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Title: The Missing Mortgagee
   [Story #5 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: 9 July 2018
Date last updated: 9 July 2018
Project Gutenberg Canada ebook #1547

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 MISSING MORTGAGEE

by R. Austin Freeman





PART I


Early in the afternoon of a warm, humid November day, Thomas Elton
sauntered dejectedly along the Margate esplanade, casting an eye now on
the slate-coloured sea with its pall of slate-coloured sky, and now on
the harbour, where the ebb tide was just beginning to expose the mud. It
was a dreary prospect, and Elton varied it by observing the few
fishermen and fewer promenaders who walked foot to foot with their
distorted reflections in the wet pavement; and thus it was that his eye
fell on a smartly-dressed man who had just stepped into a shelter to
light a cigar.

A contemporary joker has classified the Scotsmen who abound in South
Africa into two groups: those, namely, who hail from Scotland, and those
who hail from Palestine. Now, something in the aspect of the broad back
that was presented to his view, in that of the curly, black hair and the
exuberant raiment, suggested to Elton a Scotsman of the latter type. In
fact, there was a suspicion of disagreeable familiarity in the figure
which caused him to watch it and slacken his pace. The man backed out of
the shelter, diffusing azure clouds, and, drawing an envelope from his
pocket, read something that was written on it. Then he turned
quickly--and so did Elton, but not quickly enough. For he was a solitary
figure on that bald and empty expanse, and the other had seen him at the
first glance. Elton walked away slowly, but he had not gone a dozen
paces when he felt the anticipated slap on the shoulder and heard the
too well-remembered voice.

"Blow me, if I don't believe you were trying to cut me, Tom," it said.

Elton looked round with ill-assumed surprise.

"Hallo, Gordon! Who the deuce would have thought of seeing you here?"

Gordon laughed thickly. "Not you, apparently; and you don't look as
pleased as you might now you have seen me. Whereas I'm delighted to see
you, and especially to see that things are going so well with you."

"What do you mean?" asked Elton.

"Taking your winter holiday by the sea, like a blooming duke."

"I'm not taking a holiday," said Elton. "I was so worn out that I had to
have some sort of change; but I've brought my work down with me, and I
put in a full seven hours every day."

"That's right," said Gordon. "'Consider the ant.' Nothing like steady
industry. I've brought my work down with me too; a little slip of paper
with a stamp on it. You know the article, Tom."

"I know. But it isn't due till to-morrow, is it?"

"Isn't it, by gum! It's due this very day, the twentieth of the month.
That's why I'm here. Knowing your little weakness in the matter of
dates, and having a small item to collect in Canterbury, I thought I'd
just come on, and save you the useless expense that results from
forgetfulness."

Elton understood the hint, and his face grew rigid.

"I can't do it, Gordon; I can't really. Haven't got it, and shan't have
it until I'm paid for the batch of drawings that I'm working on now."

"Oh, but what a pity!" exclaimed Gordon, taking the cigar from his
thick, pouting lips to utter the exclamation. "Here you are, blueing
your capital on seaside jaunts and reducing your income at a stroke by a
clear four pounds a year."

"How do you make that out?" demanded Elton.

"Tut, tut," protested Gordon, "what an unbusinesslike chap you are!
Here's a little matter of twenty pounds--a quarter's interest. If it's
paid now, it's twenty. If it isn't, it goes on to the principal, and
there's another four pounds a year to be paid. Why don't you try to be
more economical, dear boy?"

Elton looked askance at the vampire by his side; at the plump,
blue-shaven cheeks, the thick black eyebrows, the drooping nose, and the
full, red lips that embraced the cigar, and though he was a
mild-tempered man he felt that he could have battered that sensual,
complacent face out of all human likeness, with something uncommonly
like enjoyment. But of these thoughts nothing appeared in his reply, for
a man cannot afford to say all he would wish to a creditor who could
ruin him with a word.

"You mustn't be too hard on me, Gordon," said he. "Give me a little
time. I'm doing all I can, you know. I earn every penny that I am able,
and I have kept my insurance paid up regularly. I shall be paid for this
work in a week or two and then we can settle up."

Gordon made no immediate reply, and the two men walked slowly eastward,
a curiously ill-assorted pair: the one prosperous, jaunty, overdressed;
the other pale and dejected, and, with his well-brushed but napless
clothes, his patched boots and shiny-brimmed hat, the very type of
decent, struggling poverty.

They had just passed the pier, and were coming to the base of the jetty,
when Gordon next spoke.

"Can't we get off this beastly wet pavement?" he asked, looking down at
his dainty and highly-polished boots. "What's it like down on the
sands?"

"Oh, it's very good walking," said Elton, "between here and Foreness,
and probably drier than the pavement."

"Then," said Gordon, "I vote we go down"; and accordingly they descended
the sloping way beyond the jetty. The stretch of sand left by the
retiring tide was as smooth and firm as a sheet of asphalt, and far more
pleasant to walk upon.

"We seem to have the place all to ourselves," remarked Gordon, "with the
exception of some half-dozen dukes like yourself."

As he spoke, he cast a cunning black eye furtively at the dejected man
by his side, considering how much further squeezing was possible, and
what would be the probable product of a further squeeze; but he quickly
averted his gaze as Elton turned on him a look eloquent of contempt and
dislike. There was another pause, for Elton made no reply to the last
observation; then Gordon changed over from one arm to the other the
heavy fur-lined overcoat that he was carrying. "Needn't have brought
this beastly thing," he remarked, "if I'd known it was going to be so
warm."

"Shall I carry it for you a little way?" asked the naturally polite
Elton.

"If you would, dear boy," replied Gordon. "It's difficult to manage an
overcoat, an umbrella and cigar all at once."

He handed over the coat with a sigh of relief, and having straightened
himself and expanded his chest, remarked:

"I suppose you're beginning to do quite well now, Tom?"

Elton shook his head gloomily. "No," he answered, "it's the same old
grind."

"But surely they're beginning to recognise your talents by this time,"
said Gordon, with the persuasive air of a cross-examining counsel.

