Austin freeman red thumbprint read. Eye of Osiris. Magic box. Dr. Thorndike Series

MESSAGE FROM THE BOTTOM OF THE SEA

Whitechapel Street is hardly the most pleasant place to stroll, although occasional vestiges of a more picturesque past save the street from the neglect that plagues nearby Commercial Road. Yet its current wretchedness, especially in the eastern part, seems to reflect the colorless existence of the inhabitants of these places, and the gray gloomy landscape depresses the spirit of the walking traveler. But even the longest, most boring road can be brightened up with a witty and learned conversation; and so it was that my friend John Thorndike and I were walking west along Whitechapel Street, and the long, dreary journey seemed very short.

We have just visited a London hospital where we saw an unusual case of acromegaly Acromegaly is abnormal growth of the arms and legs in a middle-aged person, accompanied by changes in the facial muscles and disruption of the heart. The disease is associated with hormonal disorders in the pituitary gland., and on the way back we discussed this rare disease, as well as related gigantism, in all its manifestations, from the chin of the Gibson girls Charles Dana Gibson (1867–1944) - American artist and printmaker. He created the ideal of the so-called "Gibson girl", which became a notable phenomenon at the end of the Victorian era. "Gibson Girls" were often characterized by heavy features (see Glossary, 12). to the physique of Og, king of Bashan Og, King Bashan is a biblical character. In the Book of Numbers he is described as the last of the giants, whose height was more than twice that of a man..

It would be interesting,” remarked Thorndyke, as we passed Aldgate High Street, “to place our fingers in His Majesty’s pituitary fossa—after his death, of course.”

And here, by the way, is Harrow Alley; remember Defoe’s description - he placed a cart with the dead there - and this terrible procession going down the street... This refers to a scene from Defoe’s work “The Diary of a Plague Year”, where a cart carrying the bodies of those killed by the plague travels along this alley.- Thorndyke took me by the arm and led me along a narrow alley; at a sharp bend at the Star and Serpentine pub we looked back.

“I never walk here,” he said thoughtfully, “but it seems that I can hear the bell ringing and the driver weeping bitterly...

He stopped short. Suddenly two people appeared under the arch; they were rushing towards us. The first to run was a portly, middle-aged Jewish woman, out of breath and disheveled; she was followed by a well-dressed young man, no less alarmed than his companion. Having caught up with us, he recognized my colleague and turned to him with excitement in his voice:

I have a call for an examination: a murder or suicide has occurred. Could you help, sir? This is my first challenge, I'm very excited...

Then the woman rushed to my colleague and grabbed his hand.

Faster! - she exclaimed. - No time to chat.

Her face was chalk pale and glistening with sweat, her lips were trembling, and her hands were shaking; she looked at us with the eyes of a frightened child.

“Of course, Garth, I’ll go,” said Thorndyke.

We followed the woman, who was furiously pushing aside passers-by on her way.

Did you start your practice here? - Thorndyke asked as he walked.

No, sir,” replied Doctor Garth. - I am an assistant to a forensic doctor, but he is on call now. It's so good that you agreed to help, sir.

Well, well,” responded Thorndyke. - I just want to make sure that my science is of use to you... But it seems we have arrived.

We followed our friend into an alley, where a little in front of one of the houses, people were crowded together. When we approached, they parted. The woman who was showing us the way ducked through the door and rushed up the stairs with the same desperate speed with which she ran through the streets, but, not reaching the end of the flight a little, she suddenly stopped hesitantly and walked over the last steps on tiptoe. On the landing, a woman turned around and whispered in a barely audible voice:

She’s there,” and, almost losing consciousness, she sank down onto the step.

I put my hand on the door handle and looked at Thorndyke. He stood up slowly, looking closely at the floor, walls and railings. When he reached the landing, I opened the door and entered the room. The blinds were drawn, and at first we did not notice anything unusual in the uncertain, dim light. The small, poorly furnished room looked quite neat and clean, only a thief was lying on the chair women's clothing. The bed seemed untouched, and the figure of a lying girl could barely be seen on it; in the twilight it might have seemed that the girl was sleeping peacefully, if not for her petrified face and a dark spot on the pillow.

Dr. Hart walked cautiously to the bed, and Thorndyke raised the blinds; a bright light flooded the room, and the young doctor recoiled, his face distorted with fear.

God! - he exclaimed. - Poor child! How terrible, sir!

The rays of the sun illuminated the pale face of a lovely girl of about twenty-five, peaceful and serene, beautiful with the pure, unearthly beauty of a creature who had passed away early. Her mouth was slightly open, her eyelids were slightly raised, and her curved eyelashes cast a shadow over her eyes; Lush dark braids set off her transparent skin.

My friend pulled the blanket a few inches away from her sweet face, so calm, but at the same time terrible with its immobility and waxy pallor, and we saw a terrible gaping wound: the girl’s neck was cut almost in half.

Thorndyke looked at the murdered woman with restrained pity.

A brutal murder,” he said, “and yet merciful in its cruelty, because she probably didn’t even wake up.”

Monster! - Garth shouted, clenching his fists and turning purple with rage. - Evil, cowardly animal! He will not escape execution! He'll be hanged, I swear! - The angry young man shook his fists, and tears sparkled in his eyes.

Thorndyke touched him on the shoulder:

That's what we're here for, Garth. “Take out the notebook,” he said, bending over the body of the murdered woman.

After this friendly remark, young Garth pulled himself together, opened his notebook and began to examine it, while I, at Thorndyke's request, began to draw up a plan of the room, including a description of all the objects and their relative positions. But I did not stop watching Thorndyke’s movements and soon abandoned the drawing, watching as my friend used a pocket knife to collect some powder that he found on the pillow.

What do you think? - he asked when I came closer and pointed with the blade of a knife at something that resembled white sand; Taking a closer look, I noticed that similar grains of sand were scattered throughout the pillow.

White sand! - I responded. - I have no idea how he ended up here. What do you think?

Thorndike shook his head.

“We’ll deal with the explanations later,” he replied and took out of his pocket a metal box in which he always carried with him necessary items like cover glasses, capillary tubes, casting wax and other “diagnostic materials.” From it he took out an envelope for seeds and carefully scooped a pinch of this sand into it with a knife. Then he sealed the envelope and was already beginning to write on it when we were shocked by the cry of young Garth:

My God! Look, sir! The killer is a woman!

He threw the blanket aside and now looked at left hand girls. The murdered woman held in her hand a thin strand of long red hair.

Thorndyke hurriedly put the sample of sand into his pocket, walked around the bedside table and bent over it, frowning. The victim's fingers were clenched, but not very tightly; when they tried to unclench them, it turned out that they were hard, like a wooden mannequin. Thorndyke bent even lower and, taking out a magnifying glass, examined a strand of hair along its entire length.

