Part 14

I had private reasons for thinking otherwise, but I kept them to myself; and as Foxton went forth on his afternoon round, I returned upstairs to pack my suit-case and write the telegram to Thorndyke informing him of my movements.

It was only a quarter past five when I let myself into our chambers in King’s Bench Walk. To my relief I found my colleague at home and our laboratory assistant, Polton, in the act of laying tea for two.

“I gather,” said Thorndyke, as we shook hands, “that my learned brother brings grist to the mill?”

“Yes,” I replied. “Nominally a watching brief, but I think you will agree with me that it is a case for independent investigation.”

“Will there be anything in my line, sir?” inquired Polton, who was always agog at the word “investigation.”

“There is a film to be developed. Four exposures of white footprints on a dark ground.”

“Ah!” said Polton, “you’ll want good strong negatives and they ought to be enlarged if they are from the little camera. Can you give me the dimensions?”

I wrote out the measurements from my notebook and handed him the paper together with the spool of film, with which he retired gleefully to the laboratory.

“And now, Jervis,” said Thorndyke, “while Polton is operating on the film and we are discussing our tea, let us have a sketch of the case.”

I gave him more than a sketch, for the events were recent and I had carefully sorted out the facts during my journey to town, making rough notes which I now consulted. To my rather lengthy recital he listened in his usual attentive manner, without any comment, excepting in regard to my manœuvre to retain possession of the exposed film.

“It’s almost a pity you didn’t refuse,” said he. “They could hardly have enforced their demand, and my feeling is that it is more convenient as well as more dignified to avoid direct deception unless one is driven to it. But perhaps you considered that you were.”

As a matter of fact I had at the time, but I had since come to Thorndyke’s opinion. My little manœuvre was going to be a source of inconvenience presently.

“Well,” said Thorndyke, when I had finished my recital, “I think we may take it that the police theory is, in the main, your own theory derived from Foxton.”

“I think so, excepting that I learned from Foxton that Superintendent Platt has obtained the complete finger-prints of a right hand.”

Thorndyke raised his eyebrows. “Finger-prints!” he exclaimed. “Why the fellow must be a mere simpleton. But there,” he added, “everybody--police, lawyers, judges, even Galton himself--seems to lose every vestige of common sense as soon as the subject of finger-prints is raised. But it would be interesting to know how he got them and what they are like. We must try to find that out. However, to return to your case, since your theory and the police theory are probably the same, we may as well consider the value of your inferences.

“At present we are dealing with the case in the abstract. Our data are largely assumptions, and our inferences are largely derived from an application of the mathematical laws of probability. Thus we assume that a murder has been committed, whereas it may turn out to have been suicide. We assume the murder to have been committed by the person who made the footprints, and we assume that that person has no little toes, whereas he may have retracted little toes which do not touch the ground and so leave no impression. Assuming the little toes to be absent, we account for their absence by considering known causes in the order of their probability. Excluding--quite properly, I think--Raynaud’s disease, we arrive at frost-bite and ergotism. But two persons, both of whom are of a stature corresponding to the size of the footprints, may have had a motive--though a very inadequate one--for committing the crime, and both have been exposed to the conditions which tend to produce frost-bite, while one of them has probably been exposed to the conditions which tend to produce ergotism. The laws of probability point to both of these two men; and the chances in favour of the Swede being the murderer rather than the Canadian would be represented by the common factor--frost-bite--multiplied by the additional factor, ergotism. But this is purely speculative at present. There is no evidence that either man has ever been frost-bitten or has ever eaten spurred rye. Nevertheless, it is a perfectly sound method at this stage. It indicates a line of investigation. If it should transpire that either man has suffered from frost-bite or ergotism, a definite advance would have been made. But here is Polton with a couple of finished prints. How on earth did you manage it in the time, Polton?”

“Why, you see, sir, I just dried the film with spirit,” replied Polton. “It saves a lot of time. I will let you have a pair of enlargements in about a quarter of an hour.”

Handing us the two wet prints, each stuck on a glass plate, he retired to the laboratory, and Thorndyke and I proceeded to scrutinize the photographs with the aid of our pocket lenses. The promised enlargements were really hardly necessary excepting for the purpose of comparative measurements, for the image of the white footprint, fully two inches long, was so microscopically sharp that, with the assistance of the lens, the minutest detail could be clearly seen.

“There is certainly not a vestige of little toe,” remarked Thorndyke, “and the plump appearance of the other toes supports your rejection of Raynaud’s disease. Does the character of the footprint convey any other suggestion to you, Jervis?”

“It gives me the impression that the man had been accustomed to go bare-footed in early life and had only taken to boots comparatively recently. The position of the great toe suggests this, and the presence of a number of small scars on the toes and ball of the foot seems to confirm it. A person walking barefoot would sustain innumerable small wounds from treading on small, sharp objects.”

Thorndyke looked dissatisfied. “I agree with you,” he said, “as to the suggestion offered by the undeformed state of the great toes; but those little pits do not convey to me the impression of scars produced, as you suggest. Still, you may be right.”

Here our conversation was interrupted by a knock on the outer oak. Thorndyke stepped out through the lobby and I heard him open the door. A moment or two later he re-entered, accompanied by a short, brown-faced gentleman whom I instantly recognized as Mr. Wardale.

“I must have come up by the same train as you,” he remarked, as we shook hands, “and to a certain extent, I suspect, on the same errand. I thought I would like to put our arrangement on a business footing, as I am a stranger to both of you.”

“What do you want us to do?” asked Thorndyke.

“I want you to watch the case, and, if necessary, to look into the facts independently.”

“Can you give us any information that may help us?”

Mr. Wardale reflected. “I don’t think I can,” he said at length. “I have no facts that you have not, and any surmises of mine might be misleading. I had rather you kept an open mind. But perhaps we might go into the question of costs.”

This, of course, was somewhat difficult, but Thorndyke contrived to indicate the probable liabilities involved to Mr. Wardale’s satisfaction.