“The fact that he was able to strike our windshield on the driver’s side from the rear of a fast-moving lorry,” my father answered. “I can assure you the shooter is a marksman.”
“Who, under the circumstances, most likely employed a rifle,” Joanna surmised.
My father nodded his agreement. “That he no doubt fired from a prone position which allowed for steadiness in a moving lorry.”
“Let us see if our assumptions are correct.” Joanna hurried past our driver and opened the door of the taxi widely so that light from the lamppost shined into its front compartment. To the right of the driver’s position was a small, round hole in the upper back of the leather-upholstered seat. Using a metal pen from her purse, Joanna carefully pried out a spent bullet and held it up for examination. “Note that it is relatively slender and long, which is characteristic of a bullet fired from a rifle as compared to one discharged from a pistol.”
“I am surprised the bullet is not more distorted,” said my father.
“That is because its route took it through the windshield whose glass offered minimal resistance,” Joanna explained.
The taxi driver called out, “I feel yet more glass scratching my right eye, Doctor.”
“Do not rub it, for that can cause more harm,” my father cautioned and hurried over to the driver. Again and again he used handfuls of rainwater to cleanse the driver’s affected eye.
All the while Joanna continued to study the bullet, now using her magnifying glass. It was the side of the bullet which seemed to draw her attention. “There are definite markings,” she disclosed.
“Are they of importance?” I asked.
“Perhaps,” Joanna replied, then told me of an unpublished monograph her father had written in which he predicted the day would come when markings on a spent bullet could prove or disprove whether it came from a specific weapon.
“How could that be done?”
“By comparing its markings to those on a bullet fired by that same weapon.”
“Remarkable,” said I, slowly shaking my head in admiration of not only the Great Detective, but at the daughter following in his footsteps. “I see the harrowing event we just experienced has not diminished your deductive reasoning. You seem steady as ever.”
“Do not let my outer appearance deceive you,” Joanna admitted in a quiet voice. “There was a long moment when I was consumed with the fear that I was about to die and leave my dear Johnny all alone. He has already lost a father, and I could not begin to fathom the depth of his sorrow were he to lose his mother as well.”
“Nevertheless, you seem to be recovering nicely,” I remarked.
“I am almost there,” Joanna said, then her face hardened noticeably, as she stared back at the shattered windshield. “Let me assure you that whoever did this evil deed will soon pay dearly for it.”
My father rejoined us and reported, “I believe all the glass particles have been washed out and the driver is now without symptoms.”
“Well done, Watson,” Joanna lauded, and again studied the bullet with her magnifying glass.
“Are there any significant findings?” my father asked.
“Only that we can say with certainty that the size and shape of the bullet indicate it was fired from a rifle.”
“Which may have relevance in this particular case.”
“How so?”
“Recall that James Blackstone fought in the Second Boer War and no doubt was experienced in the use of long rifles.”
“Are you proposing that the shot was fired by Blackstone?”
“It would seem to fit.”
“Except for the prospect that the corpse lying on the dissecting table may well belong to the very same James Blackstone.”
20An Unexpected Visitor
We had just finished a breakfast nicely prepared by Miss Hudson and were about to retire to our newspapers when she reappeared and hastily announced the arrival of a visitor.
“There is a Mr. Edwin Alan Rowe who wishes to see you on a most urgent matter,” she said.
“Please show him in,” my father requested.
Lifting a tray laden with dishes, she departed, after having been asked to start a new kettle for our guest.
“What in the world brings Rowe to our doorstep at such an early hour?” I inquired.
“It must be a happening of considerable importance,” my father surmised.
“And one I can assure you brings the most unwelcome news,” Joanna added.
“Who is Mr. Edwin Alan Rowe?” asked the ever-inquisitive Johnny.
“He is an art historian who is serving as a consultant for us,” Joanna replied.
“In the case of the art vandal, then?”
“The very same.”
“He would be quite the expert in the hidden masterpiece, I would gather,” deduced Johnny who had been privy to our numerous conversations on the topic.
“Indeed, but you must not involve yourself in any way during his visit,” Joanna demanded. “Not a word. Understood?”
“Even the most pressing of questions?” Johnny queried.
Joanna sighed resignedly as the door opened after a brief knock. In entered Rowe, bundled up against the cold, with some of the morning’s snow showing on his hat and the shoulders of his topcoat.
“Here,” my father offered, hurrying over. “Allow me to hang your outer garments.”
“I trust I am not intruding despite the early hour,” Rowe said.
“Not at all,” my father assured.
“I fear that I am, but I thought it necessary once I saw the morning newspapers filled with your names and the story of the body in the fireplace.”
“What!”
“And packed with details of the leather-bound corpse, curled up like an infant asleep.”
My father rushed over to the table that held the morning newspapers and unfolded the Daily Telegraph. “The article is on the front page and is entitled THE CHIMNEY CORPSE.”
He read aloud the gruesome details of the body that was hidden in the bricked-in chimney at the Hawke and Evans art gallery. The description was so accurate it had to come from someone who had actually viewed the corpse up close. My father groaned audibly when he came to the section dealing with the three of us. “And for good measure, the article states that now with Joanna Blalock-Watson and her colleagues involved, a quick resolution