“It’s not as simple as it seems at first glance,” he noted. - What do you say, Garth?

Thorndyke handed the magnifying glass to his former student, but then the door opened and three people entered. The first was a policeman with the rank of inspector, the second, apparently, a criminal police officer Criminal police officers (plain-clothes officers) in the UK are subordinate to a separate police department. The prefix “detective-” is added to their ranks; for example, a detective sergeant is a criminal police sergeant. They do not wear uniforms, hence their English name., and the third is undoubtedly a forensic doctor.

Are these your friends, Garth? - asked the latter, looking at us with noticeable disapproval.

My friend briefly explained the reasons for our presence, to which the forensic doctor replied:

In that case, sir, we'll let the inspector determine your locus standi Letters, location (lat.). In this case, we mean the right to be present during the inspection. In a broader sense, this expression denoted a justified right to something. Here. I did not allow my assistant to involve outsiders. Garth, you can go.

The forensic doctor began the examination, while Thorndike took out a pocket thermometer, which he had previously placed under the body of the murdered woman, and took readings.

The inspector was in no hurry to use the powers that the forensic doctor hinted at him, because it is always useful to have a specialist on hand.

How long do you think, sir, has passed since death? - he asked politely.

“About ten o’clock,” replied Thorndyke.

Both policemen looked at their watches at the same time.

So, she was killed at two o'clock in the morning, said the inspector. - What is this, sir?

At this moment, the forensic doctor examining the body pointed out a strand of hair in the hand of the murdered woman.

That's it! - exclaimed the inspector. - Woman! The lady must not be a pleasant one. It won't be hard to find her, will it, Sergeant?

Of course,” said the second policeman. - Now it’s clear why the killer needs a chest at the head of the room, and there’s also a pillow on it. To reach it, she stood on it. She's probably not tall.

But she definitely has a lot of strength,” the inspector noted, “after all, she almost cut off the head of this ill-fated girl.”

He walked to the headboard and bent over the gaping wound. Running his hand over the pillow, he made a movement as if rubbing something in his fingers.

Oh, there's sand here! White sand! And how did he get here?

The forensic doctor and the detective sergeant rushed to see it with their own eyes, and the three began to seriously discuss the significance of this discovery.

Have you noticed the sand, sir? - the inspector asked Thorndyke.

“Oh yes,” he replied. - Inexplicable, isn't it?

“I can’t quite agree with you,” the sergeant noted. Having said this, he walked up to the washbasin, chuckled with satisfaction, and then continued, looking complacently at my colleague: “Look: here’s a very simple explanation.” On the washbasin there is a piece of coarse soap - white sand is added to it - and the sink is half filled with water and blood. This means that the criminal washed the blood from her hands and washed the knife - she is not lacking in composure, mind you - with this very soap. Then, drying her hands, she walked to the head of the bed, and the sand fell onto the pillow. I think everything is clear here.

“It couldn’t be clearer,” Thorndyke responded. - How do you imagine the sequence of events?

The detective sergeant looked around the room with a smug look.

“I suppose,” he began, “the girl fell asleep while reading.” There is a book on the table by the bed, and next to it there is a candlestick, in which only a piece of burnt wick remains. I think the criminal quietly entered the room, turned on the light, moved the chest with a pillow to the bed, stood on it and cut the throat of her victim. She woke up and grabbed the killer by the hair - although no further signs of a struggle were found, so, without a doubt, the unfortunate girl died almost instantly. Then the criminal washed her hands and the knife, straightened the linen on the bed and left. That's how I see it; It remains to be seen how she entered the house unnoticed, how she left it and where she went.

Perhaps,” the forensic doctor noted, covering the corpse with a blanket, “we should invite the mistress of the house and ask her a few questions.”

He cast a significant glance at Thorndyke, and the inspector coughed, covering his mouth with his hand. But my colleague remained deaf to these hints. He opened the door, after which he turned the key back and forth in the lock several times, pulled it out, looked closely at it, and inserted it back.

The landlady is here on the landing,” he said.

Hearing this, the inspector left the room, and we all followed him to listen to what the witness would tell him.

So, Mrs. Goldstein,” the policeman said, opening the notebook, “I want you to tell everything you know about this event and about the girl herself.” What was her name?

The lady of the house, joined by a pale and trembling man, wiped her tears and answered in a broken voice:

The poor girl's name was Minna Adler. She was German, came from Bremen two years ago. In England she had no friends... that is, no relatives. She worked as a waitress in a restaurant on Fenchurch Street, such a kind, quiet, hard-working girl...

When did you find out that the accident happened?

Around eleven. I thought she had gone to work as usual, but my husband saw from the backyard that her blinds were drawn. I went up to her, knocked, but no one answered, and then I opened the door, entered and saw... - Then the poor woman burst into frantic sobs, unable to bear the memories of the tragedy.

This means the door was not locked. Did Minna usually lock her?

Yes, I think,” Mrs. Goldstein sobbed. - The key was always in the lock.

Was the front door locked this morning?

Just covered. We don't lock it because some residents come back late.

Now tell me, did she have any enemies? Anyone who would like to settle scores with her?

No, what are you talking about! Poor Minna had no enemies. She didn't quarrel, that is, she didn't really quarrel, with anyone, not even with Miriam.

Who is this, Miriam? - asked the inspector.

“There was nothing wrong with her,” Mrs. Goldstein’s companion hastily inserted. - They didn't quarrel.

We just had a little quarrel, didn't we, Mr. Goldstein? - the inspector suggested.

They just couldn’t share one gentleman, that’s all,” Mr. Goldstein replied. - Miriam was a little jealous. But there was nothing special.

Of course, of course, we all know that young girls...

The sound of footsteps could be heard from above: someone was slowly descending towards us, and at that very moment appeared on the landing. Seeing who was standing there, the inspector froze, as if petrified; An oppressive, tense silence reigned. A short, tightly built girl, disheveled, deathly pale with horror, with a crazy look, was coming down the stairs towards us; her hair was fiery red.

Unable to move, we silently watched as this vision slowly descended towards us. The detective sergeant suddenly slipped back into the room and returned a few moments later, holding a paper bag in his hand; After exchanging glances with the inspector, he put the bag in his breast pocket.

Gentlemen, this is my daughter Miriam, whom we were just talking about,” Mr. Goldstein said. - Miriam, these gentlemen are policemen and forensic doctors.

The girl looked at us one by one.

“So you saw her,” she said in a strangely suppressed voice. - She didn't really die, did she?

Miriam asked the question in a tone that was equal parts ingratiating and full of despair, as a distraught mother would say over the corpse of her child. This made me feel vaguely uneasy and involuntarily turned around, looking for Thorndyke.

To my surprise, he disappeared.

