Christopher Quarles: College Professor and Master Detective

"There was no question of prosecuting him, I suppose?"

"One of the directors suggested that course, but it was decided not to do so."

"Could Ewing possibly have heard that a prosecution was contemplated?" asked Quarles. "That would account for his complete disappearance."

"He certainly could not have heard of it. I am sorry for Ewing; indeed, I tried to get the directors to reconsider their decision and give him another chance. It is a terrible thing for a man to have to face poverty and degradation like that. All I achieved was to get laughed at for my sentimentality."

"Then you would still trust Ewing?"

"I would," Mr. Wickstead answered with deliberation.

Quarles and I then went to examine the strong-rooms, which were empty now, the securities having been removed to other rooms.

A constable was on duty in the passage leading to them, and materials lying about showed that the work of fitting new doors was to commence at once. Quarles put on a particularly heavy pair of spectacles and produced a high-power pocket lens as well. He examined the locks and hinges of the ruined doors, and the various bolts which were thrown by the action of the turning keys. He carefully scanned the marks and the ruin which the explosion had made, and also the steel-bound holes into which the bolts fitted when the doors were fastened. Both the inner and the outer strong-rooms were examined with the same close scrutiny, and I pointed out to him the spot where the porter, Coulsdon, had been found, and where the rifled deed boxes had stood.

"Had the boxes been blown open?"

"No; forced open," I answered.

"I am not sure what explosive was used upon the doors, Wigan – gelignite or some similar preparation, I suppose – but it was powerful and peculiar in its action. How about finger-prints?"

"There were none on the doors. Either the explosion destroyed all trace or the men wore gloves."

"I suppose men of an expert gang would take that precaution?"

"They would be likely to think of everything."

"Yes; but since the gang is entirely unknown at Scotland Yard, that might be considered an unnecessary precaution, eh?"

He turned his attention to the ruined doors of the inner room again, picking out minute pieces of débris from the lock with a pair of tiny forceps, and examining the pieces under the lens.

"I cannot be certain what explosive was used, Wigan, and the light here is bad. I will examine some of this dust at home," and he emptied the contents of the palm of his hand into a small envelope, which he folded up carefully and placed in an inner pocket.

Then he examined the floor of the outer room, and the passage without, picking up several bits of rubbish, but finding nothing of interest.

From the strong-rooms we went to the top of the building and examined the window and the roof. The window was at the end of a passage.

"Where do you suppose the thieves came from to get to this window?" Quarles asked, after he had examined it and the roof outside.

"The window yonder belongs to the adjoining block of offices," I said, pointing across the roofs. "It is quite easy to reach."

We started to go to it, but had only gone a little way when Quarles stopped.

"You may find it easy, Wigan, but my legs are not so young as they were, and climbing a roof is outside their business."

"At any rate, you can see that it is an easy journey," I said.

"Oh, yes, for young legs; and it is not likely this gang is composed of old crooks. By the way, I think they must have got out of this window as well as in at it. Look at this scratch on the sill – a boot heel, I should say, and the position would mean that the man was getting out. It is not certain that the stuff was not carried across the roof, Wigan. I wonder whether Mr. Bowman has returned to his office yet?"

"I have a man watching for him," I answered.

"It's a curious case," said Quarles as we went downstairs. "I suppose you have inquired among the staff whether anyone knew Frederick Ewing intimately, visited him at Hammersmith, knew his private friends, hobbies, and so forth."

"Yes. Nobody appears to have known anything about him outside the office."

"I should like to have a look at the desk he occupied. I suppose that can be managed."

Permission was given us. The man who used it now got up to allow us to examine it, and Quarles again used his lens, going over the desk without and within.

"Was Mr. Ewing rather an untidy person?" he asked, turning to the clerk.

"No, I don't think so. I hardly knew him."

"Kept himself to himself a good deal, eh?"

"Yes; I believe that was the general impression."

"A bit of a dreamer, Wigan, I should say."

And then the professor thanked the clerk, and we left the bank.

