The Sea Mystery

by

Freeman Wills Crofts

Contents

Chapter One:
Mr. Morgan Meets Tragedy

The Burry Inlet, on the south coast of Wales, looks its best from the sea. At least so thought Mr. Morgan as he sat in the sternsheets of his boat, a fishing-line between his fingers, while his son, Evan, pulled lazily over the still water.

In truth, the prospect on this pleasant autumn evening would have pleased a man less biased by pride of fatherland than Mr. Morgan. The Inlet at full tide forms a wide sheet of water, penetrating in an easterly direction some ten miles into the land, with the county of Carmarthen to the north and the Gower Peninsula to the south. The shores are flat, but rounded hills rise inland which merge to form an undulating horizon of high ground. Here and there along the coast are sand-dunes, whose grays and yellows show up in contrast to the greens of the grasslands and the woods beyond.

To the southeast, over by Salthouse Point and Penclawdd, Mr. Morgan could see every detail of house and sand-dune, tree and meadow, lit up with a shining radiance, but the northwest hills behind Burry Port were black and solid against the setting sun. Immediately north lay Llanelly, with its dingy colored buildings, its numberless chimneys, and the masts and funnels of the steamers in its harbor.

It was a perfect evening in late September, the close of a perfect day. Not a cloud appeared in the sky and scarcely a ripple stirred the surface of the sea. The air was warm and balmy, and all nature seemed drowsing in languorous content. Save for the muffled noise of the Llanelly mills, borne over the water, and the slow, rhythmic creak of the oars, no sound disturbed the sleepy quiet.

Mr. Morgan was a small, clean-shaven man in a worn and baggy Norfolk suit which was the bane of Mrs. Morgan’s existence, but in which the soul of her lord and master delighted as an emblem of freedom from the servitude of the office. He leaned back in the sternsheets, gazing out dreamily on the broad sweep of the Inlet and the lengthening shadows ashore. At times his eyes and thoughts turned to his son, Evan, the fourteen-year-old boy who was rowing. A good boy, thought Mr. Morgan, and big for his age. Though he had been at school for nearly three years, he was still his father’s best pal. As Mr. Morgan thought of the relations between some of his friends and their sons, he felt a wave of profound thankfulness sweep over him.

Presently the boy stopped rowing.

“Say, dad, we’ve not had our usual luck to-day,” he remarked, glancing disgustedly at the two tiny mackerel which represented their afternoon’s sport.

Mr. Morgan roused himself.

“No, old man, those aren’t much to boast about. And I’m afraid we shall have to go in now. The tide’s beginning to run and I expect we could both do with a bit of supper. Let’s change places and you have a go at the lines while I pull in.”

To anyone attempting navigation in the Burry Inlet the tides are a factor of the first importance. With a rise and fall at top springs of something like twenty-five feet, the placid estuary of high water becomes a little later a place of fierce currents and swirling eddies. The Inlet is shallow also. At low tide by far the greater portion of its area is uncovered and this, by confining the rushing waters to narrow channels, still further increases their speed. As the tide falls the great Llanrhidian Sands appear, stretching out northward from the Gower Peninsula, while an estuary nearly four miles wide contracts to a river racing between mud banks five hundred yards apart.

Mr. Morgan took the oars, and heading the boat for the northern coast, began to pull slowly shoreward. He was the manager of a large tin-plate works at Burry Port and lived on the outskirts of the little town. Usually a hard worker, he had taken advantage of a slack afternoon to make a last fishing excursion with his son before the latter’s return to school. The two had left Burry Port on a flowing tide and had drifted up the inlet to above Llanelly. Now the tide was ebbing and they were being carried swiftly down again. Mr. Morgan reckoned that by the time they were opposite Burry Port they should be far enough inshore to make the harbor.

Gradually the long line of the Llanelly houses and chimneys slipped by. Evan had clambered aft and at intervals he felt with the hand of an expert the weighted lines which were trailing astern. He frowned as he glanced again at the two mackerel. He had had a good many fishing trips with his father during the holidays, and never before had they had such a miserable catch. How he wished he could have a couple of good bites before they had to give up!

The thought had scarcely passed through his mind when the line he was holding tightened suddenly and began to run out through his fingers. At the same moment the next line, which was made fast round the after thwart, also grew taut, strained for a second, then with a jerk slackened and lay dead. Evan leaped to his feet and screamed out in excitement:

“Hold, daddy, hold! Back water quick! I’ve got something big!”

The line continued to run out until Mr. Morgan, by rowing against the tide, brought the boat relatively to a standstill. Then the line stopped as if anchored to something below, twitching indeed from the current, but not giving the thrilling chucks and snatches for which the boy was hoping.

“Oh, blow!” he cried, disgustedly. “It’s not a fish. We’ve got a stone or some seaweed. See, this one caught it, too.”

He dropped the line he was holding and pulled in the other. Its hooks were missing.

“See,” he repeated. “What did I tell you? We shall probably lose the hooks of this one, too. It’s caught fast.”

“Steady, old man. Take the oars and let me feel it.”

Mr. Morgan moved into the stern and pulled the resisting line, but without effect.

“Rather curious this,” he said. “All this stretch is sand. I once saw it uncovered at very low springs. Keep rowing till I feel round the thing with the grappling and see if I can find out what it is.”

Evan passed the small three-pronged anchor aft and his father let it down beside the line. Soon it touched bottom.

“About three and a half fathoms—say twenty feet,” Mr. Morgan remarked. “Keep her steady while I feel about.”

He raised the grappling and, moving it a few inches to one side, lowered it again. Four times it went down to the same depth; on the fifth trial it stopped three feet short.

“By Jove!” he exclaimed, “there’s something there right enough.” He danced the grappling up and down. “And it’s certainly not seaweed. Treasure trove, Evan, eh?”

“Try round a bit and see how big it is,” Evan suggested, now thoroughly interested.

Mr. Morgan “tried round.” Had he been by himself he would have dismissed the incident with a muttered imprecation at the loss of his hooks. But for the sake of the boy he wished to make it as much of an adventure as possible.

“Curious,” he therefore commented again. “I’m afraid we shall not be able to save our hooks. But let’s take bearings so that we may be able to ask about it ashore.” He looked round. “See, there’s a good nor’west bearing. That signal post on the railway is just in line with the west gable of the large white house on the hill. See it? Now for a cross bearing. Suppose we take that tall mill chimney, the tallest of that bunch. It’s just in line with the pier-head beacon. What about those?”

“Fine, I think. What can the thing be, dad?”

“I don’t know. Perhaps something drifted in from a wreck. We’ll ask Coastguard Manners. Now I’ll pull in the grappling, and then the line, and if the hooks go I can’t help it.”

The little anchor had been lying on the bottom while they talked. Mr. Morgan now seized the rope and began to pull. But he had not drawn in more than two feet when it tightened and remained immovable.

“By Jove! The grappling’s caught now!” he exclaimed. “A nuisance, that. We don’t want to lose our grappling.”

“Let’s pull up. Perhaps it will come clear.”

Evan put down the oars and joined his father in the stern. Both pulled steadily with all their strength. For a time nothing happened, then suddenly the rope began to yield. It did not come away clear, but gave slowly as if the object to which it was attached was lifting also.

“By Jove!” Mr. Morgan exclaimed again. “We shall get our hooks, after all! The whole thing’s coming up.”

Slowly the rope came in foot after foot. The object, whatever it was, was heavy, and it was all they could do to raise it. Mr. Morgan pulled in sudden heaves, while Evan took a turn with the line round a thwart, so as to hold the weight while his father rested.

At last the end of the rope was reached and the shank of the grappling appeared. Then dimly beneath the surface Mr. Morgan was able to see the object hooked. It was a large wooden packing case or crate.

Round the sides were cross-pieces, holding the sheeting boards in place. Two of the sharp flukes of the grappling had caught beneath one of these, and of course, the greater the pull on them, the more firmly they became fixed.

To raise the crate while submerged and displacing its own volume of water had been just possible. To lift it aboard was out of the question. For a time the two considered the problem of getting it ashore, then Mr. Morgan said:

“I’ll tell you what we’ll do. We’ll make the rope fast and row in with the crate hanging to our stern. Then we’ll beach it on the lifeboat slip, and when the tide falls it will be left high and dry. We can examine it then and get our hooks.”

Evan approving of the plan, they proceeded to carry it out. They made the rope fast round the after thwart, then taking the oars, pulled slowly inshore. As they drew nearer, the current lessened, until off Burry Port they were almost in still water. Slowly they glided past a line of sandhills which presently gave place first to houses and works and then to a great deposit of copper slag like a stream of lava which had overflowed into the sea. Finally rounding the east mole, they entered Burry Port harbour.

Having manœuvred the boat over the lifeboat slip, they cast off the rope, and the crate settled down in five feet of water. Then with a bight of the rope they made the boat fast.

“Now for that supper,” Mr. Morgan suggested. “By the time we’ve had it our treasure trove will be high and dry and we can come down and see what it is.”

An hour later father and son were retracing their steps to the harbour. Mr. Morgan looked businesslike with a hammer, a cold chisel, and a large electric torch. It was still a lovely evening, but in a few minutes it would be dark.

As Mr. Morgan had foretold, the crate was high and dry, and they examined it with interest in the light of the torch. It was a strongly made wooden box about three feet by two by two. All round at top and bottom were strengthening cross-pieces, and it was beneath the upper of these that the two flukes of the grappling had caught.

“Well and truly hooked,” Mr. Morgan remarked. “We must have drifted across the thing, and when we pulled up the grappling it slid up the side till it caught the cross-piece. It’s a good job for us, for now we shall get our grappling and our hooks as well.”

Evan fidgetted impatiently.

“Don’t mind about them, dad; we can unfasten them later. Open the box. I want to see what’s in it.”

Mr. Morgan put his cold chisel to the joint of the lid and began to hammer.

“Strictly speaking, we shouldn’t do this,” he declared as he worked. “We should have handed the thing over to Manners. It’s a job for the coast-guards. However, here goes!”

The crate was strongly made, and though Mr. Morgan was a good amateur carpenter, it took him several minutes to open it. But at last one of the top boards was prized up. Instantly both became conscious of a heavy, nauseating smell.

“A case of South American meat or something gone west,” Mr. Morgan commented. “I don’t know that I’m so keen on going on with this job. Perhaps we can see what it is without opening it up further.”

Holding his breath, he put his eye to the slit and shone in a beam from the electric torch. Then with a sharp intaking of the breath he rose.

“It’s a disgusting smell,” he said in rather shaky tones. “Let’s go round and ask Manners to finish the job.”

“Let me look in, dad.”

“Right, old man. But come round with me first to see Manners.”

With some difficulty Mr. Morgan drew his son away. He was feeling sick and shaken. For beneath that well-fitting lid and sticking up out of the water which still remained in the crate was a gruesome and terrible object—the bent head and crouching body of a man dressed in underclothes only and in an advanced state of decomposition!

It was all Mr. Morgan could do to crush down the horror which possessed him and to pretend to the boy that nothing was amiss. Evan must not be allowed to see that ghastly sight! It would haunt his young mind for weeks. Mr. Morgan led the way round the harbour, across the dock gates and towards the road leading to the town.

“But aren’t we going to Manners?” Evan queried, hanging back.

“Not to-night, if you don’t mind, old chap. That smell has made me rather sick. We can go down in the morning. The tide should be right after breakfast.”

Evan demurred, suggesting that he alone should interview the coastguard. But he was what Mr. Morgan called “biddable,” and when his father showed that he was in earnest he allowed the subject to drop.

In due course they reached home. Discreet suggestion having resulted in Evan’s settling down with his meccano, Mr. Morgan felt himself at liberty. He explained casually that he wanted to drop into the club for an hour and left the house. In ten minutes he was at the police station.

“I’ve made a discovery this evening, Sergeant, which I’m afraid points to something pretty seriously wrong,” he explained, and he told the officer in charge about the hooking of the crate. “I didn’t want my son to see the body—he’s rather young for that sort of thing—so we went home without my saying anything about it. But I’ve come back now to report to you. I suppose you, and not Manners, will deal with it?”

Sergeant Nield bore a good reputation in Burry Port as an efficient and obliging officer, as well as a man of some reading and culture. He listened to Mr. Morgan’s recital with close attention and quietly took charge.

“Manners would deal with it at first, Mr. Morgan,” he answered, “but he would hand it over to us when he saw what the object was. I think we’ll call for him on the way down, and that will put the thing in order. Can you come down now, sir?”

“Certainly. That’s what I intended.”

“Then we’ll get away at once. Just let me get my bicycle lamp.” He turned to a constable. “Williames, you and Smith get another light and take the handcart down to the lifeboat slip. Watson, take charge in my absence. Now, Mr. Morgan, if you are ready.”

It was quite dark as the two men turned towards the harbour. Later there would be a quarter-moon, but it had not yet risen. The night was calm and fine, but a little sharpness was creeping into the air. Except for the occasional rush of a motor passing on the road and sounds of shunting from the docks, everything was very still.

“Just where did you say you found the crate, Mr. Morgan?” the sergeant asked.

“Off Llanelly; off the sea end of the breakwater and on the far side of the channel.”

“The Gower side? Far from the channel?”

“The Gower side, yes. But not far from the channel. I should say just on the very edge.”

“You didn’t mark the place?”

“Not with a buoy. I hadn’t one, and if I had I should not have thought it worth while. But I took bearings. I could find the place within a few feet.”

“I suppose you’ve no idea as to how the crate might have got there?”

“Not the slightest. I have been wondering that ever since I learned what was in it. What do you think?”

“I don’t know, sir, unless it has been dropped off a steamer or been washed into the Inlet from some wreck. We’ll get it to the station and examine it, and maybe we shall find where it came from. If you wait here a second I’ll get hold of Manners.”

They had reached the coastguard’s house and the sergeant ran up to the door. In a few seconds he returned with a stout, elderly man who gave Mr. Morgan a civil good evening.

“It’s your job, of course, Tom,” the sergeant was saying, “but it’ll be ours so soon that we may as well go down together. Perhaps, sir, you’ll tell Manners about how you found the crate and brought it in?”

By the time Mr. Morgan had finished his story for the second time they had reached the boat slip. The sergeant and Manners peeped into the crate in turn.

“Yes, sir, it’s just what you said,” the former remarked. “It’s a man, by the look of him, and he’s been dead some time. I think we’ll have the whole affair up to the station before we open any more of it. What do you say, Tom?”

“Right you are, Sergeant, I’ll go with you. I shall ’ave to put in a report about the thing, but I can get my information at the station as well as ’ere. You’ll be coming along, Mr. Morgan?”

“If you please, sir,” the sergeant interjected. “I have to get a statement from you, too.”

“Of course I’ll go,” Mr. Morgan assured them. “I’ll see the thing through now.”

The constables having arrived with the handcart, it was wheeled down the slip and all five men got round the crate and with some difficulty lifted it on.

“By Jove!” Mr. Morgan exclaimed. “That’s some weight. Surely there must be something more than a body in it?”

“It’s certainly heavy, but it’s a very solid crate. We shall see when we get it to the station.”

With a good deal of pushing and shoving the handcart was got up the slip, and the little party moved off along the mole and across the sidings to the town. On reaching the police station the crate was wheeled into a small courtyard in the rear, and Nield invited the others into his office.

“On second thoughts, Mr. Morgan,” he explained, “I’ll not unpack the crate until I have reported to the superintendent and got hold of a doctor. Meantime, sir, I’d be glad to get your statement in writing.”

For the third time Mr. Morgan told his story. The sergeant took it down, read over what he had written, and got the other to sign it.

“That will do, sir, for to-night. You will, of course, be required at the inquest to-morrow or next day.”

“I’ll be there, all right.”

“Then about your son, sir? Has he anything to say that might be of use?”

Mr. Morgan looked distressed.

“Nothing, Sergeant, more than I can tell you myself. I hope you won’t have to call the boy. He’s going back to school to-morrow.”

“That’s all right; he’ll not be wanted. And now, sir, I shouldn’t say more about the affair than you can help. Just keep the discovery of the body quiet and content yourself with the story of finding the crate.”

Mr. Morgan promised and the sergeant wished him good night.

His visitor gone, Sergeant Nield handed a carbon of the statement to Manners, promising to let him know how the affair progressed. The coastguard being got rid of in his turn, Nield telephoned the news to Superintendent Griffiths at Llanelly. The superintendent was suitably impressed and in his turn rang up Major Lloyd, the chief constable at Llandilo. Finally the latter gave instructions for Nield to arrange a meeting at the police station for nine o’clock on the following morning. Both the superintendent and the chief constable would motor over, and the local police doctor was to be in attendance. The body would then be removed from the crate and the necessary examination made. Meanwhile nothing was to be touched.

Glad to be relieved from the sole responsibility, the sergeant made his arrangements and at the hour named a little group entered the courtyard of the police station. In addition to the chief constable and superintendent, the sergeant and two of the latter’s men, there were present two doctors—Dr. Crowth, the local police surgeon, and Dr. Wilbraham, a friend of Major Lloyd’s, whom the latter had brought with him.

After some preliminary remarks the terrible business of getting the remains from the crate was undertaken. Such work would have been distressing at all times, but in the present case two facts made it almost unbearable. In the first place, the man had been dead for a considerable time, estimated by the doctors as from five to six weeks, and in the second his face had been appallingly maltreated. Indeed, it might be said to be nonexistent, so brutally had it been battered in. All the features were destroyed and only an awful pulp remained.

However, the work had to be done, and presently the body was lying on a table which had been placed for the purpose in an outhouse. It was dressed in underclothes only—shirt, vest, drawers and socks. The suit, collar, tie, and shoes had been removed. An examination showed that none of the garments bore initials.

Nor were there any helpful marks on the crate. There were tacks where a label had been attached, but the label had been torn off. A round steel bar of three or four stone weight had also been put in, evidently to ensure the crate sinking.

The most careful examination revealed no clue to the man’s identity. Who he was and why he had been murdered were as insoluble problems as how the crate came to be where it was found.

For over an hour the little party discussed the matter, and then the chief constable came to a decision.

“I don’t believe it’s a local case,” he announced. “That crate must in some way have come from a ship. I don’t see how it could have been got there from the shore. And if it’s not a local case, I think we’ll consider it not our business. We’ll call in Scotland Yard. Let them have the trouble of it. I’ll ring up the Home Office now and we’ll have a man here this evening. To-morrow will be time enough for the inquest, and the C. I. D. man will be here and can ask what questions he likes.”

Thus it came to pass that Inspector Joseph French on that same afternoon travelled westwards by the 1.55 P.M. luncheon car express from Paddington.

Chapter Two: Inspector French Gets Busy

Dusk was already falling when a short, rather stout man with keen blue eyes from which a twinkle never seemed far removed, alighted from the London train at Burry Port and made his way to Sergeant Nield, who was standing near the exit, scrutinising the departing travellers.

