The Moabite Cipher by R. Austin Freeman. A large and motley crowd lined
the pavements of Oxford Street as Thorndyke and I made our way leisurely eastward.
Floral decorations and drooping bunting announced one of those functions inaugurated from time to time
by a benevolent government for the entertainment of fashionable loungers and the relief of distressed
pickpockets. For a Russian grand Duke, who had torn himself away amidst valedictory
explosions from a loving if two demonstrative people, was to pass Anon on his
way to the Guildhall, and a British prince, heroically indiscreet was expected to
occupy a seat in the ducal carriage near Raftbone Place. Thorndyke halted and drew
my attention to a smart looking man who was lounging in a doorway, cigarette
in hand. Our old friend, Inspector Badger, said Thorndyke. He seems
mightily interested in that gentleman in the light overcoat. How d'ye do Badger?
For at this moment the detective caught his eye and bowed who is your friend.
That's what I'd like to know, Sir, replied the Inspector. I've
been shadowing him for the last half hour, but I can make him out,
though I believe I've seen him somewhere. He don't look like a foreigner,
but he has something bulky in his pocket, so I must keep him
in sight until the Duke is safely passed. I wish, he added gloomily,
these beastly Russians would stop at home. They give us no end of
trouble. Are you expecting any occurrences? Then asked Thorndyke. Bless you,
Sir, exclaimed Badger. The whole root is lined with a plainclothesman. You
see, it is known that several desperate characters followed the Duke to England,
and there are a good many exiles living here who would like to have a
wrap at him. Hallo, what's he up to now? The man in
the light overcoat had suddenly caught the Inspector's too inquiring eye, and forthwith dived
into the crowd at the edge of the pavement. In his haste, he
trod heavily on the foot of a big, rough looking man by whom he
was in a moment hustled out into the road with such violence that he fell,
sprawling face downwards. It was an unlucky moment. A mounted constable was
just then backing in upon the crowd, and before he could gather the meaning
of the shout that arose from the bystanders, his horse had set down one
hind hoofed firmly on the prostrate man's back. The inspector signaled to a constable,
who forthwith made a way for us through the crowd. But even as
we approached the injured man, he rose stiffly and looked round with a pale,
vacant face. Are you hurt, Thorndyke asked gently, with an earnest
look into the frightened, wondering eyes. No, sir, was the reply.
Only I feel queer sinking just here. He laid a trembling hand on
his chest, and Thorndyke, still eyeing him anxiously, said, in a
low voice to the inspector cab or ambulance as quickly as you can. A
cab was led round from Newman Street, and the injured man put into it.
Thorndyke, Badger and I entered, and we drove off up Rathbone Place.
As we proceeded, our patient's face grew more and more ashen, drawn
and anxious. His breathing was shallow and uneven, and his teeth chattered slightly.
The cab swung round into Good Street, and then suddenly, in the
tinkling of an eye, there came a change. The eyelids and jaw relaxed,
the eyes became filmy, and the whole form subsided into the corner in
a shrunken heap, with the strange, gelatinous limpness of a body that is
dead as a whole while its tissues are still alive. God save us the
man, instead, exclaimed the inspector in a shocked voice, For even policemen
have their feelings. He sat staring at the corpse as it nodded gently with
the jolting of the cab until we drew up inside the courtyard of the Middlesex
Hospital, when he got out briskly with suddenly renewed cheerfulness, to help the
porter to place the body on the wheeled couch. Well we shall know who
he is now, at any rate, said he, as we followed the
couch to the casualty room. Thorndyke nodded unsympathetically. The medical instinct in him
was, for the moment, stronger than the legal. The house surgeon leaned
over the couch and made a rapid examination as he listened to our account of
the incident. Then he straightened himself up and looked at Thorndyke. Internal hemorrhage,
I expect, said he. At any rate, he's dead, poor
beggar, as dead as nebukanezer Ah. Here comes the bobby. It's his
affair now. A sergeant came into the room, breathing quickly, and looked
in surprise from the corpse to the inspector. But the latter, without loss
of time, proceeded to turn out the dead man's pockets, commencing with the
bulky object which had first attracted his attention, which proved to be a brown
paper parcel tied up with red tape. Poor pie begad, he exclaimed with
a crestfallen air, as he cut the tape and opened the package. You
had better go through his other pocket, sergeant. The small heap of odds
and ends that resulted from this process tended with a single exception to throw a
little light on the man's identity, the exception being a letter sealed but not
stamped, addressed in an exceedingly illiterate hand to mister Adolph Schoenberg, two thirteen
Greek Street. Soho he was going to leave it by hand, I expect,
observed the inspector with a wistful glance at the sealed envelope. I think
I'll take it round myself, and you had better come with me, sergeant.
