The Third R. Austin Freeman Megapack. R. Austin Freeman
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artificial; something that was not entirely out of character with the unwanted spectacles.
CHAPTER VII
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 any one particularly care. Doubtless the police would keep a lookout 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 fingerprints; 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