The Cambered Foot
I shall not pretend that I knew the man in America or that he wasa friend of my family or that some one had written to me abouthim. The plain truth is that I never laid eyes on him until SirHenry Marquis pointed him out to me the day after I went downfrom here to London. It was in Piccadilly Circus."There's your American," said Sir Henry.The girl paused for a few moments. There was profound silence."And that isn't all of it. Nobody presented him to me. Ideliberately picked him up!"Three persons were in the drawing-room. An old woman with highcheekbones, a bowed nose and a firm, thin-lipped mouth was thecentral figure. She sat very straight in her chair, her head upand her hands in her lap. An aged man, in the khaki uniform of amajor of yeomanry, stood at a window looking out, his handsbehind his back, his chin lifted as though he were endeavoring tosee something far away over the English country - somethingbeyond the little groups of Highland cattle and the great oaktrees.Beside the old woman, on a dark wood frame, there was a firescreen made of the pennant of a Highland regiment. Beyond herwas a table with a glass top. Under this cover, in a sort ofdrawer lined with purple velvet, there were medals, trophies anddecorations visible below the sheet of glass. And on the table,in a heavy metal frame, was the portrait of a young man in theuniform of a captain of Highland infantry.The girl who had been speaking sat in a big armchair by thistable. One knew instantly that she was an American. The libertyof manner, the independence of expression, could not be mistakenin a country of established forms. She had abundant brown hairskillfully arranged under a smart French hat. Her eyes wereblue; not the blue of any painted color; it was the blue ofremote spaces in the tropic sky.The old woman spoke without looking at the girl."Then," she said, "it's all quite as" - she hesitated for a word- "extraordinary as we have been led to believe."There was the slow accent of Southern blood in the girl's voiceas she went on."Lady Mary," she said, "it's all far more extraordinary than youhave been led to believe - than any one could ever have led youto believe. I deliberately picked the man up. I waited for himoutside the Savoy, and pretended to be uncertain about anaddress. He volunteered to take me in his motor and I went withhim. I told him I was alone in London, at the Ritz. It wasBlackwell's bank I pretended to be looking for. Then we hadtea."The girl paused.Presently she continued: "That's how it began: You're mistaken toimagine that Sir Henry Marquis presented me to this American. Itwas the other way about; I presented Sir Henry. I had the run ofthe Ritz," she went on. "We all do if we scatter money. SirHenry came in to tea the next afternoon. That's how he met Mr.Meadows. And that's the only place he ever did meet him. Mr.Meadows came every day, and Sir Henry formed the habit ofdropping in. We got to be a very friendly party."The motionless old woman, a figure in plaster until now, kneadedher fingers as under some moving pressure. "At this time," shesaid, "you were engaged to Tony and expected to be his wife!"The girl's voice did not change. It was slow and even. "Yes,"she said."Tony, of course, knew nothing about this?""He knows nothing whatever about it unless you have written him."Again the old woman moved slightly. "I have waited," she said,"for the benefit of your explanation. It seems as - as bad as Ifeared.""Lady Mary," said the girl in her slow voice, "it's worse thanyou feared. I don't undertake to smooth it over. Everythingthat you have heard is quite true. I did go out with the man inhis motor, in the evening. Sometimes it was quite dark before wereturned. Mr. Meadows preferred to drive at night because he wasnot accustomed to the English rule of taking the left on theroad, when one always takes the right in America. He was afraidhe couldn't remember the rule, so it was safer at night and therewas less traffic."I shall not try to make the thing appear better than it was. Wesometimes took long runs. Mr. Meadows liked the high roads alongthe east coast, where one got a view of the sea and the cold saltair. We ran prodigious distances. He had the finest motor inEngland, the very latest American model. I didn't think so muchabout night coming on, the lights on the car were so wonderful.Mr. Meadows was an amazing driver. We made express-train time.The roads were usually clear at night and the motor was a perfectwonder. The only trouble we ever had was with the lights.Sometimes one, of them would go out. I think it was bad wiring.But there was always the sweep of the sea under the stars to lookat while Mr. Meadows got the thing adjusted."This long, detailed, shameless speech affected the aged soldierat the window. It seemed to him immodest bravado. And hesuffered in his heart, as a man old and full of memories cansuffer for the damaged honor of a son he loves.Continuing, the girl said: "Of course it isn't true that we spentthe nights touring the east coast of England in a racer. It wasdark sometimes when we got in - occasionally after trouble withthe lights - quite dark. We did go thundering distances.""With this person, alone?" The