He slipped the letter into his poe, and, leaving the sergeant to
take possession of the other effects, made his way out of the building.
I suppose, doctor, said he as we crossed into Berner Street. You
are not coming our way. Don't want to see mister Schoenburg. Thornburgh reflected
for a moment, Well, it isn't very far and we may as well
see the end of the incident. Yes, let's go together. Number two
one three Greek Street was one of those houses that irresistibly suggested the observer the
idea of a church organ, either jamb of the doorway being adorned with a
row of brass bell handles corresponding to stop knobs. These, the sergeant examined
with the air of an expert musician, and having as it were, gaged
the capacity of the instrument, selected the middle knob on the right side and
pulled it briskly, whereupon a first floor window was thrown up and a head
protruded, but it afforded us a momentary glimpse only for having caught the sergeant's
upturned eye. It retired with surprising precipitancy, and before we had time to
speculate on the apparition, the street door was opened and a man emerged.
He was about to close the door after him, when the inspector interposed,
does mister Adolf Schoenburg live here? The newcomer, a very typical jew of
the red haired type, surveyed us thoughtfully through his gold rimmed spectacles as he
repeated the name Schoenburg. Schoenburg. Ah, yes, I know, he
lives on the third floor. I saw him go up a short time ago,
third floor back, and indicating the open door with a wave of the
hand, he raised his hat and passed into the street. I suppose we
had better go up, said the inspector, with a dubious glance at the
row of bell poles. He accordingly started up the stairs, and we all
followed in his wake. There were two doors at the back of the third
floor, but as the one was open, displaying an unoccupied bedroom, the
inspector rapped smartly on the other. It flew open almost immediately, and a
fierce looking little man confronted us with a hostile stare. Well said he,
mister Adolf Schoenburg, inquired the inspector, vell flat about him, snapped our
new acquaintance. I wish to have a few words with him, said badger.
Then vacta, do still come bangin at my door? For demanded the
other. 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 mister Schoenburg like? I mean like, interrupted the resident. He's
like a blooming signeye 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 a light from a hansom as we entered the house,
and who now stood with a note book tucked under his arm, sharpening
a pencil with deliberate care. Mister 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 lamp lighter. 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 mister Schoenberg, 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
note paper, 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
i'd 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 Moabide 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
better take that paper to the British Museum, said Thorndyke, and submitted 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, mister 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 mister 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 note paper,
and the ink is ordinary indelible Chinese ink, such as is used by
draftsmen. 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 and 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 in a monitory 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 mister 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 length the 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 doctor 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 of 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 mister 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. Does he express any opinion about it? Yes?
Provisionally after a brief examination he found it to consist of a number of Hebrew
words sandwich 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 event 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
will pass them on to you, and I wish you joy of them.
He handed me the photograph in a sheet of paper that he had just taken
from his pocket book, and watched me with grim amusement as I read out
the first few lines. Woe, city, lies, robbery, prey,
noise, whip, rattling wheel horse, chariot, day, darkness, gloominess,
clouds, darkness, morning, mountain people strong, fire them flame.
It doesn't look very promising at first sight, I remarked, what is the
professor's theory? His theory, provisionally, of course, is that the words
form the message and the groups of letters represent mere filled up spaces between the
words. But surely, I protested, that would be a very transparent device.
Thorndyke laughed. There is a childlike simplicity about it, said he.
That is highly attractive, but discouraging. It is much more probable that the
words are dummies and that the letters contain the message. Or again, the
solution may lie in an entirely different direction. But listen, is that a
cap coming here? It was it? I drew up opposite our chambers,
and a few moments later a brisk step ascending the stairs heralded a smart rat
tat at our door. Flinging open the ladder, I found myself confronted by
a well dressed stranger, who, after a quick glance at me, peered
inquisitively over my shoulder into the room. I am relieved. Doctor Jervis said
he to find you and doctor Thorndyke at home, as I have come on
somewhat urgent professional business. My name, he continued entering in response to my
invitation, is Barton. But you don't know me, though I know you
both by sight. I have come to ask you if one of you,
or better still, both could come to night and see my brother. That
said Thorndyke, depends on the circumstances and on the whereabouts of your brother.
