,
however, he walked towards the house, looking keenly about him as he
went; but we were hardly half-way up the path when we heard the voice of
the inspector calling excitedly.

"Here you are, sir, this way," he sang out, and, as we hurried forward,
we suddenly came on the two officials standing over a small rubbish-heap
and looking the picture of astonishment. The glare of their lanterns
illuminated the heap, and showed us the scattered fragments of a thin
glass, star-pattern tumbler.

"I can't imagine how you guessed it was here, sir," said the inspector,
with a new-born respect in his tone, "nor what you're going to do with
it now you have found it."

"It is merely another link in the chain of evidence," said Thorndyke,
taking a pair of forceps from the case and stooping over the heap.
"Perhaps we shall find something else." He picked up several small
fragments of glass, looked at them closely and dropped them again.
Suddenly his eye caught a small splinter at the base of the heap.
Seizing it with the forceps, he held it close to his eye in the strong
lamplight, and, taking out his lens, examined it with minute attention.
"Yes," he said at length, "this is what I was looking for. Let me have
those two cards, Jervis."

I produced the two visiting-cards with the reconstructed lenses stuck to
them, and, laying them on the lid of the case, threw the light of the
lantern on them. Thorndyke looked at them intently for some time, and
from them to the fragment that he held. Then, turning to the inspector,
he said: "You saw me pick up this splinter of glass?"

"Yes, sir," replied the officer.

"And you saw where we found these spectacle-glasses and know whose they
were?"

"Yes, sir. They are the dead man's spectacles, and you found them where
the body had been."

"Very well," said Thorndyke; "now observe"; and, as the two officials
craned forward with parted lips, he laid the little splinter in a gap in
one of the lenses and then gave it a gentle push forward, when it
occupied the gap perfectly, joining edge to edge with the adjacent
fragments and rendering that portion of the lens complete.

"My God!" exclaimed the inspector. "How on earth did you know?"

"I must explain that later," said Thorndyke. "Meanwhile we had better
have a look inside the house. I expect to find there a cigarette--or
possibly a cigar--which has been trodden on, some wholemeal biscuits,
possibly a wooden vesta, and perhaps even the missing hat."

At the mention of the hat, the inspector stepped eagerly to the back
door, but, finding it bolted, he tried the window. This also was
securely fastened and, on Thorndyke's advice, we went round to the front
door.

"This door is locked too," said the inspector. "I'm afraid we shall have
to break in. It's a nuisance, though."

"Have a look at the window," suggested Thorndyke.

The officer did so, struggling vainly to undo the patent catch with his
pocket-knife.

"It's no go," he said, coming back to the door. "We shall have to----"
He broke off with an astonished stare, for the door stood open and
Thorndyke was putting something in his pocket.

"Your friend doesn't waste much time--even in picking a lock," he
remarked to me, as we followed Thorndyke into the house; but his
reflections were soon merged in a new surprise. Thorndyke had preceded
us into a small sitting-room dimly lighted by a hanging lamp turned down
low.

As we entered he turned up the light and glanced about the room. A
whisky-bottle was on the table, with a siphon, a tumbler and a
biscuit-box. Pointing to the latter, Thorndyke said to the inspector:
"See what is in that box."

The inspector raised the lid and peeped in, the station-master peered
over his shoulder, and then both stared at Thorndyke.

"How in the name of goodness did you know that there were wholemeal
biscuits in the house, sir?" exclaimed the station-master.

"You'd be disappointed if I told you," replied Thorndyke. "But look at
this." He pointed to the hearth, where lay a flattened, half-smoked
cigarette and a round wooden vesta. The inspector gazed at these objects
in silent wonder, while, as to the station-master, he continued to stare
at Thorndyke with what I can only describe as superstitious awe.

"You have the dead man's property with you, I believe?" said my
colleague.

"Yes," replied the inspector; "I put the things in my pocket for
safety."

"Then," said Thorndyke, picking up the flattened cigarette, "let us have
a look at his tobacco-pouch."

As the officer produced and opened the pouch, Thorndyke neatly cut open
the cigarette with his sharp pocket-knife. "Now," said he, "what kind of
tobacco is in the pouch?"