old woman spoke slowly, like onedelicately probing at a wound."Yes," the girl admitted. "You see, the car was a roadster; onlytwo could go; and, besides, there was no one else. Mr. Meadowssaid he was alone in London, and of course I was alone. When SirHenry asked me to go down from here I went straight off to theRitz."The old woman made a slight, shivering gesture. "You should havegone to my sister in Grosvenor Square. Monte would have put youup - and looked after you.""The Ritz put me up very well," the girl continued. "And I amaccustomed to looking after myself. Sir Henry thought it wasquite all right."The old woman spoke suddenly with energy and directness. "Idon't understand Henry in the least," she said. "I was quitewilling for you to go to London when he asked me for permission.But I thought he would take you to Monte's, and certainly I hadthe right to believe that he would not have lent himself to - tothis escapade.""He seemed to be very nice about it," the girl went on. "He camein to tea with us - Mr. Meadows and me - almost every evening.And he always had something amusing to relate, some blunder ofScotland Yard or some ripping mystery. I think he found itimmense fun to be Chief of the Criminal Investigation Department.I loved the talk: Mr. Meadows was always interested and Sir Henrylikes people to be interested."The old woman continued to regard the girl as one hesitatinglytouches an exquisite creature frightfully mangled."This person - was he a gentleman?" she inquired. The girlanswered immediately. "I thought about that a good deal," shesaid. "He had perfect manners, quite Continental manners; but,as you say over here, Americans are so imitative one never cantell. He was not young - near fifty, I would say; very welldressed. He was from St. Paul; a London agent for some flouringmills in the Northwest. I don't know precisely. He explained itall to Sir Henry. I think he would have been glad of a littleinfluence - some way to meet the purchasing agents for thegovernment. He seemed to have the American notion that he couldcome to London and go ahead without knowing anybody. Anyway, hewas immensely interesting - and he had a ripping motor."The old man at the window did not move. He remained looking outover the English country with his big, veined hands claspedbehind his back. He had left this interview to Lady Mary, as hehad left most of the crucial affairs of life to her dominantnature. But the thing touched him far deeper than it touched theaged dowager. He had a man's faith in the fidelity of a lovedwoman.He knew how his son, somewhere in France, trusted this girl,believed in her, as long ago in a like youth he had believed inanother. He knew also how the charm of the girl was in the youngsoldier's blood, and how potent were these inscrutable mysteries.Every man who loved a woman wished to believe that she came tohim out of the garden of a convent - out of a roc's egg, like theprincess in the Arabian story.All these things he had experienced in himself, in a shatteredromance, in a disillusioned youth, when he was young like the ladsomewhere in France. Lady Mary would see only brokenconventions; but he saw immortal things, infinitely beyondconventions, awfully broken. He did not move. He remained likea painted picture.The girl went on in her soft, slow voice. "You would havedisliked Mr. Meadows, Lady Mary," she said. "You would dislikeany American who came without letters and could not be preciselyplaced." The girl's voice grew suddenly firmer. "I don't meanto make it appear better," she said. "The worst would be nearerthe truth. He was just an unknown American bagman, with a motorcar, and a lot of time on his hands - and I picked him up. ButSir Henry Marquis took a fancy to him.""I cannot understand Henry," the old woman repeated. "It'sextraordinary.""It doesn't seem extraordinary to me," said the girl. "Mr.Meadows was immensely clever, and Sir Henry was like a man with anew toy. The Home Secretary had just put him in as Chief of theCriminal Investigation Department. He was full of a lot of newideas - dactyloscopic bureaus, photographie mitrique, andscientific methods of crime detection. He talked about it allthe time. I didn't understand half the talk. But Mr. Meadowswas very clever. Sir Henry said he was a charming person.Anybody who could discuss the whorls of the Galton finger-printtests was just then a charming person to Sir Henry."The girl paused a moment, then she went on"I suppose things had gone so for about a fortnight when yoursister, Lady Monteith, wrote that she had seen Sir Henry with us- Mr. Meadows and me - in the motor. I have to shatter apleasant fancy about that chaperonage! That was the only timeSir Henry was ever with us."It came about like this: It was Thursday morning about nineo'clock, I think, when Sir Henry, popped in at the Ritz. He wasfull of some amazing mystery that had turned up at Benton Court,a country house belonging to the Duke of Dorset, up the Thamesbeyond Richmond. He wanted to go there at once. He was fumingbecause an under secretary had his motor, and he couldn't catchup with him."I told him he could have `our' motor. He laughed. And Itelephoned Mr. Meadows to come over and take