The circumstances, said mister Barton, are in my opinion, highly suspicious,
and I will place them before you, of course, in strict confidence.
Thorndyke nodded and indicated a chair. My brother, continued, mister Barton,
taking the proffered seat, has recently married for the second time. His age
is fifty five and that of his wife twenty six, and I may say
that the marriage has been well, by no means a success. Now,
within the last fortnight, my brother has been attacked by a mysterious and extremely
painful affection of the stomach, to which his doctor seems unable to give a
name. It has resisted all treatment hitherto. Day by day the pain and
distress increase, and I feel that unless something decisive is done, the end
cannot be far off. Is the pain worse after taking food, inquired Thorndyke.
That's just it, exclaimed our visitor. I see what is in your
mind, and it has been in mine too, so much though that I
have tried repeatedly to obtain samples of the food that he is taking, and
this morning I succeeded. Here he took from his pocket a wide mouthed bottle,
which, disengaging from its paper wrappings, he laid on the table when
I called. He was taking his breakfast of arrowroot, which he complained had
a gritty taste, supposed by his wife to be due to the sugar.
Now I had provided myself with this bottle, and during the absence of his
wife, I'm banished unobserved to convey a portion of the arrowroot that he had
left into it. And I should be greatly obliged if you would examine it
and tell me if this arrow rout contains anything that it should not. He
pushed the bottle across to Thorndyke, who carried it to the window, and,
extracting a small quantity of the contents with a glass rod, examined the
pasty mass with the aid of a lens. Then, lifting the bell glass
cover from the microscope which stood on its table by the window, he smeared
a small quantity of the suspected matter onto a glass slip and placed it on
the stage of the instrument. I observe a number of crystalline particles in this,
he said, after a brief inspection, which have the appearance of arcinious
acid. Ah, ejaculated mister Barton, just as I feared. But are
you certain? No, replied Thorndyke. But the matter is easily tested.
He pressed the button of the bell that communicated with the laboratory, a summons
that brought the laboratory assistance from his lair with characteristic promptitude. Will you please
prepare a marsious apparatus, Polton, said Thorndyke. I have a couple ready,
Sir, replied Pulton, then poured the acid into one and bring it
to me with a tile. As his familiar vanished silently, Thorndyke turned to
mister Barton, Supposing we find arsenic in this arrowroot, as we probably shall,
what do you want us to do? I want you to come and
see my brother, replied our client. Why not take a note from me
to his doctor? No, no, I want you to come. I
should like you both to come and put a stop at once to this dreadful
business. Consider it is a matter of life and death. You won't refuse
I beg you not to refuse me your help in these terrible circumstances, well
said Thorndyke, as his assistant reappeared. Let us first see what the test
has to tell us. Poulton advanced to the table, on which he deposited
a small flask, the contents of which were in a state of brisk effervescence,
a bottle labeled calcium hypochlorite, and a white porcelain tile. The flask
was fitted with a safety funnel and a glass tube drawn out to a fine
jet, to which Polton cautiously applied a lighted match. Instantly there sprang from
the jet a tiny, pale violet flame. Thorndyke now took the tile and
held it in the flame for several seconds, when the appearance of the surface
remained unchanged save for the small circle of condensed moisture. His next proceeding was
to thin the arrowroot with distilled water until it was quite fluid, and then
pour a small quantity into the funnel. It ran slowly down the tube into
the flask with the bubbling contents of which it became speedily mixed. Almost immediately
a change began to appear in the character of the flame, which from a
pale violet turned gradually to a sickly blue, while above it hung a faint
cloud of white smoke. Once more, Thorndyke held the tile above the jet,
but this time no sooner had the pallid flame touched the cold surface of
the porcelain than there appeared on the latter a glistening black stain. That is
pretty conclusive, observed Thorndyke, lifting the stopper out of the reagent bottle.
But we will apply the final test. He dropped a few drops of the
hypochlorite solution onto the tile, and immediately the black stain faded away and vanished.
I now answer your question, mister Barton, said he replacing the stopper
as he turned to our client. The specimen that you brought us certainly contains
arsenic and in very considerable quantities, then exclaimed mister Barton, starting from his
chair, You will come and help me to rescue my brother from this dreadful
pearl. Don't refuse me, doctor Thorndyke, for mercy's sake, don't refuse.