“My name is French,” the stranger announced—“Inspector French of the C. I. D. I think you are expecting me?”

“That’s right, sir. We had a phone from headquarters that you were coming on this train. We’ve been having trouble, as you’ve heard.”

“I don’t often take a trip like this without finding trouble at the end of it. We’re like yourself, Sergeant—we have to go out to look for it. But we don’t often have to look for it in such fine country as this. I’ve enjoyed my journey.”

“The country’s right enough if you’re fond of coal,” Nield rejoined, with some bitterness. “But now; Mr. French, what would you like to do? I expect you’d rather get fixed up at a hotel and have some dinner before anything else? I think the Bush Arms is the most comfortable.”

“I had tea a little while ago. If it’s the same to you, Sergeant, I’d rather see what I can before the light goes. I’ll give my bag to the porter and he can fix me up a room. Then I hope you’ll come back and dine with me and we can have a talk over our common trouble.”

The sergeant accepted with alacrity. He had felt somewhat aggrieved at the calling in of a stranger from London, believing it to be a reflection on his own ability to handle the case. But this cheery, good-humoured-looking man was very different from the type of person he was expecting. This inspector did not at all appear to have come down to put the local men in their places and show them what fools they were. Rather he seemed to consider Nield an honoured colleague in a difficult job.

But though the sergeant did not know it, this was French’s way. He was an enthusiastic believer in the theory that with ninety-nine persons out of a hundred you can lead better than you can drive. He therefore made it an essential of his method to be pleasant and friendly to those with whom he came in contact, and many a time he had found that it had brought the very hint that he required from persons who at first had given him only glum looks and tight lips.

“I should like to see the body and the crate and if possible have a walk round the place,” French went on. “Then I shall understand more clearly what you have to tell me. Is the inquest over?”

“No. It is fixed for eleven o’clock to-morrow. The chief constable thought you would like to be present.”

“Very kind of him. I should. I gathered that the man had been dead for some time?”

“Between five and six weeks, the doctors said. Two doctors saw the body—our local man, Doctor Crowth, and a friend of the chief constable’s, Doctor Wilbraham. They were agreed about the time.”

“Did they say the cause of death?”

“No, they didn’t, but there can’t be much doubt about that. The whole face and head is battered in. It’s not a nice sight, I can tell you.”

“I don’t expect so. Your report said that the crate was found by a fisherman?”

“An amateur fisherman, yes,” and Nield repeated Mr. Morgan’s story.

“That’s just the lucky way things happen, isn’t it?” French exclaimed. “A man commits a crime and he takes all kinds of precautions to hide it, and then some utterly unexpected coincidence happens—who could have foreseen a fisherman hooking the crate—and he is down and out. Lucky for us, and for society, too. But I’ve seen it again and again. I’ve seen things happen that a writer couldn’t put into a book, because nobody would believe them possible, and I’m sure so have you. There’s nothing in this world stranger than the truth.”

The sergeant agreed, but without enthusiasm. In his experience it was the ordinary and obvious thing that happened. He didn’t believe in coincidences. After all, it wasn’t such a coincidence that a fisherman who lowered a line on the site of the crate should catch his hooks in it. The crate was in the area over which this man fished. There was nothing wonderful about it.

But a further discussion of the point was prevented by their arrival at the police station. They passed to the outhouse containing the body and French forthwith began his examination.

The remains were those of a man of slightly over medium height, of fairly strong build, and who had seemingly been in good health before death. The face had been terribly mishandled. It was battered in until the features were entirely obliterated. The ears, even, were torn and bruised and shapeless. The skull was evidently broken at the forehead, so, as the sergeant had said, there was here an injury amply sufficient to account for death. It was evident also that a post-mortem had been made. Altogether French had seldom seen so horrible a spectacle.

But his professional instincts were gratified by a discovery which he hoped might assist in the identification of the remains. On the back of the left arm near the shoulder was a small birthmark of a distinctive triangular shape. Of this he made a dimensioned sketch, having first carefully examined it and assured himself it was genuine.

But beyond these general observations he did not spend much time over the body. Having noted that the fingers were too much decomposed to enable prints to be taken, he turned his attention to the clothes, believing that all the further available information as to the remains would be contained in the medical report.

Minutely he examined the underclothes, noting their size and quality and pattern, searching for laundry marks or initials or for mendings or darns. But except that the toe of the left sock had been darned with wool of too light a shade, there was nothing to distinguish the garments from others of the same kind. Though he did not expect to get help from the clothes, French in his systematic way entered a detailed description of them in his notebook. Then he turned to the crate.

It measured two feet three inches by two feet four and was three feet long. Made of spruce an inch thick, it was strongly put together and clamped with iron corner pieces. The boards were tongued and grooved, and French thought that under ordinary conditions it should be watertight. He examined its whole surface, but here again he had no luck. Though there were a few bloodstains inside, no label or brand or identifying mark showed anywhere. Moreover, there was nothing in its shape or size to call for comment. The murderer might have obtained it from a hundred sources and French did not see any way in which it could be traced.

That it had been labelled at one time was evident. The heads of eight tacks formed a parallelogram which clearly represented the position of a card. It also appeared to have borne attachments of some heavier type, as there were seven nail holes of about an eighth of an inch in diameter at each of two opposite corners. Whatever these fittings were, they had been removed and the nails withdrawn.

“How long would you say this had been in the water?” French asked, running his fingers over the sodden wood.

“I asked Manners, our coastguard, that question,” the sergeant answered. “He said not very long. You see, there are no shells nor seaweed attaching to it. He thought about the time the doctors mentioned, say between five and six weeks.”

The bar was a bit of old two-inch shafting, some fourteen inches long, and was much rusted from its immersion. It had evidently been put in as a weight to ensure the sinking of the crate. Unfortunately, it offered no better clue to the sender than the crate itself.

French added these points to his notes and again addressed the sergeant.

“Have you a good photographer in the town?”

“Why, yes, pretty good.”

“Then I wish you’d send for him. I want some photographs of the body and they had better be done first thing in the morning.”

When the photographer had arrived and had received his instructions French went on: “That, Sergeant, seems to be all we can do now. It’s too dark to walk round to-night. Suppose we get along to the hotel and see about that dinner?”

During a leisurely meal in the private room French had engaged they conversed on general topics, but later over a couple of cigars they resumed their discussion of the tragedy. The sergeant repeated in detail all that he knew of the matter, but he was neither able to suggest clues upon which to work, nor yet to form a theory as to what had really happened.

“It’s only just nine o’clock,” French said when the subject showed signs of exhaustion. “I think I’ll go round and have a word with this Mr. Morgan, and then perhaps we could see the doctor—Crowth, you said his name was? Will you come along?”

Mr. Morgan, evidently thrilled by his visitor’s identity, repeated his story still another time. French had brought from London a large-scale ordnance map of the district, and on it he got Mr. Morgan to mark the bearings he had taken and so located the place the crate had lain. This was all the fresh information French could obtain, and soon he and Nield wished the manager good night and went on to the doctor’s.

Dr. Crowth was a bluff, middle-aged man with a hearty manner and a kindly expression. He was offhand in his greeting and plunged at once into his subject.

“Yes,” he said in answer to French’s question, “we held a post-mortem, Doctor Wilbraham and I, and we found the cause of death. Those injuries to the face and forehead were all inflicted after death. They were sufficient to cause death, but they did not do so. The cause of death was a heavy blow on the back of the head with some soft, yielding instrument. The skull was fractured, but the skin, though contused, was unbroken. Something like a sandbag was probably used. The man was struck first and killed, and then his features were destroyed with some heavy implement such as a hammer.”

“That’s suggestive, isn’t it?” French commented.

“You mean that the features were obliterated after death to conceal the man’s identity?”

“No, I didn’t mean that, though of course it is true. What I meant was that the man was murdered in some place where blood would have been noticed, had it fallen. He was killed, not with a sharp-edged instrument, though one was available, but with a blunt one, lest bleeding should have ensued. Then when death had occurred the sharp-edged instrument was used and the face disfigured. I am right about the bleeding, am I not?”

“Oh, yes. A dead body does not bleed, or at least not much. But I do not say that you could inflict all those injuries without leaving some bloodstains.”

“No doubt, but still I think my deduction holds. There were traces of blood in the crate, but only slight. What age was the man, do you think, Doctor?”

“Impossible to say exactly, but probably middle-aged: thirty-five to fifty-five.”

“Any physical peculiarities?”

“I had better show you my report. It will give you all I know. In fact, you can keep this copy.”

French ran his eyes over the document, noting the points which might be valuable. The body was that of a middle-aged man five feet ten inches high, fairly broad and well built, and weighing thirteen stone. The injuries to the head and face were such that recognition from the features would be impossible. There was only one physical peculiarity which might assist identification—a small triangular birthmark on the back of the left arm.

The report then gave technical details of the injuries and the condition the body was in when found, with the conclusion that death had probably occurred some thirty-five to forty days earlier. French smiled ruefully when he had finished reading.

“There’s not overmuch to go on, is there?” he remarked. “I suppose nothing further is likely to come out at the inquest?”

“Unless some one that we don’t know of comes forward with information, nothing,” the sergeant answered. “We have made all the enquiries that we could think of.”

“As far as I am concerned,” Dr. Crowth declared, “I don’t see that you have anything to go on at all. I shouldn’t care for your job, Inspector. How on earth will you start trying to clear up this puzzle? To me it seems absolutely insoluble.”

“Cases do seem so at first,” French returned, “but it’s wonderful how light gradually comes. It is almost impossible to commit a murder without leaving a clue, and if you think it over long enough you usually get it. But this, I admit, is a pretty tough proposition.”

“Have you ever heard of anything like it before?”

“So far it rather reminds me of a case investigated several years ago by my old friend Inspector Burnley—he’s retired now. A cask was sent from France to London which was found to contain the body of a young married French woman, and it turned out that her unfaithful husband had murdered her. He had in his study at the time a cask in which a group of statuary which he had just purchased had arrived, and he disposed of the body by packing it in the cask and sending it to England. It might well be that the same thing had happened in this case: that the murderer had purchased something which had arrived in this crate and that he had used the latter to get rid of the body. And as you can see, Doctor, that at once suggests a line of enquiry. What firm uses crates of this kind to despatch their goods and to whom were such crates sent recently? This is the sort of enquiry which gets us our results.”

“That is very interesting. All the same, I’m glad it’s your job and not mine. I remember reading of that case you mention. The papers were absolutely full of it at the time. I thought it an extraordinary affair, almost like a novel.”

“No doubt, but there is this difference between a novel and real life. In a novel the episodes are selected and the reader is told those which are interesting and which get results. In real life we try perhaps ten or twenty lines which lead nowhere before we strike the lucky one. And in each line we make perhaps hundreds of enquiries, whereas the novel describes one. It’s like any other job, you get results by pegging away. But it is interesting on the whole, and it has its compensations. Well, Doctor, I mustn’t keep you talking all night. I shall see you at the inquest to-morrow?”

French’s gloomy prognostications were justified next day when the proceedings in the little courthouse came to an end. Nothing that was not already known came out and the coroner adjourned the enquiry for three weeks to enable the police to conclude their investigations.

What those investigations were to consist of was the problem which confronted French when after lunch he sat down in the deserted smoking room of the little hotel to think matters out.

In the first place, there was the body. What lines of enquiry did the body suggest?

One obviously. Some five or six weeks ago a fairly tall, well-built man of middle age had disappeared. He might merely have vanished without explanation, or more probably, circumstances had been arranged to account for his absence. In the first case, information should be easily obtainable. But the second alternative was a different proposition. If the disappearance had been cleverly screened it might prove exceedingly difficult to locate. At all events, enquiries on the matter must represent the first step.

It was clearly impossible to trace any of the clothes, with the possible exception of the sock. But even from the sock French did not think he would learn anything. It was of a standard pattern and the darning of socks with wool of not quite the right shade was too common to be remembered. At the same time he noted it as a possible line of research.

Next he turned his attention to the crate, and at once two points struck him.

Could he trace the firm who had made the crate? Of this he was doubtful; it was not sufficiently distinctive. There must be thousands of similar packing cases in existence, and to check up all of them would be out of the question. Besides, it might not have been supplied by a firm. The murderer might have had it specially made or even have made it himself. Here again, however, French could but try.

The second point was: How had the crate got to the bottom of the Burry Inlet? This was a question that he must solve, and he turned all his energies towards it.

There were here two possibilities. Either the crate had been thrown into the water and had sunk at the place where it was found, or it had gone in elsewhere and been driven forward by the action of the sea. He considered these ideas in turn.

To have sunk at the place it was thrown in postulated a ship or boat passing over the site. From the map, steamers approaching or leaving Llanelly must go close to the place, and might cross it. But French saw that there were grave difficulties in the theory that the crate had been dropped overboard from a steamer. It was evident that the whole object of the crate was to dispose of the body secretly. The crate, however, could not have been secretly thrown from a steamer. Whether it were let go by hand or by a winch, several men would know about it. Indeed, news of so unusual an operation would almost certainly spread to the whole crew, and if the crate were afterwards found, some one of the hands would be sure to give the thing away. Further, if the crate were being got rid of from a steamer it would have been done far out in deep water and not at the entrance to a port.

For these reasons French thought that the ship might be ruled out and he turned his attention to the idea of a rowboat.

But here a similar objection presented itself. The crate was too big and heavy to be dropped from a small boat. French tried to visualise the operation. The crate could only be placed across the stern; in any other position it would capsize the boat. Then it would have to be pushed off. This could not be done by one man; he doubted whether it could be done by two. But even if it could, these two added to the weight of the crate would certainly cause disaster. He did not believe the operation possible without a large boat and at least three men, and he felt sure the secret would not have been entrusted to so many.

It seemed to him, then, that the crate could not have been thrown in where it was found. How else could it have got there?

He thought of Mr. Morgan’s suggestion of a wreck from which it might have been washed up into the Inlet, but according to the sergeant, there had been no wreck. Besides, the crate was undamaged outside, and it was impossible that it could have been torn out through the broken side of a ship or washed overboard without leaving some traces.

French lit a fresh pipe and began to pace the deserted smoking room. He was exasperated because he saw that his reasoning must be faulty. All that he had done was to prove that the crate could not have reached the place where it was found.

For some minutes he couldn’t see the snag; then it occurred to him that he had been assuming too much. He had taken it for granted that the crate had sunk immediately on falling into the water. The weights of the crate itself, the body, and the bar of steel had made him think so. But was he correct? Would the air the crate contained not give it buoyancy for a time, until at least some water had leaked in?

If so, the fact would have a considerable bearing on his problem. If the crate had been floated to the place he was halfway to a solution.

Suddenly the possible significance of the fourteen holes occurred to him. He had supposed they were nailholes, but now he began to think differently. Suppose they were placed there to admit the water, slowly, so that the crate should float for a time and then sink? Their position was suggestive: they were at diagonally opposite corners of the crate. That meant that at least one set must be under water, no matter in what position the crate was floating. It also meant that the other set provided a vent for the escape of the displaced air.

The more French thought over the idea, the more probable it seemed. The crate had been thrown into the sea, most likely from the shore and when the tide was ebbing, and it had floated out into the Inlet. By the time it had reached the position in which it was found, enough water had leaked in to sink it.

He wondered if any confirmatory evidence of the theory were available. Then an idea struck him, and walking to the police station, he asked for Sergeant Nield.

“I want you, Sergeant, to give me a bit of help,” he began. “First, I want the weights of the crate and the bar of iron. Can you get them for me?”

“Certainly. We’ve nothing here that would weigh them, but I’ll send them to the railway station. You’ll have the weights in half an hour.”

“Good man! Now there is one other thing. Can you borrow a Molesworth for me?”

“A Molesworth?”

“A Molesworth’s Pocket Book of Engineering Formulæ. You’ll get it from any engineer or architect.”

“Yes, I think I can manage that. Anything else?”

“No, Sergeant; that’s all except that before you send away the crate I want to measure those nail holes.”

French took a pencil from his pocket and sharpened it to a long, thin, evenly rounded point. This he pushed into the nail holes, marking how far it went in. Then with a pocket rule he measured the diameter of the pencil, the length of the sharpened portion, and the distance the latter had entered. From these dimensions a simple calculation told him that the holes were all slightly under one-sixth of an inch in diameter.

The sergeant was an energetic man and before the half-hour was up he had produced the required weights and the engineer’s pocket book. French, returning to the hotel, sat down with the Molesworth and a few sheets of paper, and began with some misgivings to bury himself in engineering calculations.

First he added the weights of the crate, the body, and the steel bar; they came to 29 stone, or 406 pounds. Then he found that the volume of the crate was just a trifle over 15 cubic feet. This latter multiplied by the weight of a cubic foot of sea water—64 pounds—gave a total of 985 pounds as the weight of water the crate would displace if completely submerged. But if the weight of the crate was 406 pounds and the weight of the water it displaced was 985 pounds, it followed that not only would it float, but it would float with a very considerable buoyancy, represented by the difference between these two, or 579 pounds. The first part of his theory was therefore tenable.

But the moment the crate was thrown into the sea, water would begin to run in through the lower holes. French wondered if he could calculate how long it would take to sink.

He was himself rather out of his depth among the unfamiliar figures and formulæ given on the subject. The problem was, How long would it take 579 pounds of water to run through seven one-sixth-inch holes? This, he found, depended on the head, which he could only guess at approximately one foot. He worked for a considerable time and at last came to the conclusion that it would take slightly over an hour. But that his calculations were correct he would not like to have sworn.

At all events, these results were extremely promising and gave him at least a tentative working theory.

But if the crate had floated from the coast to where it was found, the question immediately arose: At what point had it been thrown in?

Here was a question which could only be answered with the help of local knowledge. French thought that a discussion with the coastguard might suggest ideas. Accordingly, he left the hotel and turned towards the harbour with the intention of looking up Manners.

Chapter Three: Experimental Detection

Tom Manners was hoeing in his little garden when French hailed him. He was not a native, but the course of a long career had led him from Shoreditch, via the Royal Navy, to Burry Port. In person he was small, stout, and elderly, but his movements were still alert and his eyes shone with intelligence.

“I want to have another chat with you about this affair,” said French, who had already heard the other’s statement. “Just walk down to the end of the pier with me while we talk.”

They strolled down past the stumpy lighthouse to where they could get a view of the Inlet.

Again it was a perfect afternoon. The sun, pouring down through a slight haze, put as much warmth as was possible into the somewhat drab colours of the landscape, the steel of the water, the varying browns of the mud and sand, the dingy greys and slate of the town, the greens of the grass and trees on the hills beyond. Some four miles away to the right was the long line of Llanelly, with its chimneys sticking up irregularly like the teeth of a rather badly damaged comb. Fifty-three chimneys, French counted, and he was sure he had not seen anything like all the town contained. Beyond Llanelly the coastline showed as a blur in the haze, but opposite, across the Inlet, lay the great yellow stretch of the Llanrhidian Sands, rising through grey-green dunes to the high ground of the Gower Peninsula.