him up. Sir Henryasked me to go along. So that's how Lady Monteith happened tosee the three of us crowded into the seat of the big roadster."The girl went on in her deliberate, even voice"Sir Henry was boiling full of the mystery. He got us allexcited by the time we arrived at Benton Court. I think Mr.Meadows was as keen about the thing as Sir Henry. They were bothimmensely worked up. It was an amazing thing!""You see, Benton Court is a little house of the Georgian period.It has been closed up for ages, and now, all at once, the mostmysterious things began to happen in it"A local inspector, a very reliable man named Millson, passingthat way on his bicycle, saw a man lying on the doorstep. Healso saw some one running away. It was early in the morning,just before daybreak."Millson saw only the man's back, but he could distinguish thecolor of his clothes. He was wearing a blue coat andreddish-brown trousers. Millson said he could hardly make outthe blue coat in the darkness, but he could distinctly see thereddish brown color of the man's trousers. He was very positiveabout this. Mr. Meadows and Sir Henry pressed him pretty hard,but he was firm about it. He could make out that the coat wasblue, and he could see very distinctly that the trousers werereddish-brown."But the extraordinary thing came a little later. Millsonhurried to a telephone to get Scotland Yard, then he returned toBenton Court; but when he got back the dead man had disappeared."He insists that he was not away beyond five minutes, but withinthat time the dead man had vanished. Millson could find no traceof him. That's the mystery that sent us tearing up there withMr. Meadows and Sir Henry transformed into eager sleuths."We found the approaches to the house under a patrol fromScotland Yard. But nobody had gone in. The inspector waswaiting for Sir Henry."The old man stood like an image, and the aged woman sat in herchair like a figure in basalt.But the girl ran on with a sort of eager unconcern: "Sir Henryand Mr. Meadows kook the whole thing in charge. The door hadbeen broken open. They examined the marks about the fracturesvery carefully; then they went inside. There were some nakedfootprints. They were small, as of a little, cramped foot, andthey seemed to be tracked in blood on the hard oak floor. Therewas a wax candle partly burned on the table. And that's allthere was."There were some tracks in the dust of the floor, but they werenot very clearly outlined, and Sir Henry thought nothing could bemade of them."It was awfully exciting. I went about behind the two men. SirHenry talked all the time. Mr. Meadows was quite as muchinterested, but he didn't say anything. He seemed to say less asthe thing went on."They went over everything - the ground outside and every inch ofthe house. Then they put everybody out and sat down by a tablein the room where the footprints were."Sir Henry had been awfully careful. He had a big lens withwhich to examine the marks of the bloody footprints. He was likea man on the trail of a buried treasure. He shouted overeverything, thrust his glass into Mr. Meadows' hand and bade himverify what he had seen. His ardor was infectious. I caught itmyself."Mr. Meadows, in his quiet manner, was just as much concerned inunraveling the thing as Sir Henry. I never had so wild a time inall my life. Finally, when Sir Henry put everybody else out andclosed the door, and the three of us sat down at the table to tryto untangle the thing, I very nearly screamed with excitement.Mr. Meadows sat with his arms folded, not saying a word; but SirHenry went ahead with his explanation."The girl looked like a vivid portrait, the soft colors of hergown and all the cool, vivid extravagancies of youthdistinguished in her. Her words indicated fervor and excitedenergy; but they were not evidenced in her face or manner. Shewas cool and lovely. One would have thought that she recountedthe inanities of a curate's tea party.The aged man, in the khaki uniform of a major of yeomanry,remained in his position at the window. The old woman sat withher implacable face, unchanging like a thing insensible andinorganic.This unsympathetic aspect about the girl did not seem to disturbher. She went on:"The thing was thrilling. It was better than any theater - thethree of us at the old mahogany table in the room, and theScotland Yard patrol outside."Sir Henry was bubbling over with his theory. `I read thisriddle like a printed page,' he said. `It will be the work of alittle band of expert cracksmen that the Continent has kindlysent us. We have had some samples of their work in BromptonRoad. They are professional crooks of a high order - very cleverat breaking in a door, and, like all the criminal groups that weget without an invitation from over the Channel, these crookshave absolutely no regard for human life.'"That's the way Sir Henry led off with his explanation. Ofcourse he had all that Scotland Yard knew about criminal groupsto start him right. It was a good deal to have the identity ofthe criminal agents selected out; but I didn't see how he wasgoing to manage to explain the mystery from the evidence. I waswild to hear him. Mr. Meadows was quite as interested, Ithought, although he didn't say a word."Sir Henry nodded, as though he took the American's confirmationas a thing that followed. `We are at the scene,' he said, `ofone of the most treacherous acts of all criminal drama. I meanthe "doing in," as our criminals call it, of the unprofessionalaccomplice. It's a regulation piece of business with thehard-and-fast criminal organizations of the Continent, like theNervi of Marseilles, or the Lecca of Paris."