Thorndyke reflected for a moment before we decide, said he we must see
what engagements we have. With a quick, significant glance at me, he
walked into the office, whither I followed in some bewilderment, for I knew
that we had no engagements for the evening now, Jervis, said Thorndyke,
as he closed the office door. What are we to do? We must
go, I suppose, I replied. It seems a pretty urgent case.
It does. He agreed. Of course, the man may be telling the
truth. After all, you don't think he is. Then, no,
it is a plausible tale, but there is too much arsenic in that arrow
root. Still I think I ought to go. It is an ordinary professional
risk, but there is no reason why you should put your head into the
noose. Thank you, I said, somewhat huffily. I don't see what
risk there is, but if any exists, I claim the right to share
it. Very well, he answered, with a smile. We will both
go. I think we can take care of ourselves. He re entered the
sitting room and announced his decision to mister Barton, whose relief and gratitude were
quite pathetic. But said Thorndyke, you have not yet told us where your
brother lives. Rexford, was the reply. Rexford in Essex. It isn't
out of the way place, but if we catch the seven fifteen from Liverpool
Street, we shall be there in an hour and a half. And as
to the return, you know the trains, I suppose, Oh yes,
replied our client. I will see that you don't miss your train back.
Then I will be with you in a minute, said Thorndyke, and taking
the still bubbling flask, he retired to the laboratory. Whence he returned in
a few minutes carrying his hat and overcoat. The cab which had brought our
client was still waiting, and we were soon rattling through the streets toward the
station, where we arrived in time to furnish ourselves with dinner baskets and select
our compartment at leisure. During the early part of the journey, our companion
was in excellent spirits. He despatched the cold fowl from the basket and quaffed
the rather indifferent claret with as much relish as if he had not had a
single relation in the world, And after dinner he became genial to the verge
of hilarity. But as the time went on, there crept into his manner
a certain anxious restlessness. He became silent and preoccupied, and several times furtively
consulted his watch. The train is confoundedly late, he exclaimed, irritably,
seven minutes behind time. Already a few minutes more or less are not of
much consequence, said Thorndyke. No, of course not. But still,
ah, thank Heaven, here we are. He thrust his head out of
the off side window and gazed eagerly down the line. Then, leaping to
his feet, he bustled out onto the platform while the train was still moving.
Even as we alighted, a warning bell rang furiously on the up platform,
and as mister Barton hurried us through the empty booking office to the outside
of the station, the rumble of the approaching train could be heard above the
noise made by our own trade moving off. My courage does not seem to
have arrived yet, exclaimed mister Barton, looking anxiously up the station approach.
If you will wait here a moment, I will go and make inquiries.
He darted back into the booking office and threw it onto the platform, just
as the up train roared into the station. Thorndyke followed him with quick but
stealthy steps, and, peering out of the booking office door, watched his
proceedings. Then he turned and beckoned to me. There he goes, said
he, pointing to an iron footbridge that spanned the line, And as I
looked, I saw clearly defined against the dim night sky, a flying figure
racing toward the upside. It was hardly two thirds across when the guard's whistle
sang out its shrill warning. Quick Jervis exclaimed Thorndyke, She's off. He
leaped down onto the line, whither I followed instantly, and crossing the rails,
we clambered up together onto the footboard opposite an empty first class compartment.
Thorndyke's magazine knife, containing among other implements, a railway key, was already
in his hand. The door was speedily un locked, and as we entered,
Thorndyke ran through and looked out onto the platform. Just in time,
he exclaimed, he is in one of the forward compartments. He relocked the
door, and, seating himself, proceeded to fill his pipe. And now
said I, as the train moved out of the station, perhaps you will
explain this little comedy with pleasure, he replied, if it needs any explanation.
But you can hardly have forgotten mister James's flattering remarks in his report of
the Greek Street incident, clearly giving the impression that the mysterious document was in
my possession. When I read that, I knew I must look out for
some attempt to recover it, though I hardly expected such promptness. Still,
when mister Barton called without credentials or appointment, I viewed him with some suspicion.
