“Did anyone, for example, leave the place or disappear some five or six weeks ago?” went on French.
“No, sir,” Daw answered, slowly. “I can’t say that they did.”
“What about Mr. Berlyn and Mr. Pyke?”
Daw’s face showed first surprise and then incredulity.
“You don’t doubt they were lost on the moor?” French continued.
“It never occurred to me to doubt it. Do you think otherwise yourself?”
“Well, look here, Sergeant.” French leaned forward and demonstrated with his forefinger. “Those men disappeared on Monday night, the fifteenth of August. I say disappeared, because in point of fact they did disappear—their bodies were never found. On that same night the crate lay packed in the works, and next morning it was taken to the station and sent to Swansea. From that Tuesday morning until the body was found at Burry Port we cannot trace any opportunity of opening the crate. You must admit it looks suggestive.”
“But the accident, sir? The breakdown of the car?”
“That’s it, Sergeant. You’ve got it in one. If the breakdown was genuine the affair was an accident, but if it was faked—why, then we are on to a murder. At least that’s how it strikes me.”
Daw was apologetic, but evidently still sceptical.