`They take in a house servant, a shopkeeper's watchman, or abank guard to help them in some big haul. Then they lure himinto some abandoned house, under a pretense of dividing up thebooty, and there put him out of the way. That's what's happenedhere. It's a common plan with these criminal groups, and cleverof them. The picked-up accomplice would be sure to let the thingout. For safety the professionals must "do him in" at once,straight away after the big job, as a part of what the barristerchaps call the res gestae.'"Sir Henry went on nodding at us and drumming the palm of hishand on the edge of the table."`This thing happens all the time,' he said, `all about, whereprofessional criminals are at work. It accounts for a lot ofmysteries that the police cannot make head or tail of, like thisone, for example. Without our knowledge of this sinister custom,one could not begin or end with an affair like this."`But it's simple when one has the cue - it's immensely simple.We know exactly what happened and the sort of crooks that wereabout the business. The barefoot prints show the Continentalgroup. That's the trick of Southern Europe to go in barefootbehind a man to kill him.'"Sir Henry jarred the whole table with his big hand. The surfaceof the table was covered with powdered chalk that the baronet haddusted over it in the hope of developing criminal finger prints.Now under the drumming of his palm the particles of white dustwhirled like microscopic elfin dancers."`The thing's clear as daylight,' he went on: `One of theprofessional group brought the accomplice down here to divide thebooty. He broke the door in. They sat down here at this tablewith the lighted candle as you see it. And while the stuff wasbeing sorted out, another of the band slipped in behind the manand killed him."`They started to carry the body out. Millson chanced by. Theygot in a funk and rushed the thing. Of course they had a motordown the road, and equally of course it was no trick to whisk thebody out of the neighborhood.'"Sir Henry got half up on his feet with his energy in thesolution of the thing. He thrust his spread-out fingers down.on the table like a man, by that gesture, pressing in aninevitable, conclusive summing up."The girl paused. "It was splendid, I thought. I applauded likean entranced pit!"But Mr. Meadows didn't say a word. He took up the big glass wehad used about the inspection of the place, and passed it overthe prints Sir Henry was unconsciously making in the dust on thepolished surface of the table. Then he put the glass down andlooked the excited baronet calmly in the face."`There,' cried Sir Henry, `the thing's no mystery.'"For the first time Mr. Meadows opened his mouth. `It's theprofoundest mystery I ever heard of,' he said."Sir Henry was astonished. He sat down and looked across thetable at the man. He wasn't able to speak for a moment, then hegot it out: `Why exactly do you say that?'"Mr. Meadows put his elbows on the table. He twiddled the bigreading glass in his fingers. His face got firm and decided."`To begin with,' he said, `the door to this house was neverbroken by a professional cracksman. It's the work of a bunglingamateur. A professional never undertakes to break a door at thelock. Naturally that's the firmest place about a door. Theimplement he intends to use as a lever on the door he puts in atthe top or bottom. By that means he has half of the door as alever against the resistance of the lock. Besides, aprofessional of any criminal group is a skilled workman. Hedoesn't waste effort. He doesn't fracture a door around thelock. This door's all mangled, splintered and broken around thelock.'""He stopped and looked about the room, and out through the windowat the Scotland Yard patrol. The features of his face werecontracted with the problem. One could imagine one saw the man'smind laboring at the mystery. `And that's not all,' he said.`Your man Millson is not telling the truth. He didn't see a deadbody lying on the steps of this house; and he didn't see a manrunning away.'"Sir Henry broke in at that. `Impossible,' he said; 'Millson's afirst-class inspector, absolutely reliable. Why do you say thathe didn't see the dead man on the steps or the assassin runningaway?'"Mr. Meadows answered in the same even voice. `Because there wasnever any dead man here,' he said, `for anybody to see. Andbecause Millson's 'description of the man he saw isscientifically an impossible feat of vision.'"Impossible?' cried Sir Henry."`Quite impossible,' Mr. Meadows insisted. 