Christopher Quarles: College Professor and Master Detective. Brebner Percy James
knew about his uncle's hobby for stones, was surprised to find that he was such a rich man, and declared that he had no idea he was his heir. Mr. Ratcliffe had never helped him in any way; in fact, that very night he had refused, not unkindly but quite frankly, to lend him a sum of money he had asked for.
There had been no quarrel, and they had parted excellent friends.
I am convinced that a large section of the public wondered why Captain Ratcliffe was not arrested, and possibly some detectives would have considered there was sufficient evidence against him to take this course. I did not, although I had him watched.
The fact was that Christopher Quarles lurked at the back of my mind. I found that he had spoken the truth when he said that he was known at Scotland Yard. He was a professor of philosophy, and some two years ago had made what seemed a perfectly preposterous suggestion in a case which had puzzled the police, with the result that he had been instrumental in saving an innocent man from the gallows. A chance success was the comment of the authorities; my own idea was that he must have had knowledge which he ought not to possess. Now it might prove useful to cultivate the acquaintance of this mysterious professor, so I called upon him one morning in his house at West Street, Chelsea, as keen upon a difficult trail as I had ever been in my life.
The servant said the professor was at home and requested me to follow her.
Through open doors I had a glimpse of taste and luxury – softly carpeted rooms, old furniture, good pictures – and then the servant opened a door at the extreme end of the hall and announced me.
Astonishment riveted me to the threshold for the moment. Except for a cheap writing-table in the window, a big arm-chair by the fireplace, and two or three common chairs against the wall, this room was empty. There was no carpet on the floor, not a picture on the whitewashed walls. The window had a blind, but no curtains; there were no books, and the appointments of the writing-table were of the simplest kind possible.
"Ah, I have been expecting you," said Quarles, crossing from the window to welcome me.
A skull-cap covered his silver locks, but he wore no glasses, and to-day there were few signs of age or deterioration of physical or mental force about him. His shuffling gait when he had met me in Blenheim Square that morning had evidently been assumed, and probably he had worn glasses to conceal some of the expression of his face.
"You had been expecting me?" I said.
"Two days ago I gave the servant instructions to bring you in whenever you came. Zena, my dear, this is Detective Wigan – my granddaughter who often assists me in my work."
I bowed to the girl who had risen from the chair at the writing-table, and for a moment forgot the professor – and, indeed, everything else in the world. Since no woman had ever yet succeeded in touching any sympathetic chord in me, it may be assumed that she was remarkable. In that bare room she looked altogether out of place, and yet her presence transformed it into a desirable spot.
"You are full of surprises, professor," I said, with a keen desire to make myself agreeable. "I enter your house and have a glimpse of luxury through open doors, yet I find you in – in an empty room; you tell me I am expected, when until a few hours ago I had not determined to call upon you; and now you further mystify me by saying this lady is your helper."
"Philosophy is mysterious," he answered, "and I am interested in all the ramifications of my profession. To understand one science perfectly means having a considerable knowledge of all other sciences."
"My grandfather exaggerates my usefulness," said the girl.
"I do not," he returned. "Your questions have constantly shown me the right road to travel, and to have the right road pointed out is half the battle. Sit down, Mr. Wigan – in the arm-chair – no, I prefer sitting here myself. Zena and I were talking of Blenheim Square when you came in. A coincidence? Perhaps, but it may be something more. In these days we are loath to admit there are things we do not understand. This case puzzles you?"
The detective in me was coming slowly uppermost again, and I remembered the line I had decided to take with this curious old gentleman.
"It does. From first to last I am puzzled. To begin with, how came you to hear of the tragedy that you were able to be upon the scene so promptly?"
"Are you here as a spy or to ask for help? Come, a plain answer," said Quarles hotly, as though he were resenting an insult.
"Dear!" said the girl soothingly.
"Zena considers you honest," said the old man, suddenly calm again. "My helper, as I told you, and not always of my opinion. Let that pass. You are a young man with much to learn. I am not a detective, but a philosopher, and sometimes an investigator of human motives. If a mystery interests me I endeavor to solve it for my own satisfaction, but there it ends. I never give my opinion unless it is asked for, nor should I interfere except to prevent a miscarriage of justice. If this is clear to you, you may proceed and tell me what you have done, how far you have gone in the unraveling of this case; if you are not satisfied, I have nothing more to say to you except 'Good morning!'"
For a moment I hesitated, then shortly I told him what I had done, and he listened attentively.
"I have always worked alone," I went on, "not without success, as you may know. In this case I am beaten so far, and I come to you."
"Why?"
"For two reasons. First – you will forgive my mentioning it again – your prompt arrival puzzled me; secondly, I believe in Captain Ratcliffe, and am anxious to relieve him of the suspicion which undoubtedly rests upon him."
The old man rubbed his head through his skull-cap.
"You would like to find some reason to be suspicious of me?"
"Mr. Wigan does not mean that, dear," said Zena.
The professor shook his head doubtfully.
"Crime as crime does not interest me. It is only when I am impelled to study a case, against my will sometimes, that I become keen; and, whenever this happens, the solution of the mystery is likely to be unusual. My methods are not those of a detective. You argue from facts; I am more inclined to form a theory, and then look for facts to fit it. Not a scientific way, you may say, but a great many scientists do it, although they would strenuously deny the fact. I can show you how the facts support my theory, but I cannot always produce the actual proof. In many cases I should be a hindrance rather than a help to you."
"It is courteous of you to say so," I returned, wishing to be pleasant.
"It is quite true, not a compliment," said the girl.
"First, the dead man," Quarles went on. "Quite a healthy man was the medical opinion – but his eyes. Did you particularly notice his eyes? You look into the brain through the eyes, see into it with great penetration if you have accustomed yourself to such scrutiny as I have done. Mr. Ratcliffe had not been dead long enough for his eyes to lose that last impression received from the brain. They were still looking at something, as it were, and they still had terror in them. Now he was a traveler, one who must have faced danger scores of times; it would take something very unusual to frighten him."
I acquiesced with a nod.
"We may take it, I think, that such a man would not be terrified by burglars."
I admitted this assumption.
"He was looking at the curtains which were drawn across the window – that is a point to remember," said the professor, marking off this fact by holding up a finger. "Then the little boxes; did you count them?"
"Yes, there were twenty-five."
"And the last one was unopened; did you open it?"
"Yes; it contained a minute head in ivory, wonderfully carved."
"I did not touch the box," said Quarles, "but if the toy was complete it would naturally contain such a head. Did you notice the nineteenth box?"
"Not particularly."
"Had you done so you would have noticed that it was discolored like the first and largest one, not clean and white like the others – and more, beginning from the nineteenth box the