Walking quietly back to the steps, where I could see the entire corridor, I looked down and saw my friend trying to reach the shelf near front door. He met my eyes and beckoned me with his hand; Unnoticed by anyone, I went down to him. As I approached, Thorndyke was wrapping three small objects, each separately, in tissue paper, and I noticed that he handled them with extraordinary care.

I wouldn’t want this girl to be arrested,” he said, carefully placing three small packages into his box. - Let's go.

He opened the door silently, moved the bolt back and forth and carefully examined the bolt.

I looked at the shelf behind the door. There stood two flat porcelain candlesticks, in one of which, as we entered, I happened to notice a candle stub, and I wanted to see if it was Thorndyke who had just taken it. But no, the cinder was there.

I followed my colleague out into the street, and we walked for some time without speaking to each other.

“You, of course, guessed that the sergeant wrapped it in paper,” Thorndike finally said.

Yes. Hair that was in the victim's hand; I thought it would be better to leave them in place.

Without a doubt. But well-meaning cops destroy evidence like this. In this case it does not matter of great importance, but in any other case it would be a fatal mistake.

Are you going to participate in the investigation? - I asked.

Depends on the circumstances. I've collected some evidence, but I don't know how valuable it is yet. I also don't know if the police noted the same facts as I did; but, of course, I will do whatever is required to assist the authorities. This is my civic duty.

As the adventures of this morning had taken up a good deal of our time, we were required to set off immediately, each on his own business; having lunch at a quick fix in a cafe, we parted, and I did not see my colleague until the evening, when I returned home for dinner after work.

I found Thorndike at the table. My friend was busy: in front of him stood a microscope, on a slide of which lay some kind of powder, illuminated through a condenser lens; the open sample box lay nearby, and Thorndyke was busy squeezing thick white putty from a tube onto three tiny wax castings.

The most useful thing this “Fortafix,” he noted. “It makes excellent impressions without the fuss of plaster, which is especially useful if the object is small, like these.” By the way, if you want to find out what was on the pillow of the dead girl, just look through the microscope. A wonderful example.

I looked into the microscope. Indeed, the sample was excellent, and not only from the point of view of the quality of the drug. Mixed in it were transparent quartz crystals, glass-like needles, pieces of coral worn away by water, as well as many lovely tiny shells; some resembled fine porcelain, others resembled Venetian glass.

These are foraminifera! Foraminifera (Foraminifera) are a type of organisms in the kingdom of protozoa, which are distinguished by the presence of an external skeleton in the form of a kind of shell. Their size is usually less than 1 mm.- I exclaimed.

So it's still not white sand?

Definitely not.

So what? Thorndyke smiled:

Jervis, this message comes to us from the bottom of the sea - from the bottom of the eastern Mediterranean Sea.

And can you read it?

“I think so,” replied Thorndyke, “and soon, I hope, I will be sure of it.”

I looked into the microscope again and wondered: what message did these tiny shells convey to my friend? Deep sea sand on the pillow of a murdered woman! What could be more inappropriate? What connection could there be between this heinous crime committed in east London and the bottom of the “tidal sea”? The sea without tides is a name that has been assigned to the Mediterranean Sea in literature due to the fact that there are practically no ebbs and flows in it.

Meanwhile, Thorndyke squeezed more putty onto his pieces of wax (I decided that these were the ones he had so carefully wrapped in paper before my eyes); then he placed one of them on the glass plate, putty side up, and placed the other two vertically on the sides of the first. After that, he squeezed out a new portion of his mixture, apparently to combine all three objects, and carefully placed it all in the cabinet, putting in the same envelope with sand and a microscope slide with the drug.

He was just locking the closet when suddenly there was a sharp knock on the door knocker, and my friend hurried to the door. A messenger boy stood on the threshold with a dirty envelope in his hands.

It’s not my fault it took so long, sir,” he said. - Mr. Goldstein was busy with so much.

Thorndike came up with an envelope under the lamp, opened it and pulled out a piece of paper, which he looked through quickly, as if in excitement; and, although his face remained imperturbable, like a stone mask, I was absolutely sure: this paper contained the answer to some of his questions.

The messenger went home, satisfied with the reward, and Thorndyke turned to the bookshelves, ran his gaze thoughtfully over them and stopped at a volume with a tattered cover in the very corner. He took off the book, opened it and put it on the table; I looked into it and was surprised to find that it was printed in two languages: on the one hand in Russian, and on the other, as I thought, in Hebrew.

The Old Testament is in Russian and Yiddish,” Thorndike explained, seeing my amazement. - I'll let Paulton photograph a couple of pages as a sample of the font... Who came, the postman or the visitor?

It turned out that the postman had arrived, and Thorndyke, looking at me significantly, took a blue official envelope from the letter box.

I think that answers your question, Jervis,” he said. - Yes, this is a summons for an inquest from the coroner and a very polite letter: “I apologize for disturbing you, but in the circumstances there was no other choice ...” - of course there was no choice. “... Dr. Davidson scheduled an autopsy for tomorrow, at four o’clock in the afternoon, and I would be glad if you could attend. The mortuary is on Barker Street, next to the school." Well, I guess we should go, although Davidson will probably be outraged. - And Thorndike retired to the laboratory, taking the Old Testament with him.

The next day we dined at our place, and after eating we moved our chairs to the fire and lit our pipes. Thorndyke was deep in thought: sitting with a notebook on his lap and looking intently at the fire, he took notes with a pencil, as if he were preparing theses for a discussion. Believing that his thoughts were occupied with the Aldgate murder, I decided to ask the question:

Do you have physical evidence to present to the coroner?

He put down his notebook.

“I have at my disposal,” he said, “there is important material evidence, but it is not interconnected and is not entirely sufficient. If, as I hope, I can bind them into a single whole before the trial, then they will have considerable power... And here is my invaluable companion with the tools for research. - He turned with a smile to meet Polton, who had just entered the room; the master and servant exchanged friendly glances that spoke of mutual affection. The relationship between Thorndike and his assistant never ceased to touch me: on the one hand, faithful, selfless service, on the other, sincere affection.

It seems to me that these will do, sir,” said Paulton, handing the owner a cardboard box like a case for playing cards.

Thorndike removed the lid, and I saw that there were grooves attached to the bottom of the box, and two photographic graphic plates were inserted into them. These turned out to be highly unusual photographs: the first is a copy of a page Old Testament in Russian, the second is a copy of the page in Yiddish. Moreover, the letters were white on a black background; they covered only the center of the pictures, leaving wide black margins. Both cards were glued to thick cardboard in two copies - on the front and back sides.

Thorndyke showed them to me with a conspiratorial smile, gracefully holding the records by the edges, and then placed them back in the box.

As you can see, we are making a small excursion into philology,” he noted, putting the box in his pocket. “But it’s time for us to not keep Davidson waiting.” Thank you, Paulton.