“Let us sit down,” French suggested when he had assimilated the view. “I have come to the conclusion that the crate must have been thrown into the sea at some point along the shore and floated out to where it was found. It would float, I estimate, for about an hour, when enough water would have got in to sink it. Now what I want to know is, Where along the coast might the crate have been thrown in, so as to reach the place at which it was found in an hour?”

Manners nodded but did not reply. French unrolled his map and went on: “Here is a map of the district and this is the point at which the crate was found. Let us take the places in turn. If it had been thrown in here at Burry Port, would it have got there in time?”

“It ain’t just so easy to say,” Manners declared, slowly. “It might if the tide was flowing, and then again it mightn’t. It might ’ave started ’ere or from Pembrey—that’s ’alf a mile over there to the west.”

This was not encouraging, but French tried again.

“Very well,” he said. “Now what about Llanelly?”

Llanelly, it appeared, was also a doubtful proposition.

“It’s like this ’ere, Mr. French,” Manners explained. “It’s all according to ’ow the tide ’appens to be running. If the tide was flowing and that there crate was dropped in at Llanelly it would go further up the Inlet than wot you show on the chart. An’ if the tide was ebbing it would go further down. But if the tide was on the turn it might go up or down and then come back to the place. You see wot I mean?”

French saw it, and he sighed as he saw also that it meant that there was practically no part of the adjacent shores from which the crate might not have come. Then it occurred to him that both his question and Manners’ reply had been based on a misconception.

The murderer’s object was to get rid of the crate. Would he, therefore, choose a rising or half tide which might drift it back inshore? Surely not; he would select one which would take it as far as possible out to sea. French felt that only ebb tides need be considered. He turned again to Manners.

“I suppose a good ebb develops some strong currents in these channels?”

“You may say so, Mr. French. An average of five knots you may reckon on. A deal faster than you could walk.”

“Five knots an hour?”

“No, sir. Five knots. It’s like this ’ere. A knot ain’t a distance; it’s a speed. If I say five knots I mean five sea miles an hour.”

“A sea mile is longer than an ordinary one?”

“That’s right. It varies in different places, but you may take it as six thousand and eighty feet ’ere.”

French made a short calculation.

“That is about five and three-quarters English miles per hour,” he remarked as he scaled this distance up the Inlet from the position of the crate. And then his interest quickened suddenly.

A little over five miles from the point at which the crate had sunk the estuary narrowed to less than a quarter of a mile in width. At this point it was crossed by two bridges, carrying, respectively, the main road and the railway between Swansea and Llanelly. Had the crate been thrown from one of these?

French saw at once that no more suitable place for the purpose could be found. Objects pushed in from the bank would tend to hug the shore and to be caught in backwaters or eddies. Moreover, even if they escaped such traps they would not travel at anything like the maximum speed of the current. But from a bridge they could be dropped into the middle of the stream where the flow was quickest.

“What about the bridge up at Loughor?” he asked. “If the crate was dropped off that on an ebb tide, do you think it would get down all right?”

Manners was impressed by the suggestion. Given a good ebb, about an hour should carry the crate to where it was found. French rose with sudden energy.

“Let’s go and see the place. How soon can we get there?”

By a stroke of luck a train was approaching as they entered the station, and twenty minutes later they reached their destination.

Loughor proved to be a straggling village situated on the left bank of the estuary where the latter made a right-angled bend towards the north. The two bridges ran side by side and a couple of hundred yards apart. That carrying the road was a fine wide structure of ferro-concrete, fairly new and leading directly into the village. The railway bridge was lower downstream, considerably older, and supported on timber piles. Both were about three hundred yards long, and built with short spans and many piers. The tide was out and the usual wide mudbanks were exposed on either shore.

Directly French saw the spot he felt that here indeed was what he sought. On a dark night it would have been easy to drop the crate from the road bridge in absolute secrecy. Nor, as far as he could see from the map, was there any other place from which it could have been done.

He had assumed that the criminal would select an ebb tide for his attempt, in order to ensure the crate being carried as far as possible out to sea. For the same reason French believed he would choose the time of its most rapid run. That time must also be in the dead of night to minimise the risk of discovery from passing road traffic. From 2 to 4 A.M. would probably best meet the conditions, as the chances were a thousand to one that the road would then be deserted.

French wondered if he could get anything from these considerations. He turned to Manners.

“I suppose it takes a bit of time to get up a good run in an estuary like this? How soon after high water would you say the current was running at full speed under the bridge?”

“From one to two hours, more or less.”

One to two hours previous to the period 2 to 4 A.M. meant between midnight and 3 A.M.

“Now, Mr. Manners, can you tell me whether high water fell between twelve and three on any night about five or six weeks ago?”

Manners once more produced his tide table.

“Five or six weeks ago,” he repeated, slowly. “That would be between the sixteenth and the twenty-third of August.” He ran his stubby finger up the pages, then read out: “ ‘Twenty-first, Sunday, O point five—that’s five minutes past midnight, you understand. Twenty-second, Monday, one-twenty-three A.M.; twenty-third, Tuesday, two-fifty-five A.M.’ ’Ow would that suit you, sir?”

“All right, I think,” French answered as he noted the three dates. “Any of those top springs?”

“No, sir; you don’t get ’igh water of springs at night. ’Bout six or seven o’clock it runs. Those dates wot I gave you are about dead neaps.”

“But there is still a strong flow at neaps?”

“Oh, bless you, yes! Not so strong as at springs, o’ course, but plenty strong enough.”

All this seemed satisfactory to French and he felt a growing conviction that the small hours of the 21st, 22nd, or 23rd of August had witnessed the launch of the crate. But this was mere theory, and theory is popularly admitted to be worth only one-sixteenth of the value of practice. Could not he arrive at something more definite?

Suddenly he thought he saw his way.

“You say it was neap tides on those three dates in August? What rise and fall does that represent?”

“ ’Bout eighteen feet.”

“How soon shall we have that again?”

“Not for nearly a week we shan’t. Say next Monday.”

“I can’t wait for that. What’s the rise to-morrow?”

“Twenty-one foot, eleven.”

“And what hour is high water?”

“Eight o’clock in the morning.”

“That’ll have to do. Look, here is a bus labelled ‘Llanelly.’ Let us get aboard.”

At the police station they found not only the superintendent, but Chief Constable Lloyd.

“Glad to see you together, gentlemen,” French greeted them. “I’ve been going into the matter of tides and currents in the Inlet with Mr. Manners here, and now I want your help in trying an experiment. Manners informs me that about six weeks ago, the time at which the doctors believe our man was murdered, it was high water in the dead period of the night. To-morrow, Thursday, it will be high water at eight A.M. The maximum run out to sea, Manners says, will begin between one and two hours later, say at nine-thirty. Now, gentlemen, I want to load the crate with a weight equal to that of the body and throw it into the estuary from the Loughor bridge at nine-thirty to-morrow morning. Will you help me?”

While French had been speaking, the three men had stared uncomprehendingly, but as he reached his peroration something like admiration showed on their faces.

“Well, I’m blessed!” the superintendent said, slowly, while Major Lloyd gave the suggestion his instant approval.

“Glad you agree, gentlemen,” said French. “Now if we’re to be ready we shall want a few things arranged. First we’ll have to put stones in the crate to equal the weight of the body. Then we’ll want a carpenter to repair the top where Mr. Morgan broke it. He’ll have to make it watertight with pitch or putty or something: I don’t want it to take any water through the cracks. A lorry will also be needed to carry the crate to the bridge and three or four men to lift it over the parapet.”

“Very good,” the chief constable answered. “Nield can arrange all that. Advise him, will you, Superintendent? But you’d better see him yourself, Inspector, and make sure he forgets nothing. Anything else?”

“Yes, sir. We don’t want to lose the crate. We shall want a rope round it and a boat in attendance.”

“You can fix that up, Manners, can’t you?”

“Certainly, sir. I’ll see to it.”

“Good. I’ll come down to watch the experiment. Shall we say nine-thirty at the bridge?”

At nine o’clock next morning two vehicles left the Burry Port police station. The first was a lorry and on it stood the crate, repaired and loaded with the necessary weight of shingle, due allowance having been made for the fact that the wood was now water-logged. Behind followed a car containing French, Nield, and three constables in plain clothes.

The weather was ideal for their purpose. The fine spell had lasted and the sun shone with a summery warmth and brilliance. Not a breath of wind dulled the shining surface of the Inlet, still calm and placid from the turn of the tide. Inland the hills showed sharp against the clear blue of the sky. Out beyond the Gower Peninsula was a steamer going up to Swansea or Cardiff.

The chief constable and Superintendent Griffiths were waiting for them at Loughor. Already the tide was running swiftly, swirling and eddying round the piers of the bridge. Moored to the bank at the east end was a broad-beamed boat with Manners in the stern sheets and two oarsmen amidships.

“Good Heavens! They’ll never row against that current!” French exclaimed, aghast at the rushing flood.

“They’re not going to try,” Nield declared. “This is what I’ve arranged with Manners. He has an extra-long painter fixed to his boat. We’ll get the end up on the bridge and tie it to the crate. Then we’ll throw crate and rope over together and Manners can pull the slack of the rope into the boat and float down beside the crate.”

“Right. Let me get into the boat first and then carry on.”

French scrambled down the stone pitching of the bank and with some difficulty got aboard. The rope had been passed up to the bridge and was now worked across till the boat was nearly in midstream. Even with the help of the oarsmen it was all those above could do to hold on. Then the crate appeared rising slowly on to the parapet. Presently it turned over and fell, the rope being thrown clear at the same time.

The crate entered the water with a mighty splash, drenching the boat with spray and disappearing momentarily beneath the surface. Then it came up again, and bobbing about like some ungainly animal, began to move quickly downstream. The boatmen rowed after it, while Manners hurriedly pulled in the slack of the rope.

After the first few plunges the crate settled down on what might be called an even keel, floating placidly down the estuary. They were rapidly approaching the railway bridge, the roar of the water through the piles being already audible. The passage was not without danger and the oarsmen worked hard to keep the boat clear of the piles and to ensure its passing through the same opening as the crate. Then with a rush they were through and floating in the calm water beyond.

French enjoyed that unconventional trip down the Inlet. Apart from the interest of the quest, the glorious weather and the charming scenery made it a delightful excursion. Borne on by the current, they first hugged the salt marshes of the northern shore, then heading out towards midchannel, they passed the post on Careg-ddu and rounded the point at the Llanelly rifle range. They kept inside the long training-bank or breakwater and, passing the entrance to Llanelly harbour, stood out towards the open sea. From the water the highlands north and south looked rugged and picturesque, and even the dingy buildings of the town became idealised and seemed to fit their setting. French took frequent bearings so as to be able to plot their course on the map.

The crate had been settling down steadily, and now only about two inches of freeboard showed, every tiny wavelet washing over it. The rope had been carefully coiled so as to run out easily when the time came. Presently the crate was entirely awash and the air escaping through the upper holes bubbled as the little surges covered them. Then it was below the surface, showing like a phantom under the waves. At last, just one hour and seven minutes after they had left the bridge, it slowly vanished from sight and the rope began to run out.

“That will do,” French said as soon as he had taken bearings. “That’s all I want. We may haul it up and get ashore.”

They followed the example set by Mr. Morgan, and pulling up the crate until the top was showing beneath the surface, made the rope fast to the after-thwart and pulled for the Burry Port harbour. There they beached their burden, the sergeant undertaking to salve it when the tide fell.

French, delighted with the result of his experiment, hurried to the hotel and plotted their course on his map. And then he was more delighted still. The crate had passed within fifty yards of its previous resting-place.

It was true it had gone nearly half a mile further, but that was to be expected and was attributable to the greater fall of the tide.

That the crate had been thrown from the Loughor bridge on the night of the 21st, 22nd, or 23rd of August French had now no doubt. The first problem of the investigation had therefore been solved and he congratulated himself on having made so brilliant a start in his new case.

But as was usual in criminal investigations, the solution of one problem merely led to another: How had the crate been transported to the bridge?

There were three possibilities: by means of a handcart, a horse cart or a motor lorry. All, however, had the serious objection that it would take at least three men to lift the crate over the parapet. Murders, of course, were sometimes the work of gangs, but much more frequently they were carried out by individuals, and French would have preferred a theory which involved only one man. However, there was nothing for it but to follow the theory which he had.

As far as he could see, the only factor differentiating between the three vehicles was that of radius of operation. If a hand cart had been used the body must have been brought from Loughor, Bynea, or some other place in the immediate vicinity. The same remarks applied to a horse vehicle, though to a lesser extent. With a motor the distance travelled might have been almost anything.

French did not believe that the body could have come from anywhere near by. Had anyone disappeared or left the neighbourhood under suspicious circumstances, the police would have known about it. The motor lorry was, therefore, the more likely of the three.

He began to see the outlines of an enquiry stretching out before him. Had anyone seen a motor, loaded with something which might have been the crate, in any part of the surrounding country on the night of the 21st, 22nd, or 23rd of August?

Going to the police station, French rang up the chief constable, reported the result of the experiment, and asked him to see that his question was circulated, not only among the Carmarthenshire police, but also among those of adjoining counties. Then, thinking he had not done so badly for one day, he returned to the hotel for lunch.

A good deal of the afternoon he employed in speculating as to what he should do if there were no answer to his circular, but next morning he was delighted to find that his labour had not been in vain. Sergeant Nield appeared to say that there had just been a message from the police at Neath, saying that a lorry answering to the description had been seen on the evening of Monday, 22nd August. It was fitted with a breakdown crane and carried a large package covered with a tarpaulin which might easily have been the crate. A constable had seen it about eight at night, standing in a lane some two miles north of the town. The driver was working at the engine, which he said had been giving trouble.

“That’s a bit of good news, Sergeant,” French said, heartily. “How can I get to this Neath quickest?”

“Direct train via Swansea. It’s on the main line to London.”

“Right. Look up the trains, will you, while I get ready?”

French had little doubt that he was on a hot scent. He had not thought of a portable crane, but now he saw that nothing more suitable for the purpose could be obtained. There were, he knew, cranes—auto-cranes, he believed they were called—which were fixed on lorries and used for towing disabled cars. In certain types the jibs could be raised or lowered under load. With the jib down a load could be picked up from the ground behind the lorry. The jib could then be raised to its highest position, and if the load was right up at the pulley it would clear the tail end of the lorry. When the load was lowered it would come down on the lorry. And all this could be done by one man.

As French closed his eyes he seemed to see the reverse process being carried out—a crane-lorry arriving on the Loughor bridge, stopping, backing at right angles to the road until its tail was up against the parapet—the road was wide enough to allow of it; the driver getting down, taking a tarpaulin off a crate, swinging the crate up to the pulley of his crane, lowering the jib until the crate swung suspended over the rushing flood beneath, then striking out some type of slip shackle which allowed the crate to fall clear. It was all not only possible but easy, and French had not the slightest doubt that it had been done.

A couple of hours later he was seated in the police station at Neath, listening to Constable David Jenkins’s story.

It seemed that about eight o’clock on the night of Monday, the 22nd of August, Jenkins was walking along a lane leading through a small spinney some two miles north of the town, when he came on a lorry drawn in close to one side. It was fitted with a crane such as is used for motor breakdowns, and behind the crane was an object covered with a tarpaulin. This object was rectangular shaped and about the size of the crate. There had been engine trouble which the driver was trying to make good. Jenkins paused and wished the man good night, and they talked for a few minutes. The man was slightly over middle height and rather stout, and was dressed as a lorryman—a workingman, evidently. He had reddish hair, a high colour, and glasses, and Jenkins felt sure he would know him again. The man explained that he was going from Swansea to Merthyr Tydfil and had got out of his way in trying to take a short cut. Then his engine had broken down and he was thus kept very late. But he had now found the defect and would be able to get on in a few minutes. Jenkins had stayed chatting, and in five minutes the man had said, “There, that’s got it,” and had closed up the bonnet and moved off.

“Coming from Swansea, was he?” French said. “Does that lane lead from Swansea?”

“Oh, yes, it leads from Swansea all right, but it doesn’t lead to Merthyr Tydfil.”

“Where does it lead to?”

“More like to Pontardawe.”

That was all right. French was delighted with the way news was coming in. That the constable had seen his man he did not doubt.

At the time, Jenkins went on, it had struck him as curious that a breakdown lorry should be used for transporting goods. But on reading French’s circular he had seen that here was a plant which would lift the goods over the parapet of a bridge. And when he remembered that the tarpaulin-covered object was about the size given, he felt he ought to report the occurrence.

“Quite right, constable,” French said, heartily. “I am sure your superiors will not overlook your action.”

French’s next step was clear. A crane-lorry should not be difficult to trace. He would go back to Swansea and put the necessary enquiries in train.

Chapter Four: A Change of Venue

On reaching Swansea French looked up Superintendent Howells at the police station.

“Glad to see you, Mr. French,” the superintendent greeted him. “I’ve known your name for a considerable time and since I heard you were down over this job I’ve been hoping we should meet. That Neath report any good to you?”

“I think so,” French answered. “It sounds promising, at all events. On the strength of it I’ve come in to ask for your help.”

“That’s all right. What do you want us to do?”

“I want to trace the lorry your man saw out at Neath. I’ve got his description of it, and I must say that, seeing he suspected nothing at the time, he observed it pretty closely. A smart man, Superintendent.”

“I’m glad you think so, Inspector. Right. I’ll put through a call to all stations immediately.”

“Splendid. And can you ask Superintendent Griffiths at Llanelly to advise the Carmarthen men also?”

The necessary circular drafted, the two chatted for some minutes until French excused himself on the ground that since he was at Swansea he might as well have a look round the town.

“There’s not much to see in it, Mr. French,” Howells rejoined, “but Mumbles is worth visiting. I should advise you to take a bus there and walk round the Head and back by Langland. If you’re fond of a bit of good coast you’ll enjoy it. You’ll have plenty of time before we get any replies. Sorry I can’t go with you, but I’m full up here.”

French went out, and after a stroll through some of the principal streets got on board a bus for Mumbles. There he took the walk Superintendent Howells had recommended. He enjoyed every minute of it. As he left the houses behind and the road began to rise up the side of the cliff he felt he was having one of the compensations of a country case. He walked up through the long rock cutting until at the top the wide expanse of the Bristol Channel came into view, with the islands and lighthouse off the Head in the foreground. There was some wind and the deep blue of the sea was flecked with white. He stood and watched three outward-bound steamers pitching gently in the swell, the smoke from their stacks trailing away east. Then he took the footpath round the cliffs, rising high round Rams Tor and dropping again to Langland Bay, from which another road led across the neck of the peninsula back into Mumbles. It was getting on towards five when he returned to the police station.