"That's just the trouble," said Elton. "You see, I haven't any, and they
recognised the fact long ago. I'm just a journeyman, and journeyman's
work is what I get given to me."

"You mean to say that the editors don't appreciate talent when they see
it."

"I don't know about that," said Elton, "but they're most infernally
appreciative of the lack of it."

Gordon blew out a great cloud of smoke, and raised his eyebrows
reflectively. "Do you think," he said after a brief pause, "you give 'em
a fair chance? I've seen some of your stuff. It's blooming prim, you
know. Why don't you try something more lively? More skittish, you know,
old chap; something with legs, you know, and high-heeled shoes. See what
I mean, old chap? High-steppers, with good full calves and not too fat
in the ankle. That ought to fetch 'em; don't you think so?"

Elton scowled. "You're thinking of the drawings in 'Hold Me Up,'" he
said scornfully, "but you're mistaken. Any fool can draw a champagne
bottle upside down with a French shoe at the end of it."

"No doubt, dear boy," said Gordon, "but I expect that sort of fool knows
what pays."

"A good many fools seem to know that much," retorted Elton; and then he
was sorry he had spoken, for Gordon was not really an amiable man, and
the expression of his face suggested that he had read a personal
application into the rejoinder. So, once more, the two men walked on in
silence.

Presently their footsteps led them to the margin of the weed-covered
rocks, and here, from under a high heap of bladder-wrack, a large green
shorecrab rushed out and menaced them with uplifted claws. Gordon
stopped and stared at the creature with Cockney surprise, prodding it
with his umbrella, and speculating aloud as to whether it was good to
eat. The crab, as if alarmed at the suggestion, suddenly darted away and
began to scuttle over the green-clad rocks, finally plunging into a
large, deep pool. Gordon pursued it, hobbling awkwardly over the
slippery rocks, until he came to the edge of the pool, over which he
stooped, raking inquisitively among the weedy fringe with his umbrella.
He was so much interested in his quarry that he failed to allow for the
slippery surface on which he stood. The result was disastrous. Of a
sudden, one foot began to slide forward, and when he tried to recover
his balance, was instantly followed by the other. For a moment he
struggled frantically to regain his footing, executing a sort of
splashing, stamping dance on the margin. Then, the circling sea birds
were startled by a yell of terror, an ivory-handled umbrella flew across
the rocks, and Mr. Solomon Gordon took a complete header into the
deepest part of the pool. What the crab thought of it history does not
relate. What Mr. Gordon thought of it is not suitable for publication;
but, as he rose, like an extremely up-to-date merman, he expressed his
sentiments with a wealth of adjectives that brought Elton to the verge
of hysteria.

"It's a good job you brought your overcoat, after all," Elton remarked
for the sake of saying something, and thereby avoiding the risk of
exploding into undeniable laughter. The Hebrew made no reply--at least,
no reply that lends itself to verbatim report--but staggered towards the
hospitable overcoat, holding out his dripping arms. Having inducted him
into the garment and buttoned him up, Elton hurried off to recover the
umbrella (and, incidentally, to indulge himself in a broad grin), and,
having secured it, angled with it for the smart billycock which was
floating across the pool.

It was surprising what a change the last minute or two had wrought. The
positions of the two men were now quite reversed. Despite his shabby
clothing, Elton seemed to walk quite jauntily as compared with his
shuddering companion, who trotted by his side with short miserable
steps, shrinking into the uttermost depths of his enveloping coat, like
an alarmed winkle into its shell, puffing out his cheeks and
anathematising the Universe in general as well as his chattering teeth
would let him.

For some time they hurried along towards the slope by the jetty without
exchanging any further remarks; then suddenly, Elton asked: "What are
you going to do, Gordon? You can't travel like that."

"Can't you lend me a change?" asked Gordon.

Elton reflected. He had another suit, his best suit, which he had been
careful to preserve in good condition for use on those occasions when a
decent appearance was indispensable. He looked askance at the man by his
side and something told him that the treasured suit would probably
receive less careful treatment than it was accustomed to. Still the man
couldn't be allowed to go about in wet clothes.

"I've got a spare suit," he said. "It isn't quite up to your style, and
may not be much of a fit, but I daresay you'll be able to put up with it
for an hour or two."

"It'll be dry anyhow," mumbled Gordon, "so we won't trouble about the
style. How far is it to your rooms?"

The plural number was superfluous. Elton's room was in a little ancient
flint house at the bottom of a narrow close in the old quarter of the
town. You reached it without any formal preliminaries of bell or knocker
by simply letting yourself in by a street door, crossing a tiny room,
opening the door of what looked like a narrow cupboard, and squeezing up
a diminutive flight of stairs, which was unexpectedly exposed to view.
By following this procedure, the two men reached a small
bed-sitting-room; that is to say, it was a bedroom, but by sitting down
on the bed, you converted it into a sitting-room.

Gordon puffed out his cheeks and looked round distastefully.

"You might just ring for some hot water, old chappie," he said.

Elton laughed aloud. "Ring!" he exclaimed. "Ring what? Your clothes are
the only things that are likely to get wrung."

"Well, then, sing out for the servant," said Gordon.

Elton laughed again. "My dear fellow," said he, "we don't go in for
servants. There is only my landlady and she never comes up here. She's
too fat to get up the stairs, and besides, she's got a game leg. I look
after my room myself. You'll be all right if you have a good rub down."

Gordon groaned, and emerged reluctantly from the depths of his overcoat,
while Elton brought forth from the chest of drawers the promised suit
and the necessary undergarments. One of these latter Gordon held up with
a sour smile, as he regarded it with extreme disfavour.

"I shouldn't think," said he, "you need have been at the trouble of
marking them so plainly. No one's likely to want to run away with them."

The undergarments certainly contrasted very unfavourably with the
delicate garments which he was peeling off, excepting in one respect;
they were dry; and that had to console him for the ignominious change.

The clothes fitted quite fairly, notwithstanding the difference between
the figures of the two men; for while Gordon was a slender man grown
fat, Elton was a broad man grown thin; which, in a way, averaged their
superficial area.