District Railway quickly carried us east, and we got off at Aldgate station a full half hour ahead of schedule. Despite this, Thorndike hurried forward, but did not go towards the morgue, but for some reason turned onto Mansell Street, checking the house numbers along the way. He seemed particularly interested in the row of houses on the right, picturesque but covered with soot; coming closer to them, he slowed down.

“This is a lovely piece of antiquity, Jervis,” he remarked, pointing to a crudely painted wooden figurine of an Indian near the door of an old-fashioned tobacconist’s shop. We stopped to look, but then the side door opened. A woman came out and began to look around.

Thorndyke immediately crossed the sidewalk and addressed her, apparently with a question, for I heard her immediate answer:

He usually arrives promptly at a quarter past six, sir.

“Thank you, I’ll remember,” said Thorndyke and, raising his hat, he quickly walked away, turning straight into the lane along which we reached Old Gate. It was already five minutes to four, and so we quickened our pace so as not to be late for the morgue at the appointed time; but, although we entered the gate at the striking of the clock, we met Dr. Davidson as he took off his apron, preparing to leave.

Sorry, I couldn’t wait for you,” he said, not even trying to pretend that he was telling the truth, “but postmortem Autopsy (lat., lit., after death). in such a matter it is simply a farce; you've seen everything there is to see. However, the body is still here; Garth has not removed it yet.

He said a short goodbye and left.

“I must apologize for Dr. Davidson, sir,” said Garth vexedly; he was sitting at the table and writing something down.

“It’s not worth it,” my friend replied. - You didn't teach him manners. And here I can handle it myself, I just need to check a couple of details.

Garth and I took his hint and remained at the table, while Thorndyke took off his hat, walked to the long dissection table and bent over the body of the victim of this terrible tragedy. He did not move for some time, intently examining the body - no doubt looking for bruises and other signs of struggle. Then he bent even lower and carefully examined the wound, especially at the edges of the cut. Then he sharply moved closer, peering as if something had caught his attention, took out a magnifying glass and took a small sponge, which he used to wipe the exposed protrusion of the vertebra. Then he again meticulously examined this place through the magnifying glass and, using a scalpel and a clamp, pulled out something, carefully rinsed the object and examined it again through the magnifying glass, holding it in the palm of his hand. Then, as I expected, he took out his “evidence box,” took out an envelope, dropped this tiny object into it, wrote on the envelope, and put it back.

“I think I saw everything I wanted,” he said, putting the box in his pocket and putting on his hat. - We'll see you tomorrow morning at the coroner's inquest.

He shook Garth's hand and we walked out into the relatively fresh air.

Under various pretexts, Thorndyke remained in the vicinity of Old Gate until the church bell struck six, and then he headed towards Harrow Alley. He walked, slowly and thoughtfully, down that narrow winding street parallel to Little Somerset Street and out into Mansell Street, so that at exactly a quarter past six we found ourselves in front of that same tobacconist's shop.

Thorndyke glanced at his watch and stopped, looking warily ahead. A moment later, he took his cardboard box out of his pocket and pulled out those same two photographs that had already plunged me into complete amazement. Now they seemed to amaze Thorndike himself no less, judging by the expression of his face; he brought them to his eyes and examined them, frowning and gradually approaching the entrance next to the shop. Then I noticed a man walking in our direction, looking at Thorndyke with some curiosity, but also with obvious hostility. He was a young man of very short stature, strongly built, and looked like a Jewish immigrant; his face, naturally gloomy and unattractive, was pitted with pockmarks, which made it seem even uglier.

Sorry,” he said roughly, pushing Thorndyke aside. - I live here.

Please excuse me,” replied Thorndyke. He took a step back and suddenly asked: “By the way, do you happen to know Yiddish?”

Why do you need it? - he asked gloomily.

Yes, they just gave me these two pictures with texts. One seems to be in Greek and the other in Yiddish, but I forget which is which. - He handed the cards to the stranger, who took them and began to examine them with a gloomy look.

This is Yiddish,” he said, raising his right hand, “and this is not Greek, but Russian.”

He gave the cards to Thorndyke, who accepted them, holding them carefully by the edges as before.

Thank you very much for your invaluable help! - Thorndike proclaimed, but before he could finish speaking, the stranger entered the house, slamming the door behind him.

Thorndyke carefully put the pictures back, put the box in his pocket and wrote something in his notebook.

Now,” he said, “my work is completed, with the exception of one small experiment that can be done at home.” By the way, I brought to light a tiny piece of evidence that Davidson missed. This will make him angry. Although it doesn’t give me much pleasure to punch my colleagues on the nose, this one is painfully discourteous.

The coroner's summons ordered Thorndike to appear to give evidence at ten o'clock, but his plans were thwarted by a consultation with a well-known lawyer, so on leaving the Temple Temple - here: London Law Society building. We were already a quarter of an hour late. It was noticeable that my friend was in excellent spirits, although he was silent and seemed lost in thought; I therefore concluded that he was pleased with the results of his labors. Although we were traveling together, I still refrained from asking questions, but not so much out of courtesy as out of a desire to hear his evidence for the first time along with the testimony of other witnesses.

The room in which the inquiry took place was located in a school not far from the morgue. A long table covered with cloth was placed in the empty hall; at its head sat the coroner, and one of the sides was occupied by a jury, and I was glad to note that most of them were people who live by their own labor, and not the unceremonious, stone-faced “professional jurors”, so susceptible to such inquiries.

The witnesses sat on chairs in a row, and a place on the corner of the table was allocated to the accused's lawyer, a dapper, impeccably dressed gentleman in a gold pince-nez; a few more seats were reserved for reporters, and the public of all sorts occupied the rows of benches.

Among those gathered there were those whom I did not expect to see at all. For example, an acquaintance of ours from Mansell Street was present and greeted us with a surprised and unfriendly look; the superintendent was also in the hall Superintendent - a police rank one rank above inspector; the superintendent supervised the work of the police division, that is, all the police officers of a certain part of the city. Miller from Scotland Yard, whose behavior betrayed some kind of conspiracy with Thorndyke. But there was no time left to look around, since the meeting began before our arrival. Mrs. Goldstein, the first of the witnesses, was finishing her account of the circumstances under which the body was discovered; When she returned to her seat, shaking with sobs, the jury saw her off with sympathetic glances.

The next witness was a girl named Kate Silver. Before taking the oath, she looked at Miriam Goldstein with undisguised hatred. Miriam stood to the side, guarded by two policemen, pale, with a wild face; her red hair fell in disarray over her shoulders, her gaze wandered like that of a sleepwalker.

You were closely acquainted with the deceased, weren't you? - asked the coroner.

Yes. We worked together for quite a long time - at the Empire restaurant on Fenchurch Street - and lived in the same house. She was my closest friend.

Did she have friends or relatives in England?

No. She came to England from Bremen about three years ago. That's when I met her. All her relatives remained in Germany, but she made friends with many here because she was very cheerful and courteous.