'Millson tells usthat the man he saw running away in the night wore a blue coatand reddish-brown trousers. He says he was barely able todistinguish the blue coat, but that he could see thereddish-brown trousers very clearly. Now, as a matter of fact,it has been very accurately determined that red is the hardestcolor to distinguish at night, and blue the very easiest. A bluecoat would be clearly visible long after reddish-brown trousershad become indistinguishable in the darkness.'"Sir Henry's under jaw sagged a little. `Why, yes,' he said,`that's true; that's precisely true. Gross, at the University ofGratz, determined that by experiment in 1912. I never thoughtabout it!'"`There are some other things here that you have not, perhaps,precisely thought about,' Mr. Meadows went on."`For example, the things that happened in this room did nothappen in the night. They happened in the day.'"He pointed to the half-burned wax candle on the table. `There'sa headless joiner's nail driven into the table,' he said, `andthis candle is set down over the nail. That means that theperson who placed it there wished it to remain there - to remainthere firmly. He didn't put it down there for the briefrequirements of a passing tragedy, he put it there to remain;that's one thing."`Another thing is that this candle thus firmly fastened on thetable was never alight there. If it had ever been burning in itsposition on the table, some of the drops of melted wax would havefallen about it."`You will observe that, while the candle is firmly fixed, itdoes not set straight; it is inclined at least ten degrees out ofperpendicular. In that position it couldn't have burned for amoment without dripping melted wax on the table. And there'snone on the table; there has never been any on it. Your glassshows not the slightest evidence of a wax stain.' He added:`Therefore the candle is a blind; false evidence to give us theimpression of a night affair.'"Sir Henry's jaw sagged; now his mouth gaped. `True,' he said.`True, true.' He seemed to get some relief to his damageddeductions out of the repeated word."The irony in Mr. Meadows' voice increased a little. `Nor isthat all,' he said. `The smear on the floor, and the stains inwhich the naked foot tracked, are not human blood. They're notany sort of blood. It was clearly evident when you had your lensover them. They show no coagulated fiber. They show only theevidences of dye - weak dye - watered red ink, I'd say.'"I thought Sir Henry was going to crumple up in his chair. Heseemed to get loose and baggy in some extraordinary fashion, andhis gaping jaw worked. `But the footprints,' he said, `the nakedfootprints?' His voice was a sort of stutter-the sort of shakenstutter of a man who has come a' tumbling cropper."The American actually laughed: he laughed as we sometimes laughat a mental defective."`They're not footprints!' he said. `Nobody ever had a footcambered like that, or with a heel like it, or with toes like it.Somebody made those prints with his hand - the edge of his palmfor the heel and the balls of his fingers for the toes. Thewide, unstained distances between these heelprints and the printsof the ball of the toes show the impossible arch.'"Sir Henry was like a man gone to pieces. `But who - who madethem?' he faltered."The American leaned forward and put the big glass over theprints that Sir Henry had made with his fingers in the white duston the mahogany table. `I think you know the answer to yourquestion,' he said. `The whorls of these prints are identicalwith those of the toe tracks.'"Then he laid the glass carefully down, sat back in his chair,folded his arms and looked at Sir Henry."`Now,' he said, `will you kindly tell me why you have gone tothe trouble of manufacturing all these false evidences of acrime?"'The girl paused. There was intense silence in the drawing-room.The aged man at the window had turned and was looking at her.The face of the old woman seemed vague and uncertain.The girl smiled."Then," she said, "the real, amazing miracle happened. Sir Henrygot on his feet, his big body tense, his face like iron, hisvoice ringing."`I went to that trouble,' he said, `because I wished todemonstrate - I wished to demonstrate beyond the possibility ofany error - that Mr. Arthur Meadows, the pretended American fromSt. Paul, was in fact the celebrated criminologist, Karl HolwegLeibnich, of Bonn, giving us the favor of his learned presencewhile he signaled the German submarines off the east coast roadswith his high-powered motor lights.'"Now there was utter silence in the drawing-room but for the lowof the Highland cattle and the singing of the birds outsideFor the first time there came a little tremor in the girl'svoice."When Sir Henry doubted this American and asked me to go down andmake sure before he set a trap for him, I thought - I thought, ifTony could risk his life for England, I could do that much."At this moment a maid appeared in the doorway, the trim,immaculate, typical English maid. "Tea is served, my lady," shesaid.The tall, fine old man crossed the room and offered his arm tothe girl with the exquisite, gracious manner with which once upona time he had offered it to a girlish queen at Windsor.The ancient woman rose as if she would go out before them. Thensuddenly, at the door, she stepped aside for the girl to pass,making the long, stooping, backward curtsy of the passedVictorian era."After you, my dear," she said, "always!"
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