Elton watched the process of investment and noted the caution with which
Gordon smuggled the various articles from his own pockets into those of
the borrowed garments without exposing them to view; heard the jingle of
money; saw the sumptuous gold watch and massive chain transplanted, and
noted with interest the large leather wallet that came forth from the
breast pocket of the wet coat. He got a better view of this from the
fact that Gordon himself examined it narrowly, and even opened it to
inspect its contents.

"Lucky that wasn't an ordinary pocket-book," he remarked. "If it had
been, your receipt would have got wet, and so would one or two other
little articles that wouldn't have been improved by salt water. And,
talking of the receipt, Tom, shall I hand it over now?"

"You can if you like," said Elton; "but as I told you, I haven't got the
money"; on which Gordon muttered:

"Pity, pity," and thrust the wallet into his, or rather, Elton's breast
pocket.

A few minutes later, the two men came out together into the gathering
darkness, and as they walked slowly up the close, Elton asked: "Are you
going up to town to-night, Gordon?"

"How can I?" was the reply. "I can't go without my clothes. No, I shall
run over to Broadstairs. A client of mine keeps a boarding-house there.
He'll have to put me up for the night, and if you can get my clothes
cleaned and dried I can come over for them to-morrow."

These arrangements having been settled, the two men adjourned, at
Gordon's suggestion, for tea at one of the restaurants on the Front; and
after that, again at Gordon's suggestion, they set forth together along
the cliff path that leads to Broadstairs by way of Kingsgate.

"You may as well walk with me into Broadstairs," said Gordon; "I'll
stand you the fare back by rail"; and to this Elton had agreed, not
because he was desirous of the other man's company, but because he still
had some lingering hopes of being able to adjust the little difficulty
respecting the instalment.

He did not, however, open the subject at once. Profoundly as he loathed
and despised the human spider whom necessity made his associate for the
moment, he exerted himself to keep up a current of amusing conversation.
It was not easy; for Gordon, like most men whose attention is focussed
on the mere acquirement of money, looked with a dull eye on the ordinary
interests of life. His tastes in art he had already hinted at, and his
other tastes lay much in the same direction. Money first, for its own
sake, and then those coarser and more primitive gratifications that it
was capable of purchasing. This was the horizon that bounded Mr. Solomon
Gordon's field of vision.

Nevertheless, they were well on their way before Elton alluded to the
subject that was uppermost in both their minds.

"Look here, Gordon," he said at length, "can't you manage to give me a
bit more time to pay up this instalment? It doesn't seem quite fair to
keep sending up the principal like this."

"Well, dear boy," replied Gordon, "it's your own fault, you know. If you
would only bear the dates in mind, it wouldn't happen."

"But," pleaded Elton, "just consider what I'm paying you. I originally
borrowed fifty pounds from you, and I'm now paying you eighty pounds a
year in addition to the insurance premium. That's close on a hundred a
year; just about half that I manage to earn by slaving like a nigger. If
you stick it up any farther you won't leave me enough to keep body and
soul together; which really means that I shan't be able to pay you at
all."

There was a brief pause; then Gordon said dryly:

"You talk about not paying, dear boy, as if you had forgotten about that
promissory note."

Elton set his teeth. His temper was rising rapidly. But he restrained
himself.

"I should have a pretty poor memory if I had," he replied, "considering
the number of reminders you've given me."

"You've needed them, Tom," said the other. "I've never met a slacker man
in keeping to his engagements."

At this Elton lost his temper completely.

"That's a damned lie!" he exclaimed, "and you know it, you infernal,
dirty, blood-sucking parasite!"

Gordon stopped dead.

"Look here, my friend," said he; "none of that. If I've any of your
damned sauce, I'll give you a sound good hammering."

"The deuce you will!" said Elton, whose fingers were itching, not for
the first time, to take some recompense for all that he had suffered
from the insatiable usurer. "Nothing's preventing you now, you know, but
I fancy cent. per cent. is more in your line than fighting."

"Give me any more sauce and you'll see," said Gordon.

"Very well," was the quiet rejoinder. "I have great pleasure in
informing you that you are a human maw-worm. How does that suit you?"

For reply, Gordon threw down his overcoat and umbrella on the grass at
the side of the path, and deliberately slapped Elton on the cheek.

The reply followed instantly in the form of a smart left-hander, which
took effect on the bridge of the Hebrew's rather prominent nose. Thus
the battle was fairly started, and it proceeded with all the fury of
accumulated hatred on the one side and sharp physical pain on the other.
What little science there was appertained to Elton, in spite of which,
however, he had to give way to his heavier, better nourished and more
excitable opponent. Regardless of the punishment he received, the
infuriated Jew rushed at him and, by sheer weight of onslaught, drove
him backward across the little green.

Suddenly, Elton, who knew the place by daylight, called out in alarm.

"Look out, Gordon! Get back, you fool!"

But Gordon, blind with fury, and taking this as a manoeuvre to escape,
only pressed him harder. Elton's pugnacity died out instantly in mortal
terror. He shouted out another warning and as Gordon still pressed him,
battering furiously, he did the only thing that was possible: he dropped
to the ground. And then, in the twinkling of an eye came the
catastrophe. Borne forward by his own momentum, Gordon stumbled over
Elton's prostrate body, staggered forward a few paces, and fell. Elton
heard a muffled groan that faded quickly, and mingled with the sound of
falling earth and stones. He sprang to his feet and looked round and saw
that he was alone.

For some moments he was dazed by the suddenness of the awful thing that
had happened. He crept timorously towards the unseen edge of the cliff,
and listened. But there was no sound save the distant surge of the
breakers, and the scream of an invisible sea-bird. It was useless to try
to look over. Near as he was, he could not, even now, distinguish the
edge of the cliff from the dark beach below. Suddenly he bethought him
of a narrow cutting that led down from the cliff to the shore. Quickly
crossing the green, and mechanically stooping to pick up Gordon's
overcoat and umbrella, he made his way to the head of the cutting and
ran down the rough chalk roadway. At the bottom he turned to the right
and, striding hurriedly over the smooth sand, peered into the darkness
at the foot of the cliff.

