Yes,” I admitted, “the theory of homicide is certainly tenable. But unless some new facts can be produced, it must remain a matter of speculation.”
“I think, Jervis,” he rejoined, “you must be overlooking the facts that are known to us. We were there. We saw the place within a few minutes of the explosion and we examined the body. What we saw established a clear presumption of homicide, and what we have heard this, morning confirms it. I may say that I communicated my suspicions the very next day to the coroner and to Superintendent Miller.”
“Then you must have seen more than I did,” I began. But he shook his head and cut short my protestations.
“You saw what I saw, Jervis, but you did not interpret its meaning. However, it is not too late. Try to recall the details of our adventure and what our visitors have told us. I don’t think you will then entertain the idea of suicide.”
I was about to put one or two leading questions, but at this moment footsteps became audible ascending our stairs. The knock which followed informed me that our visitor was Superintendent Miller, and I rose to admit him.
“Just looked in to report progress,” he announced as he subsided into an arm-chair. “Not much to report, but what there is supports your view of the case. Bilsky has made a clean bolt. Never went home to his hotel. Evidently meant to skedaddle, as he has left nothing of any value behind. But it was a stupid move, for it would have raised suspicion in any case. The notes were a consecutive batch. All the numbers are known, but, of course, none of them have turned up yet. We have made inquiries about Bilsky, and gather that he is a shady character; practically a fence who deals in the jewellery stolen from those unfortunate Russian aristocrats. But we shall have him all right. His description has been circulated at all the seaports and he is an easy man to spot with his lame foot and his stick and a finger missing from his right hand.”
Thorndyke nodded, and seemed to reflect for a moment. Then he asked: “Have you made any other inquiries?”
“No; there is nothing more to find out until we get hold of our man, and when we do, we shall look to you to secure the conviction. I suppose you are quite certain as to your facts?”
Thorndyke shook his head with a smile.
“I am never certain until after the event. We can only act on probabilities.”
I understand,” said the superintendent, casting a sly look at me; “but your probabilities are good enough for me.”
With this, he picked up his hat and departed, leaving us to return to the occupations that our visitors had interrupted.
I heard no more of the Manford case for about a week, and assumed that Thorndyke’s interest in it had ceased. But I was mistaken, as I discovered when he remarked casually one evening: “No news of Bilsky, so far; and time is running on. I am proposing to make a tentative move in a new direction.” I looked at him inquiringly, and he continued: “It appears, ‘from information received,’ that Elliott had some dealings with him, so I propose to call at his house tomorrow and see if we can glean any news of the lost sheep.”
“But Elliott is abroad,” I objected.
“True; but his wife isn’t; and she evidently knows all about his affairs. I have invited Miller to come with me in case he would like to put any questions; and you may as well come, too, if you are free.”
It did not sound like a very thrilling adventure, but one never knew with Thorndyke. I decided to go with him, and at that the matter dropped, though I speculated a little curiously on the source of the information. So, apparently, had the superintendent, for when he arrived on the following morning he proceeded to throw out a few cautious feelers, but got nothing for his pains beyond vague generalities.
“It is a purely tentative proceeding,” said Thorndyke, “and you mustn’t be disappointed if nothing comes of it.”
“I shall be, all the same,” replied Miller, with a sly glance at my senior, and with this we set forth on our quest.
The Elliotts’ house was, as I knew, in some part of Wimbledon, and thither we made our way by train. From the station we started along a wide, straight main street from which numbers of smaller streets branched off. At the corner of one of these I noticed a man standing, apparently watching our approach; and something in his appearance seemed to me familiar. Suddenly he took off his hat, looked curiously into its interior, and put it on again. Then he turned about and walked quickly down the side street. I looked at his retreating figure as we crossed the street, wondering who he could be. And then it flashed upon me that the resemblance was to a certain ex-sergeant Barber whom Thorndyke occasionally employed for observation duties. Just as I reached this conclusion, Thorndyke halted and looked about him doubtfully.
I am afraid we have come too far,” said he. “I fancy we ought to have gone down that last turning.” We accordingly faced about and walked back to the corner, where Thorndyke read out the name, Mendoza Avenue.
“Yes,” he said, “this is the way,” and we thereupon turned down the Avenue, following it to the bottom, where it ended in a cross-road, the name of which, Berners Park, I recognised as that which I had seen on Elliott’s letter.
“Sixty-four is the number,” said Thorndyke, “so as this corner house is forty-six and the next is forty-eight, it will be a little way along on this side, just about where you can see that smoke—which, by the way, seems to be coming out of a window.”
“Yes, by Jove!” I exclaimed. “The staircase window, apparently. Not our house, I hope!”
But it was. We read the number and the name, ‘Green Bushes,’ on the gate as we came up to it, and we hurried up the short path to the door. There was no knocker, but when Miller fixed his thumb on the bell-push, we heard a loud ringing within. But there was no response; and meanwhile the smoke poured more and more densely out of the open window above.
“Rum!” exclaimed Miller, sticking to the bell-push like a limpet. “House seems to be empty.”
“I don’t think it is.” Thorndyke replied calmly.
The superintendent looked at him with quick suspicion, and then glanced at the ground-floor window.
“That window is unfastened,” said he, “and here comes a constable.”
Sure enough, a policeman was approaching quickly, looking up at the houses. Suddenly he perceived the smoke and quickened his pace, arriving just as Thorndyke had pulled down the upper window-sash and was preparing to climb over into the room. The, constable hailed him sternly, but a brief explanation from Miller reduced the officer to a state of respectful subservience, and we all followed Thorndyke through the open window, from which smoke now began to filter.
“Send the constable upstairs to give the alarm,” Thorndyke instructed Miller in a low tone. The order was given without question, and the next moment the officer was bounding up the stairs, roaring like a whole fire brigade., Meanwhile, the superintendent browsed along the hall through the dense smoke, sniffing inquisitively, and at length approached the street door. Suddenly, from the heart of the reek, his voice issued in tones of amazement.
“Well, I’m hanged! It’s a plumber’s smoke-rocket. Some fool has stuck it through into the letter-cage!”
In the silence which followed this announcement I heard an angry voice from above demand: “What is all this infernal row about? And what are you doing here?”
“Can’t you see that the house is on fire?” was the