Ill ring up Sir Houston Bird, over in Cavendish Square. Hes the doctors greatest friend, suggested Thomasson, and next moment he disappeared to speak to the well-known pathologist, leaving Sainsbury to gaze around the room of mystery.
It was quite evident that something extraordinary had occurred there in the brief quarter of an hour which had elapsed between Mr Trustrams departure and Jacks arrival. But what had taken place was a great and inscrutable mystery.
Sainsbury recollected that strange metallic click he had heard so distinctly. Was it the closing of the window? Had someone escaped from the room while he had been so eagerly trying to gain entrance there?
He gazed down into his friends white, drawn face a weird, haggard countenance, with black hair. The eyes stared at him so fixedly that he became horrified.
He bent to his friends breast, but could detect no heart-beats. He snatched up a big silver photograph frame from a table near and held it close to the doctors lips, but upon the glass he could discover no trace of breath.
Was he dead? Surely not.
Yet the suggestion held him aghast. The hands were still limp and warm, the cheeks warm, the white brow slightly damp. And yet there was no sign of respiration, so inert and motionless was he.
He was in well-cut evening clothes, with a fine diamond sparkling in his well-starched shirt-front. Jerome Jerrold had always been well-dressed, and even though he had risen to that high position in the medical profession, he had always dressed even foppishly, so his traducers had alleged.
Jack Sainsbury unloosed the black satin cravat, tore off his collar, and opened his friends shirt at the throat. But it was all of no avail. There was no movement no sign of life.
A few moments later Thomasson came back in breathless haste.
Ive spoken to Sir Houston, sir, he said. Hes on his way round in a taxi.
Then both men gazed on the prostrate form which Sainsbury supported, and as they did so there slowly came a faint flush into the doctors face. He drew a long breath, gasped for a second, and his eyes relaxed as he turned his gaze upon his friend. His right arm moved, and his hand gripped Sainsburys arm convulsively.
For a few moments he looked straight into his friends face inquiringly, gazing intently, first as though he realised nothing, and then in slow recognition.
Why, its Jack! he gasped, recognising his friend. You I I felt a sudden pain so strange, and in an instant I ah! I I wonder save me I I ah! how far off you are! No no! dont leave me dont. I Ive been shot shot! I know I have ah! what pain what agony! I
And, drawing a long breath, he next second fell back into Sainsburys arms like a stone.
Ten minutes later a spruce, young-looking, clean-shaven man entered briskly with Thomasson, who introduced him as Sir Houston Bird.
In a moment he was full of concern regarding his friend Jerrold, and, kneeling beside the couch whereon Sainsbury and Thomasson had placed him, quickly made an examination.
Gone! Im afraid, he said at last, in a low voice full of emotion, as he critically examined the eyes.
Jack Sainsbury then repeated his friends strange words, whereupon the great pathologist the expert whose evidence was sought by the Home Office in all mysteries of crime exclaimed
The whole affair is certainly a mystery. Poor Jerrold is dead, without a doubt. But how did he die?
Thomasson explained in detail Mr Trustrams departure, and how, a quarter of an hour later, Sainsbury had arrived.
The doctor had never before, to my knowledge, locked this door, he went on. I heard him cheerily wishing Mr Trustram good-night as he came down the stairs, and I heard him say that he was not to fail to call to-morrow night at nine, as they would then carry the inquiry further.
What inquiry? asked Sir Houston quickly.
Ah! sir that, of course, I dont know, was the servants response. My master seemed in the highest of spirits. I just caught sight of him at the head of the stairs, smoking his pipe as usual after his days work.
The great pathologist knit his brows and cast down his head thoughtfully. He was a man of great influence, the head of his profession for, being the expert of the Home Office, his work, clever, ingenious, and yet cool and incisive, was to lay the accusing finger upon the criminal.
Hardly a session passed at the Old Bailey but Sir Houston Bird appeared in the witness box, spruce in his morning-coat, and presenting somewhat the appearance of a bank-clerk; yet, in his cold unemotional words, he explained to the jury the truth as written plainly by scientific investigation. Many murderers had been hanged upon his words, always given with that strange, deliberate hesitation, and yet words that could never, for a moment, be shaken by counsel for the defence.