The inspector took out a pinch, looked at it and smelt it distastefully.
"It's one of those stinking tobaccos," he said, "that they put in
mixtures--Latakia, I think."

"And what is this?" asked Thorndyke, pointing to the open cigarette.

"Same stuff, undoubtedly," replied the inspector.

"And now let us see his cigarette papers," said Thorndyke.

The little book, or rather packet--for it consisted of separated
papers--was produced from the officer's pocket and a sample paper
abstracted. Thorndyke laid the half-burnt paper beside it, and the
inspector having examined the two, held them up to the light.

"There isn't much chance of mistaking that 'Zig-Zag' watermark," he
said. "This cigarette was made by the deceased; there can't be the
shadow of a doubt."

"One more point," said Thorndyke, laying the burnt wooden vesta on the
table. "You have his matchbox?"

The inspector brought forth the little silver casket, opened it and
compared the wooden vestas that it contained with the burnt end. Then he
shut the box with a snap.

"You've proved it up to the hilt," said he. "If we could only find the
hat, we should have a complete case."

"I'm not sure that we haven't found the hat," said Thorndyke. "You
notice that something besides coal has been burned in the grate."

The inspector ran eagerly to the fire-place and began, with feverish
hands, to pick out the remains of the extinct fire. "The cinders are
still warm," he said, "and they are certainly not all coal cinders.
There has been wood burned here on top of the coal, and these little
black lumps are neither coal nor wood. They may quite possibly be the
remains of a burnt hat, but, lord! who can tell? You can put together
the pieces of broken spectacle-glasses, but you can't build up a hat out
of a few cinders." He held out a handful of little, black, spongy
cinders and looked ruefully at Thorndyke, who took them from him and
laid them out on a sheet of paper.

"We can't reconstitute the hat, certainly," my friend agreed, "but we
may be able to ascertain the origin of these remains. They may not be
cinders of a hat, after all." He lit a wax match and, taking up one of
the charred fragments, applied the flame to it. The cindery mass fused
at once with a crackling, seething sound, emitting a dense smoke, and
instantly the air became charged with a pungent, resinous odour mingled
with the smell of burning animal matter.

"Smells like varnish," the station-master remarked.

"Yes. Shellac," said Thorndyke; "so the first test gives a positive
result. The next test will take more time."

He opened the green case and took from it a little flask, fitted for
Marsh's arsenic test, with a safety funnel and escape tube, a small
folding tripod, a spirit lamp and a disc of asbestos to serve as a
sand-bath. Dropping into the flask several of the cindery masses,
selected after careful inspection, he filled it up with alcohol and
placed it on the disc, which he rested on the tripod. Then he lighted
the spirit lamp underneath and sat down to wait for the alcohol to boil.

"There is one little point that we may as well settle," he said
presently, as the bubbles began to rise in the flask. "Give me a slide
with a drop of Farrant on it, Jervis."

I prepared the slide while Thorndyke, with a pair of forceps, picked out
a tiny wisp from the table-cloth. "I fancy we have seen this fabric
before," he remarked, as he laid the little pinch of fluff in the
mounting fluid and slipped the slide on to the stage of the microscope.
"Yes," he continued, looking into the eye-piece, "here are our old
acquaintances, the red wool fibres, the blue cotton and the yellow jute.
We must label this at once or we may confuse it with the other
specimens."

"Have you any idea how the deceased met his death?" the inspector asked.

"Yes," replied Thorndyke. "I take it that the murderer enticed him into
this room and gave him some refreshments. The murderer sat in the chair
in which you are sitting, Brodski sat in that small arm-chair. Then I
imagine the murderer attacked him with that iron bar that you found
among the nettles, failed to kill him at the first stroke, struggled
with him and finally suffocated him with the table-cloth. By the way,
there is just one more point. You recognise this piece of string?" He
took from his "collecting-box" the little end of twine that had been
picked up by the line. The inspector nodded. "If you look behind you,
you will see where it came from."

The officer turned sharply and his eye lighted on a string-box on the
mantelpiece. He lifted it down, and Thorndyke drew out from it a length
of white twine with one green strand, which he compared with the piece
in his hand. "The green strand in it makes the identification fairly
certain," he said. "Of course the string was used to secure the umbrella
and hand-bag. He could not have carried them in his hand, encumbered as
he was with the corpse. But I expect our other specimen is ready now."
He lifted the flask off the tripod, and, giving it a vigorous shake,
examined the contents through his lens. The alcohol had now become
dark-brown in colour, and was noticeably thicker and more syrupy in
consistence.