Did she have enemies, that is, could anyone have plotted evil against her and caused her harm?

Yes, Miriam Goldstein was her enemy. She hated it.

You claim that Miriam Goldstein hated the deceased. Why do you think so?

She didn't hide it. They quarreled over one thing young man named Moshe Cohen. He used to be Miriam's boyfriend, and I think they loved each other very much until Minna Adler moved in with the Goldsteins. Then Moshe began to look at Minna, and she liked it, although she already had a boyfriend, Paul Petrovsky, who also lived with the Goldsteins. Moshe eventually broke up with Miriam and became engaged to Minna. Miriam was angry and accused Minna of treachery - she said so directly; and Minna just laughed and replied that she could take Petrovski for herself in return.

And what did Miriam answer to this?

She got even more angry because Moshe Cohen is not stupid and very good-looking, but Petrovski is nothing of himself. Besides, Miriam didn’t like Petrovski; he was rude to her and so she asked her father to move him out. In general, there was no friendship between them; and then this trouble happened...

What trouble?

Well, with Moshe Cohen. Miriam is very hot-tempered, and she was terribly jealous of Moshe and Minna, so when Petrovsky began to tease her and tell her about Moshe and Minna, she lost her temper and said terrible things about them.

For example?

She said she wanted to cut Minna's throat or even kill them both.

When did it happen?

The day before the murder.

Who else besides you heard her say this?

Another lodger, Edig Bryant, and Petrowski. We were all standing in the hall then.

But I think you said that Petrovski was evicted?

Yes, a week earlier. But he left some kind of box in the room and that day he came to pick it up. This is how this trouble began. Miriam forbade him to enter the room because it was now her bedroom, and in her former room she had set up a workshop.

But he still went to get the box?

Seems to be yes. Miriam, Edith, and I went out, but he remained in the hall. When we returned, the box had disappeared. Mrs. Goldstein was cooking in the kitchen, and no one else was in the house, which means Paul took the box.

You mentioned Miriam's workshop. What kind of job did she have?

She cut stencils for a decorating company.

Here the coroner took from the table unusual shape knife and handed it to the witness:

Have you ever seen this knife?

Yes. This is Miriam Goldstein's knife. This is the knife she used to cut out the stencils.

At this point, Kate Silver's testimony ended, and the next witness was called - Paul Petrovsky. It turned out to be our friend from Mansell Street. His testimony did not take long and only confirmed what Kate Silver had said; the next witness, Edith Bryant, testified the same. When they were finished, the coroner announced:

Gentlemen! Before hearing the doctor's testimony, I suggest that you familiarize yourself with the police testimony. Let's start with Detective Sergeant Alfred Bates.

The sergeant readily took the witness stand and began to present his testimony with professional clarity and thoroughness:

At eleven forty-nine minutes I was called by Constable Simmonds, and arrived at the scene of the crime at two minutes to twelve, accompanied by Inspector Harris and Dr. Davidson. When we arrived, Dr. Garth, Dr. Thorndyke, and Dr. Jervis were already in the room. I found the victim, Minna Adler, in bed; her throat was cut. The body has already cooled down. There were no signs of a struggle, the bed looked untouched. There was a table at the head, and on it lay a book and an empty candlestick. The candle had apparently burnt out, as only a charred piece of wick remained in the candlestick. A chest was moved closer to the head, with a pillow on it. Apparently, the killer stood on the pillow and leaned over the headboard to deliver the fatal blow. The killer had to do this because the bedside table was in the way, and it was impossible to move it without disturbing the sleeping woman. Based on the fact that a chest and a pillow were required, I believe that the killer is short.

Did you find anything else that might identify the killer?

Yes. A strand of red hair was clutched in the deceased's left hand. women's hair.

When the detective sergeant said this, a cry of horror escaped simultaneously from the chest of the accused and her mother. Mrs. Goldstein sank onto the bench, close to fainting, and Miriam, pale as death, seemed rooted to the spot; With eyes full of genuine fear, she watched as the detective took two paper bags from his pocket, opened them and handed them to the coroner.

“In the bag with the letter A,” he said, “is the hair found in the deceased’s hand.” The package with the letter B contains Miriam Goldstein's hair.

The defendant's lawyer rose from his seat.

Where did you get the hair in package B? - he asked.

“I took them from a bag of hairbrushes that was hanging on the wall in Miriam Goldstein’s room,” answered the detective sergeant.

“I protest,” said the lawyer. - There is no evidence that the hair in this bag belongs to Miriam Goldstein.

Thorndyke laughed softly and turned to me without raising his voice:

The lawyer is as dense as the detective sergeant. Neither one nor the other probably understands the true meaning of this bag.

Did you know about him? - I asked, amazed.

No. I thought he took the comb. I looked at my colleague in amazement and was just about to ask him what such a mysterious answer meant, when he raised his finger and began to listen carefully again.

Okay, Mr. Horwitz, the coroner was saying, I'll put your comment on the record, but the sergeant can continue.

The defendant's lawyer sat down, and the policeman continued to testify:

I examined and compared two hair samples and came to the conclusion that they belong to the same person. The only thing I found besides hair was white sand scattered on the pillow around the victim's head.

White sand! - exclaimed the coroner. - And where does it come from on the pillow of a murdered woman?

I think it's easy to explain,” replied the detective sergeant. - The washbasin was full of water mixed with blood; This means that the killer, after committing the crime, washed his hands, and probably also the knife. There was soap containing white sand on the washstand, and I think that the criminal - or criminal - washed his hands with this soap, and then stood at the head of the bed, and the sand fell from his hands onto the pillow.

A simple but extremely ingenious explanation,” the coroner remarked approvingly, and the jury nodded in agreement.

I examined the rooms of the accused Miriam Goldstein and found there a knife, like the one used for cutting stencils, but larger than usual. There were blood stains on it, which the accused explained by cutting herself the other day; she confirmed that the knife belonged to her.

With this, the detective sergeant ended his speech, and before he had time to sit down, the lawyer rose from his seat.

“I would like to ask the witness a couple of questions,” he said, waited for the coroner to nod affirmatively, the giver stood on the chest at the head of the room, put a pillow on it, and leaned down to strike. He is probably short, very strong, and right-handed. There were no signs of a struggle, and, judging by the nature of the wound, I can conclude that death occurred almost instantly. In the left hand of the deceased there was a small strand of red female hair. I compared them with the accused's hair and came to the conclusion that this hair was hers.

Apparently, he only washed his hands and continued: “Was the accused’s finger examined after the arrest?”

I guess not,” the policeman replied. - In any case, I haven't heard about it.

The lawyer wrote down his answer and asked the following question:

As for the white sand, did you find it in the washbasin itself?

The sergeant blushed.

I didn't inspect the washbasin.

Has anyone examined him at all?

I think no.