“You’ve come at the right time, Inspector,” Superintendent Howells greeted him. “I’ve just had two pieces of news. Your lorry was seen twice. About five o’clock on Monday evening, 22nd August, the evening in question, it was seen by one of our men passing through Morriston. Morriston is a town some two miles north of Swansea; indeed, it is really a suburb. The lorry came from the Swansea direction and turned east at Morriston towards Neath. It was then carrying the tarpaulin-covered object.”

“Then it started from Swansea?”

“Looks like it. And it looks as if it finished up at Swansea also. It was seen again on the following morning. About ten o’clock a patrol saw a breakdown lorry coming towards Swansea along the Pontardulais road. It corresponded with the description in every respect except that it was carrying the tarpaulin only.”

“By Jove! Superintendent, that’s good. It won’t be long till we run it to earth. I take it there are not many breakdown lorries in Swansea.”

“Give you a list in half an hour.” He touched a bell. “Here, Thomas, start in and ring up all the local garages and find out how many have repair lorries. You know what I mean, fitted with cranes. And see here. You needn’t worry about any with fixed jibs—only those that can be raised and lowered. Got that?”

The constable saluted smartly and withdrew. Howells turned to French and was beginning a remark, when his desk telephone rang.

“Yes. Superintendent Howells speaking. . . . Yes. . . . Gorseinon. . . . Yes. . . . What time was that? . . . Very good, I’ve got you.” He rang off. “There’s another, Mr. French. I think you’re all right this time. At half past twelve that same Monday night a patrol found your lorry in another lane, also hidden by trees. It was a mile or so east of a little place called Gorseinon: that’s about five miles northeast of Loughor. It was standing in the lane and the driver was working at his engine. Our men stopped and spoke, and the driver said he had been on a job out beyond Llandilo and was returning to Swansea. The description matches and the crate was then on the lorry.”

“Fine!” French exclaimed. “That settles it. He was evidently going round killing time until it was late enough to throw in the crate. Could we fix his course from all those places you mentioned?”

“Pretty nearly, I think. Here is a map of the district. He seems to have just made a circle from Swansea to Loughor via Morriston, Neath, Pontardawe and Gorseinon: say twenty-five miles altogether. Goodness knows how he returned, but it may have been through Bynea and Pontardulais. We may take it he made another détour, anyhow.”

“He made a blunder going with the lorry in that open way,” French said, grimly.

“I don’t see what else he could have done. But I bet he wasn’t worrying much about being seen. He was banking on the crate not being found.”

“You’re right, and on odds he was justified. It was by a pretty thin chance that it was discovered. I was saying that to Nield—how the one unlikely chance that a man overlooks or discounts is the one that gets him.”

“That’s a fact, Inspector, and it’s lucky for us it is so. I remember once when——”

But French was not destined to hear the superintendent’s reminiscence. The telephone bell once again rang stridently.

“Got it in one,” Howells observed after listening to the message. “There is only one lorry in Swansea fitted with a movable crane, and it is owned by Messrs. Llewellyn of Fisher Street. Moreover, it was hired about four o’clock on the afternoon of that Monday, twenty-second August, and returned next morning. Will you see them now? If so, I’ll come along and show you the place.”

They soon reached Fisher Street, where was a large garage bearing the name, “The Stepney Motor Car Co.” The superintendent, entering, asked for Mr. Llewellyn.

The proprietor looked thrilled when he learned French’s business.

“By Jove! You don’t say that that crate was carried on my lorry!” he exclaimed. “I read about its discovery, and a dam’ good tale it made. How did you find out so much?”

“I’ve not proved anything,” French replied. “The whole thing is pure suspicion. But you may lead me to certainty. I’d be obliged if you would tell me what took place.”

“Surely. I’ll tell you all I can, but it won’t be much.” He opened a daybook and ran down the items. “The 22nd of August,” he went on. “Yes, here it is. We hired out the lorry on that date. But it was ordered beforehand. We got a letter several days before from London from one of the big hotels, signed Stewart, asking if we had a breakdown lorry for hire, and if so, at what rate. It particularised one with a movable jib which would pick up a load from the ground and set it on the lorry table. The machine would be wanted on the afternoon of the 22nd for one day only. If we agreed, the writer’s man would call for it about four on that afternoon and would return it before midday on the 23rd. As the writer was a stranger, he would be willing to deposit whatever sum we thought fair as a guaranty. The lorry was wanted to pick up a special machine which the writer was expecting by sea from London, and carry it to his place in Brecknock, where it was to be lowered on to a foundation. As it was part of an invention he was perfecting, he didn’t want any strangers about. He made it a condition, therefore, that his man would drive.

“It wasn’t a very usual request, but it seemed reasonable enough, and of course it was none of my business what he wanted the machine for. At first I wasn’t very keen on letting it go, but I thought if he would pay a deposit of three hundred pounds and five pounds for the hire, I should be safely covered. It was only a Ford ton truck with the crane added. I wrote him the conditions and he replied agreeing to the figures and asking that the lorry should be ready at the hour mentioned.

“At the time stated a man came in and said he had been sent for the machine by his employer, Mr. Stewart. He produced the three hundred pounds and I gave him a receipt. Then he drove away.

“Next day about ten-thirty he came back and said he had got done earlier than he expected. I had the lorry examined, and when I found it was all right I paid him back two hundred and ninety-five pounds. He returned me my receipt and went out, and that was all about it.”

“It’s a pleasure to get a clear statement like that, Mr. Llewellyn,” French said, with his friendly smile, “and it’s surprising how seldom one does get it. There are just one or two further points I should like information on. Have you got those letters from the London hotel?”

“No, I’m afraid they’re destroyed. They were kept until the transaction was finished and then burned.”

“But you have the address?”

“Mr. John F. Stewart, St. Pancras Hotel, London.”

“You might give me the dates of the correspondence.”

This also the owner was able to do, and French added them to his notes.

“Can you describe the hand they were written in?”

“They were typewritten.”

“Purple or black ribbon?”

Mr. Llewellyn hesitated.

“Black, I think, but I couldn’t be sure.”

“Now about the driver. Can you describe him?”

“He was a middling tall man, middling stout also. His hair was red and his complexion fresh, and he wore glasses.”

“His dress?”

“I could hardly describe it. He was dressed like a well-to-do labourer or a small jobbing contractor or something of that sort. He was untidy and I remember thinking that he wanted a shave pretty badly. I took him for a gardener or general man about a country place.”

“You couldn’t guess where he had come from by his accent?”

“No, I couldn’t tell. He wasn’t local, but that’s all I could say.”

“The same man came back next day?”

“Yes.”

“Had you any conversation with him on either occasion?”

“No, except that he explained about lowering the machine on to the foundation, same as in the letter.”

This seemed to French to be all he could get, and after some further talk he and the superintendent took their leave.

“He’s loaded up the crate here in Swansea, at all events,” French exclaimed when they were in the street. “That seems to postulate docks and stations. I wonder if I can trespass still further on your good nature, Superintendent?”

“Of course. I’ll send men round first thing to-morrow. It’s too late to-night; all the places would be shut.”

“Thanks. Then I’ll turn up early in the morning.”

At the nearest telegraph office French sent a message to the Yard to have enquiries made at the St. Pancras Hotel as to the mysterious Mr. John F. Stewart. Then, tired from his exertions, he returned to his hotel at Burry Port.

Early next morning he was back in Swansea. It was decided that with a constable who knew the docks he, French, was to apply at the various steamship offices, while other men were to try the railway stations and road transport agencies. If these failed, the local firms and manufacturers who usually sent out their products in crates were to be called on. French did not believe that the search would be protracted.

This view speedily proved correct. He had visited only three offices when a constable arrived with a message. News of the crate had been obtained at the Morriston Road Goods Station.

Fifteen minutes later French reached the place. He was met at the gate by Sergeant Jefferies, who had made the discovery.

“I asked in the goods office first, sir,” the sergeant explained, “but they didn’t remember anything there. Then I came out to the yard and began enquiring from the porters. At the fifth shot I found a man who remembered loading the crate. I didn’t question him further, but sent you word.”

“That was right, Sergeant. We shall soon get what we want. This the man?”

“Yes, sir.”

French turned to a thick set man in the uniform of a goods porter, who was standing expectantly by.

“Good day,” he said, pleasantly. “I want to know what you can tell me about that crate that was loaded upon a crane lorry about six weeks ago.”

“I can’t tell you nothing about it except that I helped for to get it loaded up,” the porter answered. “I was trucking here when Mr. Evans came up; he’s one o’ the clerks, you understand. Well, he came up and handed me a waybill and sez: ‘Get out that crate,’ he sez, ‘an’ get it loaded up on this lorry,’ he sez. So I calls two or three o’ the boys to give me a hand and we gets it loaded up. An’ that’s all I knows about it.”

“That’s all right. Now just take me along to Mr. Evans, will you?”

The man led the way across the yard to the office. Mr. Evans was only a junior, but this fact did not prevent French from treating him with his usual courtesy. He explained that the youth had it in his power to give him valuable help for which he would be very grateful. The result was that Evans instantly became his eager ally, willing to take any trouble to find out what was required.

The youth remembered the details of the case. It appeared that shortly after four o’clock one afternoon some five or six weeks previously a man called for a crate. He was of rather above medium height and build, with reddish hair and a high colour and wore glasses. He sounded to Evans like a Londoner. At all events, he was not a native. Evans had looked up the waybills and had found that a package had been invoiced to some one of the name given. The crate answered the man’s description, and was carriage paid and addressed, “To be called for.” Evans had, therefore, no hesitation in letting him have it. Unfortunately, he could not remember the stranger’s name, but he would search for it through the old waybills.

He vanished for a few minutes, then returned with a bulky volume which he set down triumphantly before French.

“There you are,” he exclaimed, pointing to an item. “ ‘Mr. James S. Stephenson, Great Western Railway Goods Station, Morriston Road, Swansea. To be called for.’ ‘Stephenson’ was the name. I remember it now.”

This was good enough as far as it went, but Evans’s next answer was the one that really mattered.

“Who was the sender?” French asked, with thinly veiled eagerness.

“ ‘The Veda Office Equipment Manufacturing Co., Ltd., Ashburton, South Devon,’ ” read Evans.

The name seemed dimly familiar to French, but he could not remember where he had heard it. Evans went on to say that the crate was invoiced from Ashburton on Tuesday, 16th August, and had reached Swansea on Saturday, 20th. Carriage had been paid by the Veda Company and the whole transaction had been conducted in a perfectly ordinary and regular way.

French left the goods office, and at the nearest telephone call office rang up the police station in Ashburton. After a considerable delay he got through. Would the sergeant enquire for him whether the Veda Company had sent out a crate on the 16th August last, addressed to the Morriston Road Goods Station, Swansea, to be called for, and if so, what was in this crate and who had ordered it.

For nearly three hours he hung about the police station before being recalled to the telephone. The Ashburton sergeant reported that he had been to the Veda Works and that the manager confirmed the sending out of the crate. It contained a large duplicator, a specialty of the firm’s. The machine had been ordered by letter from the Euston Hotel by a Mr. James S. Stephenson. He enclosed the money, £62.10.0, stating that they were to send it to the Morriston Road Goods Station in Swansea, labelled, “To be kept till called for.” It was to be there not later than on the 20th August, and he would call for it when the ship by which he intended to despatch it was ready to sail.

The news did not seem very hopeful to French as over a belated lunch he discussed it with Howells.

“This opens a second line of enquiry at Ashburton,” he began, “but I do not think, somehow, that we shall get much from it. I believe the real scent lies here.”

“Why so? I should have said it depended on what was in the crate when it reached Swansea. And that’s just what we don’t know.”

“I agree. But to me that sergeant’s report sounds as if things at Ashburton were O.K. If so, it follows that the body was put in sometime during that lorry run from Swansea to Loughor. But that doesn’t rule out enquiries at Ashburton. Even if I am right, something may be learned from the order for the machine.”

“Quite. Both ends will have to be worked. And how do you propose to do it?”

“Can’t you guess?” French said, blandly. “Surely there can be but one answer. I couldn’t hope to do it without the able and distinguished help of Superintendent Howells.”

The other laughed.

“I thought it was shaping to that. Well, what do you want me to do?”

“Trace the run, Superintendent. You can do it in a way I couldn’t attempt. I would suggest that with a map we work out the area which could have been visited during that night, allowing time for unpacking the duplicating machine and putting the body in its place. Then I think this area should be combed. If murder has taken place, you’ll hear of it.”

“And you?”

“I shall go to Ashburton, learn what I can from the order, and, if it seems worth while, follow it up to London. Then I’ll come back here and join forces with you. Of course we shall have to get Superintendent Griffiths on the job also.”

After some further discussion this program was agreed to. French, with the superintendent’s help, was to estimate the area to be covered and to organise the search. To-morrow was Sunday, and if by Monday evening nothing had come of it he was to leave Howells to carry on while he paid his visits to Ashburton and if necessary to London.

The longest unknown period of the lorry’s operations being from 8.30 to 12.30 at night, this was taken as being the ruling factor in the case. During these four hours the machine had travelled from Neath to Gorseinon, a distance of about twenty-five miles. About two hours would be accounted for by the journey and the changing of the contents of the crate, leaving two or more hours for additional running—an hour out and an hour back. This meant a radius of about twenty-five miles. The problem, therefore, was to make an intensive search of the country within, say, thirty miles of Swansea.

This was a large area and the work involved the coöperation of a good many men. However, with Superintendent Howells’s help it was arranged, and by that evening operations were everywhere in progress.

During the whole of the next two days French remained on the job, working out possible routes for the lorry and making special enquiries along them. But no further information was obtained, and when Monday evening came without result he decided that unless he heard something next morning he would start for Ashburton.

But next morning news had come in which made a visit there essential. It appeared that about 9.30 on the evening in question the lorry had been seen standing in the same lane at Gorseinon in which, three hours later, the police patrol had found it. A labourer reported that he had passed it on his way home. As he approached, the driver was sitting on the step, but, on seeing him, the man had jumped up and busied himself with the engine. The labourer had passed on out of sight, but, his way taking him along a path at right angles to the lane, he had looked back across country and noticed the driver again seated on the step and lighting a cigarette. The position of the lorry was the same then as three hours later, and the conclusion that it had not moved during the whole period seemed unavoidable.

But if so, it made it much less likely that the body had been put into the crate during the motor drive. The time available would have been so short that the area in which the change could have been made would have been very small indeed. The chances of a disappearance remaining unknown to the police would, therefore, have been correspondingly reduced. For the first time French began to consider seriously the possibility that the body had come from Devonshire.

While, therefore, Superintendent Howells in no way relaxed his efforts, French took an early train south. He was in a thoughtful mood as they pulled out of the station. This, it was evident, was going to be one of those troublesome cases in which an ingenious criminal had enveloped his evil deeds in a network of false clues and irrelevant circumstances to mislead the unfortunate detective officer to whom an investigation into them might afterward be assigned. Confound it all! It was not long since he had got rid of that terribly involved affair at Starvel in Yorkshire, and here was another that bade fair to be as bad. However, such was life, and worrying wouldn’t alter it. He was starting on an interesting journey and he might as well forget his case and make the most of the scenery.

Chapter Five: Messrs. Berlyn and Pyke

Shortly before six o’clock that evening French stepped out of the train at the little terminus of Ashburton.

He had enjoyed his run, particularly the latter portion through the charming South Devonshire scenery, along the coast under the red cliffs of Dawlish and Teignmouth, and then inland through the well-wooded hills of Newton Abbot and Totnes. He was pleased, too, with the appearance of Ashburton, a town T-shaped in plan and squeezed down into the narrow valleys between three hills. He admired its old world air and its pleasant situation as he walked up the street to the Silver Tiger, the hotel to which he had been recommended.

After a leisurely dinner he went out for a stroll, ending up shortly after dark at the police station. Sergeant Daw had gone home, but a constable was despatched for him and presently he turned up.

“I went to the works at once, sir,” he explained in answer to French’s question. “They’re out at the end of North Street. A big place for so small a town. They employ a hundred or more men and a lot of women and girls. A great benefit to the town, sir.”

“And whom did you see?”

“I saw Mr. Fogden, the sales manager. He turned up the information without delay. The duplicator was ordered from London and he showed me the letter. You can see it if you go up to-morrow. There was nothing out of the way about the transaction. They packed the machine and sent it off, and that was all they could tell me.”

Suspiciously like a wild-goose chase, thought French as he chatted pleasantly with the sergeant. Like his confrère at Burry Port, the man seemed more intelligent and better educated than most rural policemen. They discussed the weather and the country for some time and then French said:

“By the way, Sergeant, the name of this Veda Works seemed vaguely familiar when you telephoned it. Has it been in the papers lately or can you explain how I should know it?”

“No doubt, sir, you read of the sad accident we had here about six weeks ago—a tragedy, if I may put it so. Two of the gentlemen belonging to the works—Mr. Berlyn, the junior partner, and Mr. Pyke, the travelling representative—lost their lives on the moor. Perhaps you recall it, sir?”

Of course! The affair now came back to French. So far as he could recall the circumstances, the two men had been driving across Dartmoor at night, and while still several miles from home their car had broken down. They had attempted to reach the house of a friend by crossing a bit of the moor, but in the dark they had missed their way, and getting into one of the soft “mires,” had been sucked down and lost.

“I read of it, yes. Very sad thing. Unusual, too, was it not?”

“Yes, sir, for those who live about here know the danger and they don’t go near these doubtful places at night. But animals sometimes get caught. I’ve seen a pony go down myself, and I can tell you, sir, I don’t wish to see another. It was a slow business, and the worse the creature struggled the tighter it got held. But when it comes to human beings it’s a thing you don’t like to think about.”

“That’s a fact, Sergeant. By the way, it’s like a dream to me that I once met those two gentlemen. I wish you’d describe them.”

“They were not unlike so far as figure and build were concerned; about five feet nine or five feet ten in height, I should say, though Mr. Berlyn was slightly the bigger man. But their colouring was different. Mr. Berlyn had a high colour and blue eyes and reddish hair, while Mr. Pyke was sallow, with brown eyes and hair.”

“Did Mr. Berlyn wear glasses?” French asked, with difficulty keeping the eagerness out of his voice.

“No, sir. Neither of them did that.”

“I don’t think they can be the men I met. Well, I’ll go up and see this Mr. Fogden in the morning. Good night, Sergeant.”

“Good night, sir. If there’s anything I can do I take it you’ll let me know.”

But French next morning did not go to the office equipment works. Instead he took an early bus to Torquay, and calling at the local office of the Western Morning News, asked to see their recent files. These he looked over, finally buying all the papers which contained any reference to the tragic deaths of Messrs. Berlyn and Pyke.

He had no suspicions in the matter except that here was a disappearance of two persons about the time of the murder, one of whom answered to the description of the man who had called for the crate. No one appeared to doubt their death on the moor, but—their bodies had not been found. French wished to know what was to be known about the affair before going to the works, simply to be on the safe side.