"I think we have enough here for a rough test," said he, selecting a
pipette and a slide from the case. He dipped the former into the flask
and, having sucked up a few drops of the alcohol from the bottom, held
the pipette over the slide on which he allowed the contained fluid to
drop.

Laying a cover-glass on the little pool of alcohol, he put the slide on
the microscope stage and examined it attentively, while we watched him
in expectant silence.

At length he looked up, and, addressing the inspector, asked: "Do you
know what felt hats are made of?"

"I can't say that I do, sir," replied the officer.

"Well, the better quality hats are made of rabbits' and hares' wool--the
soft under-fur, you know--cemented together with shellac. Now there is
very little doubt that these cinders contain shellac, and with the
microscope I find a number of small hairs of a rabbit. I have,
therefore, little hesitation in saying that these cinders are the
remains of a hard felt hat; and, as the hairs do not appear to be dyed,
I should say it was a grey hat."

At this moment our conclave was interrupted by hurried footsteps on the
garden path and, as we turned with one accord, an elderly woman burst
into the room.

She stood for a moment in mute astonishment, and then, looking from one
to the other, demanded: "Who are you? and what are you doing here?"

The inspector rose. "I am a police officer, madam," said he. "I can't
give you any further information just now, but, if you will excuse me
asking, who are you?"

"I am Mr. Hickler's housekeeper," she replied.

"And Mr. Hickler; are you expecting him home shortly?"

"No, I am not," was the curt reply. "Mr. Hickler is away from home just
now. He left this evening by the boat train."

"For Amsterdam?" asked Thorndyke.

"I believe so, though I don't see what business it is of yours," the
housekeeper answered.

"I thought he might, perhaps, be a diamond broker or merchant," said
Thorndyke. "A good many of them travel by that train."

"So he is," said the woman, "at least, he has something to do with
diamonds."

"Ah. Well, we must be going, Jervis," said Thorndyke, "we have finished
here, and we have to find an hotel or inn. Can I have a word with you,
inspector?"

The officer, now entirely humble and reverent, followed us out into the
garden to receive Thorndyke's parting advice.

"You had better take possession of the house at once, and get rid of the
housekeeper. Nothing must be removed. Preserve those cinders and see
that the rubbish-heap is not disturbed, and, above all, don't have the
room swept. The station-master or I will let them know at the police
station, so that they can send an officer to relieve you."

With a friendly "good-night" we went on our way, guided by the
station-master; and here our connection with the case came to an end.
Hickler (whose Christian name turned out to be Silas) was, it is true,
arrested as he stepped ashore from the steamer, and a packet of
diamonds, subsequently identified as the property of Oscar Brodski,
found upon his person. But he was never brought to trial, for on the
return voyage he contrived to elude his guards for an instant as the
ship was approaching the English coast, and it was not until three days
later, when a handcuffed body was cast up on the lonely shore by
Orfordness, that the authorities knew the fate of Silas Hickler.

                 *        *        *        *        *

"An appropriate and dramatic end to a singular and yet typical case,"
said Thorndyke, as he put down the newspaper. "I hope it has enlarged
your knowledge, Jervis, and enabled you to form one or two useful
corollaries."

"I prefer to hear you sing the medico-legal doxology," I answered,
turning upon him like the proverbial worm and grinning derisively (which
the worm does not).

"I know you do," he retorted, with mock gravity, "and I lament your lack
of mental initiative. However, the points that this case illustrates are
these: First, the danger of delay; the vital importance of instant
action before that frail and fleeting thing that we call a clue has time
to evaporate. A delay of a few hours would have left us with hardly a
single datum. Second, the necessity of pursuing the most trivial clue to
an absolute finish, as illustrated by the spectacles. Third, the urgent
need of a trained scientist to aid the police; and, last," he concluded,
with a smile, "we learn never to go abroad without the invaluable green
case."






[End of The Case of Oscar Brodski, by R. Austin Freeman]
