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 upstairs 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 onto 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 handbag 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 recognize the umbrella, sir, do you? Then perhaps you would step into the lamp-room and see if you can identify the body.”
“Is it—is he—very much injured?” the passenger 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—merchandize 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 tomorrow afternoon, and I expect we can find out all that is necessary to know before that.”
Silas looked long and curiously at the tall, imposing man who was, as it were, taking his seat at the chess board, 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 thought with deep discomfort of Brodski’s hat, and hoped that he had made no other oversight.
PART 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