Soon there loomed up against the murky sky the shadowy form of the
little headland on which he and Gordon had stood; and, almost at the
same moment, there grew out of the darkness of the beach a darker spot
amidst a constellation of smaller spots of white. As he drew nearer the
dark spot took shape; a horrid shape with sprawling limbs and a head
strangely awry. He stepped forward, trembling, and spoke the name that
the thing had borne. He grasped the flabby hand, and laid his fingers on
the wrist; but it only told him the same tale as did that strangely
misplaced head. The body lay face downwards, and he had not the courage
to turn it over; but that his enemy was dead he had not the faintest
doubt. He stood up amidst the litter of fallen chalk and earth and
looked down at the horrible, motionless thing, wondering numbly and
vaguely what he should do. Should he go and seek assistance? The answer
to that came in another question. How came that body to be lying on the
beach? And what answer should he give to the inevitable questions? And
swiftly there grew up in his mind, born of the horror of the thing that
was, a yet greater horror of the thing that might be.

A minute later, a panic-stricken man stole with stealthy swiftness up
the narrow cutting and set forth towards Margate, stopping anon to
listen, and stealing away off the path into the darkness, to enter the
town by the inland road.

Little sleep was there that night for Elton in his room in the old flint
house. The dead man's clothes, which greeted him on his arrival, hanging
limply on the towel-horse where he had left them, haunted him through
the night. In the darkness, the sour smell of damp cloth assailed him
with an endless reminder of their presence, and after each brief doze,
he would start up in alarm and hastily light his candle; only to throw
its flickering light on those dank, drowned-looking vestments. His
thoughts, half-controlled, as night thoughts are, flitted erratically
from the unhappy past to the unstable present, and thence to the
incalculable future. Once he lighted the candle specially to look at his
watch to see if the tide had yet crept up to that solitary figure on the
beach; nor could he rest again until the time of high-water was well
past. And all through these wanderings of his thoughts there came,
recurring like a horrible refrain, the question what would happen when
the body was found? Could he be connected with it and, if so, would he
be charged with murder? At last he fell asleep and slumbered on until
the landlady thumped at the staircase door to announce that she had
brought his breakfast.

As soon as he was dressed he went out. Not, however, until he had
stuffed Gordon's still damp clothes and boots, the cumbrous overcoat and
the smart billycock hat into his trunk, and put the umbrella into the
darkest corner of the cupboard. Not that anyone ever came up to the
room, but that, already, he was possessed with the uneasy secretiveness
of the criminal. He went straight down to the beach; with what purpose
he could hardly have said, but an irresistible impulse drove him thither
to see if it was there. He went down by the jetty and struck out
eastward over the smooth sand, looking about him with dreadful
expectation for some small crowd or hurrying messenger. From the foot of
the cliffs, over the rocks to the distant line of breakers, his eye
roved with eager dread, and still he hurried eastward, always drawing
nearer to the place that he feared to look on. As he left the town
behind, so he left behind the one or two idlers on the beach, and when
he turned Foreness Point he lost sight of the last of them and went
forward alone.

It was less than half an hour later that the fatal headland opened out
beyond Whiteness. Not a soul had he met along that solitary beach, and
though, once or twice, he had started at the sight of some mass of
driftwood or heap of seaweed, the dreadful thing that he was seeking had
not yet appeared. He passed the opening of the cutting and approached
the headland, breathing fast and looking about him fearfully. Already he
could see the larger lumps of chalk that had fallen, and looking up, he
saw a clean, white patch at the summit of the cliff. But still there was
no sign of the corpse. He walked on more slowly now, considering whether
it could have drifted out to sea, or whether he should find it in the
next bay. And then, rounding the headland, he came in sight of a black
hole at the cliff foot, the entrance to a deep cave. He approached yet
more slowly, sweeping his eye round the little bay, and looking
apprehensively at the cavity before him. Suppose the thing should have
washed in there. It was quite possible. Many things did wash into that
cave, for he had once visited it and had been astonished at the quantity
of seaweed and jetsam that had accumulated within it. But it was an
uncomfortable thought. It would be doubly horrible to meet the awful
thing in the dim twilight of the cavern. And yet, the black archway
seemed to draw him on, step by step, until he stood at the portal and
looked in. It was an eerie place, chilly and damp, the clammy walls and
roof stained green and purple and black with encrusting lichens. At one
time, Elton had been told, it used to be haunted by smugglers, and then
communicated with an underground passage; and the old smuggler's
look-out still remained; a narrow tunnel, high up the cliff, looking out
into Kingsgate Bay; and even some vestiges of the rude steps that led up
to the look-out platform could still be traced, and were not impossible
to climb. Indeed, Elton had, at his last visit, climbed to the platform
and looked out through the spy-hole. He recalled the circumstance now,
as he stood, peering nervously into the darkness, and straining his eyes
to see what jetsam the ocean had brought since then.

At first he could see nothing but the smooth sand near the opening;
then, as his eyes grew more accustomed to the gloom, he could make out
the great heap of seaweed on the floor of the cave. Insensibly, he crept
in, with his eyes riveted on the weedy mass and, as he left the daylight
behind him, so did the twilight of the cave grow clearer. His feet left
the firm sand and trod the springy mass of weed, and in the silence of
the cave he could now hear plainly the rain-like patter of the leaping
sand-hoppers. He stopped for a moment to listen to the unfamiliar sound,
and still the gloom of the cave grew lighter to his more accustomed
eyes.

And then, in an instant, he saw it. From a heap of weed, a few paces
ahead, projected a boot; his own boot; he recognised the patch on the
sole; and at the sight, his heart seemed to stand still. Though he had
somehow expected to find it here, its presence seemed to strike him with
a greater shock of horror from that very circumstance.

He was standing stock still, gazing with fearful fascination at the boot
and the swelling mound of weed, when, suddenly, there struck upon his
ear the voice of a woman, singing.