“Thank you,” Mr. Horwitz said, sat down and began to write something down, cheerfully creaking his pen and drowning out the dissatisfied murmur of the jurors.

Let's move on to the testimony of the medical experts, gentlemen, said the coroner. - Let's start with the testimony of the district forensic doctor.

Dr Davidson administered the oath and the coroner continued:

You examined the victim's body shortly after it was found, didn't you?

Yes. I found a corpse on the bed; the bed, apparently, was never disturbed. About ten hours had passed since death, since the limbs were completely numb, but the torso was not. The cause of death was undoubtedly a deep wound across the throat down to the spine. It was inflicted with a single blow of a knife while the victim was lying in bed. It is impossible to inflict such a wound on yourself. The murder weapon was a single-sided knife, the direction of the blow was from left to right; the attacker stood on a chest at the head of the room, placing a pillow on it, and leaned down to strike. He is probably short, very strong, and right-handed. There were no signs of a struggle, and, judging by the nature of the wound, I can conclude that death occurred almost instantly. In the left hand of the deceased there was a small strand of red female hair. I compared them with the accused's hair and came to the conclusion that this hair was hers.

Were you shown a knife that belonged to the accused?

Yes, this is a stencil cutting knife. There were blood stains on it, which I examined and could definitely say was the blood of a mammal. It's probably human blood, but I'm not sure.

Could this knife be the murder weapon?

Yes, although it is too small for such a deep wound. And yet it is quite possible.

The coroner looked at Mr. Horwitz and asked:

Do you have any questions for the witness?

With your permission, sir,” he answered, stood up and continued, looking at his notes: “You mentioned some blood stains on this knife.” But we have heard that water mixed with blood was found in the washbasin, and it is quite reasonable to assume that the killer washed his hands and cleaned the knife. But if he washed the blood off the knife, where did the stains on the blade come from?

Apparently he only washed his hands.

Isn't that weird?

No I do not think so.

You said that there was no struggle and that death occurred almost instantly, but at the same time the victim still tore out a lock of hair from the killer. Is there a contradiction here?

No. The victim apparently grabbed the killer by the hair during his death convulsions. In any case, the hair was in the hand of the murdered woman, and there is no doubt about it.

Is it possible to establish with absolute accuracy who owns certain human hairs?

With absolute accuracy - it is impossible. But this hair is very unusual.

The lawyer sat down, and Dr. Hart was called, who only briefly confirmed the testimony of his superior; after this the coroner announced:

Gentlemen! The next witness is Dr. Thorndike, who happened to be at the crime scene by pure chance, but nevertheless examined it first. In addition, he examined the body and will undoubtedly be able to shed more light to this terrible crime.

Thorndyke took the oath and then placed a box with a leather handle on the table. After this, in answer to the coroner's question, he said that he taught forensic medicine at St. Margaret's Hospital, and briefly explained how he was involved in the case. Here the foreman of the jury interrupted him and asked him to speak about the hair and the knife, since these were the key evidence in the case - and Thorndyke was immediately given both.

Do you think the hair from package A and package B belong to the same person?

Without a doubt.

Could you examine the knife and tell us if it can cause such a wound?

Thorndike examined the blade closely and returned the knife to the coroner.

“It’s possible,” he replied, “but I’m more than sure that the wound was not inflicted on them.”

Can you explain how you came to such decisive conclusions?

I think,” said Thorndyke, “that if I present all the facts in strict order, we will only save time.

The coroner nodded affirmatively, and my friend continued:

I will not abuse your attention and repeat what is already known. Sergeant Bates gave a complete description of the crime scene, and I have nothing to add to his testimony. The description of the body given by Dr. Davidson is also quite exhaustive: the woman had been dead for about ten hours, the wound was undoubtedly fatal, and it was inflicted exactly as the doctor described Death obviously occurred instantly, and I am ready to argue that the victim did not even have time to wake up from sleep.

But, the coroner objected, the deceased was holding a lock of hair in her hand.

This hair, answered Thorndyke, is not the hair of a murderer. They were placed in the victim's hand for an obvious purpose, and the fact that the killer brought them with him suggests the following: the crime was planned in advance, and the criminal entered the house and was familiar with its inhabitants.

Hearing this statement from Thorndike, everyone: the coroner, the jury, and the spectators, opened their mouths in amazement and stared at him. There was an extraordinary silence, interrupted by Mrs. Goldstein's wild, hysterical laughter, and then the coroner asked:

Why do you think that the hair in the victim’s hand did not belong to the killer?

This is an obvious conclusion. The color of this hair is too noticeable. This immediately alarmed me. Moreover, there are three facts, each of which convincingly proves that this hair most certainly does not belong to the killer.

First of all, the condition of the hand. If a person at the moment of death firmly grasps an object, then the mechanism of the so-called cadaveric spasm is triggered. The contraction of the muscles immediately turns into rigor mortis, that is, rigor mortis, and the object remains clutched in the hand until it passes. In our case, the hand was completely numb, but there was no strong grip. The strand lay freely on the palm, and the fingers were not clenched into a fist. From this it is clear that the hair was placed in the hand after death. Two other facts are related to the condition of the hair itself. If you pull out several hairs, then it is self-evident that all the roots will be on one side of the torn strand. In this case, the strand looked different: the hair lay with its roots in different directions, which means it could not be snatched from the killer. But the third discrepancy I discovered was even more significant. The hair in this strand was not pulled out at all - it fell out on its own. It's probably eyeglasses. With your permission, I will explain what the difference is. If a hair falls out naturally, it separates from the follicle - a tiny tube deep in the skin - because it is pushed out by new hair growing underneath; At the end of such hair, only a small thickening remains - the hair follicle. But if a hair is pulled out by force, the root pulls along the follicle, which is noticeable at the end of the hair in the form of a shiny lump. If Miriam Goldstein pulls out a hair from herself and gives it to me, then I will show you this significant dissimilarity between the hair that was pulled out and the hair that fell out.

Poor Miriam did not have to be persuaded. In the blink of an eye, she tore out a dozen of her hairs, which one of the constables handed to Thorndyke, who immediately clamped them with a paper clip. From his drawer he took out another paperclip, which held half a dozen hairs from a strand found in the hand of the murdered woman. He handed both paper clips, along with a magnifying glass, to the coroner.

Marvelous! - he exclaimed. - And completely irrefutable.

He conveyed all this to the chairman of the jury, and the jury examined the hair in silence for some time, holding their breath with curiosity and squinting desperately.

If your hair falls out naturally...

I collected some of this sand and, having examined it under

Next question: where did the killer get these hairs? - Thorndyke continued. “I assumed that they were from Miriam Goldstein's ridge, but the sergeant's testimony clearly suggests that they were taken from the same bag of combs from which the sergeant took the sample for comparison.

