Mr Pottermack's Oversight, page 11
“Ah,” said the other, “I remember the affair. And is he still missing?”
“Yes. He has never been seen or heard of since he started along this path. What is the wood like? Is it a place in which a man might lose himself?”
The other shook his head. “No, it is only a small wood. A sound and sober man could not get lost in it. Of course, if a man were taken ill and strayed into the wood, he might die and lie hidden for months. Has the wood been searched?”
“I really can’t say. It ought to have been.”
“I thought,” said the stranger, “that you might, perhaps, be connected with the police.”
“No,” replied Thorndyke. “I am a lawyer and I look after some of the affairs of the bank. One of the directors mentioned this disappearance to me a few days ago, and as I happened to be in the neighbourhood today, I thought I would come and take a look round. Perhaps you could show me where we are on my map. It is a little confusing to a stranger.”
He drew out the folded map and handed it to his new acquaintance, who took it and pored over it as if he found it difficult to decipher. As he did so, Thorndyke took the opportunity to look him over with the most searching scrutiny; his face, his hair, his spectacles, his hands and his feet; and when he had inspected the left side of the face – which was the one presented to him – he crossed as if to look over the man’s right shoulder and examined the face from that side.
“This dotted line seems to be the footpath,” said the stranger, tracing it with the point of a pencil. “This black dot must be my house, and here is the wood with the dotted line running through it. I think that is quite clear.”
“Perfectly clear, thank you,” said Thorndyke, as the other handed him back the map. “I am very greatly obliged to you and I must again apologize for having disturbed you.”
“Not at all,” the stranger returned genially; “and I hope your inspection may be successful.” Thorndyke thanked him again, and with mutual bows they separated, the one retiring into his domain, the other setting forth in the direction of the wood.
For some minutes Thorndyke continued to walk at a rapid pace along the path. Only when a sharp turn carried him out of sight of the walled garden did he halt to jot down in his notebook a brief summary of his observations while they were fresh in his mind. Not that the notes were really necessary, for, even as he had made those observations, the significance of the facts that they supplied became apparent. Now, as he walked, he turned them over again and again.
What had he observed? Nothing very sensational, to be sure. He had seen a man who had recently set up in his garden a pillar dial on a broad stone base. The dial was old, but the base was new and seemed to have been specially constructed for its present purpose. The garden in which it had been set up was completely enclosed, was extremely secluded, was remote from its own or any other house, and was very thoroughly secured against any possible intrusion by two locked gates. The man himself was a skilled workman, or at least a very handy man; ingenious and resourceful, too, for he could time a sundial, a thing that not every handy man could do. Then he appeared to have some kind of workshop of a size suggesting good accommodation and facilities for work, and this workshop was in a secluded situation, very secure from observation. But in these facts there would seem to be nothing remarkable; only they were in singular harmony with certain other facts – very remarkable facts indeed – that Thorndyke had gleaned from an examination of Harold’s absurd photographs.
And there was the man himself, and especially his spectacles. When Thorndyke had seen those spectacles lying on the chair while their owner drove in the screws, looked at his watch, and scrutinized the shadow on the dial, he had naturally assumed that the man was near-sighted; that he had taken off his “distance” glasses to get the advantage of his near sight for the near work. But when the man appeared at the gate, it was immediately evident that he was not near-sighted. The spectacles were convex bi-focal glasses, with an upper half of nearly plain glass and a lower segment distinctly convex, suited for long sight or “old sight.” A near-sighted man could not have seen through them. But neither did their owner seem to need them, since he had taken them off just when they should have been most useful – for near work. Moreover, when Thorndyke had presented the map, the man had looked at it, not through the lower “reading” segment, but through the weak, upper, “distance” segment. In short, the man did not need those spectacles at all. So far from being a convenience, they were a positive inconvenience. Then, why did he wear them? Why had he put them on to come to the gate? There could be only one answer. People who wear useless and inconvenient spectacles do so in order to alter their appearance; as a species of disguise, in fact. Then it seemed as if this man had some reason for wishing to conceal his identity. But what could that reason be?
As to his appearance, he was a decidedly good-looking man, with an alert, intelligent face that was in harmony with his speech and bearing. His mouth and chin were concealed by a moustache and a short beard, but his nose was rather handsome and very striking, for it was of that rare type which is seen in the classical Greek sculptures. His ears were both well-shaped, but one of them – the right – was somewhat disfigured by a small “port-wine mark,” which stained the lobule a deep purple. But it was quite small and really inconspicuous.
This was the sum of Thorndyke’s observations, to which may be added that the man appeared to be prematurely grey and that his face, despite its cheerful geniality, had that indefinable character that may be detected in the faces of men who have passed through long periods of stress and mental suffering. Only one datum remained unascertained, and Thorndyke added it to his collection when, having traversed the wood and the heath, he returned to the town by way of the by-road. Encountering a postman on his round, he stopped him and enquired:
“I wonder if you can tell me who is living at ‘The Chestnuts’ now? You know the house I mean. It stands at the corner –”
“Oh, I know ‘The Chestnuts,’ sir. Colonel Barnett used to live there. But he went away nigh upon two years ago, and, after it had been empty for a month or two, it was bought by the gentleman who lives there now, Mr Pottermack.”