He retired to the smoking room of the nearest hotel and began to read up his papers. At once he discovered a fact which he thought deeply significant. The tragedy had taken place on the night of Monday, the 15th August. And it was on the following day, Tuesday, the 16th, that the crate had been despatched from Ashburton.

The case was exhaustively reported, and after half an hour’s reading French knew all that the reporters had gleaned. Briefly, the circumstances were as follow:

Charles Berlyn, as has been said, was junior partner of the firm. He was a man of about forty and he looked after the commercial side of the undertaking. Stanley Pyke was an engineer who acted as technical travelling representative, a younger man, not more than five and thirty. Each had a high reputation for character and business efficiency.

It happened that for some time previous to the date in question the Urban District Council of Tavistock had been in communication with the Veda Works relative to the purchase of filing cabinets and other office appliances for their clerk. There had been a hitch in the negotiations and Mr. Berlyn had arranged to attend the next meeting of the council in the hope of settling the matter. As some of the council members were farmers, busy during that season in the daytime, the meeting was held in the evening. Mr. Berlyn arranged to motor over, Mr. Pyke accompanying him.

The two men left the works at half past five, their usual hour. Each dined early and they set out in Mr. Berlyn’s car about seven. They expected to reach Tavistock at eight, at which hour the meeting was to begin. After their business was finished they intended to call on a mill owner just outside Tavistock in connection with a set of loose-leaf forms he had ordered. The mill owner was a personal friend of Mr. Berlyn’s and they intended to spend the evening with him, leaving about eleven and reaching home about midnight.

This program they carried out faithfully, at least in its earlier stages. They reached Tavistock just as the meeting of the Urban Council was beginning, and settled the business of the office appliances. Then they went on to the mill owner’s, arranged about the loose-leaf forms, and sat chatting over cigars and drinks until shortly before eleven. At precisely ten-fifty they set off on their return journey, everything connected with them being perfectly normal and in order.

They were never seen again.

Mrs. Berlyn went to bed at her ordinary time, but, waking up shortly before three and finding that Mr. Berlyn had not returned, she immediately grew anxious. It was so unlike him to fail to carry out his plans that his absence suggested disaster. She hastily put on some clothes and went out to the garage, and on finding that the car was not there she woke the servant and said she was going to the police. Without waiting for the girl to dress, she went out and knocked up Sergeant Daw at his little cottage.

Though the sergeant did his best to reassure her, he was by no means easy in his own mind. The road from Tavistock to Ashburton is far from safe, especially for night motoring. It is terribly hilly and winding and at night extraordinarily deserted. An accident might easily happen and in such lonely country, hours might pass before its discovery.

The sergeant at once called a colleague and the two men started off on motor bicycles to investigate. About eight miles out on the moor they came to Mr. Berlyn’s car standing close up to the side of the road, as if drawn out of the way of passing traffic. It was heavily coated with dew and looked as if it had been there for hours. The engine and radiator were cold and there was no sign of either of its occupants.

At the side of the road was a patch of gravelly soil mixed with peat, and across it, leading from the road out over the moor, were two lines of footsteps. The prints were not sufficiently sharp to give detailed impressions, but the sergeant had no doubt as to whom they belonged. He tried to follow them over the moor, but the grass was too rough to allow of this.

But he soon realised what had happened. Three-quarters of a mile across the moor, in the direction in which the footsteps pointed, lived the senior partner of the Veda Company, Colonel Domlio. His was the only house in the neighbourhood, and it was, therefore, natural that if from a breakdown of the car or other reason the travellers had got into difficulties, they should go to him for help. But the house was not approached from the road on which they were travelling. The drive started from that which diverged at Two Bridges and led northwards to Moretonhampstead. To have gone round by the road would, therefore, have meant a walk of nearly five miles, whereas fifteen minutes would have taken them across the moor. It was evident that they had adopted the latter course.

And therein lay their fate. Some quarter of a mile from the road were a number of those treacherous, vivid green areas of quagmire, to stumble into which is to run the risk of a horrible death. They were not quite in the direct line to the house, but in one of the mists which come up so frequently and unexpectedly it would not have been difficult for the men to lose their way. The sergeant at once knocked up Colonel Domlio, only to learn that he had not seen or heard of either.

When the car was examined, the cause of the stoppage was discovered. A short circuit had developed in the magneto, which interfered with the sparking to such an extent that the cylinder charges could not be ignited.

French was a good deal disappointed by the account. He had hoped that he was onto the solution of his problem, but now he doubted it. That Berlyn had murdered Pyke and sent off his body in the crate had seemed at first sight a promising theory. But French could see no evidence of foul play in the story. It read merely as a straightforward narrative of an unfortunate mishap.

At the same time the coincidence of the dates was remarkable and French felt that he could not dismiss the matter from his mind until he had satisfied himself that it really was the accident for which it had been taken.

He wondered if any tests were possible, and gradually four considerations occurred to him.

First, there was the breakdown of the car. If the breakdown had been an accident the whole affair was almost certainly an accident, for he did not think it possible that advantage could have been taken of an unexpected incident to commit the murder. The details of the disposal of the crate had been too well worked out to have been improvised. But if the breakdown had been faked it meant foul play.

Secondly, a valuable check in all such investigations was the making of a time-table. French felt sure that if murder had been committed the car must have gone from Tavistock to the works and back to where it was found. If not, he did not see how the body could have been taken to the works. Probably, also, it had waited at the works while the murderer was substituting the body for the duplicator. Then the radiator must have been hot when the car was abandoned, and it was cold when Sergeant Daw arrived on the scene. If French could find out how long all these operations would have taken he might find that they could not have been carried out in the time available.

Thirdly, French wondered if in a place of the size of the Veda Works there was no night watchman, and if there was, how the contents of the crate could have been changed without his knowledge.

Lastly, there was the question of the disposal of the duplicator. Assuming that murder had been done, it was extremely probable that the murderer had found the duplicator packed in the crate. How could he have got rid of so heavy and cumbrous an object?

If these four points were investigated French thought he would obtain sufficient information to settle the main question. It was, therefore, with a second line of enquiries in his mind that he returned to Ashburton and walked out to the Veda Works.

These stood a short distance beyond the town at the end of North Street, and formed a rather imposing collection of buildings, small but modern and well designed. The principal block was of five stories, showing narrow pilasters of cream-coloured concrete separating wide glazed panels. The remaining buildings were single-storey sheds. The place seemed spotlessly clean and tidy.

French entered a door labelled “Office,” and sending in his private card, asked for Mr. Fogden. He was shown into a comfortably furnished room in which a youngish man with a pleasant face sat at a table desk.

“Good afternoon, Mr. French. Won’t you sit down? What can I do for you, sir?”

“I should explain first who I am, Mr. Fogden.” French handed over his official card. “I have called on business which has already been brought to your notice by the local sergeant. It is about the crate which was sent by your firm to Mr. James B. Stephenson at the G. W. Goods Station at Swansea.”

“I saw the sergeant when he called,” Mr. Fogden answered, a trifle shortly. “That was yesterday, and I gave him all the information at my disposal.”

“So he told me, sir.” French’s manner was very suave. “My troubling you on the same business, therefore, requires a little explanation. I must ask you, however, to consider what I have to tell you confidential. That crate which you sent to Swansea was duly called for. It eventually reached Burry Port. There it was opened—by the police. And do you know what was found in it?”

Mr. Fogden stared at the other with a rapidly growing interest.

“Good Heavens!” he cried. “You surely don’t mean to say that it contained that body that we have been reading so much about in the papers recently?”

French nodded.

“That’s it, Mr. Fogden. So you will see now that it’s not idle curiosity which brings me here. The matter is so serious that I must go into it personally. I shall have to investigate the entire history of that crate.”

“By Jove! I should think so. You don’t imagine, I take it, that the body was in it when it left the works?”

“I don’t, but of course I can’t be sure. I must investigate all the possibilities.”

“That is reasonable.” Mr. Fogden paused, then continued: “Now tell me what you want me to do and I will carry out your wishes as well as I can. I have already explained to the sergeant that the crate contained a Veda Number Three duplicator, a special product of the firm’s, and that it was ordered by this Mr. Stephenson in a letter written from the Euston Hotel. I can turn up the letter for you.”

“Thank you, I should like to see the letter, but as a matter of fact I should like a good deal more. I am afraid I must follow the whole transaction right through and interview everyone who dealt with it.”

“I get you. Right. I’ll arrange it. Now first as to the letter.”

He touched the bell and ordered a certain file to be brought him. From this he took out a letter and passed it to French.

Chapter Six: The Despatch of the Crate

The letter was written on a single sheet of cream-laid, court-sized paper and bore the legend “Euston Hotel, London. N. W. 1.” in blue type on its right corner. It was typed in black, and French could see that the machine used was not new and that some of the letters were defective and out of place. It was signed “James S. Stephenson” in a hand which French instinctively felt was disguised, with blue-black ink apparently of the fountain-pen type. It read:

12 August.

Messrs. The Veda Office Equipment Manufacturing Co. Ltd.,

Ashburton,
South Devon.
Dear Sirs,

I should be obliged if you would kindly forward to Mr. James S. Stephenson, Great Western Railway Goods Station, Morriston Road, Swansea, marked “To be kept till called for,” one of your patent Veda electric duplicators, No. 3, to take brief size. The motor to be wound for 220 volts D.C. and to have a flexible cord to plug into the main.

Please have the machine delivered at Swansea not later than 19th inst., as I wish to ship it from there on the following day.

I enclose herewith money order value £62.10.0, the price, less discount, as given in your catalogue. Please advise receipt of money and despatch of duplicator to this hotel.

Yours faithfully,

James S. Stephenson.

There were here, French realised, several lines of enquiry. Something might be learned at the Euston Hotel. Unfortunately, the fact that the letter was written on the hotel paper and the reply was to be sent there did not mean that “Stephenson” had stayed there. French remembered his own letter from the Charing Cross Hotel to Dr. Philpot in the Starvel case up in Yorkshire. But enquiries could not be omitted. Then there was the money order. It would be easy to learn the office at which it had been obtained, and there was at least the possibility that the purchaser had been observed. Lastly there was the typewriter. French felt sure that it could be identified from the irregularities of the type.

“I may have this letter, I suppose?” he asked.

“Of course.”

He put the paper slowly away in his pocketbook and then in his careful, competent way began to ask questions.

“You sent the receipt and notification of the despatch of the crate to the Euston Hotel?”

“Certainly.”

“What is the process of despatch? When that order came in to whom did it go?”

“Well, I read it first and dropped it into a basket, from which it went automatically to the accounts department. Following the ordinary routine, the money would be collected, and if all was O.K. an order would go to the sales department for the despatch of the goods. When the despatch had taken place a notification in duplicate would be returned to the office, and one copy, with the receipt, would be mailed to the purchaser. The whole thing is, of course, routine, and so far as I know that routine was carried out in this case. But we can see all concerned, if you like.”

“That’s just what I would like,” French declared.

“Come along, then.”

“There’s another thing, Mr. Fogden,” French interposed. “I have told you my business because I wanted your help. But I am anxious that no one else suspects it. If I give out that the duplicator was stolen and that you have employed me to find the thief, will you back up the yarn?”

“Certainly. I am naturally anxious to have the affair cleared up. But do you think you can keep your real business secret?”

“I can for a time. But that may be long enough for me to get my man.”

In the sales department French was first shown a duplicator. It was an elaborate machine with the usual large cylinder and ingenious devices for turning out copies at high speed.

“What does it weigh?” he asked, when he had duly admired it.

“About two hundredweight.”

“Do you always send them out in crates of the same kind?”

“Always. The crate is specially made for the purpose. Unfortunately, it is an odd size and cannot be used for any of the other products.”

This was interesting. Did it, French wondered, show an internal knowledge of the firm’s methods on the part of “Stephenson”?

“Now about the actual despatch. You say an order comes from the accounts department when anything is to be sent out. Could I see this particular order?”

Mr. Fogden looked through a file, finally producing a tiny sheet of paper. But small as was the chit, it was comprehensive. On it were given not only all details of the duplicator and the address of the consignee, but also Mr. Fogden’s O.K., the initials of the storekeeper who had given out the machine and the crate, of the packer who had packed it, of the carter who had taken it to the station, and of the railway goods clerk who had received it, with the dates when all these things had been done.

“By Jove!” French remarked when he had taken all this in. “You don’t leave much to chance in this establishment!”

“We believe in individual responsibility,” Mr. Fogden explained. “If anything goes wrong we can usually plant the blame on the right shoulders.”

“Well, it’s a help to me, at all events. Can I see these men who have initialled this order?”

“Certainly. Come down to the stores.” Mr. Fogden led the way to a large room furnished with multitudinous bins containing thousands of articles neatly stacked and each labelled with its code number and with a card showing the stock. Owing to its opposite walls being composed almost entirely of glass, there was a brilliant light everywhere. French marvelled at the cleanliness and tidiness of everything and expressed his admiration of the way the place was kept.

“This,” continued Mr. Fogden, whose heart was evidently reached by French’s comments, “is what we call the part store. Here are the parts of all our machines arranged in sets. Here, for example, are small parts. Those bins carry lock rods for card indexes, those ball-bearing rollers for file cases, those rings for loose-leaf books, and so on. Over there you get the wooden parts—panels for vertical file cabinets, multiple bookcases, parts of desks and chairs. We carry a definite stock of each part, and every time it drops to a definite number an order automatically goes to the works department for a new lot to be made.”

“Good system.”

“We have to do it or we should get wrong. I’ll show you now the erecting shop. This way.”

They passed into a large room where a score or more men were busily engaged in putting together machines of every type and kind. But they did not halt there long. After a general look round Mr. Fogden led the way across the shop and through another door.

“This,” he said, “is our completed-articles store. Here we keep our products ready for immediate despatch. We stock a certain number of each class, and the same arrangement holds good with regard to the parts. Directly a number falls to the minimum, an order automatically goes to the assembly department to build so many new pieces. That keeps our stock right. Of course, an order for a large number of pieces has to be dealt with specially. For example, we always keep a minimum of twelve Number One duplicators complete and ready to go out, and that enables us to supply incidental orders without delay. But when an order for fifty comes in, as we had yesterday from the Argentine, we have to manufacture specially.”

French murmured appreciatively.

“With regard to the Number Three duplicators,” went on Mr. Fogden, pointing to the machines in question, “we always keep a minimum of three in stock. They are not in such demand as the Number Ones. Now let me see.” He compared the order with the bin or stock card. “Only two of these have gone out since the one you are interested in. I dare say the men will remember yours.” He referred again to the order. “Packed by John Puddicoombe. . . . Here, Puddicoombe. A moment.”

An elderly man approached.

“Do you happen to remember packing a duplicator of this type on fifteenth of August last? It was a Monday and there’s the docket.”

The man scratched his head. “I don’t know as I do, sir,” he answered, slowly. “You see, I pack that many and they’re all the same. But I packed it, all right, if I signed for it.”

“Where did you pack it?” French asked.

“In packing-shed next door,” the man replied, after an interrogatory glance at his chief.

“Come in and see the place,” Mr. Fogden suggested, and they moved to a smaller room, the next in the series.

“You packed it in here,” French went on. “Now tell me, did you close up the crate here?”

“Yes, as soon as the duplicator was properly in I got the lid on. I always do.”

“Got the lid on and made it fast?”

“Yes, nailed it down.”

“And was the crate despatched that same day?”

“No,” Mr. Fogden intervened. “The dates show that it lay here that night. It was sent out the following day.”

“Ah, that’s what I want to get at,” said French. “Now where did it lie all night?”

“Here,” the packer declared. “It was packed here and lay here until the lorry came for it the next day.”

“But if you don’t remember this particular case?” French persisted. “Don’t mind my asking. The matter is important.”

The packer regarded him with what seemed compassion and replied with a tolerant forbearance.

“I know because that’s what’s always done and there weren’t no exception in the case of any machine,” he replied, conclusively.

This seemed to end the matter as far as Puddicoombe was concerned, and French next asked to see the carter who had taken it to the station.

The man, fortunately, was available, and French questioned him minutely. He stated he remembered the occasion in question. On the Tuesday morning he had loaded up the crate, Puddicoombe assisting. It was lifted by a differential and pushed out of the packing-shed on a small overhead runway and lowered on to the lorry. He had driven it to the station, unloading it in the goods-shed, and had obtained the usual signature. He had not allowed it out of his sight all the time it was in his charge and it was quite impossible that its contents could have been tampered with.

“I shall see the station people, of course,” French declared to Mr. Fogden when they returned to the latter’s office, “though I don’t suppose the crate could have been tampered with during the journey. What you have told me has satisfied me as to its stay here except on one point. Could the duplicator have been taken out during the night?”

Mr. Fogden believed it impossible.

“We have a night watchman,” he explained; “quite a reliable old fellow, too. Nothing could have been done without his knowledge.”

“Could I see him?”

“Of course. But you’ll have to wait while I send for him.”

After some time an office boy ushered in a wizened old man with a goatee beard who answered to the name of Gurney. He blinked at French out of a pair of bright little eyes like some wise old bird, and spoke with a pleasing economy of words.

He came on duty, he said, each evening at seven o’clock, relieving one of the late stokers, who kept an eye on things between the closing of the works at 5.15 and that hour. His first care was to examine the boilers of the electric power plant, of which he had charge during the night, then he invariably made an inspection of the whole premises. For part of the time he sat in the boiler-house, but on at least three other occasions he walked round and made sure everything was in order. The boiler fires were banked and did not give much trouble, but he had to watch the pressure gauges and occasionally to adjust the dampers. At six in the morning he was relieved by the early stokers and he then went home.

He declared that it would be impossible for anyone to tamper with the goods in the packing-shed unknown to him. The packing-shed and the boiler-house were at opposite sides of a narrow yard, and should the light be turned on in the former no one in the latter could fail to see it.

He remembered the Monday night in question, because it was that on which Mr. Berlyn and Mr. Pyke had lost their lives. On that night he had come on duty as usual and had gone his customary rounds. He was very emphatic that no one had entered the works during his period of duty.

Though the man’s character was vouched for by Mr. Fogden and though he made his statement without hesitation, French was conscious of a slight dissatisfaction. His perception of the reliability of witnesses had become so acute from long experience as to be practically intuitive. He did not think that Gurney was lying, but he felt that he was protesting more strongly than the occasion warranted. He therefore took him aside and questioned him severely in the hope of inducing some give-away emotion. But in this he failed. The watchman answered without embarrassment and French was forced to the conclusion that his suspicions were unfounded. From the boiler-house he saw for himself the effect of turning up the light in the packing-shed, with the result that Gurney’s statement on this point was confirmed. Then he examined the stokers who had been in charge before and after Gurney, but their statements as to visitors were the same as the watchman’s. As far as oral testimony went, therefore, it was impossible that the crate could have been interfered with while it lay at the works.

