“Why, doesn’t he live here?”
“No. First-floor front,” replied our friend, preparing to close the door.
“Pardon me,” said Thorndyke, “but what is Mr. Schönberg like? I mean—”
“Like?” interrupted the resident. “He’s like a blooming Sheeny, with a carroty beard and gold gig-lamps!” and, having presented this impressionist sketch, he brought the interview to a definite close by slamming the door and turning the key.
With a wrathful exclamation, the inspector turned towards the stairs, down which the sergeant was already clattering in hot haste, and made his way back to the ground-floor, followed, as before, by Thorndyke and me. On the doorstep we found the sergeant breathlessly interrogating a smartly-dressed youth, whom I had seen alight from a hansom as we entered the house, and who now stood with a notebook tucked under his arm, sharpening a pencil with deliberate care.
“Mr. James saw him come out, sir,” said the sergeant. “He turned up towards the Square.”
“Did he seem to hurry?” asked the inspector.
“Rather,” replied the reporter. “As soon as you were inside, he went off like a lamplighter. You won’t catch him now.”
“We don’t want to catch him,” the detective rejoined gruffly; then, backing out of earshot of the eager pressman, he said in a lower tone: “That was Mr. Schönberg, beyond a doubt, and it is clear that he has some reason for making himself scarce; so I shall consider myself justified in opening that note.”
He suited the action to the word, and, having cut the envelope open with official neatness, drew out the enclosure.
“My hat!” he exclaimed, as his eye fell upon the contents. “What in creation is this? It isn’t shorthand, but what the deuce is it?”
He handed the document to Thorndyke, who, having held it up to the light and felt the paper critically, proceeded to examine it with keen interest. It consisted of a single half-sheet of thin notepaper, both sides of which were covered with strange, crabbed characters, written with a brownish-black ink in continuous lines, without any spaces to indicate the divisions into words; and, but for the modern material which bore the writing, it might have been a portion of some ancient manuscript or forgotten codex.
“What do you make of it, Doctor?” inquired the inspector anxiously, after a pause, during which Thorndyke had scrutinized the strange writing with knitted brows.
“Not a great deal,” replied Thorndyke. “The character is the Moabite or Phoenician—primitive Semitic, in fact—and reads from right to left. The language I take to be Hebrew. At any rate, I can find no Greek words, and I see here a group of letters which may form one of the few Hebrew words that I know—the word badim, ‘lies.’ But you had better get it deciphered by an expert.”
“If it is Hebrew,” said Badger, “we can manage it all right. There are plenty of Jews at our disposal.”
“You had much better take the paper to the British Museum,” said Thorndyke, “and submit it to the keeper of the Phoenician antiquities for decipherment.”
Inspector Badger smiled a foxy smile as he deposited the paper in his pocket-book. “We’ll see what we can make of it ourselves first,” he said; “but many thanks for your advice, all the same, Doctor. No, Mr. James, I can’t give you any information just at present; you had better apply at the hospital.”
“I suspect,” said Thorndyke, as we took our way homewards, “that Mr. James has collected enough material for his purpose already. He must have followed us from the hospital, and I have no doubt that he has his report, with ‘full details,’ mentally arranged at this moment. And I am not sure that he didn’t get a peep at the mysterious paper, in spite of the inspector’s precautions.”
“By the way,” I said, “what do you make of the document?”
“A cipher, most probably,” he replied. “It is written in the primitive Semitic alphabet, which, as you know, is practically identical with primitive Greek. It is written from right to left, like the Phoenician, Hebrew, and Moabite, as well as the earliest Greek, inscriptions. The paper is common cream-laid notepaper, and the ink is ordinary indelible Chinese ink, such as is used by draughtsmen. Those are the facts, and without further study of the document itself, they don’t carry us very far.”
“Why do you think it is a cipher rather than a document in straightforward Hebrew?”
“Because it is obviously a secret message of some kind. Now, every educated Jew knows more or less Hebrew, and, although he is able to read and write only the modern square Hebrew character, it is so easy to transpose one alphabet into another that the mere language would afford no security. Therefore, I expect that, when the experts translate this document, the translation or transliteration will be a mere farrago of unintelligible nonsense. But we shall see, and meanwhile the facts that we have offer several interesting suggestions which are well worth consideration.”
“As, for instance—?”
“Now, my dear Jervis,” said Thorndyke, shaking an admonitory forefinger at me, “don’t, I pray you, give way to mental indolence. You have these few facts that I have mentioned. Consider them separately and collectively, and in their relation to the circumstances. Don’t attempt to suck my brain when you have an excellent brain of your own to suck.”
On the following morning the papers fully justified my colleague’s opinion of Mr. James. All the events which had occurred, as well as a number that had not, were given in the fullest and most vivid detail, a lengthy reference being made to the paper “found on the person of the dead anarchist,” and “written in a private shorthand or cryptogram.”
The report concluded with the gratifying—though untrue—statement that “in this intricate and important case, the police have wisely secured the assistance of Dr. John Thorndyke, to whose acute intellect and vast experience the portentous cryptogram will doubtless soon deliver up its secret.”
“Very flattering,” laughed Thorndyke, to whom I read the extract on his return from the hospital, “but a little awkward if it should induce our friends to deposit a few trifling mementoes in the form of nitro-compounds on our main staircase or in the cellars. By the way, I met Superintendent Miller on London Bridge. The ‘cryptogram,’ as Mr. James calls it, has set Scotland Yard in a mighty ferment.”
“Naturally. What have they done in the matter?”
“They adopted my suggestion, after all, finding that they could make nothing of it themselves, and took it to the British Museum. The Museum people referred them to Professor Poppelbaum, the great paleographer, to whom they accordingly submitted it.”
“Did he express any opinion about it?”
“Yes, provisionally. After a brief examination, he found it to consist of a number of Hebrew words sandwiched between apparently meaningless groups of letters. He furnished the Superintendent off-hand with a translation of the words, and Miller forthwith struck off a number of hectograph copies of it, which he has distributed among the senior officials of his department; so that at present”—here Thorndyke gave vent to a soft chuckle—“Scotland Yard is engaged in a sort of missing word—or, rather, missing sense—competition. Miller invited me to join in the sport, and to that end presented me with one of the hectograph copies on which to exercise my wits, together with a photograph of the document.”
“And shall you?” I asked.
“Not I,” he replied, laughing. “In the first place, I have not been formally consulted, and consequently am a passive, though interested, spectator. In the second place, I have a theory of my own which I shall test if the occasion arises. But if you would like to take part in the competition, I am authorized to show you the photograph and the translation. I will pass them on to you, and I wish you joy of them.”
He handed me the photograph and a sheet of paper that he had just taken from