That suspicion deepened when he wanted us both to come. It deepened further
when I found an impossible quantity of arsenic in his sample, and it gave
place to certainty when having allowed him to select the trains by which we were
to travel, I went up to the laboratory and examined the timetable for I
then found that the last train for London left Rexford ten minutes after we were
due to arrive. Obviously, this was a plan to get us both safely
out of the way while he and some of his friends ransacked our chambers for
the missing document. I see, and that accounts for his extraordinary anxiety at
the lateness of the train. But why did you come if you knew it
was a plant, my dear fellow, said Thorndyke. I never miss an
interesting experience if I can help it. There are possibilities in this too,
don't you see? But supposing his friends have broken into our chambers already that
contingency has been provided for. But I think they will wait for mister Barton
and us. Our train, being the last one up, stopped at every
station and crawled slussfully in the intervals, so that it was past eleven o'clock
when we reached Liverpool Street. Here we got out cautiously, and mingling with
the crowd, followed the unconscious Barton up the platform, through the barrier,
and out into the street. He seemed in no special hurry, for after
pausing to light a cigar, he set off at an easy pace up New
Broad Street. Thorndyke hailed a hansom, and, motioning me to enter,
directed the cabman to drive to Clifford's Inn. Passage. Sit well back,
said he. As we rattled away up New Broad Street. We shall be
passing our gay deceiver presently. In fact, there he is a living walking
illustration of the folly of underrating the intelligence of one's adversary. At Clifford's in
passage, we dismissed the cab, and, retiring into the shadow of the
dark narrow alley, kept an eye on the gate of Inner Temple Lane.
In about twenty minutes we observed our friend approaching on the south side of Fleet
Street. He halted at the gate, plied the knocker, and after a
brief parley with the night porter, vanished through the wicket. We waited yet
five minutes more, and then, having given him time to get clear of
the entrance, we crossed the road. The porter looked at us with some
surprise. There's a gentleman just gone down to your chambers, sir, said
he. He told me you were expecting him. Quite right, said Thorndyke,
with a dry smile. I was good night. We slunk down the
lane, past the church and through the gloomy cloisters, giving a wide berth
to all lamps and lighted entry, until emerging into paper buildings. We crossed
at the darkest part to King's Bench Walk, where Thorndyke made straight for the
chambers of our friend. Anstey, which were two doors above our own.
Why are we coming here, I asked as we ascended the stairs, But
the question needed no answer when we reached the landing, for through the open
door of our friend's chambers, I could see in the darkened room ants Tea
himself with two uniformed constables and a couple of plains clothes men. There has
been no signal yet, sir, said one of the latter, whom I
recognized as a detective sergeant of our division. No, said Thorndyke, but
the m C has arrived. He came in five minutes before us, then
exclaimed Anstey. The ball will open shortly, Ladies and gents. The boards
are wax the fiddlers are tuning up and not quite so loud. If you
please, sir, said the sergeant, I think there is somebody coming up
Crown Office Row. The ball had in fact opened. As we peered cautiously
out of the open window, keeping well back in the darkened room, a
stealthy figure crept out of the shadow, crossed the road, and stole noiselessly
into the entry of Thorndyke's chambers. It was quickly followed by a second figure,
and then by a third, in which I recognized our elusive client.
Now listen for the signal, said Thorndyke. They won't waste time. Confound
that clock. The soft voiced bell of the Inner Temple clock, mingling with
the harsher tones of Saint Dunstan's and the law courts, slowly told out the
hour of midnight. And as the last reverberations were dying away, some metallic
object, apparently a coin, dropped, with a sharp clink onto the pavement
under our window. At the sound, the watchers simultaneously sprang to their feet.
You two go first, said the sergeant, addressing the uniformed men,
who thereupon stole noiselessly in their rubber soled boots down the stone stairs and along
the pavement. The rest of us followed with less attention to silence, and
as we ran up to Thorndyke's chambers, we were aware of quick but stealthy
footsteps on the stairs above. They've been at work, you see, whispered
one of the constables, flashing his lantern onto the iron bound outer door of
our sitting room, on which the marks of a large jemmy were plainly visible.
The sergeant nodded grimly, and, bidding the constables to remain on the
landing, led the way upwards. As we ascended, faint rustlings continued to
be audible from above, and on the second floor landing we met a man
descending briskly but without hurry from the third It was mister Barton, and I
could not but admire the composure with which he passed the two detectives. But
suddenly his glance fell on Thorndyke, and his composure vanished. With a wild
stare of incredulous horror, he halted as if petrified. Then he broke away
and raced furiously down the stairs, and after a moment, a muffled shout
and the sound of a scuffle told us that he had received a check.