French next betook himself to the station. But there he learned only what he expected. While no one actually remembered the transaction, its complete records were available. The crate had been received on Tuesday morning, the 16th of August, and had been unloaded in the goods-shed and put immediately into a wagon for Plymouth. From the time it arrived until it left by the 11.35 A.M. goods-train no one could have tampered with it, two porters being continuously about.

As after dinner that night French wrote up his report, he was conscious of a good deal of disappointment. The attractive theory that the remains were those of Pyke was not obtaining support. He had now gone into two of the four test-points he had considered and the evidence on each of them was against it. Unless he could find some way round these difficulties, it followed that the body must have been put in after the crate had reached Swansea.

The other two test-points, however, remained to be investigated—the cause of the breakdown and the possible running time-tables of the car.

French decided, therefore, that unless there was news from Howells in the morning he would carry on with these.

Chapter Seven: Dartmoor

French saw that in order to get the information he required he must confide in some one who knew the locality. He therefore went down next morning to the police station to consult Sergeant Daw.

“Good morning, Sergeant,” he said, with his pleasant smile. “Do you think we could go into your office? I should like to have a chat with you.”

Daw was not accustomed to this mode of approach from superior officers, and he at once became mellow and ready to help.

“Quite at your service, sir,” he protested.

“I didn’t tell you, Sergeant, just what I was after here. You’ve read about that body that was found in the sea off Burry Port?”

The sergeant looked up with evident interest.

“I just thought that was it, Mr. French, when your phone message came through. Do you mean that the body came from the works here?”

“The crate came from here, all right, but where the body was put in I don’t know. That’s where I want your help. Can you give me any suggestions?”

The sergeant, flattered by French’s attitude, wrinkled his brow in thought.

“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.

“But do you suggest that both Mr. Berlyn and Mr. Pyke were murdered? If so, where’s the second body?”

“What if one murdered the other?”

But this was too much for the sergeant.

“Oh, come now, sir,” he protested. “You didn’t know them. You couldn’t suspect either of those gentlemen of such a crime. Not possibly, you couldn’t.”

“You think not? But what if I tell you that the man who claimed the crate at Swansea answered the description you gave me of Berlyn?”

Sergeant Daw swore. “I shouldn’t have believed it,” he declared.

“Well, there are the facts. You will see, therefore, that I must have first-hand information about the whole thing. I’ve read all that the papers can tell me, but that’s not enough. I want to go out on the moor with you and hear your story at the place where the thing happened. Particularly I want to test that matter of the breakdown. How can we get to know about that?”

“Easily enough, I think.” The man spoke with some relief, as if turning to a pleasanter subject. “Makepeace has the car and he’ll be able to tell us. That’s the owner of one of the local garages.”

“Good! How did Makepeace get hold of it?”

“When we came in after finding it that night I sent young Makepeace out for it. That’s the son. He couldn’t start it and he had to take out another car and tow it in. He took it to the garage for repairs and it has lain there ever since. Then when Mrs. Berlyn was leaving, Makepeace bought it from her. I understand he wants to sell it now.”

French rose.

“Good!” he said again. “Then let us go to this Makepeace and see if it is still there. You might introduce me as a friend who wants a second-hand car and who might take Mr. Berlyn’s. If possible we’ll get it out and do the same run that those men did that night. I want to get some times. Are you a driver?”

“Yes, I can handle it all right.”

The Makepeace garage was a surprisingly large establishment for so small a town. At least a dozen cars stood in the long low shed, and there were lorries and char-à-bancs in the yard behind. Daw hailed a youth who was polishing the brasswork of one of the “charries.”

“Your father about, John?”

Mr. Makepeace, it appeared, was in the office, and thither the two men walked, to be greeted by a stout individual with smiling lips and shrewd eyes.

“ ’Morning, sergeant! Looking for me?”

The sergeant nodded. “This is a friend of mine,” he explained, “who is looking for a good second-hand car. I told him about Mr. Berlyn’s, but I didn’t know whether you had it still. We came across to enquire.”

“It’s here, all right, and I can afford to sell it cheap.” Mr. Makepeace turned to French. “What kind of machine were you wanting, sir?”

“A medium-size four-seater, but I’m not particular as to make. If I saw one I liked I would take it.”

“This is a first-rate car,” Mr. Makepeace declared, firmly. “One that I can stand over. But I’m afraid she’s not very clean. I was going to have her revarnished and the bright parts plated. She’ll be as good as new then. You can see her in the back house.”

He led the way to a workshop containing a variety of cars undergoing repairs. Just inside the door was a small dark-blue four-seater touring car, looking a trifle the worse for wear. To this he pointed.

“A first-rate car,” he repeated, “and in good order, too, though wanting a bit of a clean-up. As you can see, she’s a fifteen-twenty Mercury, two years old, but the engine’s as good as the day it was made. Have a look over her.”

French knew something of cars, though he was no expert. But by saying little and looking wise he impressed the other with his knowledge. Finally he admitted that everything seemed satisfactory, though he would require an expert’s opinion before coming to a decision.

“Could I have a run in it?” he asked. “I should, of course, pay for its hire. I want to go over to Tavistock, and if you could let me have the car it would suit. Mr. Daw says he will take half a day’s leave and drive me.”

Mr. Makepeace agreed with alacrity, and when he understood that his prospective customer was ready to start then and there, he put his entire staff on to “take the rough off her.” French stood watching the operation while he chatted pleasantly with the proprietor. Having duly admired the vehicle, he went on in a more serious voice:

“There’s just one thing that puts me against taking her, and that’s something that Mr. Daw told me in the course of conversation. He said that on that night when Mr. Berlyn met his death the car broke down, in fact that it was that breakdown which led indirectly to the accident. Well, I don’t want a car that breaks down. If she’s not reliable, she’s no good to me.”

Mr. Makepeace looked pained and flashed a rather indignant glance at the sergeant.

“She did break down that night,” he admitted, reluctantly, “but there’s no machinery on earth that won’t sometimes go wrong. She failed from a most uncommon cause, and she might run for twenty years without the same thing happening to her again.”

“I’m not doubting your word, Mr. Makepeace, but I shall want that clearly demonstrated before I think of her. What was it that went wrong?”

“Magneto trouble; armature burnt out.”

“What caused it?”

“It’s hard to say; there was no defect showing outwardly. Careless handling, most likely. Some darned mechanic might have jabbed a screwdriver into the wire and covered up the mark. I’ve known that to happen.”

“But it surely wouldn’t run if that had been done?”

“Oh yes, it might. If the insulation wasn’t completely cut through it would run for a time. But eventually the short would develop, causing the engine to misfire, and that would get worse till it stopped altogether.”

“That’s interesting. Then you think the fault would only develop if there had been some original injury?”

“I don’t say that. I have known cases of short circuits occurring and you couldn’t tell what caused them.”

“I suppose you could do that sort of thing purposely if you wanted to?”

“Purposely?” Mr. Makepeace shot a keen glance at his questioner.

“Yes. Suppose in this case some one wanted to play a practical joke on Mr. Berlyn.”

Mr. Makepeace shook his head with some scorn.

“Not blooming likely,” he declared. “A fine sort of joke that would be.”

“I was asking purely from curiosity, but you surprise me, all the same. I thought you could short circuit any electric machine?”

“Don’t you believe it. You couldn’t do nothing to short an armature without the damage showing.”

“Well, I’m not worrying whether you could or not. All I want is that it won’t fail again.”

“You may go nap on that.”

“All right,” French smiled. “Did you rewind the armature yourselves?”

“Neither unwound it nor rewound it. That’s a job for the makers. We sent it to London. It’s an Ardlo magneto and the Ardlo people have a factory in Bermondsey.”

“That so? I suppose the short circuit was the only trouble? The engine hadn’t been hot or anything?”

“The engine was as right as rain,” Mr. Makepeace asseverated with ill-repressed impatience.

“I’m glad to know that. I asked because I’ve known trouble through shortage of water in the radiator. I suppose there was plenty that night?”

“The radiator was full; my son noticed it particularly. You see, on account of the mascot sticking out behind, you have to take off the radiator cap before you can lift the bonnet. When he was taking off the cap he noticed the water.”

French turned as if to close the discussion.

“I don’t think I need worry about the chance of more trouble with it,” he agreed. “Surely, Mr. Makepeace, you have her clean enough now? I think we’ll get away.”

As they swung out along the Tavistock road French’s heart had fallen to the depths. If what this garage owner said were true, the Berlyn-Pyke affair was an accident and he, French, was on the wrong track. However, he had made his plans and he would carry them out. Banishing his disappointment from his mind, he prepared to enjoy his trip.

The road led from the west end of the town through scenery which was more than enough to hold his attention. The country was charmingly wooded, but extraordinarily hilly. Never had French seen such hills. No sooner had they climbed interminably out of one valley than they were over the divide and dropping down an equally break-neck precipice into the next. French was interested in the notices to motor drivers adjuring them to put their cars into lowest gear before attempting to descend. Three of these well-wooded valleys they crossed—the last the famous meeting of the waters, Dartmeet—and each had its dangerously narrow bridge approached by sharp right-angled bends. The climb beyond Dartmeet took them up on to the open moor, wild, lonely, rolling in great sweeps of heather-clad country like the vast swelling waves of some mighty petrified ocean. Here and there these huge sweeps ran up into jagged rocky crests, as if the dancing foam of the caps had been arrested in midair and turned into grim shapes of black stone. Once before French had been on Dartmoor, when he had gone down to Princeton to see one of the unfortunates in the great prison. But he had not then been out on the open moor, and he felt impressed by the wide spaces and the desolation.

The sergeant’s attention being fully occupied with his wheel, he proved himself a silent companion, and, beyond pointing out the various objects of interest, made no attempt at conversation. Mostly in silence they drove some eight or nine miles, and then suddenly the man pulled up.

“This is the place, sir.”

It was the loneliest spot French had yet seen. On both sides stretched the moor, rolling away into the distance. To the north the ground rose gently; to the south it fell to the valley of a river before swelling up to a line of more distant highlands. Some three miles to the west lay the grey buildings of Princeton, the only human habitations visible save for a few isolated cottages dotted about at wide intervals. The road was unfenced and ran in a snaky line across the greens and browns of the heather and rough grass. Here and there spots of brighter green showed, and to these the sergeant pointed.

“Those are soft places,” he said. “Over there towards the south is Fox Tor Mire, a biggish swamp, and there are others in the same direction. On the north side are small patches, but nothing like the others.”

“In which direction did the men go?”

“Northwards.” The sergeant walked a few yards down the road, expounding as he did so. “The car was pulled in to the side of the road here. There is the patch of sandy soil that the footsteps crossed, and that is the direction they were going in.”

“Which way was the car heading?”

“Towards Ashburton.”

“Were the lamps lighted?”

“Yes, sir. Small lamps, burning dimly, but good enough to show the car was there.”

“It was a dark night?”

“Very dark for the time of year.”

French nodded.

“Now when you came out here tell me what you did.”

“I looked round, and when I couldn’t see anyone I felt the radiator and opened the bonnet and looked at and felt the engine. Both were cold, but I couldn’t see anything wrong. Then I took the lamp off my bicycle and looked further around. I found the footsteps—if you’ve read the papers you’ll know about them—and I wondered where they could be heading to. I thought of Colonel Domlio’s and I went to the house and roused the colonel.”

“Across the moor?”

“Yes, sir.”

“But were you not afraid of the quagmires?”

“No. It was then a clear night and I had a good acetylene lamp. I thought maybe the gentlemen had met with an accident on the way and that I’d better go over the ground. I walked carefully and kept on hard earth all the way.”

“Well, you aroused the colonel?”

“Yes, sir, and a job I had to do it. But he could give me no help.”

“Yes? And then?”

“Colonel Domlio wanted to come out with me, but I said there was nothing he could do. I left Constable Hughes with the car and ran back into Ashburton to give the news. I told Mrs. Berlyn and then I got all my men out with lamps and we went back and began a detailed search of the ground. We kept it up until the whole place had been gone over by daylight, but we found nothing.”

“Now this Colonel Domlio. What kind of man is he?”

“A rather peculiar man, if I may say so. He’s practically the owner of the Veda Company now since Mr. Berlyn’s gone. He lives here alone except for the servants. There’s a man and his wife indoors and a gardener and a chauffeur outside. He must have plenty of money, the colonel.”

“There’s nothing out of the way in all that. Why did you call him peculiar?”

“Well, just his living alone. He doesn’t have much to say to the neighbours, by all accounts. Then he catches insects about the moor and sits up half the night writing about them. They say he’s writing a book.”

“What age is he?”

“About forty-five, I should say.”

“Well, that’s all we can do here. Let’s get on to Tavistock.”

French enjoyed the remainder of the drive as much as any he had ever taken. He was immensely impressed by the mournful beauty of the scenery. They passed Two Bridges, presently striking off from the Plymouth road. On the left the great grey buildings of the prison appeared, with rugged North Hessary Tor just beyond and the farm staffed by the prisoners in the foreground. The road led on almost due west until after passing the splendid outlook of Moorshop and descending more break-neck hills they reached cultivated ground and Tavistock.

They had driven fast, and less the time they had stopped on the road, the run had taken just sixty-three minutes. The car had behaved excellently, and if French had really been contemplating its purchase he would have been well satisfied with the test.

“I want to find out how long the radiator took to cool on that night,” French said. “The point is whether the car would have done any further running, after its trip from here to the place where it was abandoned. If it takes three hours or more to cool, it couldn’t; if less, it might.”

“I follow, but I’m afraid that won’t be easy to find out.”

“Why not?”

“Well, it depends on the weather and specially the wind. I used to drive and I know something about it. If there’s a wind blowing into the radiator it’ll cool about twice as quickly as if the same wind was blowing from behind the car.”

“I can understand that,” French admitted. “How was the wind that night?”

“A very faint westerly breeze—scarcely noticeable.”

“That would be behind the car. Then if we try it to-day in any pretty sheltered place we ought to get, roughly speaking, the same result? The temperature’s about the same to-day as it was that night, I should think?”

“That’s so, sir, the weather conditions are as good for a test as you’ll get. But even so, it will be only a rough guide.”

“We’ll try it, anyway. Park somewhere and we’ll go and have some lunch.”

They left the car in front of the fine old parish church while they lunched and explored the town. Then returning to the car, they sat down to wait. At intervals they felt the radiator, until, just three and a half hours after their arrival, the last sensation of warmth vanished.

“That’s three hours and thirty minutes,” Daw declared, “but I don’t think you would be wise to take that too literally. If you say something between three and four hours you won’t be far wrong.”

“I agree, Sergeant. That’s all we want. Let’s get home.”

That evening French sat down to write up his notes and to consider the facts he had learned.

The more he thought over these facts, the more dissatisfied he grew. It certainly did not look as if his effort to connect the Berlyn-Pyke tragedy with the crate affair was going to be successful. And if it failed it left him where he had started. He had no alternative theory on which to work.

He recalled the four points by which he had hoped to test the matter. On each of these he had now obtained information, but in each case the information tended against the theory he wished to establish.

First there was the breakdown of the car. Was that an accident or had it been prearranged?

Obviously, if it had been an accident it could not have been part of the criminal’s plan. Therefore, neither could the resulting disappearance of Berlyn and Pyke. Therefore, the murderer must have been out after some other victim whose disappearance he had masked so cleverly that it had not yet been discovered.

Now, Makepeace had stated definitely that the breakdown could not have been faked. Of course it would be necessary to have this opinion confirmed by the makers of the magneto. But Makepeace had seemed so sure that French did not doubt his statement.

The second point concerned the movements of the car on the fatal night. French began by asking himself the question: Assuming the murdered man was Pyke, how had his body been taken to the works?

He could only see one way—in the car. Suppose the murder was committed on the way from Tavistock. What then? The murderer would drive to the works with the dead man in the car. This, French believed, would be possible without discovery, owing to the distance the works lay from the town. He would then in some way square the night watchman, unpack the duplicator, put the body in its place, load the duplicator into the back of the car, drive off, somehow get rid of the duplicator, return to the road near Colonel Domlio’s house, make the two lines of footprints and decamp.

At first sight this obvious explanation seemed encouraging to French. Then he wondered would there be time for all these operations?

Taking the results of the tests he had made and estimating times where he had no actual data, he set himself to produce a hypothetical time-table of the whole affair. It was a form of reconstruction which he had found valuable on many previous occasions. It read:

After leaving the works the murderer had to get rid of the duplicator. French could not estimate this item, as he had no idea how the thing could have been done. But it had certainly taken half an hour. That would make it 1.40 A.M. At least another half-hour would have been spent in returning to the site of the mock tragedy, bringing the time up to 2.00 A.M.

The engine and radiator had then gradually to cool, for there was no water on that part of the moor to cool them artificially. From his experiment French felt sure that this would have taken at least three hours. In other words, there would have been traces of heat up till about five o’clock. And that at the very earliest possible.

But the sergeant found the car at 3.35 and it was then cold. It was therefore impossible that it could have been used to carry the victim to the works as French had assumed. And if it had not been so used how could the body have been transported? There was no way without introducing an accomplice and another car, which on the face of it seemed improbable.

It would, he saw, have been possible to take the body to the works in the car if the vehicle had immediately returned to the moor. But this not only postulated an accomplice, but overlooked the duplicator. If the car had been used to dispose of the duplicator, it would have been warm when the sergeant found it.

The third point was the squaring of the night watchman. The more French thought over this, the more impossible it seemed. In an ordinary matter the man might easily have been corrupted, but unless he had some irresistible motive he would never have risked his neck by aiding and abetting a murder. And he could not have been deceived as to what was taking place. Even supposing that he had been at the time, next day’s discovery would have made clear what he had assisted in.

But even suppose he had been squared, it did not clear the matter up. In this case French did not believe he could have sustained his interrogation without giving himself away. He would have guessed what lay behind the questions and would have shown fear. No, French was satisfied the man had no suspicion of anything so grave as murder, and it seemed impossible that the body could have been put into the crate without making the terrible fact clear.

The fourth test point seemed equally convincing. If the body had been put into the crate in the works, where was the duplicator? It could not have been left in the works. The store-keeping methods would have revealed it long before this. Could it have been taken out?

French could not imagine any way in which it could have been done. The duplicator was a big machine and heavy. It could not have been lifted by less than three or four people. Of course there was the runway and differential, but even these would only have lifted it out of the crate on to a car or lorry. To have unloaded it secretly would involve the existence of a second differential in some place available only to the murderer, a far-fetched hypothesis, though no doubt possible.

But what finally convinced French was the consideration that if the murderer really had been able to dispose secretly of so bulky an object, he would surely have used this method to get rid of the body and thus have saved the whole complex business of the crate.

