The Third R. Austin Freeman Megapack. R. Austin Freeman
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it was evident that care had been taken to select the sharpest and most perfect impressions. Pottermack had noticed, when he first looked out of the gate with Mr. Gallett, that the tripod had been set up exactly opposite the gateway and that the three marks surrounded the particularly fine impression that he had made when he stepped out sideways on to the smooth-swept path.
On these facts he reflected as he sauntered back to the gate, and entering, closed it behind him. What could be that photographer’s object in his laborious proceeding? Who could it be that had set him to work? And what was it possible for a photograph to show that the eye might fail to see? These were the questions that he turned over uncomfortably in his mind and to which he could find no answer. Then his glance fell on the dial, resting immovable on its massive base, covering up the only visible reminder of the past, standing there to guard for ever his secret from the eyes of man. And at the sight of it he was comforted. With an effort he shook off his apprehensions and summoned his courage afresh. After all, what was there to fear? What could these photographs show that was not plainly visible? Nothing. There was nothing to show. The footprints were, it is true, counterfeits in a sense. But they were not imitations in the sense that a forged writing is an imitation. They were mechanical reproductions, necessarily true in every particular. In fact, they were actually Lewson’s own footprints, though it happened that other feet than his were in the shoes. No. Nothing could be discovered for the simple reason that there was nothing to discover.
So Mr. Pottermack, with restored tranquillity and confidence, betook himself to the summer-house, and sitting down, looked out upon the garden and let his thoughts dwell upon what it should be when the little island of stone should be girt by a plot of emerald turf. As he sat, two sides of the sun-dial were visible to him, and on them he read the words “decedente pax.” He repeated them to himself, drawing from them a new confidence and encouragement. Why should it not be so? The storms that had scattered the hopes of his youth had surely blown themselves out. His evil genius, who had first betrayed him and then threatened to destroy utterly his hardly earned prosperity and security; who had cast him into the depths and had fastened upon him when he struggled to the surface; the evil genius, the active cause of all his misfortunes, was gone for ever and would certainly trouble him no more.
Then why should the autumn of his life not be an Indian summer of peace and tranquil happiness? Why not?
CHAPTER V
DR. THORNDYKE LISTENS TO A STRANGE STORY
“And that,” said Mr. Stalker, picking up a well-worn attache-case and opening it on his knees, “finishes our little business and relieves you of my society.”
“Say ‘deprives’,” Thorndyke corrected. “That is, if you must really go.”
“That is very delicate of you, doctor,” Stalker replied as he stuffed a bundle of documents into the attache-case; “and, by the way, it isn’t quite the finish. There is another small matter which I had nearly forgotten; something that my nephew, Harold, asked me to hand to you. You have heard me speak of Harold—my sister’s boy?”
“The inventive genius? Yes, I remember your telling me about him.”
“Well, he asked me to pass this on to you; thought it might interest you.”
He took from his case a flat disc which looked like a closely rolled coil of paper tape, secured with a rubber band, and passed it to Thorndyke, who took it, and, unrolling a few inches, glanced at it with a slightly puzzled smile.
“What is it?” he asked.
“I had better explain,” replied Stalker. “You see, Harold has invented a recording camera which will take small photographs in a series and mark each one with its serial number, so that there can be no mistake about the sequence. It is a box camera and it takes quite a big roll of kinematograph film with a capacity of something like five hundred exposures. And the mechanism not only marks each negative with its number but also shows the number which is being exposed on a little dial on the outside of the camera. Quite a useful instrument, I should think, for certain purposes, though I can’t, at the moment, think of a case to which it would be applicable.”
“I can imagine certain cases, however,” said Thorndyke, “in which it would be quite valuable. But with regard to these particular photographs?”
“They are, as you see, a series of footprints—the footprints of a man who absconded from a country bank and has not been seen since.”
“But why did Harold take so many? There must be about a couple of hundred on this strip.”
Stalker chuckled. “I don’t think,” said he, “that we need go far for the reason. Harold had got a camera that would take a numbered series and he had never had a chance to try it. Now here was an undoubted series of footprints on a footpath and they were those of an absconding man. It was a chance to show what the camera would do, and he took it. He professes to believe that these photographs might furnish an important clue to an investigator like yourself. But, of course, that is all nonsense. He just wanted to try his new camera. Still, he did the job quite thoroughly. He took a twenty-five inch ordnance map with him and marked each exposure on it, showing the exact position of that particular footprint. He made an exposure about every twenty yards. You will see, if you look at the map. I have the three sheets here. He told me to give them to you with the photographs, so that you could examine them together if you wanted to—which I imagine you won’t. Of course, the information they give is quite valueless. One or two photographs would have shown all that there was to show.”
“I wouldn’t say that,” Thorndyke dissented. “The application of the method to the present case is, I must admit, not at all evident. One or two photographs would have been enough for simple identification. But I can imagine a case in which it might be of the highest importance to be able to prove that a man did actually follow a particular route, especially if a time factor were also available.”
“Which it is, approximately, in the present instance. But it was already known that the man went that way at that time, so all this elaborate detail is merely flogging a dead horse. The problem is not which way did he go, but where is he now? Not that we care a great deal. He only took a hundred pounds with him—so far as we know at present—so the Bank is not particularly interested in him. Nor am I, officially, though I must confess to some curiosity about him. There are some rather odd features in the case. I am quite sorry that we can’t afford to call you in to investigate them.”
“I expect you are more competent than I am,” said Thorndyke. “Banking affairs are rather out of my province.”
“It isn’t the banking aspect that I am thinking of,” replied Stalker. “Our own accountants can deal with that. But there are some other queer features, and about one of them I am a little uncomfortable. It seems to suggest a miscarriage of justice in another case. But I mustn’t take up your time with irrelevant gossip.”
“But indeed you must,” Thorndyke rejoined. “If you have got a queer case, I want to hear it. Remember, I live by queer cases.”
“It is rather a long story,” objected Stalker, evidently bursting to tell it nevertheless.
“So much the better,” said Thorndyke. “We will have a bottle of wine and make an entertainment of it.”
He retired from the room and presently reappeared with a bottle of Chambertin and a couple of glasses; and having, filled the latter, he provided himself with a writing-pad, resumed his armchair and disposed himself to listen at his ease.
“I had better begin,” said Stalker, “with an account of this present affair. The man who has absconded is a certain James Lewson, who was the manager of a little branch of Perkins’s Bank down at Borley. He ran it by himself, living on the premises and being looked after by the caretaker’s wife. It is quite a small affair—just a nucleus with an eye for the future, for Meux’s do most of the business at Borley, such as it is—and easily run by one man; and everything has gone on quite smoothly there until last Wednesday week. On that day Lewson went out at about a quarter-past seven in the evening. The caretaker saw him go out at the back gate and thought that