On the next flight, we met two more men, who, more hurried
and less self possessed, endeavored to push past, but the sergeant barred the
way. Why bless me, exclaimed the latter. It's Moky and isn't that
Tom Harris. It's all right, sergeant, said Mokey, plaintively, striving
to escape from the officer's grip. We've come to the wrong house. That's
all, the sergeant smiled indulgently. A I know, he replied, but
you're always coming to the wrong house, smoky, and now you're just coming
along with me to the right house. He slipped his hand inside his captive's
coat and adroitly fished out a large folding gemmy, whereupon the discomfited burglar abandoned
all further protest. On our return to the first floor, we found mister
Barton sulkily awaiting us, handcuffed to one of the constables and watched by Polton
with pensive disapproval. I needn't trouble you tonight, doctor, said the sergeant,
as he marshaled his little troop of captors and captives. You'll hear from
us in the morning. Good night, sir. The melancholy procession moved off
down the stairs, and we retired to our chambers with anstey to smoke a
last pipe. A capable man that Barton observed, Thorndyke ready plausible and ingenious,
but spoilt by prolonged contact with fools. I wonder if the police will
perceive the significance of this little affair. They'll be more acute than I am.
If they do, said I naturally, interposed Anstey, who loved to
cheek his revered senior, Because there isn't any It's all Thorndyke's bounce. He
is really in deduce of a fog himself. However this may have been.
The police were a good deal puzzled by the incident, for on the following
morning we received a visit from no less a person than Superintendent Miller of Scotland
Yard. This is a queer business, said he, coming to the point
at once, this burglary. I mean, why should they want to crack
your place right here in the temple too? You've got nothing of value here?
Have you? No hard stuff as they call it? For instance,
not so much as a silver teaspoon, replied Thorndyke, who had a conscientious
objection to plate of all kinds. It's odd, said the Superintendent, deuced
odd. When we got your note, we thought that anarchist idiots had mixed
you up with the case. You saw the papers, I suppose, and
wanted to go through your rooms for some reason. We thought we had our
hands on the gang, instead of which we find a party of common crooks
that we're sick of the sight of I tell you, sir, it's annoying
when you think you've hooked a salmon to bring up a blooming eel. It
must be a great disappointment. Thorndyke agreed, suppressing smile, it is,
said the detective. Not but what. We're glad enough to get these beggars,
especially Halkett or Barton, as he calls himself, a mighty slippery customer.
Is Halkett and mischievous too, But we're not wanting any disappointments. Just
now, there was that big jewel job in Piccadilly Taplin and Horns. I
don't mind telling you that we've not got a ghost of the clue. Then
there's this anarchist affair. We're all in the dark there too. But what
about the cipher, asked Thorndyke. Oh hang the cipher, exclaimed the detective
irritably. This Professor Popelbaum may be a very learned man, but he doesn't
help us much. He says. The document is in Hebrew and he has
translated into double Dutch. Just listen to this. He dragged out of his
pocket a bundle of papers, and, dabbing down a photograph of the document
before Thorndyke commenced to read the professor's report. The document is written in the
characters of the well known inscription of Mesha, king of Moab, who the
devil's he never heard of him well known. Indeed, the language is Hebrew,
and the words are separated by groups of letters, which are meanings and
obviously introduced to mislead and confused the reader. The words themselves are not strictly
consecutive, but by the interpolation of certain other words, a series of intelligible
sentences as obtained, the meaning of which is not very clear, but is
no doubt allegorical. The method of decipherment is shown in the accompanying tables and
the full rendering suggested on the enclosed sheet. It is to be noted that
the writer of this document was apparently quite unacquainted with the Hebrew language, as
appears from the absence of any grammatical construction. That's the professor's purport, doctor,
And here are the tables showing how he worked it out. It makes
my head spin to look at him. He handed to Thorndyke a bundle of
ruled sheets, which my colleague examined attentively for a while, and then passed
on to me. This is very systematic and thorough, said he. But
now let us see the final result at which he arrives. It may be
all very systematic, growled the Superintendent, sorting at his papers. But I
tell you, sir, it's all bosh the latter word, he jerked out
viciously as he slapped down on the table the final product of the professor labors
there, he continued, that's what he calls the fool rendering, And I
reckon, it'll make your hair curl. It might be a message from Bedlam.
Thorndyke took up the first sheet, and as he compared the constructed renderings
with the literal translation, the ghost of a smile stole across his usually immovable
countenance. The meaning is certainly a little obscure, he observed, though the
reconstruction is highly ingenious. And moreover, I think the professor is probably right,
that is to say, the words which he has supplied are probably the
omitted parts of the passages from which the words of the cryptogram were taken.