French felt deeply disappointed as he found himself forced to these conclusions. A promising theory had gone west and he was left as far from a solution of his problem as when he took it up. Moreover, up to the present at all events, the Yard had been unable to learn anything at the St. Pancras or Euston hotels of either “John F. Stewart” or “James S. Stephenson.” Evidently in this case, as in most others, there was no royal road to success. He must simply go on trying to amass information in the ordinary humdrum routine way, in the hope that sooner or later he might come on some fact which would throw the desired light on the affair.

Tired and not a little out of sorts, he turned in.

Chapter Eight: A Fresh Start

It is wonderful what an effect a good night’s sleep and a bright morning will have on the mind of a healthy man. French had gone to bed tired and worried about this case. He woke cheery and optimistic, philosophic as to his reverses, and hopeful for the future.

On such a morning, indeed, it was impossible that anyone could be despondent. Though October had begun, the sun shone with a thin brilliancy reminiscent of early summer. The air, floating up gently from the garden in the rear of the hotel, was surprisingly warm and aromatic for the time of year. Birds were singing in the trees and there was a faint hum of insects from below. As he looked out of his window French felt that life was good and that to squander it in sleep was little better than a sin.

He breakfasted at his leisure, then lighting his pipe, he sauntered out into the little town to take what he called “a turn” before settling down to the serious work of the day.

Though his conclusions of the previous evening still seemed incontrovertible, he was surprised to find that his sense of disappointment had vanished. At first he thought this was due simply to his night’s rest, then gradually he realised the reason.

In his heart of hearts he distrusted these conclusions. In spite of the difficulties involved, he was not satisfied that the Berlyn-Pyke affair should be eliminated from the case.

The murderer had shown himself an extremely ingenious man. Could it not be that these seeming impossibilities were really intentionally designed to throw investigating detectives off the scent?

French reconsidered the strength of the coincidences otherwise involved.

A disappearance at a certain time and place was required to account for the body in the crate. At that very time and place, and there only, a disappearance was known to have occurred. French could not bring himself to dismiss the possibility of a connection between the two facts.

He decided that he had not exhausted the possibilities. He must learn more about Berlyn and Pyke.

For preliminary enquiries Sergeant Daw seemed the most hopeful source of information, and he lost no time in walking down to the police station and asking his help.

“I want to know who everybody is, Sergeant. You know the local people and you might tell me something which would give me the hint I am looking for.”

The sergeant did not think this likely, but he was willing to do anything to oblige.

“Very good. Then I’ll ask questions. First of all, will you tell me what you can about Mr. Berlyn?”

Daw put on his best police-court manner and proceeded to deliver himself.

“Mr. Berlyn was junior partner at the works. I understand that some eight or nine years ago he and Colonel Domlio bought up nearly the whole of the stock between them. Mr. Berlyn dealt with the commercial side and attended the office every day as if he was an official, but the colonel looked on the business as a hobby. He acted as a sort of consulting engineer and only went to the works when it pleased him. I believe there are other directors, but in practice they don’t amount to anything.”

“Was Mr. Berlyn liked?”

“As a matter of fact, sir, he wasn’t altogether popular among the work people. From what I’ve heard, he wanted too much and he wouldn’t make allowances for people making mistakes. It was get on or get out with him, and you know yourself, Mr. French, that if that’s pushed too far it doesn’t always work. But he was straight enough and what he said he stuck to.”

“A man like that would make enemies. Do you know of anyone he was on bad terms with?”

“No, sir. No one.”

“He hadn’t his knife in Mr. Pyke, for instance?”

“Not to my knowledge.”

“Was Mr. Berlyn married?”

“Yes, four or five years ago. Very pleasant lady, Mrs. Berlyn.”

“Any children?”

“No, sir.”

“Where did they live?”

“Out along the Buckland road about ten minutes’ walk from the works. Place called Soller. They say it’s the name of some foreign town where he’d met the lady and popped the question, but of course I don’t know anything about that.”

“Then he was a traveller, Mr. Berlyn?”

“Yes; used to go away to France and such places when he had holidays.”

“Wise man,” French commented. “And how did the match turn out?”

For the first time the sergeant hesitated.

“There, Mr. French, you have me. I couldn’t really tell you. From all accounts they got on as well as most people whose tastes differ. He was quiet and liked sitting at home in the evenings, and she wanted a bit of life. There’s not much of what you might call gaiety in this town, as you may guess, but whatever there was Mrs. Berlyn was in the centre of it. At first he used to go out with her to Torquay and so on, but he gradually gave that up and she had to find some one else to go with or stay at home.”

“And she found some one?”

“Any number. The gentlemen up at the works, mostly. They were all glad to go with her! Colonel Domlio had been taking her about lately—I mean before Mr. Berlyn’s death—and before that it was Mr. Pyke and sometimes Mr. Cowls, the engineer. She was friends, too, with Dr. and Mrs. Lancaster, and I’ve often seen her out with people called Tucker that live close by.”

All this seemed suggestive to French and his facile brain was already building up tentative theories.

“Was there ever any suggestion of anything between Mrs. Berlyn and any of those men?”

“There was a bit of talk at one time, but I don’t believe there was anything in it.”

“But there was talk. Just tell me what was said.”

“She was talked about with Mr. Pyke. They certainly saw a deal of each other at one time. He was constantly at the house and they went out motoring together. She was a top-hole driver.”

“You say they saw a deal of each other at one time. Did that not continue?”

“It was supposed to come to an end about four months before the tragedy. But that’s only local gossip and I can’t vouch for it. All the same, I don’t remember seeing them motoring since, except once when Mr. Pyke’s cousin came for three or four days.”

“And you have no idea what happened?”

“No, sir. Some said the lady heard of the talk and thought she had gone far enough; others, that Mr. Berlyn got wise to it; and others again, that they got tired of each other. I don’t know. Whatever happened, it was all quite amicable, for I’ve seen them together different times since.”

“And was that the only time there was talk?”

“After that there was talk about her and Colonel Domlio. But you know, Mr. French, in a place this size they’re hard up for something to talk about. I don’t believe there was anything in either story.”

“Tell me what was said anyway.”

“Well, that she used to go out to see him in the afternoons. The colonel was believed to be very fond of her, but she was only supposed to be amusing herself with him.”

“You say this took place recently?”

“That was the rumour.”

French shrugged.

“Safety in numbers, Sergeant. I agree it doesn’t sound hopeful. Did Mr. Berlyn seem upset about it?”

“Not that I ever heard of.”

“No good for us, Sergeant. Now about these others. Mr. Pyke was not married, was he?”

“No, Mr. Pyke was not married, nor were Mr. Cowls nor Mr. Samuel nor Mr. Leacock, other young men about the works with whom Mrs. Berlyn had seemed on good terms. Mr. Pyke had been with the firm for several years and was said to be highly thought of. He was pleasant-mannered and jolly and a general favourite. He lodged in the town; in fact, his rooms were nearly opposite the hotel.”

“Is Mrs. Berlyn still here?”

“She left three or four days ago. There was an auction and she waited till it was over. I heard she had gone to London.”

“Will she be well off?”

“I believe so. They say Mr. Berlyn left her everything.”

“You spoke of Mr. Pyke’s cousin. Who is he?”

“A Mr. Jefferson Pyke, a farmer in the Argentine. Rather like the late Mr. Pyke, that’s Mr. Stanley, in appearance, but a bit taller and broader. He was on a visit to England and was down here twice. First he came and stayed with Mr. Stanley for three or four days about a couple of months before the tragedy; that was when Mrs. Berlyn took them both out motoring. I wasn’t speaking to him then, but I saw him with Mr. and Mrs. Berlyn and Mr. Stanley in the car. Then the morning after the tragedy Mrs. Berlyn gave me his London address and told me to wire for him. I did so and he came down that evening. He stayed for three or four days in Torquay and came over to make enquiries and to look after Mr. Stanley’s affairs. A very nice gentleman I found him, and a good business man, too.”

French noted the London address and then asked what servants the Berlyns had.

“They had three—two house servants and the gardener.”

“Any of them available?”

“One of the girls, Lizzie Johnston, lives not far away. The others were strangers.”

French continued his inquisitions in his slow, painstaking way, making notes about everyone connected with the Berlyns and Pyke. But he learned nothing that confirmed his suspicions or suggested a line of research. It was true that in Mrs. Berlyn he had glimpsed a possible source of trouble between her husband and Pyke. All the essentials of a triangle drama were there—except the drama itself. Mrs. Berlyn might easily have hated her husband and loved one of these other men, but, unfortunately for theorising detectives, if not for moralists, there was no evidence that she had done so. However, it was a suggestive idea and one which could not be lost sight of.

As these thoughts passed through French’s mind a further consideration struck him, a consideration which he saw might not only prove a fifth test of the case he was trying to make, but which, if so, would undoubtedly be the most conclusive of them all. He turned once more to Daw.

“There’s a point which is worrying me rather, Sergeant,” he declared. “Suppose one of these two men murdered the other on that night. Now why would the murderer go to the trouble of getting the body into the works and sending it off in the crate? Could he not simply have thrown it into one of these mires?”

Daw nodded.

“I thought of that when you suggested your idea, but I don’t believe there’s anything in it. It wouldn’t be so easy as it sounds. In fact, I couldn’t see any way it could be done.”

“I’m glad to hear you say so, Sergeant. Explain, please.”

“Well, if you go into one of those places and begin to sink you throw yourself on your back. As long as your weight is on the small area of your feet you go down, but if you increase your area by lying on your back you reduce the weight per unit of area and you float—because it really is a kind of floating. You follow me, sir?”

“Quite. Go ahead.”

“Now if you walk to a soft place carrying a body you have doubled the weight on your feet. You will go down quickly. But the body won’t go down. A man who tried to get rid of his victim that way would fail, and lose his own life into the bargain.”

“That sounds conclusive. But I didn’t know you could save yourself by throwing yourself down. If that is so wouldn’t Berlyn and Pyke have escaped that way? Why did you then accept the idea that they had been lost?”

“There were two reasons. First there was nothing to make me doubt it, such as knowing about the crate, and secondly, though the accident was not exactly likely, it was possible. This is the way I figured it out. Suppose one of these mists had come on. They do come on unexpectedly. One of the men gets into a soft place. Mists are confusing, and in trying to get out, he mistakes his position and flounders in further. That’s all perfectly possible. Then he calls to the other one, and in going to the first one’s help the other gets in also—both too far to get out again.”

“But you said it was a clear night?”

“So it was when I got there. But three or four hours earlier it might have been thick.”

“Now, Sergeant, there’s another thing. Could the murderer not have used some sort of apparatus, a ladder or plank to lay on the soft ground, over which he could have carried the body and escaped himself? Same as you do on ice.”

“I thought of that too, but I don’t believe it would be possible. A ladder wouldn’t do at all. With its sharp edges it would go down under the weight. And I don’t think a man could handle a big enough plank. It would have to be pretty wide to support the weight of two men and it would have to be long to get beyond the edge of the mire. You see, Mr. French, it’s only well out into the big mires that a flat body will sink. Near the edges it would have to be kept upright with the weight on the feet. That couldn’t be done off the end of a plank which would itself be sinking; in fact, I don’t think it could be done at all.”

French nodded. This was certainly very satisfactory.

“Besides, sir,” Daw went on, “think of a plank laid as you’ve suggested and with the end of it partly sunk. It’ll not be easy to pull out, particularly when the ground you’re pulling from is not very firm. You won’t do it without leaving pretty deep footmarks, and the plank will leave a sort of trough where it was slid out. If that had been done that night the marks would have been there next morning, and if they had been there I should have seen them. No, sir, I think you may give up that idea. You couldn’t get rid of a body by hiding it in a mire.”

“I’m uncommonly glad to hear you say so,” French repeated. “If the thing had been possible it would have knocked my case into a cocked hat. Well, Sergeant, I’ve bothered you enough for one morning. I’ll go along and have a word with Mrs. Berlyn’s maid.”

Lizzie Johnston lived with her mother in a little cottage on the hill behind the railway station. She proved to be a dark, good-looking girl of about five and twenty, and when French talked with her he soon discovered she was observant and intelligent also.

She had lived, she said, with Mrs. Berlyn for about two years, and French, in his skilful, pleasant way drew her out on the subject of the household. It consisted of the two Berlyns, herself, and cook, unless Peter Swann, the gardener, might be included.

Mr. Berlyn she had not greatly liked. He was quiet in the house, but was rather exacting. He was not socially inclined and preferred an evening’s reading over the fire to any dinner party or dance. He had been civil enough to her, though she had really come very little in contact with him.

About Mrs. Berlyn the girl was not enthusiastic, either, though she said nothing directly against her. Mrs. Berlyn, it appeared, was also hard to please, and no matter what was done for her, she always wanted something more. She was never content to be alone and was continually running over to Torquay to amusements. After their marriage Mr. Berlyn had gone with her, but he had gradually given up doing so and had allowed her to find some other escort. This she had had no difficulty in doing, and Mr. Pyke, Mr. Cowls and others were constantly in attendance.

No, the girl did not think there had been anything between Mrs. Berlyn and any of these men, though for a time Mr. Pyke’s attentions had been rather pronounced. But some four months before the tragedy they appeared to have had a disagreement, for his visits had suddenly fallen off. But it could not have been very serious, for he still had occasionally come to dinner and to play bridge. She remembered one time in particular when Mr. Pyke had brought a relative; she heard it was a cousin. There were just the four, the two Pykes and the two Berlyns, and they all seemed very friendly. But there was a coolness all the same, and since it had developed, Colonel Domlio had to some extent taken Mr. Pyke’s place.

About the Berlyns’ history she could not tell much. Mr. Berlyn had lived in the town for several years before his marriage. He seemed to have plenty of money. He had bought the house on the Buckland road just before the wedding and had had it done up from top to bottom. It was not a large house, but beautifully fitted up. At the same time he had bought the car. Peter Swann, the gardener, washed the car, but he did not drive it. Both Mr. and Mrs. Berlyn were expert drivers and good mechanics. Mrs. Berlyn also used her push bicycle a good deal.

French then came to the evening of the tragedy. On that evening dinner had been early to allow Mr. Berlyn to get away in the car at seven o’clock. It had been her, Lizzie Johnston’s, evening out, but Mrs. Berlyn had told her she would have to take the next evening instead, as some friends were coming in and she would be wanted to bring up supper. About eight o’clock Mr. Fogden, Mr. Cowls, a Dr. and Mrs. Lancaster, and three or four other people had arrived. She had brought them up coffee and sandwiches about half past ten. They had left about eleven. She had got to bed almost at once, and a few minutes later she had heard Mrs. Berlyn go up to her room.

The next thing she remembered was being wakened in the middle of the night by Mrs. Berlyn. The lady was partly dressed and seemed agitated. “Lizzie,” she had said, “it’s nearly three o’clock and there’s no sign of Mr. Berlyn. I’m frightened. I’ve just been out to the garage to see if the car has come back, but it’s not there. What do you think can be wrong?”

They hurriedly discussed the matter. Mr. Berlyn was the last man to alter his plans, and both were afraid of an accident on that dangerous Tavistock road.

In the end they decided that Mrs. Berlyn should knock up Sergeant Daw, who lived near. This she did, while Lizzie dressed. Presently Mrs. Berlyn came back to say that the sergeant was going out to investigate. They had some tea and lay down without taking off their clothes. In the early morning a policeman brought the news of the tragedy.

Mrs. Berlyn was terribly upset. But she grew calmer in time, and the arrangements for the auction and for her removal to London taking her out of herself, in a week she was almost normal.

She had been very nice to Lizzie at the last, giving her an excellent testimonial and an extra month’s wages.

French thanked the girl for her information and rose as if to take his leave.

“I suppose Mrs. Berlyn was something of a needlewoman?” he said, carelessly. “Some one told me she made her own dresses.”

Lizzie laughed contemptuously.

“Made her dresses, did she?” she repeated. “I don’t think. She didn’t hardly know how to wear a thimble, she didn’t. She wouldn’t have sat down to a job of sewing, not for no person on earth she wouldn’t.”

“Then who did the household mending?”

“Yours truly. Anything that was done I had to do.”

“But not the clothes, surely? Who darned Mr. Berlyn’s socks, for instance?”

“Yours truly. I tell you Mrs. Berlyn wouldn’t have touched a sock or a bit of wool not to save her life.”

This was a piece of unexpected luck. French turned away.

“You are a good girl,” he declared. “Would half a sovereign be of any use to you?”

Miss Johnston left him in no doubt on the point.

“Very well,” he went on. “You come down to the hotel after dinner to-night and ask for me. I want you to mend some clothes and socks for me. Or rather,” he paused, “I have to come up in this direction after lunch to-day in any case, and I’ll bring them.”

No object in advertising the lines on which he was working, he thought. The less that was known of his researches, the more hope there was of their proving fruitful.

A couple of hours later he returned with a small suitcase.

“Here are the clothes,” he said. “I wish you’d see what they want, so that I’ll know when I’m likely to get them.”

He laid four pairs of socks on the table—three brown pairs of his own and the grey pair found in the crate. The girl looked them over one by one. French watched her in silence. He was anxious, if possible, to give her no lead.

“There isn’t much wrong with these,” she said, presently. “They don’t want no darning.”

“Oh, but they have been badly mended. You see these grey ones have been done with a different-coloured wool. I thought perhaps you could put that right.”

Miss Johnston laughed scornfully.

“You’re mighty particular, mister, if that darning ain’t good enough for you. I’d just like to know what’s wrong with it.”

“You think it’s all right?” French returned. “If so, I’m satisfied. But what about these underclothes?”

The girl examined the clothes. They were almost new and neatly folded, just as they had come back from the laundry, so that her contemptuous reply was not inexcusable. At all events, it was evident that no suspicion that they were other than her visitor’s had crossed her mind.

French, with his half formed theory of Berlyn’s guilt, would have been surprised if she had answered otherwise. The test, however, had been necessary, and he felt he had not lost time. Mollifying her with a tip, he returned to the hotel.

Chapter Nine: A Step Forward

French believed that he had obtained all the available information about the Berlyns from his interview with the sergeant and Lizzie Johnston. Pyke was the next name on his list and he now crossed East Street to the house in which the travelling representative had lodged. The door was opened by a bright-eyed, bustling little woman at sight of whom French’s emotional apparatus registered satisfaction. He knew the type. The woman was a talker.

But when for the best part of an hour he had listened to her, satisfaction was no longer the word with which to express his state of mind. He had no difficulty in getting her to talk. His trouble was to direct the flood of her conversation along the channel in which he wished it to flow.

He began by explaining that he was staying at the hotel, but that as he liked the district and might want to remain for some time, he was looking about for rooms. He had heard she had some to let. Was this so, and if it was, could he see them?

It was so and he could see them. She had had a lodger, a very nice gentleman and a very good payer, but she had lost him recently. Mr. ——? She had heard his name: was it not Mr. French? Mr. French must have heard about his dreadful death? His name was Mr. Pyke. Had Mr. French not heard?