"We've got to find Frederick Ewing," said Quarles decidedly. "He is the keystone to the mystery. Without definite knowledge concerning him we are powerless, I fancy. Even if we make an arrest, even if we arrest a gang of men, we could prove nothing. They are not likely to be found carrying any of the missing jewels, and there is precious little evidence to be got out of a sovereign. Months must elapse before the jewels, one or two at a time, filter into the market, and no banknotes or bonds which might further us with a clew have been taken. Ewing must be found."

In this direction I was up against a blank wall. I gave instruction for every shop, every public-house in the neighborhood of Ewing's lodgings, to be visited, and practically there was no result. A tobacconist fancied he recognized a customer from the description given of him, but that was all. Ewing had once belonged to a rowing club at Hammersmith, but had gone in for little serious practice. And the day after Quarles and I had visited the bank I drew another blank. Bowman, the mortgage broker, returned to his office. Not only was it quite certain that none of the gold was hidden there, but he explained his absence so thoroughly that it was impossible to suppose he had anything to do with the affair.

Two or three days slipped by, days of strenuous work, which seemed absolutely useless, and then I got a wire from Quarles asking me to meet him at Chiswick Station that evening, which I did.

"I must apologize, Wigan," was his greeting. "It's my temperament, I suppose, but I cannot help keeping a line of argument to myself until I find that it really leads somewhere. This was my theory with regard to Ewing. Since he did not make friends, either in the bank or out of it, he was likely to be something of a dreamer. Such men usually are, unless they have some definite hobby to employ them. We heard of no such hobby in Ewing's case, and the fact that his rise in the bank had been rapid suggested a competent and conscientious worker. But he was a dreamer, all the same – a man looking forward to the future, and a man who dreams in this way usually looks forward to some definite point. In the case of a young man – and Ewing is not old – that point may be a woman. So I examined Ewing's desk. He was given to scribbling on it and smearing out the writing. There were a quantity of ink smudges, but some pen marks remained, figures for the most part, and I found a name – Ursula. That rejoiced me; it might have been Mary, and for one Ursula there are – well, a great many Marys in the world. I looked for a second name, dreading to find Smith. I found Ursula Ewing, that was his dream, Wigan; but I also found Ursula Yerbury. If he were in love with Ursula Yerbury, which seemed probable, and she with him, which of course was not certain, then I argued that she must live in easy distance from Hammersmith. If not, he would have constantly received letters from her, and we know that he received very few letters. Also, if they were in love, he might have deceived her regarding his dismissal, or she would keep his secret and shield him. Inquiry for her must therefore be made carefully, and I set Zena to work – a girl looking for a girl friend she had lost sight of. It proved easier than it might have been. We found there was a man named Yerbury living in Fulham; he was the third of the name Zena had tried, and he had a niece, Ursula, living in lodgings here in Chiswick. She is a typist, and should be home by this time in the evening. She is expecting an old school friend – that was the vague message Zena left with her landlady – she will see us."

"I congratulate you, professor; it looks as if you had got on Ewing's track."

"We shall know better in an hour's time," he answered. "No. 10 Old Cedar Lane is the address. Pleasant flavor in some of these Chiswick names."

There was nothing particularly striking about Ursula Yerbury, but her personality grew upon one. The moment we entered her small but comfortable sitting-room it was apparent to me that she was on her guard. She had expected some old school friend, and had been tricked. Quarles came to the point at once. To clear up the mystery of the sensational robbery in the city, he wanted to find Frederick Ewing. Miss Yerbury knew him, of course, and could no doubt supply the information.

"You have had your journey in vain," she answered.

"That is a pity," Quarles said, and in short, terse sentences he told her the history of the robbery, so far as we knew it, speaking of Ewing's dishonesty in a cold, matter-of-fact way, and giving reasons why Ewing should be suspected of helping a gang.

"Now, my dear young lady, I'm an eccentric," he went on. "One petty theft does not make a criminal, and I do not believe Frederick Ewing is a criminal. But do not mistake me; if he cannot be found he will certainly be branded as one."

"I do not know where he is," she answered firmly, though her lips quivered.

"Still, you may know enough to help me to clear his name," said Quarles.

"You mean – but he told me himself."

"Ah, that is what I mean," said Quarles. "You can tell me something. Take my word for it, you will be doing Ewing a service by telling me what you know."