He started violently. His first impulse was to run out of the cave. But
a moment's reflection told him what madness this would be. And then the
voice drew nearer, and there broke out the high, rippling laughter of a
child. Elton looked in terror at the bright opening of the cavern's
mouth, expecting every moment to see it frame a group of figures. If
that happened, he was lost, for he would have been seen actually with
the body. Suddenly he bethought him of the spy-hole and the platform,
both of which were invisible from the entrance; and turning, he ran
quickly over the sodden weed till he came to the remains of the steps.
Climbing hurriedly up these, he reached the platform, which was enclosed
in a large niche, just as the reverberating sound of voices told him
that the strangers were within the mouth of the cave. He strained his
ears to catch what they were saying and to make out if they were
entering farther. It was a child's voice that he had first heard, and
very weird were the hollow echoes of the thin treble that were flung
back from the rugged walls. But he could not hear what the child had
said. The woman's voice, however, was quite distinct, and the words
seemed significant in more senses than one.

"No, dear," it said, "you had better not go in. It's cold and damp. Come
out into the sunshine."

Elton breathed more freely. But the woman was more right than she knew.
It was cold and damp: that thing under the black tangle of weed. Better
far to be out in the sunshine. He himself was already longing to escape
from the chill and gloom of the cavern. But he could not escape yet.
Innocent as he actually was, his position was that of a murderer. He
must wait until the coast was clear, and then steal out, to hurry away
unobserved.

He crept up cautiously to the short tunnel and peered out through the
opening across the bay. And then his heart sank. Below him, on the sunny
beach, a small party of visitors had established themselves just within
view of the mouth of the cave; and even as he looked, a man approached
from the wooden stairway down the cliff, carrying a couple of deck
chairs. So, for the present his escape was hopelessly cut off.

He went back to the platform and sat down to wait for his release; and,
as he sat, his thoughts went back once more to the thing that lay under
the weed. How long would it lie there undiscovered? And what would
happen when it was found? What was there to connect him with it? Of
course, there was his name on the clothing, but there was nothing
incriminating in that, if he had only had the courage to give
information at once. But it was too late to think of that now. Besides,
it suddenly flashed upon him, there was the receipt in the wallet. That
receipt mentioned him by name and referred to a loan. Obviously, its
suggestion was most sinister, coupled with his silence. It was a deadly
item of evidence against him. But no sooner had he realised the
appalling significance of this document than he also realised that it
was still within his reach. Why should he leave it there to be brought
in evidence--in false evidence, too--against him?

Slowly he rose and, creeping down the tunnel, once more looked out. The
people were sitting quietly in their chairs, the man was reading, and
the child was digging in the sand. Elton looked across the bay to make
sure that no other person was approaching, and then, hastily climbing
down the steps, walked across the great bed of weed, driving an army of
sand-hoppers before him. He shuddered at the thought of what he was
going to do, and the clammy chill of the cave seemed to settle on him in
a cold sweat.

He came to the little mound from which the boot projected, and began,
shudderingly and with faltering hand, to lift the slimy, tangled weed.
As he drew aside the first bunch, he gave a gasp of horror and quickly
replaced it. The body was lying on its back, and, as he lifted the weed
he had uncovered--not the face, for the thing had no face. It had struck
either the cliff or a stone upon the beach and--but there is no need to
go into particulars: it had no face. When he had recovered a little,
Elton groped shudderingly among the weed until he found the
breast-pocket from which he quickly drew out the wallet, now clammy,
sodden and loathsome. He was rising with it in his hand when an
apparition, seen through the opening of the cave, arrested his movement
as if he had been suddenly turned into stone. A man, apparently a
fisherman or sailor, was sauntering past some thirty yards from the
mouth of the cave, and at his heels trotted a mongrel dog. The dog
stopped, and, lifting his nose, seemed to sniff the air; and then he
began to walk slowly and suspiciously towards the cave. The man
sauntered on and soon passed out of view; but the dog still came on
towards the cave, stopping now and again with upraised nose.

The catastrophe seemed inevitable. But just at that moment the man's
voice rose, loud and angry, evidently calling the dog. The animal
hesitated, looking wistfully from his master to the cave; but when the
summons was repeated, he turned reluctantly and trotted away.

Elton stood up and took a deep breath. The chilly sweat was running down
his face, his heart was thumping and his knees trembled, so that he
could hardly get back to the platform. What hideous peril had he escaped
and how narrowly! For there he had stood; and had the man entered, he
would have been caught in the very act of stealing the incriminating
document from the body. For that matter, he was little better off now,
with the dead man's property on his person, and he resolved instantly to
take out and destroy the receipt and put back the wallet. But this was
easier thought of than done. The receipt was soaked with sea water, and
refused utterly to light when he applied a match to it. In the end, he
tore it up into little fragments and deliberately swallowed them, one by
one.

But to restore the wallet was more than he was equal to just now. He
would wait until the people had gone home to lunch, and then he would
thrust it under the weed as he ran past. So he sat down again and once
more took up the endless thread of his thoughts.

The receipt was gone now, and with it the immediate suggestion of
motive. There remained only the clothes with their too legible markings.
They certainly connected him with the body, but they offered no proof of
his presence at the catastrophe. And then, suddenly, another most
startling idea occurred to him. Who could identify the body--the body
that had no face? There was the wallet, it was true, but he could take
that away with him, and there was a ring on the finger and some articles
in the pockets which might be identified. But a voice seemed to whisper
to him--these things were removable, too. And if he removed them, what
then? Why, then, the body was that of Thomas Elton, a friendless,
poverty-stricken artist, about whom no one would trouble to ask any
questions.

He pondered on this new situation profoundly. It offered him a choice of
alternatives. Either he might choose the imminent risk of being hanged
for a murder that he had not committed, or he might surrender his
identity for ever and move away to a new environment.

He smiled faintly. His identity! What might that be worth to barter
against his life? Only yesterday he would gladly have surrendered it as
the bare price of emancipation from the vampire who had fastened on to
him.

