conclusive.”
“They’re not parts of the body,” he replied. “Of course, substitution is highly improbable. But it is not impossible.”
“And the old woman—” I suggested, but he interrupted me.
“My dear Jervis,” he exclaimed; “I’m surprised at you. How many times has it happened within our knowledge that women have identified the bodies of total strangers as those of their husbands, fathers or brothers? The thing happens almost every year. As to this old woman, she saw a body with an unrecognisable face, dressed in the clothes of her missing lodger. Of course, it was the clothes that she identified.”
“I suppose it was,” I agreed; and then I said: “You seem to suggest the possibility of foul play.”
“Well,” he replied, “if you consider those seven points, you will agree with me that they present a cumulative discrepancy which it is impossible to ignore. The whole significance of the case turns on the question of identity; for, if this was not the body of Thomas Elton, it would appear to have been deliberately prepared to counterfeit that body. And such deliberate preparation would manifestly imply an attempt to conceal the identity of some other body.
“Then,” he continued, after a pause, “there is this deed. It looks quite regular and is correctly stamped, but it seems to me that the surface of the paper is slightly altered in one or two places and if one holds the document up to the light, the paper looks a little more transparent in those places.” He examined the document for a few seconds with his pocket lens, and then passing lens and document to me, said: “Have a look at it, Jervis, and tell me what you think.”
I scrutinised the paper closely, taking it over to the window to get a better light; and to me, also, the paper appeared to be changed in certain places.
“Are we agreed as to the position of the altered places?” Thorndyke asked when I announced the fact.
“I only see three patches,” I answered. “Two correspond to the name, Thomas Elton, and the third to one of the figures in the policy number.”
“Exactly,” said Thorndyke, “and the significance is obvious. If the paper has really been altered, it means that some other name has been erased and Elton’s substituted; by which arrangement, of course, the correctly dated stamp would be secured. And this—the alteration of an old document—is the only form of forgery that is possible with a dated, impressed stamp.”
“Wouldn’t it be rather a stroke of luck,” I asked, “for a forger to happen to have in his possession a document needing only these two alterations?”
“I see nothing remarkable in it,” Thorndyke replied. “A moneylender would have a number of documents of this kind in hand, and you observe that he was not bound down to any particular date. Any date within a year or so of the issue of the policy would answer his purpose. This document is, in fact, dated, as you see, about six months after the issue of the policy.”
“I suppose,” said I, “that you will draw Stalker’s attention to this matter.”
“He will have to be informed, of course,” Thorndyke replied; “but I think it would be interesting in the first place to call on Mr. Hyams. You will have noticed that there are some rather mysterious features in this case, and Mr. Hyams’s conduct, especially if this document should turn out to be really a forgery, suggests that he may have some special information on the subject.” He glanced at his watch and, after a few moments’ reflection, added: “I don’t see why we shouldn’t make our little ceremonial call at once. But it will be a delicate business, for we have mighty little to go upon. Are you coming with me?”
If I had had any doubts, Thorndyke’s last remark disposed of them; for the interview promised to be quite a sporting event. Mr. Hyams was presumably not quite newly-hatched, and Thorndyke, who utterly despised bluff of any kind, and whose exact mind refused either to act or speak one hair’s breadth beyond his knowledge, was admittedly in somewhat of a fog. The meeting promised to be really entertaining.
Mr. Hyams was “discovered,” as the playwrights have it, in a small office at the top of a high building in Queen Victoria Street. He was a small gentleman, of sallow and greasy aspect, with heavy eyebrows and a still heavier nose.
“Are you Mr. Gordon?” Thorndyke suavely inquired as we entered.
Mr. Hyams seemed to experience a momentary doubt on the subject, but finally decided that he was not. “But perhaps,” he added brightly, “I can do your business for you as well.”
“I daresay you can,” Thorndyke agreed significantly; on which we were conducted into an inner den, where I noticed Thorndyke’s eye rest for an instant on a large iron safe.
“Now,” said Mr. Hyams, shutting the door ostentatiously, “what can I do for you?”
“I want you,” Thorndyke replied, “to answer one or two questions with reference to the claim made by you on the Griffin Office in respect of Thomas Elton.”
Mr. Hyams’s manner underwent a sudden change. He began rapidly to turn over papers, and opened and shut the drawers of his desk, with an air of restless preoccupation.
“Did the Griffin people send you here?” he demanded brusquely.
“They did not specially instruct me to call on you,” replied Thorndyke.
“Then,” said Hyams bouncing out of his chair, “I can’t let you occupy my time. I’m not here to answer conundrums from Tom, Dick or Harry.”
Thorndyke rose from his chair. “Then I am to understand,” he said, with unruffled suavity, “that you would prefer me to communicate with the Directors, and leave them to take any necessary action.”
This gave Mr. Hyams pause. “What action do you refer to?” he asked. “And, who are you?”
Thorndyke produced a card and laid it on the table. Mr. Hyams had apparently seen the name before, for he suddenly grew rather pale and very serious.
“What is the nature of the questions that you wished to ask?” he inquired.
“They refer to this claim,” replied Thorndyke. “The first question is, where is Mr. Gordon?”
“I don’t know,” said Hyams.
“Where do you think he is?” asked Thorndyke.
“I don’t think at all,” replied Hyams, turning a shade paler and looking everywhere but at Thorndyke.
“Very well,” said the latter, “then the next question is, are you satisfied that this claim is really payable?”
“I shouldn’t have made it if I hadn’t been,” replied Hyams.
“Quite so,” said Thorndyke; “and the third question is, are you satisfied that the mortgage deed was executed as it purports to have been?”
“I can’t say anything about that,” replied Hyams, who was growing every moment paler and more fidgety, “it was done before my time.”
“Thank you,” said Thorndyke. “You will, of course, understand why I am making these inquiries.”
“I don’t,” said Hyams.
“Then,” said Thorndyke, “perhaps I had better explain. We are dealing, you observe, Mr. Hyams, with the case of a man who has met with a violent death under somewhat mysterious circumstances. We are dealing, also, with another man who has disappeared, leaving his affairs to take care of themselves; and with a claim, put forward by a third party, on behalf of the one man in respect of the other. When I say that the dead man has been imperfectly identified, and that the document supporting the claim presents certain peculiarities, you will see that the matter calls for further inquiry.”
There was an appreciable interval of silence. Mr. Hyams had turned a tallowy white, and looked furtively about the room, as if anxious to avoid the stony gaze that my colleague