“My brother-in-law’s chambers are on the second-floor,” said Mr. Curtis.
“We can go up in the lift.”
The porter had hurried before us, and already stood with his hand upon
the rope. We entered the lift, and in a few seconds were discharged on
to the second-floor, the porter, with furtive curiosity, following us
down the corridor. At the end of the passage was a half-open door,
considerably battered and bruised. Above the door, painted in white
lettering, was the inscription, “Mr. Hartridge”; and through the doorway
protruded the rather foxy countenance of Inspector Badger.
“I am glad you have come, sir,” said he, as he recognised my colleague.
“Mr. Marchmont is sitting inside like a watch-dog, and he growls if any
of us even walks across the room.”
The words formed a complaint, but there was a certain geniality in the
speaker’s manner which made me suspect that Inspector Badger was already
navigating his craft on a lee shore.
We entered a small lobby or hall, and from thence passed into the
sitting-room, where we found Mr. Marchmont keeping his vigil, in company
with a constable and a uniformed inspector. The three rose softly as we
entered, and greeted us in a whisper; and then, with one accord, we all
looked towards the other end of the room, and so remained for a time
without speaking.
There was, in the entire aspect of the room, something very grim and
dreadful. An atmosphere of tragic mystery enveloped the most commonplace
objects; and sinister suggestions lurked in the most familiar
appearances. Especially impressive was the air of suspense—of ordinary,
every-day life suddenly arrested—cut short in the twinkling of an eye.
The electric lamps, still burning dim and red, though the summer
sunshine streamed in through the windows; the half-emptied tumbler and
open book by the empty chair, had each its whispered message of swift
and sudden disaster, as had the hushed voices and stealthy movements of
the waiting men, and, above all, an awesome shape that was but a few
hours since a living man, and that now sprawled, prone and motionless,
on the floor.
“This is a mysterious affair,” observed Inspector Badger, breaking the
silence at length, “though it is clear enough up to a certain point. The
body tells its own story.”
We stepped across and looked down at the corpse. It was that of a
somewhat elderly man, and lay, on an open space of floor before the
fireplace, face downwards, with the arms extended. The slender hilt of a
dagger projected from the back below the left shoulder, and, with the
exception of a trace of blood upon the lips, this was the only
indication of the mode of death. A little way from the body a clock-key
lay on the carpet, and, glancing up at the clock on the mantelpiece, I
perceived that the glass front was open.
“You see,” pursued the inspector, noting my glance, “he was standing in
front of the fireplace, winding the clock. Then the murderer stole up
behind him—the noise of the turning key must have covered his
movements—and stabbed him. And you see, from the position of the dagger
on the left side of the back, that the murderer must have been
left-handed. That is all clear enough. What is not clear is how he got
in, and how he got out again.”
“The body has not been moved, I suppose,” said Thorndyke.
“No. We sent for Dr. Egerton, the police-surgeon, and he certified that
the man was dead. He will be back presently to see you and arrange about
the post-mortem.”
“Then,” said Thorndyke, “we will not disturb the body till he comes,
except to take the temperature and dust the dagger-hilt.”
He took from his bag a long, registering chemical thermometer and an
insufflator or powder-blower. The former he introduced under the dead
man’s clothing against the abdomen, and with the latter blew a stream of
fine yellow powder on to the black leather handle of the dagger.
Inspector Badger stooped eagerly to examine the handle, as Thorndyke
blew away the powder that had settled evenly on the surface.
“No finger-prints,” said he, in a disappointed tone. “He must have worn
gloves. But that inscription gives a pretty broad hint.”
He pointed, as he spoke, to the metal guard of the dagger, on which was
engraved, in clumsy lettering, the single word, “Traditore.”
“That’s the Italian for ‘traitor,’” continued the inspector, “and I got
some information from the porter that fits in with that suggestion.
We’ll have him in presently, and you shall hear.”
“Meanwhile,” said Thorndyke, “as the position of the body may be of
importance in the inquiry, I will take one or two photographs and make a
rough plan to scale. Nothing has been moved, you say? Who opened the
windows?”
“They were open when we came in,” said Mr. Marchmont. “Last night was
very hot, you remember. Nothing whatever has been moved.”
Thorndyke produced from his bag a small folding camera, a telescopic
tripod, a surveyor’s measuring-tape, a boxwood scale, and a
sketch-block. He set up the camera in a corner, and exposed a plate,
taking a general view of the room, and including the corpse. Then he
moved to the door and made a second exposure.
“Will you stand in front of the clock, Jervis,” he said, “and raise your
hand as if winding it? Thanks; keep like that while I expose a plate.”
I remained thus, in the position that the dead man was assumed to have
occupied at the moment of the murder, while the plate was exposed, and
then, before I moved, Thorndyke marked the position of my feet with a
blackboard chalk. He next set up the tripod over the chalk marks, and
took two photographs from that position, and finally photographed the
body itself.
The photographic operations being concluded, he next proceeded, with
remarkable skill and rapidity, to lay out on the sketch-block a
ground-plan of the room, showing the exact position of the various
objects, on a scale of a quarter of an inch to the foot—a process that
the inspector was inclined to view with some impatience.
“You don’t spare trouble, doctor,” he remarked; “nor time either,” he
added, with a significant glance at his watch.
“No,” answered Thorndyke, as he detached the finished sketch from the
block; “I try to collect all the facts that may bear on a case. They may
prove worthless, or they may turn out of vital importance; one never
knows beforehand, so I collect them all. But here, I think, is Dr.
Egerton.”
The police-surgeon greeted Thorndyke with respectful cordiality, and we
proceeded at once to the examination of the body. Drawing out the
thermometer, my colleague noted the reading, and passed the instrument
to Dr. Egerton.
“Dead about ten hours,” remarked the latter, after a glance at it. “This
was a very determined and mysterious murder.”
“Very,” said Thorndyke. “Feel that dagger, Jervis.”
I touched the hilt, and felt the characteristic grating of bone.
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