“That is a queer name,” said Thorndyke. “How does he spell it?”
“P.o.t.t.e.r.m.a.c.k,” the postman replied. “Marcus Pottermack, Esq. It is a queer name, sir. I’ve never met with it before. But he is a very pleasant gentleman, all the same.”
Thorndyke thanked the postman for his information, on which he pondered as he made his way to the station. It was a very queer name. In fact, there was about it something rather artificial; something that was not entirely out of character with the unwanted spectacles.
Chapter Seven
The Criminal Records
On each of the two men who parted at the gate the brief interview produced its appropriate effects; in each it generated a certain train of thought which, later, manifested itself in certain actions. In Mr Pottermack, as he softly reopened the gate to listen to the retreating footsteps, once even venturing to peep out at the tall figure that was striding away up the path, the encounter was productive of a dim uneasiness, a slight disturbance of the sense of security that had been growing on him since the night of the tragedy. For the first few days thereafter he had been on wires. All seemed to be going well, but he was constantly haunted by that ever-recurring question, “Was there anything vital that he had overlooked?”
The mysterious photographer, too, had been a disturbing element, occasioning anxious speculations on the motive or purpose of his inexplicable proceedings and on the possibility of something being brought to light by the photographs that was beyond the scope of human vision. But as the days had passed with no whisper of suspicion, as the local excitement died down and the incident faded into oblivion, his fears subsided, and by degrees he settled down into a feeling of comfortable security.
And after all, why not? In the first few days his own secret knowledge had prevented him from seeing the affair in its true perspective. But now, looking at it calmly with the eyes of those who had not that knowledge, what did Lewson’s disappearance amount to? It was a matter of no importance at all. A disreputable rascal had absconded with a hundred pounds that did not belong to him. He had disappeared and no one knew whither he had gone. Nor did anyone particularly care. Doubtless the police would keep a look-out for him; but he was only a minor delinquent, and they would assuredly make no extraordinary efforts to trace him.
So Mr Pottermack argued, and quite justly; and thus arguing came by degrees to the comfortable conclusion that the incident was closed and that he might now take up again the thread of his peaceful life, secure alike from the menace of the law and the abiding fear of impoverishment and treachery.
It was this new and pleasant feeling of security that had been disturbed by his encounter with the strange lawyer. Not that he was seriously alarmed. The man seemed harmless enough. He was not, apparently, making any real investigations but just a casual inspection of the neighbourhood, prompted, as it appeared, by a not very lively curiosity. And as a tracker he seemed to be of no account, since he could not even find his position on a one-inch map.
But for all that, the incident was slightly disquieting. Pottermack had assumed that the Lewson affair was closed. But now it seemed that it was not closed. And it was a curious coincidence that this man should have knocked at his gate, should have selected him for these enquiries. No doubt it was but chance; but still, there was the coincidence. Again, there was the man himself. He had seemed foolish about the map. But he did not look at all like a foolish man. On the contrary, his whole aspect and bearing had a suggestion of power, of acute intellect and quiet strength of character. As Pottermack recalled his appearance and manner he found himself asking again and again: Was there anything behind this seemingly chance encounter? Had this lawyer seen those photographs, and if so, had he found in them anything more than met the eye? Could he have had any special reason for knocking at this particular gate? And what on earth could he be doing with that walking-stick gun?
Reflections such as these pervaded Mr Pottermack’s consciousness as he went about his various occupations. They did not seriously disturb his peace of mind, but still they did create a certain degree of unrest, and this presently revived in his mind certain plans which he had considered and rejected; plans for further establishing his security by shifting the field of possible inquiry yet farther from his own neighbourhood.
On Thorndyke the effects of the meeting were quite different. He had come doubting if a certain surmise that he had formed could possibly be correct. He had gone away with his doubts dispelled and his surmise converted into definite belief. The only unsolved question that remained in his mind was, “Who was Marcus Pottermack?” The answer that suggested itself was improbable in the extreme. But it was the only one that he could produce, and if it were wrong he was at the end of his unassisted resources.
The first necessity, therefore, was to eliminate the improbable – or else to confirm it. Then he would know where he stood and could consider what action he would take. Accordingly he began by working up the scanty material that he had collected. The photographs, when developed and enlarged by Polton, yielded two very fair portraits of Mr Pottermack showing clearly the right and left profiles respectively; and while Polton was dealing with these, his principal made a systematic, but not very hopeful, inspection of the map in search of possible fingerprints. He had made a mental note of the way in which Pottermack had held the map, and even of the spots which his fingertips had touched, and on these he now began cautiously to operate with two fine powders, a black and a white, applying each to its appropriate background.