Well, Doctor,” remarked the coroner, “I see you have completely demolished the hair evidence.” But let me ask: has anything been found that sheds light on the identity of the killer?

Yes,” replied Thorndyke. “I have discovered several pieces of evidence that point almost irrefutably to the culprit.”

Here he cast a significant glance at Superintendent Miller. He got up and walked to the door and back; As he sat down, Miller put something in his pocket. And my colleague continued:

Upon entering the hall, I noted the following facts. Behind the door was a shelf, and on it stood two porcelain candlesticks. Both contained candles, one of which, however, turned out to be a very short stub - not more than an inch long - and was simply lying in the cup of the candlestick. On the floor, near the rug under the door, I found a speck of candle wax and barely noticeable traces of dirty soles. There were also traces of wet boots on the stairs. The tracks led up the stairs, becoming less visible on the linoleum with each step. There were also two wax stains on the steps and another on the railing; in the middle of the flight there was a burnt match, and another match of the same type was found on the landing. There were no marks that led down, but one of the drops of wax near the railing was stepped on while it was not yet hardened, and there was a mark on it from the front of the heel; judging by its position, this is the trace of a person descending. The lock on the front door had recently been greased, as had the lock on the bedroom door, the latter having been opened from the outside by a wire which had left a scratch on the key.

Inside the room I made two more important observations. Firstly, there was some sand scattered on the murdered woman's pillow; it is similar to white sand, but darker and finer. I will return to this detail later. The second detail is that the candlestick on the bedside table was empty. This is an unusual candlestick: its cup consists of eight strips of metal. There was a charred wick at the bottom, but a piece of wax on the edge indicated that another candle had been inserted into the candlestick and then taken out, because otherwise this wax would have been melted. I immediately remembered the candle on the shelf in the hall and, going down into the hall, took it out and examined it. There were eight clear markings on it, matching the eight strips of metal in the candle holder by the bed. Someone carried this candle in his right hand, because the soft heated wax retained amazingly clear fingerprints right hand: thumb and index. I made three wax castings of this cinder, and from them I made this cast, showing both fingerprints and marks from the candlestick. - He took out a small object from the drawer white and handed it to the coroner.

And what conclusions do you draw from these facts? - he asked.

I come to the following conclusion: at about a quarter to two on the night of the murder, a certain man (who the day before had visited the house to steal a lock of hair and oil the locks) entered the house, unlocking the door with a key. I indicate this exact time based on the fact that that night it rained from half-past two to a quarter to two (and before that it had not rained for two weeks), while the murder was committed about two. The man lit a match in the hall and another in the middle of the passage. Seeing that the bedroom door was locked, he opened it with a piece of wire. Entering, he lit a candle, moved the chest, killed his victim, washed the blood from his hands and from the knife, took the candle stub from the candlestick and went down to the hall, where he blew out the candle and placed it in a candlestick on the shelf.

The next clue was provided by the sand on the pillow. I collected some of this sand and, having examined it under a microscope, determined that it was deep-sea sand from the eastern Mediterranean. It contained an abundance of tiny shells called foraminifera, and since one of them belonged to a species found only in the Levant, I was able to determine the exact origin of the sand.

“It’s just incredible,” said the coroner. - How could deep-sea sand end up on this woman’s pillow?

In fact, replied Thorndyke, the explanation is quite simple. Significant quantities of such sand are contained in Turkish sponges. The warehouses where these sponges are unpacked are often ankle-deep in them; it falls on workers who open bags of sponges, gets on their clothes and gets into their pockets. If such a worker, wearing clothes dusted with this sand, committed this murder, then it is very likely that while he was bending over his victim, sand from the folds of his clothes and pockets managed to spill onto the pillow.

So, as soon as I had examined the sand and established its nature, I sent a note to Mr. Goldstein asking him to list all the acquaintances of the deceased, indicating their addresses and occupations. He sent me a list by the same messenger, and among those listed was one man who works as a packer in a wholesale sponge warehouse in Minoriz Minorize is an area of ​​east London near the scene of the crime described in the story.. Then I learned that a cargo of Turkish sponges for the new season had arrived a few days before the murder.

The next question was: was this the man who left his fingerprints on the candle stub? To find out, I pasted two photographic plates onto cardboard and, supposedly meeting him by chance in the evening at the door of his house, asked this man to compare them. He took the pictures, holding each one between his thumb and forefinger. Having received the pictures back, I took them home and carefully treated them on both sides with a special powder used in surgical practice. The powder adhered to the places where my suspect's fingers had left prints and made those prints visible. - Thorndyke took out a photograph with Hebrew letters, on the black margins of which a yellowish trace was strikingly clearly captured thumb.

As soon as Thorndike handed over the photograph to the coroner, a very unusual excitement arose in the room. While my friend was testifying, I managed to pay attention to our friend Petrovski, who rose from his seat and carefully walked to the door. He quietly turned the handle and pulled the door towards him, lightly at first, then harder. But the door was locked. Realizing this, Petrovski grabbed the handle with both hands and began to pull it furiously, shaking the door as if he were mad. His trembling hands, shifting eyes, the crazy look with which he looked at the shocked spectators, and his ugly face, deathly pale, wet with sweat and distorted by fear - his whole appearance was a terrifying sight.

Suddenly he jumped away from the door and, with a wild cry, rushed at Thorndyke, putting his hand under the hem of his cloak. But the superintendent was waiting for it. There was a scream, they grabbed each other, and now Petrovski was already lying on the floor, trying to bite his opponent and jerking his legs like crazy, and Superintendent Miller held him tightly by the hand in which he was clutching a frighteningly sized knife.

Please give this knife to the coroner,” Thorndyke said as Petrovski was handcuffed and placed under guard and the superintendent adjusted his collar.

“Please take the trouble to examine it, sir,” continued my colleague, “and tell me whether on the blade, near the tip, there is a triangular notch about one-eighth of an inch long?”

The coroner looked at the knife and said in surprise:

Yes, I have. So you've already seen this knife?

No, I didn’t see it,” answered Thorndyke. - But let me continue my story. The fact that the prints on the photograph and on the candle belong to Paul Petrovsky is undeniable; Therefore, let's move on to the evidence found during the examination of the body.

In accordance with your orders, I went to the morgue and examined the body. The wound has already been described in detail and accurately by Dr. Davidson, but I noted one detail that I believe he missed. In the thickness of the vertebra - more precisely, in the left transverse protrusion of the fourth vertebra - I found a small piece of steel, which I carefully removed.

He pulled the sample box out of his pocket, took out a paper envelope from it and handed it to the coroner.

This piece is here, he said, and it will probably fit the notch.

In tense silence, the coroner opened the envelope and shook out a piece of metal onto a piece of paper. Placing the knife on the same sheet, he carefully inserted a tiny piece of blade into the notch and looked up at Thorndyke:

It fits exactly.

A loud crash sound was heard from the opposite end of the hall. We turned around.

