The Cheyne mystery

by Freeman Wills Crofts

“Now, Wilson,” he said, “you’ve done a good day’s work. I’m pleased with you. You may get along home, and if I want anything more I’ll let you know in the morning.”

But though it was so late, French did not follow his subordinate’s example. Instead he stood on the sidewalk outside the garage, thinking hard.

As to the nature of the defect in the engine of the yellow car he had no doubt. What was wrong with it was just what Hackworth had said was wrong with it—nothing whatever. French could see that the whole episode was simply a plan on Blessington’s part to change the car and thus cover up his traces. The yellow Armstrong-Siddeley was known to be his by many persons, and Blessington wanted one which, as he would believe, could not be traced. He would have seen from the papers that Cheyne had escaped the fate prepared for him, and he would certainly suspect that the outraged young man would put his knowledge at the disposal of the police. Therefore the yellow car was a danger and another must be procured in its place. The trick was obvious, and French had heard of something like it before.

But though the main part of the scheme was clear to French, the details were not. From the statement of Mrs. Sproule, the invalid of Colton Street, the yellow car had left Sime’s house at about 1:45. According to this Hackworth it had reached the garage at a minute or so before two. Now, from Colton Street to the garage was a ten or twelve minutes’ drive, therefore Blessington must have gone practically direct. Moreover, when he left Colton Street Joan Merrill and the other members of the gang were in the car, but when he reached the garage he was alone. Where had the others dismounted?

Another question suggested itself to French, and he thought that if he could answer it he would probably be able to answer the first as well. Why did Blessington select this particular garage? He did not know this Hackworth—the man had said he had never seen Blessington before. Why then this particular establishment rather than one of the scores nearer Sime’s dwelling?

For some minutes French puzzled over this point, and then a probable explanation struck him. There, just a hundred yards or more away, was a place admirably suited for dropping his passengers and picking them up again—Waterloo Station. What more natural for Blessington than to pull up at the departure side with the yellow Armstrong-Siddeley and set them down? What more commonplace for him than to pick them up at the arrival side with the black Napier? While he was changing the cars, they could enter, mingle with the crowds of passengers, work their way across the station and be waiting for him as if they had just arrived by train.

Late as it was, French returned to the Yard and put a good man on to make inquiries at Waterloo in the hope of proving his theory. Then, tired and very hungry, he went home.

But when he had finished supper and, ensconced in his armchair with a cigar, had looked through the evening paper, interest in the case reasserted itself, and he determined that he would have a look at the scrap of paper which he had found in the pocket of one of Dangle’s waistcoats.

As has been said, it was a list or memorandum of certain articles, written on the back of part of an old hotel bill. French reread the items with something as nearly approaching bewilderment as a staid inspector of the Yard can properly admit. Peaches, safety matches, the Forsyte Saga, pencil, fountain pen ink, and a sou’wester! What in the name of goodness could anyone want with such a heterogeneous collection? And the quantities! Three dozen tins of peaches, and six dozen boxes of matches! Enough to do a small expeditionary force, French thought whimsically, though he did not see an expeditionary force requiring the works of John Galsworthy, ink, and pencils.

And yet was this idea so absurd? Did not these articles, in point of fact, suggest an expedition? Peaches, matches, pencils, and ink—all these articles were commonplace and universally obtainable. Did the fact that a quantity were required not mean that Dangle or his friends were to be cut off for some considerable time from the ordinary sources of supply? It certainly looked like it. And as he thought over the other articles, he saw that they too were not inconsistent with the same idea. The Forsyte Saga was distinguished from most novels in a peculiar and indeed a suggestive manner. It consisted of a number of novels, each full length or more than full length, but the point of interest was that the entire collection was published on thin paper in this one volume. Where could one get a greater mass of reading matter in a smaller bulk: in other words, where could one find a more suitable work of fiction to carry with one on an expedition?