Indeed, long ago defending counsel had given up cross-examination on any evidence presented by Sir Houston Bird, who had at his service the most expert chemists and analysts which our time could produce.
This is a mystery, exclaimed the great expert, gazing upon the body of his friend with his big grey eyes. Do you tell me that he was actually locked in here?
Yes, Sir Houston, replied Thomasson. Curious most curious, exclaimed the great pathologist, as though speaking to himself. Then, addressing Sainsbury, after the latter had been speaking, he said: The poor fellow declared that hed been shot. Is that so?
Yes. He said that he felt a sudden and very sharp pain, and the words he used were, Ive been shot! I know I have!
And yet there appears no trace of any wound, or injury, Sir Houston remarked, much puzzled.
Both windows and door were secured from the inside, therefore no assassin could possibly escape, sir, declared Thomasson. I suppose theres no one concealed here in the room? he added, glancing apprehensively around.
In a few moments the three men had examined every nook and corner of the apartment the two long cupboards, beneath the table, behind the heavy plush curtains and the chenille portière. But nobody was in concealment.
The whole affair was a profound mystery.
Sir Houston, dark-eyed and thoughtful, gazed down upon the body of his friend.
Sainsbury and Thomasson had already removed Jerrolds coat, and were searching for any bullet-wound. But there was none. Again Sir Houston inquired what the dying man had actually said, and again Sainsbury repeated the disjointed words which the prostrate man had gasped with his dying breath.
To the pathologist it was quite clear first that Jerome Jerrold believed he had been shot; secondly that no second person could have entered the room, and thirdly that the theory of assassination might be at once dismissed.
I think that poor Jerrold has died a natural death sudden and painful, for if he had been shot some wound would most certainly show, Sir Houston remarked.
There will have to be an inquest, wont there? asked Sainsbury.
Of course. And, Thomasson, you had better ring up the police at once and inform them of the facts, urged Sir Houston, who, turning again to Sainsbury, added: At the post-mortem we shall, of course, quickly establish the cause of death.
Again he bent, and with his forefinger drew down the dead mans nether lip.
Curious, he remarked, as though speaking to himself, as he gazed into the white, distorted face. By the symptoms I would certainly have suspected poisoning. Surely he cant have committed suicide!
And he glanced eagerly around the room, seeking to discover any bottle, glass, or cup that could have held a fatal draught.
I dont see anything which might lead us to such a conclusion, Sir Houston, answered Sainsbury.
But he may have swallowed it in tablet form, the other suggested.
Ah! yes. I never thought of that!
His dying words were hardly the gasping remarks of a suicide.
Unless he wished to conceal the fact that he had taken his own life? remarked Sainsbury.
If he committed suicide, then he will probably have left some message behind him. They generally do, Sir Houston said; whereupon both men crossed to the writing-table, which, neat and tidy, betrayed the well-ordered life its owner had led.
An electric lamp with a shade of pale green silk was burning, and showed that the big padded writing-chair had recently been occupied. Though nothing lay upon the blotting pad, there were, in the rack, three letters the man now dead had written and stamped for post. Sainsbury took them and glanced at the addresses.
Had we not better examine them? he suggested; and, Sir Houston consenting, he tore them open one after the other and quickly read their contents. All three, however, were professional letters to patients.
Next they turned their attention to the waste-paper basket. In it were a number of letters which Jerrold had torn up and cast away. Thomasson having gone to the telephone to inform the police of the tragic affair, the pair busied themselves in piecing together the various missives and reading them.
All were without interest letters such as a busy doctor would receive every day. Suddenly, however, Sainsbury spread out before him some crumpled pieces of cartridge-paper which proved to be the fragments of a large strong envelope which had been torn up hurriedly and discarded.
There were words on the envelope in Jerrolds neat handwriting, and in ink which was still blue in its freshness. As Sainsbury put them together he read, to his astonishment:
Private. For my friend Mr John Sainsbury, of Heath Street, Hampstead. Not to be opened until one year after my death.
Sir Houston, attracted by the cry of surprise which escaped Sainsburys lips, looked over his shoulder and read the words.
Ah! he sighed. Suicide! I thought he would leave something!
Chapter Five.
Certain Curious Facts
Both men searched eagerly through the drawers of the writing-table to see if the dead man had left another envelope addressed to his friend. Two of the drawers were locked, but these they opened with the key which they found upon poor Jerrolds watch-chain which he was wearing.