Petrovski collapsed to the floor, unconscious.

“A very instructive case, Jervis,” my friend remarked on the way home, “for it repeats a lesson that the authorities still do not want to heed.

Which one? - I asked.

Here's what it is. When it is discovered that a murder has occurred, the crime scene must immediately turn into the Sleeping Beauty Palace. Not a single speck of dust can be wiped away, not a single living soul can enter until a scientific expert examines everything there, in situ In (its) place (lat.). and in completely untouched form. It is impossible for energetic patrolmen to stomp around, for investigators to rummage through everything, for bloodhounds to rush back and forth. Imagine what would have happened this time if we had arrived a few hours later. The corpse would be in the morgue, the hair would be in the sergeant's pocket, the bed would be shaken up and all the sand would be scattered, the candle would be taken away, and the stairs would be full of fresh footprints. There wouldn't be any real evidence left.

English writer Richard Austin Freeman, known as the inventor of the inverted detective story, named after its creator Freeman method, as well as one of the best authors of the first half of the 20th century.

Richard Austin Freeman (Richard Austin Freeman) born 11 April 1862 in London. He was the youngest of five children in the family of tailor Richard Freeman and Anna Maria Dunn ( Ann Maria Dunn). When Austin grew up, he was hired as an assistant to a pharmacist; having gained basic knowledge, he was able to study medicine at Middlesex Hospital, where he received a position as a doctor in 1887. In the same year he married Annie Elizabeth, who bore him two sons.

After the wedding, he left for service in the colony. Three years later he returned to London because he was suffering from a fever, but because he could not find permanent work, he was forced to engage in private medical practice. At the same time he begins to write his first stories. In his first experiments he was helped by John James Pitcairn ( John James Pitcairn), prison doctor. They published their joint work under the pseudonym Clifford Ashdown ( Clifford Ashdown).

First independent story Red Finger Mark (The Red Thumb Mark) Freeman published in 1907, in which he uses his signature technique - the inverted detective story (the identity of the criminal is announced at the very beginning). Stories based on a similar technique were collected in a collection Singing Bones , published in 1912.

During the First World War, Freeman served in the Royal Army Medical Corps.

After his return, he actively wrote, and until his death in 1943, he published a novel a year. Freeman wrote the best novel by critics in 1939, while holed up in a bomb shelter, when he was already 77 years old. But even before that, Freeman's novels were considered best works for almost 30 years. This conclusion is confirmed by who, in his letter to Hamish Hamilton, notes that Richard Freeman the best in its genre.

Richard Austin Freeman went down in detective history as the creator scientific detective, when the basis for the investigation is not the deductive method or the intuitive abilities of the detective, but exclusively evidence, for the search of which in most cases they are used scientific methods.

The main character of most of Freeman's detective stories was Dr Thorndike. Initially a doctor turned medical examiner, he helps the police solve crimes thanks to the evidence he collects, although sometimes it is just dust or plants from a pond. The author dedicated about 20 novels and more than 30 stories to his hero. Currently, the stories about Dr. Thorndike are collected in a 10-volume collection of works.

Dr. Thorndike made his mark on the television screen in the early 60s, and in early 1971 in the TV series Rivals of Sherlock Holmes Two episodes based on Freeman's stories were released.

Selected bibliography

Dr. Thorndike Series

The Red Thumb Mark (1907)
John Thorndyke's Cases, 1909
The Eye of Osiris (1911), published in the USA as The Vanishing Man
The Mystery of 31, New Inn, 1912
The Singing Bone (1912), published in the USA as The Adventures of Dr. Thorndyke
A Silent Witness (1914)
The Great Portrait Mystery, 1918
Helen Vardon's Confession, 1922
Dr. Thorndyke's Case Book, 1923, also published as The Blue Scarab
The Cat's Eye (1923)
The Mystery of Angelina Frood, 1924
The Shadow of the Wolf (1925)
The Puzzle Lock, 1925 - collection of short stories
The D'Arblay Mystery (1926)
A Certain Dr. Thorndyke (1927)
The Magic Casket (1927), stories
As a Thief in the Night (1928)
The Famous Cases of Dr. Thorndyke, 1928
Mr. Pottermack's Oversight (1930)
Pontifex, Son and Thorndyke (1931)
When Rogues Fall Out (1932)
Dr. Thorndyke Intervenes (1933)
For the Defense: Dr. Thorndyke (1934)
The Penrose Mystery (1936)
Felo de Se (1937)
The Stoneware Monkey (1938)
Mr. Polton Explains, 1940
Dr. Thorndyke's Crime File, 1941
The Jacob Street Mystery, 1942

Detective novels

The Uttermost Farthing: A Savant's Vendetta, 1914, also published as A Savant's Vendetta)
The Exploits of Danby Croker: Being Extracts from a Somewhat Disreputable Autobiography, 1916
The Great Platinum Robbery, 1933

Collections of stories

From a Surgeon's Diary, 1975 (as Ashdown; with John James Pitcairn)
The Queen's Treasure, 1975 (as Ashdown; with Pitcairn)
The Dr. Thorndyke Omnibus: Thirty-eight of His Criminal Investigations, 1993
The Uncollected Mysteries of R. Austin Freeman, 1998 (Tony Medaver and Douglas G. Greene, editors)
Freeman's Selected Short Stories, 2000

Fiction novels

The Golden Pool: A Story of a Forgotten Mine, 1905
The Unwilling Adventurer, 1913
The Surprising Adventures of Mr. Shuttlebury Cobb, 1927
Flighty Phyllis, 1928

Richard Austin Freeman (1862–1942) was a British novelist and short story writer who was a surgeon by profession. He made an outstanding medical career in Africa, which was interrupted as a result of a fever he suffered. Freeman's first published novel was The Red Thumbprint (1907). The hero of many of his works was forensic expert John Thorndike. The writer’s novels were created within the framework of a “scientific detective story”, the investigation in which was based not so much on the deductive abilities of the detective, but on scientific methods of detecting evidence. Freeman is considered the founder of a new storytelling technique for the detective genre of that time - the “inverted” or “reverse” detective. The essence of this method is that the reader first gets acquainted with the details of the crime, and then observes the work of a detective searching for motives and evidence.

This volume presents Freeman's action-packed detective story, The Eye of Osiris, which begins with the mysterious disappearance of an Egyptologist. And the investigation of this case leads to completely unexpected results... The story “The Magic Box”, written in a classical manner, is also published here.

The work was published in 1911 by Algorithm Publishing House. The book is part of the Doctor Thorndike Mysteries series. On our website you can download the book "The Eye of Osiris. The Magic Box" in fb2, rtf, epub, pdf, txt format or read online. Here, before reading, you can also turn to reviews from readers who are already familiar with the book and find out their opinion. In our partner's online store you can buy and read the book in paper version.