same man in his normal state. The appearance of violent accident is an excellent mask for the less obvious forms of murder.”
“That’s perfectly true,” said Stalker; “and I suppose that is what the coroner thought. At any rate, he had the post-mortem made, and the result was most curious; for it was found, on opening the body, that the deceased had suffered from a smallish thoracic aneurism, which had burst. Now, as the aneurism must obviously have burst during life, it leaves the cause of death—so I understand—uncertain; at any rate, the medical witness was unable to say whether the deceased fell over the cliff in consequence of the bursting of the aneurism or burst the aneurism in consequence of falling over the cliff. Of course, it doesn’t matter to us which way the thing happened; the only question which interests us is, whether a comparatively recently insured man ought to have had an aneurism at all.”
“Have you paid the claim?” asked Thorndyke.
“No, certainly not. We never pay a claim until we have had your report. But, as a matter of fact, there is another circumstance that is causing delay. It seems that Elton had mortgaged his policy to a money lender, named Gordon, and it is by him that the claim has been made, or rather, by a clerk of his, named Hyams. Now, we have had a good many dealings with this man Gordon, and hitherto he has always acted in person; and as he is a somewhat slippery gentleman we have thought it desirable to have the claim actually signed by him. And that is the difficulty. For it seems that Mr. Gordon is abroad, and his whereabouts unknown to Hyams; so, as we certainly couldn’t take Hyams’s receipt for payment, the matter is in abeyance until Hyams can communicate with his principal. And now, I must be running away. I have brought you, as you will see, all the papers, including the policy and the mortgage deed.”
As soon as he was gone, Thorndyke gathered up the bundle of papers and sorted them out in what be apparently considered the order of their importance. First he glanced quickly through the proposal form, and then took up the copy of the coroner’s depositions.
“The medical evidence,” he remarked, “is very full and complete. Both the coroner and the doctor seem to know their business.”
“Seeing that the man apparently fell over a cliff,” said I, “the medical evidence would not seem to be of first importance. It would seem to be more to the point to ascertain how he came to fall over.”
“That’s quite true,” replied Thorndyke; “and yet, this report contains some rather curious matter. The deceased had an aneurism of the arch; that was probably rather recent. But he also had some slight, old-standing aortic disease, with full compensatory hypertrophy. He also had a nearly complete set of false teeth. Now, doesn’t it strike you, Jervis, as rather odd that a man who was passed only five years ago as a first-class life, should, in that short interval, have become actually uninsurable?”
“Yes, it certainly does look,” said I, “as if the fellow had had rather bad luck. What does the proposal form say?”
I took the document up and ran my eyes over it. On Thorndyke’s advice, medical examiners for the Griffin were instructed to make a somewhat fuller report than is usual in some companies. In this case, the ordinary answers to questions set forth that the heart was perfectly healthy and the teeth rather exceptionally good, and then, in the summary at the end, the examiner remarked: “the proposer seems to be a completely sound and healthy man; he presents no physical defects whatever, with the exception of a bony ankylosis of the first joint of the third finger of the left hand, which he states to have been due to an injury.”
Thorndyke looked up quickly. “Which finger, did you say?” he asked.
“The third finger of the left hand,” I replied.
Thorndyke looked thoughtfully at the paper that he was reading. “It’s very singular,” said he, “for I see that the Margate doctor states that the deceased wore a signet ring on the third finger of the left hand. Now, of course, you couldn’t get a ring on to a finger with bony ankylosis of the joint.”
“He must have mistaken the finger,” said I, “or else the insurance examiner did.”
“That is quite possible,” Thorndyke replied; “but, doesn’t it strike you as very singular that, whereas the insurance examiner mentions the ankylosis, which was of no importance from an insurance point of view, the very careful man who made the post-mortem should not have mentioned it, though, owing to the unrecognisable condition of the face, it was of vital importance for the purpose of identification?”
I admitted that it was very singular indeed, and we then resumed our study of the respective papers. But presently I noticed that Thorndyke had laid the report upon his knee, and was gazing speculatively into the fire.
“I gather,” said I, “that my learned friend finds some matter of interest in this case.”
For reply, he handed me the bundle of papers, recommending me to look through them.
“Thank you,” said I, rejecting them firmly, “but I think I can trust you to have picked out all the plums.”
Thorndyke smiled indulgently. “They’re not plums, Jervis,” said he; “they’re only currants, but they make quite a substantial little heap.”
I disposed myself in a receptive attitude (somewhat after the fashion of the juvenile pelican) and he continued: “If we take the small and unimpressive items and add them together, you will see that a quite considerable sum of discrepancy results, thus:
“In 1903, Thomas Elton, aged thirty-one, had a set of sound teeth. In 1908, at the age of thirty-six, he was more than half toothless. Again, at the age of thirty-one, his heart was perfectly healthy. At the age of thirty-six, he had old aortic disease, with fully established compensation, and an aneurism that was possibly due to it. When he was examined he had a noticeable incurable malformation; no such malformation is mentioned in connection with the body.
“He appears to have fallen over a cliff; and he had also burst an aneurism. Now, the bursting of the aneurism must obviously have occurred during life; but it would occasion practically instantaneous death. Therefore, if the fall was accidental, the rupture must have occurred either as he stood at the edge of the cliff, as he was in the act of falling, or on striking the beach.
“At the place where he apparently fell, the footpath is some thirty yards distant from the edge of the cliff.
“It is not known how he came to that spot, or whether he was alone at the time.
“Someone is claiming five hundred pounds as the immediate result of his death.
“There, you see, Jervis, are seven propositions, none of them extremely striking, but rather suggestive when taken together.”
“You seem,” said I, “to suggest a doubt as to the identity of the body.”
“I do,” he replied. “The identity was not clearly established.”
“You don’t think the clothing and the visiting-cards conclusive.”
“They’re not parts of the body,” he replied. “Of course, substitution is highly improbable. But it is not impossible.”
“And the old woman—” I suggested, but he interrupted me.
“My dear Jervis,” he exclaimed; “I’m surprised at you. How many times has it happened within our knowledge that women have identified the bodies of total strangers as those of their
