The shadow of the Wolf

by R. Austin Freeman

As he spoke, Miller looked about him discontentedly, running his eye over the bench and its contents. Suddenly he stepped over to the press and diving into the shadowed space between it and the wall, brought up his hand grasping a silver-mounted briar pipe.

“Now, Doctor,” he said with a grin, handing it to Thorndyke when he had inspected it, “here is something in your line. Just run your eye over that pipe and tell me what the man is like.”

Thorndyke laughed as he took the pipe in his hand. “You are thinking of the mythical anatomist and the fossil bone,” said he. “I am afraid this relic will not tell us much. It is a good pipe; it must have cost half a guinea, which would have meant more if its owner had been honest. The maker’s name tells us that it was bought in Cheapside near the Bank, its weight and the marks on the mouthpiece tell us that the owner has a strong jaw and a good set of teeth, its good condition suggests a careful, orderly man and its presence here makes it likely that the owner was Mr. Bromeswell. That isn’t much but it confirms the other appearances.”

“What other appearances?” demanded Miller.

“Those of the bed, the chair, the bench, the hooks and the trough. They all point to a big, heavy man. The bedstead is about six feet, six inches long but the heel-marks are near the foot and the pillow is right at the head, This bench and the trough have been put up for this man’s use—they were apparently knocked up by himself; and they are both of a suitable height for you or me. A short man couldn’t work at either. The hooks are over seven feet from the floor. The canvas seat of the chair is deeply sagged although the woodwork looks in nearly new condition, and the canvas of the bed is in the same condition. Add this massive, hard-bitten pipe to those indications and you have the picture of a tall, burly, powerful man. We must have a look at his pillow and rugs to see if we can pick up a stray hair or two, and get an idea of his complexion. What did he make the pulp from? I don’t see any traces of rags.”

“He didn’t use rags. He used Whatman’s water-colour paper, which is a pure linen paper. Apparently he tore it up into tiny fragments and boiled it in soda lye until it was ready to go into the beater. Monk found a supply of the paper in a cupboard and some half-cooked stuff in the boiler.” As he spoke, Miller unscrewed and raised the lid of the boiler, which was then seen to be half-filled with a clear liquid at the bottom of which was a mass of sodden fragments of shredded paper. From the boiler he turned to a small cupboard and opened the door. “That seems to be his stock of material,” he said, indicating a large roll of thick white paper. He took out a sheet and handed it to Thorndyke, who held it up to the light and read the name “Whatman” which formed the water-mark.

“Yes,” said Thorndyke, as he returned the sheet. “His method of work seems clear enough, but that is not of much interest as you have the moulds. What we want is the man himself. You have no description of him, I suppose?”

“Not if your description of him is correct,” replied Miller. “The suspected person, according to the Belgian police, is a smallish, slight, dark man. They may be on the wrong track, or their man may be a confederate. There must have been a confederate, perhaps more than one. But Bromeswell only made the paper. Some one else must have done the engraving and the printing. As to planting the notes, that may have been done by some other parties, or by either or both of these two artists. I should think they probably kept the game to themselves, judging by what we have seen here. This seems to be a one man show, and it looks as if even the engraver didn’t know where the paper was made, or the moulds wouldn’t have been left in this way. Shall we go and look for those hairs that you spoke of?”

They returned to the outer room, where they both subjected the little pillow of the camp bed to a searching scrutiny. But though they examined both sides and even took off the dusty pillow-case, not a single hair was to be found. Then they turned their attention to the rugs, which had been folded neatly and placed on the canvas—there was no mattress—unfolding them carefully and going over them inch by inch. Here, too, they seemed to have drawn a blank, for they had almost completed their examination when the Superintendent uttered an exclamation and delicately picked a small object from near the edge of the rug.

“This seems to be a hair, Doctor,” said he, holding it up between his finger and thumb. “Looks like a moustache hair, but it’s a mighty short one.”