Some private papers, accounts and ledgers, were in the drawers, but the envelope of which they were in search they failed to discover.
It seemed evident that Jerome Jerrold had written the envelope in which he had enclosed a letter, but, on reflection, he had torn it up. Though the crumpled fragments of the envelope were there, yet the letter whatever it might have been was missing. And their careful examination of the waste-paper basket revealed nothing, whereupon Sir Houston Bird remarked
He may, of course, have changed his mind, and burned it, after all!
Perhaps he did, Jack agreed. But I wonder what could have been the message he wished to give me a year after his death? Why not now?
People who take their own lives sometimes have curious hallucinations. I have known many. Suicide is a fascinating, if very grim study.
Then you really think this is a case of suicide?
I can, I fear, give no opinion until after the post-mortem, Mr Sainsbury, was Sir Houstons guarded reply, his face grave and thoughtful.
But it is all so strange, so remarkable, exclaimed the younger man. Why did he tell me that hed been shot, if he hadnt?
Because to you, his most intimate friend, he perhaps, as you suggested, wished to conceal the fact that he had been guilty of the cowardly action of taking his own life, was the reply.
It is a mystery a profound mystery, declared Jack Sainsbury. Jerome dined with Mr Trustram, and the latter came back here with him. Meanwhile, Mr Lewin Rodwell was very anxious concerning him. Why? Was Rodwell a friend of Jeromes? Do you happen to know that?
I happen to know to the contrary, declared the great pathologist. Only a week ago we met at Charing Cross Hospital, and some chance remark brought up Rodwells name, when Jerrold burst forth angrily, and declared most emphatically that the man who posed as such a patriotic Englishman would, one day, be unmasked and exposed in his true colours. In confidence, he made an allegation that Lewin Rodwells real name was Ludwig Heitzman, and that he was born in Hanover. He had become a naturalised Englishman ten years ago in Glasgow, and had, by deed-poll, changed his name to Lewin Rodwell.
Jack Sainsbury stared the speaker full in the face.
Lewin Rodwell, the great patriot who, since the outbreak of war, had been in the forefront of every charitable movement, who had been belauded by the Press, and to whom the Prime Minister had referred in the most eulogistic terms in the House of Commons, was a German!
Thats utterly impossible, exclaimed Jack. He is one of the directors of the Ochrida Copper Corporation, in whose office I am. I know Mr Rodwell well. Theres no trace whatever of German birth about him.
Jerrold assured me that his real name was Heitzman, that he had been born of poor parents, and had been educated by an English shipping-agent in Hamburg, who had adopted him and sent him to England. On the Englishmans death he inherited about two thousand pounds, which he made the nucleus of his present fortune.
Thats all news to me, said Jack reflectively; and yet
What? Do you know something regarding Rodwell then? inquired Sir Houston quickly.
No, he replied. Nothing very extraordinary. What you have just told me surprises me greatly.
Just as it surprised me. Yet, surely, his case is only one of many similar. Thousands of Germans have come here, and become naturalised Englishmen.
A German who becomes a naturalised Englishman is a traitor to his own country, while he poses as our friend. I contend that we have no use for traitors of any sort in England to-day, declared Jack vehemently; both men being still engaged in searching the dead mans room to discover the message which it appeared had been his intention to leave after his death. They had carefully examined the grate, but found no trace of any burnt paper. Yet, from the fact that a piece of red sealing-wax and a burnt taper lay upon the writing-table, it appeared that something had been recently sealed, though the torn envelope bore no seal.
If an envelope had been sealed, then where was it?
We shall, no doubt, be able to establish the truth of Jerrolds allegation by reference to the register of naturalised Germans kept at the Home Office, Sir Houston said at last.
Jack was silent for a few moments, and then answered:
That, I fear, may be a little difficult. Jerrold has often told me how it had been discovered that it was a favourite dodge of Germans, after becoming naturalised and changing their names by deed-poll, to adopt a second and rather similar name, in order to avoid any inquiry along the channel which you have just suggested. As an example, if Ludwig Heitzman became naturalised, then it is more than probable that when he changed his name by deed-poll he did not adopt the name of Lewin Rodwell, but something rather near it.