He thrust the wallet into his pocket and buttoned his coat. Thomas Elton
was dead; and that other man, as yet unnamed, should go forth, as the
woman had said, into the sunshine.




PART II

(Related by Christopher Jervis, M.D.)


From various causes, the insurance business that passed through
Thorndyke's hands had, of late, considerably increased. The number of
societies which regularly employed him had grown larger, and, since the
remarkable case of Percival Bland, the "Griffin" had made it a routine
practice to send all inquest cases to us for report.

It was in reference to one of these latter that Mr. Stalker, a senior
member of the staff of that office, called on us one afternoon in
December; and when he had laid his bag on the table and settled himself
comfortably before the fire, he opened the business without preamble.

"I've brought you another inquest case," said he; "a rather queer one,
quite interesting from your point of view. As far as we can see, it has
no particular interest for us excepting that it does rather look as if
our examining medical officer had been a little casual."

"What is the special interest of the case from our point of view?" asked
Thorndyke.

"I'll just give you a sketch of it," said Stalker, "and I think you will
agree that it's a case after your own heart.

"On the 24th of last month, some men who were collecting seaweed, to use
as manure, discovered in a cave at Kingsgate, in the Isle of Thanet, the
body of a man, lying under a mass of accumulated weed. As the tide was
rising, they put the body into their cart and conveyed it to Margate,
where, of course, an inquest was held, and the following facts were
elicited. The body was that of a man named Thomas Elton. It was
identified by the name-marks on the clothing, by the visiting-cards and
a couple of letters which were found in the pockets. From the address on
the letters it was seen that Elton had been staying in Margate, and on
inquiry at that address, it was learnt from the old woman who let the
lodgings, that he had been missing about four days. The landlady was
taken to the mortuary, and at once identified the body as that of her
lodger. It remained only to decide how the body came into the cave; and
this did not seem to present much difficulty; for the neck had been
broken by a tremendous blow, which had practically destroyed the face,
and there were distinct evidences of a breaking away of a portion of the
top of the cliff, only a few yards from the position of the cave. There
was apparently no doubt that Elton had fallen sheer from the top of the
overhanging cliff on to the beach. Now, one would suppose with the
evidence of this fall of about a hundred and fifty feet, the smashed
face and broken neck, there was not much room for doubt as to the cause
of death. I think you will agree with me, Dr. Jervis?"

"Certainly," I replied; "it must be admitted that a broken neck is a
condition that tends to shorten life."

"Quite so," agreed Stalker; "but our friend, the local coroner, is a
gentleman who takes nothing for granted--a very Thomas Didymus, who
apparently agrees with Dr. Thorndyke that if there is no post-mortem,
there is no inquest. So he ordered a post-mortem, which would have
appeared to me an absurdly unnecessary proceeding, and I think that even
you will agree with me, Dr. Thorndyke."

But Thorndyke shook his head.

"Not at all," said he. "It might, for instance, be much more easy to
push a drugged or poisoned man over a cliff than to put over the same
man in his normal state. The appearance of violent accident is an
excellent mask for the less obvious forms of murder."

"That's perfectly true," said Stalker; "and I suppose that is what the
coroner thought. At any rate, he had the post-mortem made, and the
result was most curious; for it was found, on opening the body, that the
deceased had suffered from a smallish thoracic aneurism, which had
burst. Now, as the aneurism must obviously have burst during life, it
leaves the cause of death--so I understand--uncertain; at any rate, the
medical witness was unable to say whether the deceased fell over the
cliff in consequence of the bursting of the aneurism or burst the
aneurism in consequence of falling over the cliff. Of course, it doesn't
matter to us which way the thing happened; the only question which
interests us is, whether a comparatively recently insured man ought to
have had an aneurism at all."

"Have you paid the claim?" asked Thorndyke.

"No, certainly not. We never pay a claim until we have had your report.
But, as a matter of fact, there is another circumstance that is causing
delay. It seems that Elton had mortgaged his policy to a money-lender,
named Gordon, and it is by him that the claim has been made, or rather,
by a clerk of his, named Hyams. Now, we have had a good many dealings
with this man Gordon, and hitherto he has always acted in person; and as
he is a somewhat slippery gentleman, we have thought it desirable to
have the claim actually signed by him. And that is the difficulty. For
it seems that Mr. Gordon is abroad, and his whereabouts unknown to
Hyams; so, as we certainly couldn't take Hyams's receipt for payment,
the matter is in abeyance until Hyams can communicate with his
principal. And now, I must be running away. I have brought you, as you
will see, all the papers, including the policy and the mortgage deed."

As soon as he was gone, Thorndyke gathered up the bundle of papers and
sorted them out in what he apparently considered the order of their
importance. First he glanced quickly through the proposal form, and then
took up the copy of the coroner's depositions.

"The medical evidence," he remarked, "is very full and complete. Both
the coroner and the doctor seem to know their business."

"Seeing that the man apparently fell over a cliff," said I, "the medical
evidence would not seem to be of first importance. It would seem to be
more to the point to ascertain how he came to fall over."

"That's quite true," replied Thorndyke; "and yet, this report contains
some rather curious matter. The deceased had an aneurism of the arch;
that was probably rather recent. But he also had some slight,
old-standing aortic disease, with full compensatory hypertrophy. He also
had a nearly complete set of false teeth. Now, doesn't it strike you,
Jervis, as rather odd that a man who was passed only five years ago as a
first-class life, should, in that short interval, have become actually
uninsurable?"

"It certainly does look," said I, "as if the fellow had had rather bad
luck. What does the proposal form say?"

I took the document up and ran my eyes over it. On Thorndyke's advice,
medical examiners for the "Griffin" were instructed to make a somewhat
fuller report than is usual in some companies. In this case, the
ordinary answers to questions set forth that the heart was perfectly
healthy and the teeth rather exceptionally good, and then, in the
summary at the end, the examiner remarked: "the proposer seems to be a
completely sound and healthy man; he presents no physical defects
whatever, with the exception of a bony ankylosis of the first joint of
the third finger of the left hand, which he states to have been due to
an injury."

Thorndyke looked up quickly. "Which finger, did you say?" he asked.