What do you think, jervis? He handed me the two papers, of
which one gave the actual words of the cryptogram, and the other a suggested
reconstruction with omitted words supplied. The first read whip, noise, prey,
robbery, lies, city, woe, horse, wheel rattling, darkness,
day, chariot, mountain, mourning, darkness, cloud, gloominess, flame
them, fire, strong people. Turning to the second paper, I read
out the suggested rendering, woe to the bloody city. It is full of
lies and robbery. The prey departeth not the noise of a whip, and
the noise of the rattling of the wheels, and of the prancing horses,
and of the jumping chariots. A day of darkness and of gloominess, a
day of clouds and of thick darkness. As the mornings spread upon the mountains,
a great people and a strong A fire devoueth before them, and behind
them a flame burneth. Here the first sheet ended, and as I laid
it down, Thorndyke looked at me inquiringly. There is a good deal of
reconstruction in proportion to the original matter, I objected. The professor has supplied
more than three quarters of the final rendering exactly burst in the superintendent. It's
all, Professor, and no cryptogram. Still, I think the reading is
correct, said Thorndyke. As far as it goes, that is good,
Lord, exclaimed the dismayed detective. Do you mean to tell me, sir,
that all that ball our dash is the real meaning of the thing.
I don't say that, replied Thorndyke. I say it is correct as far
as it goes, but I doubt it's being the solution of the cryptogram.
Have you been studying that photograph that I gave you, demanded Miller with sudden
eagerness. I have looked at it, said Thorndyke evasively, but I should
like to examine the original if you have it with you, I have,
said the detective. Professor Popelbaum sent it back with a solution. You can
have a look at it, though I can't leave it with you without special
authority. He drew the document from his pocket book and handed it to Thorndyke,
who took it over to the window and scrutinized it closely. From the
window, he drifted into the adjacent office, closing the door after him,
and presently the sound of a faint explosion told me that he had lighted the
gas fire of course, said Miller, taking up the translation again, disgibricious,
the sort of stuff you might expect from a parcel of crack brained anarchist.
But it doesn't seem to mean anything, not to us, I agreed.
But their phrases may have some prearranged significance. And then there are the
letters between the words. It is possible that they may really form a cipher.
I suggested that to the professor, said Miller, But he wouldn't hear
of it. He is sure they are only dummies. I think he is
probably mistaken, and so I fancy does my colleague. But we shall hear
what he has to say presently. Oh I know what he will say,
growled Miller. He will put the thing under the microscope and tell us who
made the paper and what the ink is composed of, and then we shall
be just where we are. The superintendent was evidently deeply depressed. We sat
for some time pondering in silence on the vague sentences of the professor's translation,
until at length thorndyke reappeared, holding the document in his hand. He laid
it quietly on the table by the officer, and then inquired, is this
an official consultation, certainly, replied Miller. I was authorized to consult your
respecting the translation, but nothing was said about the original. Still, if
you want it for further study, I will get it for you. No,
thank you, said Thorndyke. I have finished with it. My theory
turned out to be correct. Your theory, exclaimed the asuperre intended eagerly.
Do you mean to say? And as you are consulting me officially, I
may as well give you this. He held out a sheet of paper,
which the detective took from him and began to read. What is this,
he asked, looking up at Thorndyke with a puzzled frown. Where did it
come from? It is the solution of the cryptogram, replied Thorndyke. The
detective re read the contents of the paper, and, with the frown of
perplexity deepening, once more, gazed at my colleague. This is a joke,
sir, You are fooling me, he said, sulkily. Nothing of
the kind, answered Thorndyke. That is the genuine solution. But it is
impossible, exclaimed Miller. Just look at it, doctor Jervis. I took
the paper from his hand, and as I glanced at it, I had
no difficulty in understanding his surprise. It bore a short inscription in printed Roman
capitals. Thus the pickerdilly stuff is up to Chimbley for sixteen Warder Street,
second floor back. It was hid because of old Moki's Jewde Moki is a
blighter, then that fellow wasn't an anarchist at all, I exclaimed, No,
Miller, he was one of Moki's gang. We suspected Mochi of being
mixed up with that job, but we couldn't fix it on him. By
jove, he added, slapping his thigh. If this is right, and
I can lay my hands on the loop, can you lend me a bag?
Doctor, I'm off to Warder Street this very moment. We furnished him
with an empty suit case, and from the window watched him making for Miter
Court at a smart double. I wonder if he will find the booty,
said Thorndyke. It just depends on whether the hiding place was known to more
than one of the gang. Well, it has been a quaint case and
instructive too. I suspect our friend Barton and the evasive Schoenberg were the collaborators
who produced that curiosity of literature. May I ask how you deciphered the thing?