The results were poor enough, but yet they were better than he had expected. Pottermack had held the map in his left hand, the better to manipulate the pencil with which he pointed, and his thumb had been planted on a green patch which represented a wood. Here the white powder settled and showed a print which, poor as it was, would present no difficulties to the experts and which would be more distinct in a photograph, as the background would then appear darker. The prints of the fingertips which the black powder brought out on the white background were more imperfect and were further confused by the black lettering. Still, Thorndyke had them all carefully photographed and enlarged to twice the natural size, and, having blocked out on the negative the surrounding lettering (to avoid giving any information that might be better withheld), had prints made and mounted on card.
With these in his letter-case and the two portraits in his pocket, he set forth one morning for New Scotland Yard, proposing to seek the assistance of his old friend, Mr Superintendent Miller, or, if he should not be available, that of the officer in charge of criminal records. However, it happened fortunately that the Superintendent was in his office, and thither Thorndyke, having sent in his card, was presently conducted.
“Well, doctor,” said Miller, shaking hands heartily, “here you are, gravelled as usual. Now what sort of mess do you want us to help you out of?”
Thorndyke produced his letter-case, and, extracting the photographs, handed them to the Superintendent. “Here,” he said, “are three finger-prints; apparently the thumb and first two fingers of the left hand.”
“Ha,” said Miller, inspecting the three photographs critically. “Why ‘apparently’?”
“I mean,” explained Thorndyke, “that that was what I inferred from their position on the original document.”
“Which seems to have been a map,” remarked Miller, with a faint grin. “Well, I expect you know. Shall I take it that they are the thumb and index and middle finger of the left hand?”
“I think you may,” said Thorndyke.
“I think I may,” agreed Miller; “and now the question is: What about it? I suppose you want us to tell you whose fingerprints they are; and you want to gammon us that you don’t know already. And I suppose – as I see you have been faking the negative – that you don’t want to give us any information?”
“In effect,” replied Thorndyke, “you have, with your usual acuteness, diagnosed the position exactly. I don’t much want to give any details, but I will tell you this much. If my suspicions are correct, these are the fingerprints of a man who has been dead some years.”
“Dead!” exclaimed Miller. “Good Lord, doctor, what a vindictive man you are! But you don’t suppose that we follow the criminal class into the next world, do you?”
“I have been assuming that you don’t destroy records. If you do, you are unlike any government officials that I have ever met. But I hope I was right.”
“In the main, you were. We don’t keep the whole set of documents of a dead man, but we have a set of skeleton files on which the personal documents – the fingerprints, photographs and description – are preserved. So I expect we shall be able to tell you what you want to know.”
“I am sorry,” said Thorndyke, “that they are such wretchedly poor prints. You don’t think that they are too imperfect to identify, I hope.”
Miller inspected the photographs afresh. “I don’t see much amiss with them,” said he. “You can’t expect a crook to go about with a roller and inking-plate in his pocket so as to give you nice sharp prints. These are better than a good many that our people have to work from. And besides, there are three digits from one hand. That gives you part of the formula straight away. No, the experts won’t make any trouble about these. But supposing these prints are not on the file?”
“Then we shall take it that I suspected the wrong man.”
“Quite so. But, if I am not mistaken, your concern is to prove whose fingerprints they are in order that you can say whose fingerprints they are not. Now, supposing that we don’t find them on the files of the dead men, would it help you if we tried the current files – the records of the crooks who are still in business? Or would you rather not?”
“If it would not be giving you too much trouble,” said Thorndyke, “I should be very much obliged if you would.”
“No trouble at all,” said Miller, adding with a sly smile: “only it occurred to me that it might be embarrassing to you if we found your respected client’s fingerprints on the live register.”
“That would be a highly interesting development,” said Thorndyke, “though I don’t think it a likely one. But it is just as well to exhaust the possibilities.”
“Quite,” agreed Miller; and thereupon he wrote the brief particulars on a slip of paper which he put into an envelope with the photographs, and, having rung a bell, handed the envelope to the messenger who appeared in response to the summons.
“I don’t suppose we shall have to keep you waiting very long,” said the Superintendent. “They have an extraordinarily ingenious system of filing. Out of all the thousands of fingerprints that they have, they can pounce on the one that is wanted in the course of a few minutes. It seems incredible, and yet it is essentially simple – just a matter of classification and ringing the changes on different combinations of types.”
“You are speaking of completely legible prints?” suggested Thorndyke.
“Yes, the sort of prints that we get sent in from local prisons for identification of a man who has been arrested under a false name. Of course, when we get a single imperfect print found by the police at a place where a crime has been committed, a bit more time has to be spent. Then we have not only got to place the print, but we’ve got to make mighty sure that it is the right one, because an arrest and a prosecution hangs on it. You don’t want to arrest a man and then, when you come to take his fingerprints properly, find that they are the wrong ones. So, in the case of an imperfect print, you have got to do some careful ridge-tracing and counting and systematic checking of individual ridge-characters, such as bifurcations and islands. But, even so, they don’t take so very long over it. The practised eye picks out at a glance details that an unpractised eye can hardly recognize even when they are pointed out.”