"The third finger of the left hand," I replied.

Thorndyke looked thoughtfully at the paper that he was reading. "It's
very singular," said he, "for I see that the Margate doctor states that
the deceased wore a signet ring on the third finger of the left hand.
Now, of course, you couldn't get a ring on to a finger with bony
ankylosis of the joint."

"He must have mistaken the finger," said I, "or else the insurance
examiner did."

"That is quite possible," Thorndyke replied; "but, doesn't it strike you
as very singular that, whereas the insurance examiner mentions the
ankylosis, which was of no importance from an insurance point of view,
the very careful man who made the post-mortem should not have mentioned
it, though, owing to the unrecognisable condition of the face, it was of
vital importance for the purpose of identification?"

I admitted that it was very singular indeed, and we then resumed our
study of the respective papers. But presently I noticed that Thorndyke
had laid the report upon his knee, and was gazing speculatively into the
fire.

"I gather," said I, "that my learned friend finds some matter of
interest in this case."

For reply, he handed me the bundle of papers, recommending me to look
through them.

"Thank you," said I, rejecting them firmly, "but I think I can trust you
to have picked out all the plums."

Thorndyke smiled indulgently. "They're not plums, Jervis," said he;
"they're only currants, but they make quite a substantial little heap."

I disposed myself in a receptive attitude (somewhat after the fashion of
the juvenile pelican) and he continued:

"If we take the small and unimpressive items and add them together, you
will see that a quite considerable sum of discrepancy results, thus:

    "_In 1903, Thomas Elton, aged thirty-one, had a set of sound
    teeth. In 1908, at the age of thirty-six, he was more than half
    toothless._

    "_Again, at the age of thirty-one, his heart was perfectly
    healthy. At the age of thirty-six, he had old aortic disease,
    with fully established compensation, and an aneurism that was
    possibly due to it._

    "_When he was examined he had a noticeable incurable
    malformation; no such malformation is mentioned in connection
    with the body._

    "_He appears to have fallen over a cliff; and he had also burst
    an aneurism. Now, the bursting of the aneurism must obviously
    have occurred during life; but it would occasion practically
    instantaneous death. Therefore, if the fall was accidental, the
    rupture must have occurred either as he stood at the edge of the
    cliff, as he was in the act of falling, or on striking the
    beach._

    "_At the place where he apparently fell, the footpath is some
    thirty yards distant from the edge of the cliff._

    "_It is not known how he came to that spot, or whether he was
    alone at the time._

    "_Someone is claiming five hundred pounds as the immediate
    result of his death._

"There, you see, Jervis, are seven propositions, none of them extremely
striking, but rather suggestive when taken together."

"You seem," said I, "to suggest a doubt as to the identity of the body."

"I do," he replied. "The identity was not clearly established."

"You don't think the clothing and the visiting-cards conclusive."

"They're not parts of the body," he replied. "Of course, substitution is
highly improbable. But it is not impossible."

"And the old woman," I suggested, but he interrupted me.

"My dear Jervis," he exclaimed; "I'm surprised at you. How many times
has it happened within our knowledge that women have identified the
bodies of total strangers as those of their husbands, fathers or
brothers. The thing happens almost every year. As to this old woman, she
saw a body with an unrecognisable face, dressed in the clothes of her
missing lodger. Of course, it was the clothes that she identified."

"I suppose it was," I agreed; and then I said: "You seem to suggest the
possibility of foul play."

"Well," he replied, "if you consider those seven points, you will agree
with me that they present a cumulative discrepancy which it is
impossible to ignore. The whole significance of the case turns on the
question of identity; for, if this was not the body of Thomas Elton, it
would appear to have been deliberately prepared to counterfeit that
body. And such deliberate preparation would manifestly imply an attempt
to conceal the identity of some other body.

"Then," he continued, after a pause, "there is this deed. It looks quite
regular and is correctly stamped, but it seems to me that the surface of
the paper is slightly altered in one or two places, and if one holds the
document up to the light, the paper looks a little more transparent in
those places." He examined the document for a few seconds with his
pocket lens, and then passing lens and document to me, said: "Have a
look at it, Jervis, and tell me what you think."

I scrutinised the paper closely, taking it over to the window to get a
better light; and to me, also, the paper appeared to be changed in
certain places.

"Are we agreed as to the position of the altered places?" Thorndyke
asked when I announced the fact.

"I only see three patches," I answered. "Two correspond to the name,
Thomas Elton, and the third to one of the figures in the policy number."

"Exactly," said Thorndyke, "and the significance is obvious. If the
paper has really been altered, it means that some other name has been
erased and Elton's substituted; by which arrangement, of course, the
correctly dated stamp would be secured. And this--the alteration of an
old document--is the only form of forgery that is possible with a dated,
impressed stamp."

"Wouldn't it be rather a stroke of luck," I asked, "for a forger to
happen to have in his possession a document needing only these two
alterations?"

"I see nothing remarkable in it," Thorndyke replied. "A money-lender
would have a number of documents of this kind in hand, and you observe
that he was not bound down to any particular date. Any date within a
year or so of the issue of the policy would answer his purpose. This
document is, in fact, dated, as you see, about six months after the
issue of the policy."

"I suppose," said I, "that you will draw Stalker's attention to this
matter."

"He will have to be informed, of course," Thorndyke replied; "but I
think it would be interesting in the first place to call on Mr. Hyams.
You will have noticed that there are some rather mysterious features in
this case, and Mr. Hyams's conduct, especially if this document should
turn out to be really a forgery, suggests that he may have some special
information on the subject." He glanced at his watch and, after a few
moments' reflection, added: "I don't see why we shouldn't make our
little ceremonial call at once. But it will be a delicate business, for
we have mighty little to go upon. Are you coming with me?"

If I had had any doubts, Thorndyke's last remark disposed of them; for
the interview promised to be quite a sporting event. Mr. Hyams was
presumably not quite newly-hatched, and Thorndyke, who utterly despised
bluff of any kind, and whose exact mind refused either to act or speak
one hair's breadth beyond his knowledge, was admittedly in somewhat of a
fog. The meeting promised to be really entertaining.