I said, it didn't appear to take long. It didn't. It
was merely a matter of testing a hypothesis. And you ought not to have
to ask that question, he added, with marked severity, seeing that you
had what turned out to have been all the necessary facts two days ago.
But I will prepare a document and demonstrate to you tomorrow morning. So Miller
was successful at his quest, said Thorndyke. As we smoked our morning pipes
after breakfast, the entire swag, as he calls it, was up the
chimbly undisturbed. He handed me a note which had been left with the empty
suit case by a messenger shortly before, and I was about to read it
when an agitated knock was heard at our door. The visitor, whom I
admitted, was a rather haggard and disheveled, elderly gentleman, who, as
he entered, peered inquisitively through his concave spectacles from one of us to the
other. Allow me to introduce myself, gentlemen, he said, I am
Professor Poppelbaum. Thorndyke bowed and offered a chair. I called. Yesterday afternoon,
our visitor continued at Scotland Yard, where I heard of your remarkable decipherment
and of the convincing proof of its correctness. Thereupon I borrowed the cryptogram and
have spent the entire night in studying it. But I cannot connect your solution
with any of the characters. I wonder if you would do me the great
favor of enlightening me as to your method of decipherment, and so save me
further sleepless nights. You may rely on my discretion. Have you the document
with which you asked Thorndyke? The professor produced it from his pocket book and
passed it to my colleague, You, observe, professor, said the latter,
that this is a laid paper and has no water mark. Yes,
I noticed that, and that the writing is an indelible Chinese ink. Yes,
yes, said the savant impatiently. But it is the inscription that interests
me, not the paper in ink, precisely, said Thorndyke. Now it
was the ink that interested me when I caught a glimpse of the document three
days ago. Why, I asked myself, should anyone use this troublesome medium.
For this appears to be stick ink when good writing ink is to be
had. What advantages has Chinese ink over writing ink? It has several advantages
as a drawing ink, but for writing purposes it has only one. It
is quite unaffected by wet. The obvious inference, then, was that this
document was for some reason likely to be exposed to wet. But this inference
instantly suggested another, which I was yesterday able to test. Thus he filled
a tumbler with water, and, rolling up the document, dropped it in.
Immediately there began to appear on it a new set of characters of a
curious gray color. In a few seconds, Thorndyke lifted out the wet paper
and held it up to the light. Now there was plainly visible an inscription
in transparent lettering, like a very distinct water mark. It was printed in
Roman capitals, written across the other writing, and read the pickerdilly stuff is
up the chimbly four one sixth Warder Street, second floor back. It was
hid because of old Moki's Jewde Moky is a blighter. The professor regarded the
inscription with profound disfavor. How do you suppose this was done, he asked
gloomily. I will show you, said Thorndyke. I have prepared a piece
of paper to demonstrate the process to doctor Jervis. It is exceedingly simple.
He fetched from the office a small plate of glass and a photographic dish,
in which a piece of thin note paper was soaking in water. This paper,
said Thorndyke, lifting it out and laying it on the glass, has
been soaking all night and is now quite pulpy. He spread a dry sheet
of paper over the wet one, and on the former wrote heavily with a
hard pencil, Moky is a blighter. On lifting the upper sheet, the
writing was seen to be transferred in a deep gray to the wet paper,
and when the latter was held up to the light, the inscription stood out
clear and transparent, as if written with oil. When this dries, said
Thorndyke, the writing will completely disappear, but it will reappear whenever the paper
is again wetted. The professor nodded. Very ingenious, said he A sort
of artificial palump set in fact. But I do not understand how that illiterate
man could have written in the difficult Moabite script. He did not, said
Thorndyke. The cryptogram was probably written by one of the leaders of the gang,
who no doubt supplied copies to the other members to use instead of blank
paper for secret communications. The object of the Moabite writing was evidently to divert
attention from the paper itself in case the communication fell into the wrong hands.
And I must say it seems to have answered its purpose very well. The
professor started, stung by the sudden recollection of his labors. Yes, he
snorted, but I am a scholar, sir, not a policeman. Every
man to his trade. He snatched up his hat and with a curt good
morning, flung out of the room in dudgeon. Thorndyke laughed softly, Poor
professor, he murmured, our playful friend Barton has much to answer for.
And of the Moabite cipher by R. Austin Freeman