The Pothunters, P. G. Wodehouse [digital book reader .TXT] 📗

comment. The Masters were, as at most schools, divided into the athletic and non-athletic, and it was for the former class that the matter possessed most interest. If it had been that apple of the College library’s eye, the original MS. of St. Austin’s private diary, or even that lesser treasure, the black-letter Eucalyptides, that had disappeared, the elder portion of the staff would have had a great deal to say upon the subject. But, apart from the excitement caused by the strangeness of such an occurrence, the theft of a couple of Sports prizes had little interest for them.

On the borderline between these two castes came Mr. Thompson, the Master of the Sixth Form, spelt with a p and no relation to the genial James or the amiable Allen, with the former of whom, indeed, he was on very indifferent terms of friendship. Mr. Thompson, though an excellent classic, had no knowledge of the inwardness of the Human Boy. He expected every member of his form not only to be earnest⁠—which very few members of a Sixth Form are⁠—but also to communicate his innermost thoughts to him. His aim was to be their confidant, the wise friend to whom they were to bring their troubles and come for advice. He was, in fact, poor man, the good young Master. Now, it is generally the case at school that troubles are things to be worried through alone, and any attempt at interference is usually resented. Mr. Thompson had asked Jim to tea, and, while in the very act of passing him the muffins, had embarked on a sort of unofficial sermon, winding up by inviting confidences. Jim had naturally been first flippant, and then rude, and relations had been strained ever since.

“It must have been a professional,” alleged Perkins, the Master of the Upper Fourth. “If it hadn’t been for the fact of the money having been stolen as well as the cups, I should have put it down to one of our fellows.”

“My dear Perkins,” expostulated Merevale.

“My dear Merevale, my entire form is capable of any crime except the theft of money. A boy might have taken the cups for a joke, or just for the excitement of the thing, meaning to return them in time for the Sports. But the two pounds knocks that on the head. It must have been a professional.”

“I always said that the Pavilion was a very unsafe place in which to keep anything of value,” said Mr. Thompson.

“You were profoundly right, Thompson,” replied Perkins. “You deserve a diploma.”

“This business is rather in your line, Thompson,” said Merevale. “You must bring your powers to bear on the subject, and scent out the criminal.”

Mr. Thompson took a keen pride in his powers of observation. He would frequently observe, like the lamented Sherlock Holmes, the vital necessity of taking notice of trifles. The daily life of a Sixth Form Master at a big public school does not afford much scope for the practice of the detective art, but Mr. Thompson had once detected a piece of cribbing, when correcting some Latin proses for the Master of the Lower Third, solely by the exercise of his powers of observation, and he had never forgotten it. He burned to add another scalp to his collection, and this Pavilion burglary seemed peculiarly suited to his talents. He had given the matter his attention, and, as far as he could see, everything pointed to the fact that skilled hands had been at work.

From eleven until half-past twelve that day, the Sixth were doing an unseen examination under the eye of the Headmaster, and Mr. Thompson was consequently off duty. He took advantage of this to stroll down to the Pavilion and make a personal inspection of the first room, from which what were left of the prizes had long been removed to a place of safety.

He was making his way to the place where the ground-man was usually to be found, with a view to obtaining the keys, when he noticed that the door was already open, and on going thither he came upon Biffen, the ground-man, in earnest conversation with a stranger.

“Morning, sir,” said the ground-man. He was on speaking terms with most of the Masters and all the boys. Then, to his companion, “This is Mr. Thompson, one of our Masters.”

“Morning, sir,” said the latter. “Weather keeps up. I am Inspector Roberts, Scotland Yard. But I think we’re in for rain soon. Yes. ’Fraid so. Been asked to look into this business, Mr. Thompson. Queer business.”

“Very. Might I ask⁠—I am very interested in this kind of thing⁠—whether you have arrived at any conclusions yet?”

The detective eyed him thoughtfully, as if he were hunting for the answer to a riddle.

“No. Not yet. Nothing definite.”

“I presume you take it for granted it was the work of a professional burglar.”

“No. No. Take nothing for granted. Great mistake. Prejudices one way or other great mistake. But, I think, yes, I think it was probably⁠—almost certainly⁠—not done by a professional.”

Mr. Thompson looked rather blank at this. It shook his confidence in his powers of deduction.

“But,” he expostulated. “Surely no one but a practised burglar would have taken a pane of glass out so⁠—ah⁠—neatly?”

Inspector Roberts rubbed a finger thoughtfully round the place where the glass had been. Then he withdrew it, and showed a small cut from which the blood was beginning to drip.

“Do you notice anything peculiar about that cut?” he enquired.

Mr. Thompson did not. Nor did the ground-man.

“Look carefully. Now do you see? No? Well, it’s not a clean cut. Ragged. Very ragged. Now if a professional had cut that pane out he wouldn’t have left it jagged like that. No. He would have used a diamond. Done job neatly.”

This destroyed another of Mr. Thompson’s premises. He had taken it for granted that a diamond had been used.

“Oh!” he said, “was that pane not cut by a diamond; what did the burglar use, then?”

“No. No diamond. Diamond would have left smooth surface. Smooth as a razor edge. This is like a saw. Amateurish work.