Mr. Hyams was "discovered," as the playwrights have it, in a small
office at the top of a high building in Queen Victoria Street. He was a
small gentleman, of sallow and greasy aspect, with heavy eyebrows and a
still heavier nose.

"Are you Mr. Gordon?" Thorndyke suavely inquired as we entered.

Mr. Hyams seemed to experience a momentary doubt on the subject, but
finally decided that he was not. "But perhaps," he added brightly, "I
can do your business for you as well."

"I daresay you can," Thorndyke agreed significantly; on which we were
conducted into an inner den, where I noticed Thorndyke's eye rest for an
instant on a large iron safe.

"Now," said Mr. Hyams, shutting the door ostentatiously, "what can I do
for you?"

"I want you," Thorndyke replied, "to answer one or two questions with
reference to the claim made by you on the 'Griffin' Office in respect of
Thomas Elton."

Mr. Hyams's manner underwent a sudden change. He began rapidly to turn
over papers, and opened and shut the drawers of his desk, with an air of
restless preoccupation.

"Did the 'Griffin' people send you here?" he demanded brusquely.

"They did not specially instruct me to call on you," replied Thorndyke.

"Then," said Hyams, bouncing out of his chair, "I can't let you occupy
my time. I'm not here to answer conundrums from Tom, Dick or Harry."

Thorndyke rose from his chair. "Then I am to understand," he said, with
unruffled suavity, "that you would prefer me to communicate with the
Directors, and leave them to take any necessary action."

This gave Mr. Hyams pause. "What action do you refer to?" he asked.
"And, who are you?"

Thorndyke produced a card and laid it on the table. Mr. Hyams had
apparently seen the name before, for he suddenly grew rather pale and
very serious.

"What is the nature of the questions that you wished to ask?" he
inquired.

"They refer to this claim," replied Thorndyke. "The first question is,
where is Mr. Gordon?"

"I don't know," said Hyams.

"Where do you think he is?" asked Thorndyke.

"I don't think at all," replied Hyams, turning a shade paler and looking
everywhere but at Thorndyke.

"Very well," said the latter, "then the next question is, are you
satisfied that this claim is really payable?"

"I shouldn't have made it if I hadn't been," replied Hyams.

"Quite so," said Thorndyke; "and the third question is, are you
satisfied that the mortgage deed was executed as it purports to have
been?"

"I can't say anything about that," replied Hyams, who was growing every
moment paler and more fidgety, "it was done before my time."

"Thank you," said Thorndyke. "You will, of course, understand why I am
making these inquiries."

"I don't," said Hyams.

"Then," said Thorndyke, "perhaps I had better explain. We are dealing,
you observe, Mr. Hyams, with the case of a man who has met with a
violent death under somewhat mysterious circumstances. We are dealing,
also, with another man who has disappeared, leaving his affairs to take
care of themselves; and with a claim, put forward by a third party, on
behalf of the one man in respect of the other. When I say that the dead
man has been imperfectly identified, and that the document supporting
the claim presents certain peculiarities, you will see that the matter
calls for further inquiry."

There was an appreciable interval of silence. Mr. Hyams had turned a
tallowy white, and looked furtively about the room, as if anxious to
avoid the stony gaze that my colleague had fixed on him.

"Can you give us no assistance?" Thorndyke inquired, at length. Mr.
Hyams chewed a pen-holder ravenously, as he considered the question. At
length, he burst out in an agitated voice: "Look here, sir, if I tell
you what I know, will you treat the information as confidential?"

"I can't agree to that, Mr. Hyams," replied Thorndyke. "It might amount
to compounding a felony. But you will be wiser to tell me what you know.
The document is a side-issue, which my clients may never raise, and my
own concern is with the death of this man."

Hyams looked distinctly relieved. "If that's so," said he, "I'll tell
you all I know, which is precious little, and which just amounts to
this: Two days after Elton was killed, someone came to this office in my
absence and opened the safe. I discovered the fact the next morning.
Someone had been to the safe and rummaged over all the papers. It wasn't
Gordon, because he knew where to find everything; and it wasn't an
ordinary thief, because no cash or valuables had been taken. In fact,
the only thing that I missed was a promissory note, drawn by Elton."

"You didn't miss a mortgage deed?" suggested Thorndyke, and Hyams,
having snatched a little further refreshment from the pen-holder, said
he did not.

"And the policy," suggested Thorndyke, "was apparently not taken?"

"No," replied Hyams; "but it was looked for. Three bundles of policies
had been untied, but this one happened to be in a drawer of my desk and
I had the only key."

"And what do you infer from this visit?" Thorndyke asked.

"Well," replied Hyams, "the safe was opened with keys, and they were
Gordon's keys--or, at any rate, they weren't mine--and the person who
opened it wasn't Gordon; and the things that were taken--at least the
thing, I mean--chiefly concerned Elton. Naturally I smelt a rat; and
when I read of the finding of the body, I smelt a fox."

"And have you formed any opinion about the body that was found?"

"Yes, I have," he replied. "My opinion is that it was Gordon's body:
that Gordon had been putting the screw on Elton, and Elton had just
pitched him over the cliff and gone down and changed clothes with the
body. Of course, that's only my opinion. I may be wrong; but I don't
think I am."

As a matter of fact, Mr. Hyams was not wrong. An exhumation, consequent
on Thorndyke's challenge of the identity of the deceased, showed that
the body was that of Solomon Gordon. A hundred pounds reward was offered
for information as to Elton's whereabouts. But no one ever earned it. A
letter, bearing the postmark of Marseilles, and addressed by the missing
man to Thorndyke, gave a plausible account of Gordon's death; which was
represented as having occurred accidentally at the moment when Gordon
chanced to be wearing a suit of Elton's clothes.

Of course, this account may have been correct, or again, it may have
been false; but whether it was true or false, Elton, from that moment,
vanished from our ken and has never since been heard of.






[End of The Missing Mortgagee, by R. Austin Freeman]