Mr. French had heard something about it. It seemed a very sad affair.

It was a very sad affair. Mr. Pyke had gone out that evening as well as Mr. French or herself, and he had never come back, had never been seen again. Terrible, wasn’t it? And a terrible shock to her. Indeed, she didn’t feel the same even yet. She didn’t believe she ever would. Between that and the loss of the letting. . . .

What had he said before he started? Why, he hadn’t said anything! At least he had said he wouldn’t be home until about midnight, and for her not to forget to leave the hall door on the latch and to put some supper on the table in his room. And she had done. She had left everything right for him, and then she had gone to bed. And she had slept. She was a good sleeper, except that one time after she had had scarlet fever, when the doctor said . . .

Yes, the rooms were ready at any time. She believed in keeping her house clean and tidy at all times, so that everything was always ready when it was wanted. She had once been in service with Mrs. Lloyd-Hurley in Chagford and she had learnt that lesson there. Mrs. Lloyd-Hurley was very particular. She . . .

Mr. Pyke’s things? Oh yes, they were gone. She thought that would be understood when she said the rooms were ready. She . . .

It was his cousin. His cousin had come down from London and taken everything there was. That was Mr. Jefferson Pyke. Her Mr. Pyke was Mr. Stanley. Mr. Jefferson was the only remaining relative, at least so she understood. He packed up everything and took it away. Except a few things that he said he didn’t want. These she had kept. Not that she wanted them, but if they were going begging, as Mr. French might say, why, then. . . .

No, she had only seen Mr. Jefferson once before. He lived in the Argentine, or was it Australia? She wasn’t rightly sure—she had no memory for places—but he lived away in some strange foreign country, anyhow. He happened to be over on a visit and was going back again shortly. Her brother James lived in Australia and she had asked Mr. Jefferson . . .

So French sat and listened while the unending stream poured about his devoted head. At times by summoning up all his resolution he interposed a remark which diverted the current in a new direction. But his perseverance was rewarded as from nearly all of these mutations he learned at least one fact. When at last, exhausted but triumphant, he rose to take his leave, he had gained the following information:

Mr. Stanley Pyke was a jolly, pleasant-mannered man of about five-and-thirty, who had lodged with the talkative landlady for the past four years. He had been connected with the works for much longer than that, but at first had had other rooms farther down the street. Hers, the landlady modestly explained, were the best in the town, and Mr. Pyke’s removal was an outward and visible sign of his prosperity. For the rest, he was satisfactory as lodgers go, easy to please, not stingy about money, and always with a pleasant word for her when they met.

On the evening of the tragedy he had dined at six-fifteen instead of seven, his usual hour. He had gone out immediately after, giving the instruction about the door and his supper. The landlady had gone to bed as usual, and the first intimation she had had that anything was wrong was the visit of the police on the following morning.

Some one, she did not know who, must have informed the cousin, Mr. Jefferson Pyke, for that evening he turned up. He had stayed at Torquay for three or four days, coming over to Ashburton to see the police and make enquiries. On one of these visits he had called on her and stated that, as he was the only surviving relative of his cousin, he would take charge of his personal effects. He had packed up and removed a good many of the dead man’s things, saying he did not want the remainder and asking her to dispose of them.

It had not occurred to her to question Mr. Jefferson Pyke’s right to take her lodger’s property. She had seen him once before, in Mr. Stanley’s lifetime. Some two months before the tragedy Mr. Stanley had told her that his cousin was home on a visit from the Argentine—she believed it was the Argentine and not Australia—and that he was coming down to see him. He asked her could she put him up. Mr. Jefferson had arrived a day or two later and she had given him her spare bedroom. He stayed for four days and the cousins had explored the moor together. Mrs. Berlyn, she had heard, had driven them about in her car. The landlady had found Mr. Jefferson very pleasant; indeed, when the two men were together they had nearly made her die laughing with their jokes and nonsense. Mr. Jefferson had told her that he owned a ranch in the Argentine and that he was thinking of starting flower gardens from which to supply the cities. He was then on his way back from the Scillys, where he had gone to investigate the industry. A week after Mr. Jefferson left, Mr. Stanley took his holidays, and he had told her he was going with his cousin to the south of France to a place called Grasse, where there were more gardens. He was only back some three weeks when he met his death.

All this was given to French with a wealth of detail which, had it been material to his investigation, he would have welcomed, but by which, as it was, he was frankly bored. However, he could do nothing to stop the stream and he simulated interest as best he could.

“By the way, Mrs. Billing,” he said, pausing on his way out, “if I take these rooms could you look after the mending of my clothes? Who did it for Mr. Pyke?”

Mrs. Billing had, and she would be delighted to do the same for Mr. French.

“Well, I have some that want it at the present time. Suppose I bring them over now. Could you look at them?” Five minutes later he returned with his suitcase and spread out the clothes as he had done for Lizzie Johnston an hour or two before. Like the maid, Mrs. Billing glanced over them and remarked that there didn’t seem to be much wrong.

French picked up the grey sock.

“But you see they have not been very neatly darned. This grey one has been done with a different coloured wool. I thought perhaps you could put that right.”

Mrs. Billing took the grey sock and stared at it for some time, while a puzzled expression grew on her face. French, suddenly keenly excited, watched her almost breathlessly. But after turning it over she put it down, though the slightly mystified look remained.

“Here are some underclothes,” French went on. “Do these want any mending?”

Slowly the landlady turned over the bundle. As she did so incredulity and amazement showed on her bird-like features. Then swiftly she turned to the neck of the vest and the shirt cuffs and scrutinised the buttons and links.

“My Gawd!” she whispered, hoarsely, and French saw that her face had paled and her hands were trembling.

“You recognise them?”

She nodded, her flood of speech for once paralysed.

“Where did you get them?” she asked, still in a whisper.

French was quite as excited as she, but he controlled himself and spoke easily.

“Tell me first whose they are and how you are so sure of them.”

“They’re Mr. Pyke’s, what he was wearing the night he was lost. I couldn’t but be sure of them. See here. There’s the wool first. I darned that and I remember I hadn’t the right colour. Then these buttons.” She picked up the vest. “I put that one on. See, it’s not the same as the rest; it was the only one I could get. And then if that wasn’t enough, these are the cuff-links. I’ve seen them hundreds of times and I’d know them anywhere. Where did you get them?”

French dropped his suave, kindly manner and suddenly became official and, for him, unusually harsh.

“Now, Mrs. Billing,” he said, sharply, “I’d better tell you exactly who I am and warn you that you’ve got to keep it to yourself. I am Inspector French of New Scotland Yard; you understand, a police officer. I have discovered that Mr. Pyke was murdered and I am on the track of the murderer.”

The landlady gave a little scream. She was evidently profoundly moved, not only by surprise and excitement, but by horror at her late lodger’s fate. She began to speak, but French cut her short.

“I want you to understand,” he said, threateningly, “that you must keep silence on this matter. If any hint of it gets about, it will be a very serious thing for you. I take it you don’t want to be mixed up in a murder trial. Very well, then; keep your mouth shut.”

Mrs. Billing was terrified and eagerly promised discretion. French questioned her further, but without result. She did not believe her late lodger was on bad terms with anyone, nor did she know if he had a birthmark on his upper arm.

French’s delight at his discovery was unbounded. The identification of the dead man represented the greatest step towards the completion of his case that he had yet made. He chuckled to himself in pure joy.

But his brain reeled when he thought of his four test points. If this news were true, he had made some pretty bad mistakes! Each one of his four conclusions must be false. As he remembered the facts on which they were based, he had to admit himself completely baffled.

Presently his mood changed and a wave of pessimism swept over him. The identification of the underclothes was not, after all, the identification of the body. Such an astute criminal as he was dealing with might have changed the dead man’s clothes. But when he reminded himself that the man who called for the crate resembled Berlyn, the thing became more convincing. However, it had not been proved, and he wanted certainty.

Fortunately there was the birthmark. French had examined it carefully and was satisfied that it was genuine. Who, he wondered, could identify it?

The most likely person, he thought, was Jefferson Pyke. It would be worth a journey to London to have the point settled. That night, therefore, he took the sleeping-car express to Paddington.

Daw had given him the address—17b, Kepple Street, off Russell Square, and before ten next morning he was there.

Jefferson Pyke was a clean-shaven man of about forty, of rather more than medium height and stoutly built. He was a study in browns: brown eyes, a dusky complexion, hair nearly black, brown clothes and shoes, and a dark-brown tie. He looked keenly at his visitor, then pointed to a chair.

“Mr. French?” he said, speaking deliberately. “What can I do for you, sir?”

“I’ll tell you, Mr. Pyke,” French answered. “First of all, here is my professional card. I want some help from you in an investigation I am making.”

Pyke glanced at the card and nodded.

“A case on which I was engaged took me recently to Ashburton, and while there I heard of the tragic death of Mr. Pyke and Mr. Berlyn of the Veda Works staff. I understand that Mr. Pyke was a relative of yours?”

“That is so. My first cousin.”

“Well, Mr. Pyke,” French said, gravely, “I have to inform you that a discovery had been made which may or may not have a bearing on your cousin’s fate. A body has been found—the body of a murdered man. That body has not been identified, but there is a suggestion that it may be your cousin’s. I want to know if you can identify it?”

Mr. Pyke stared incredulously.

“Good Heavens, Inspector! That’s an astonishing suggestion. You must surely be mistaken. I went down to Ashburton directly I heard of the accident, and there seemed no doubt then about what had happened. Tell me the particulars.”

“About a fortnight ago, as you may have noticed in the papers, a crate was picked up in the sea off Burry Port in South Wales, which was found to contain the body of a murdered man. The face had been disfigured and there was no means of identification. However, I traced the crate and I learned that it was sent out from the Veda Works on the morning after your cousin and Mr. Berlyn disappeared.”

“Good Heavens!” Mr. Pyke exclaimed again. “Go on.”

“I made enquiries and the only persons known to have disappeared were those two men. You see the suggestion? I am sorry to have to ask you, but can you help me to identify the remains?”

Mr. Pyke’s face showed both amazement and horror.

“This is terrible news, Inspector. I need hardly say I hope you are mistaken. Of course you may count on me to do all I can.”

“You think you can identify the body, then?”

“Surely I ought to recognise my own cousin?”

“Otherwise than by the face? Remember the face has been disfigured. I might say, indeed, it is nonexistent, it has been so savagely battered.”

“By Heaven! I hope you will get the man who did it!” Pyke said, hotly. “But that does not answer your question.” He hesitated. “If it is not possible to recognise the features, I’m not so sure. How do you suggest it might be done?”

French shrugged.

“Identification otherwise than by the features is usually possible. It is a matter of observation. Some small physical defect, a crooked finger, the scar of an old cut, or mole on the neck—there are scores of indications to the observant man.”

Mr. Pyke sat in silence for a few minutes.

“Then I’m afraid I’m not very observant,” he said at last. “I can’t remember any such peculiarity in poor Stanley’s case.”

“Nothing in the shape of the finger nails,” French prompted. “No birthmark, no local roughness or discoloration of the skin?”

“By Jove!” Mr. Pyke exclaimed with a sudden gesture. “There is something. My cousin had a birthmark, a small red mark on his left arm, here. I remembered it directly you mentioned the word.”

“Then you have been fairly intimate with your cousin? Have you often seen this mark?”

“Seen it? Scores of times. We were boys together and I have noticed it again and again. Why, now I come to think of it, I saw it on these last holidays I spent with Stanley. We went to the south of France and shared a cabin in the steamer to Marseilles.”

“Could you describe it?”

“No, but I could sketch it.” He seized a piece of paper and drew a rough triangle.

French laid his photograph beside the sketch. There could be no doubt that they represented the same object. Pyke seized the photograph.

“That’s it. I could swear to it anywhere. You’ve found Stanley’s body right enough. Good Heavens! Inspector, it’s incredible! I could have sworn he hadn’t an enemy in the world. Have you any clue to the murderer?”

Natural caution and official training made French hedge.

“Not as yet,” he answered, assuring himself that his ideas about Berlyn were hypothetical. “I was hoping that you could give me a lead.”

“I?” Jefferson Pyke shook his head. “Far from it. Even now I can scarcely credit the affair.”

“Well, I should like you to run over his associates and see if you can’t think of any who might have hated him. Now to start with the senior partner: What about Colonel Domlio?”

Mr. Pyke had never met him and knew nothing about him, though he had heard his cousin mention his name. French went on through the list he had made at Ashburton till in the natural sequence he came to Berlyn.

“Now Mr. Berlyn. Could he have had a down on your cousin?”

“But he was lost, too,” Pyke rejoined, then stopped and looked keenly at French. “By Jove! Inspector, I get your idea! You think Berlyn may have murdered him and cleared out?” He shook his head. “No, no. You are wrong. It is impossible. Berlyn wasn’t that sort. I knew him slightly and I confess I didn’t care for him, but he was not a murderer.”

“Why did you not like him, Mr. Pyke?”

Pyke shrugged.

“Hard to say. Not my style, perhaps. A good man, you know, and efficient and all that, but—too efficient, shall I say? He expected too much from others; didn’t make allowances for human errors and frailties. Poor Mrs. Berlyn had rather a time with him.”

“How so?”

“Well, an example will explain what I mean. On this last holiday after Stanley and I got back to London we met Berlyn and his wife, who were in town. The four of us dined together and went to a theatre. We were to meet at the restaurant at seven. Well, Mrs. Berlyn had been off somewhere on her own and she was five minutes late. What was that for a woman? But Berlyn was so ratty about it that I felt quite embarrassed. You see, he wouldn’t have been late himself. If he had said seven, he would have been there—on the tick. He couldn’t see that other people were not made the same way.”

“I follow you. You say that Mrs. Berlyn had rather a time with him. Did they not get on?”

“Oh, they got on—as well as fifty per cent of the married people get on. Berlyn did his duty to her strictly, even lavishly, but he expected the same in return. I don’t know that you could blame him. Strictly speaking, of course he was right. It was his instinct for scrupulously fair play.”

“Your late cousin and Mrs. Berlyn were very good friends, were they not?”

“We were both good friends with Mrs. Berlyn. Stanley and I knew her as children. In fact, it was through Stanley that Berlyn met her. I was in the Argentine at the time, but he told me about it. Berlyn was going for a holiday—one of those cruises round the western Mediterranean. Stanley happened to have met Phyllis Considine, as she was then, in London, and she had mentioned she was going on the same trip. So he gave Berlyn an introduction. Berlyn, it appears, fell in love with her and was accepted before the cruise was over.”

“Do you think Berlyn could have been jealous of your cousin?”

“I’m sure he could not, Inspector. Don’t get that bee into your bonnet. Stanley certainly went often to the house, but Berlyn was always friendly to him. I don’t for a moment believe there was anything to be jealous about.”

“There was enough intimacy for them to be talked about.”

“In Ashburton!” Pyke retorted, scornfully. “In a little one-horse place like that they’d talk no matter what you did.”

“It was believed that there was something between them until about four months before the tragedy, then for some unknown reason the affair stopped.”

“That so?” Pyke retorted. “Well, if it stopped four months before the tragedy it couldn’t have caused it.”

“Do you know where Mrs. Berlyn is now?”

“Yes, in London; at 70b Park Walk, Chelsea, to be exact.”

French continued his questions, but without learning anything further of interest, and after cautioning Pyke to keep his own counsel, he took his leave.

So he had reached certainty at last! The body was Stanley Pyke’s. He had admittedly made four ghastly blunders in his test points and these he must now try to retrieve. There was also a reasonable suspicion that Charles Berlyn was the murderer. Splendid! He was getting on. As he went down to the Yard he felt he had some good work behind him to report.

Chapter Ten: London’s Further Contribution

Now that he was in London, French decided that he should complete certain enquiries.

First he should satisfy himself that everything possible had been done to trace the letter-writers of the Euston and St. Pancras hotels and the purchaser of the money order for £62.10.0. Next he must visit the manufacturers of the Ardlo magneto and get their views on short-circuited windings. Lastly he must have an interview with Mrs. Berlyn.

As it happened, he took the last of these items first, and three o’clock that afternoon found him ascending the stairs of No. 70b Park Walk, Chelsea. The house was divided into a number of what seemed small but comfortable flats. Pretty expensive, French thought, as he rang.

A neatly dressed maid opened the door and, after taking in his card, announced that Mrs. Berlyn would see him. He followed her to a tiny, but pleasantly furnished drawing room, and there in a few minutes he was joined by the lady of the house.

French looked at her with some curiosity. Of medium height and with a slight, graceful figure, she still gave an impression of energy and competent efficiency. She was not beautiful, but her appearance was arresting and French felt instinctively that she was a woman to be reckoned with. Her manner was vivacious and French could imagine her dancing all night and turning up next morning to breakfast as cool and fresh and ready for anything as if she had had her accustomed eight hours’ sleep.

“Inspector French, Scotland Yard,” she said, briskly, glancing at the card in her hand. “Won’t you sit down, Mr. French, and tell me what I can do for you?”

“Thank you, Mrs. Berlyn. I am sorry to say I have called on distressing business. It may or may not concern your late husband. I am hoping for information from you which may decide the point.”

The lady’s expression became grave.

“Suppose you give me the details,” she suggested.

“I am about to do so, but I warn you that you must prepare yourself for a shock. It is in connection with the tragedy by which Mr. Berlyn and Mr. Pyke were believed to have lost their lives.”

Mrs. Berlyn started and her gaze became fixed intently on French.

“It has been discovered that Mr. Pyke was not lost on the moor as was supposed. Of Mr. Berlyn’s fate nothing new has been learnt. But I deeply regret to inform you that Mr. Pyke was murdered.”

“Stanley Pyke murdered! Oh, impossible!” Horror showed on the lady’s face and her lips trembled. For a moment it looked as if she would give way to her emotion, but she controlled herself and asked for details.

French told her exactly what had occurred, from the discovery of the crate to Jefferson Pyke’s identification of the birthmark.

“I’m afraid it must be true,” she said, sadly, when he had finished. “I remember that birthmark, too. We were children together, the Pykes and I, and I have often seen it. Oh, I can’t say how sorry I am! Who could have done such a terrible thing? Stanley was so jolly and pleasant and kind. He was good to everyone and everyone liked him. Oh, it is too awful for words!”

French made a noncommittal reply.

“But what about my late husband?” Mrs. Berlyn went on. “You said nothing had been learnt about him. But—if they were together——?”

She paused suddenly, as if seeing that a meaning which she had not intended might be read into her words. But French replied, soothingly:

“That’s one of the things I wanted to talk to you about, Mrs. Berlyn. Did you know if either he or Mr. Pyke had any enemies? You need not fear to tell me the merest suspicions. I will act only on knowledge that I obtain, but your suspicion might suggest where to look for that knowledge.”

“Are you suggesting that my husband might have been murdered also?” she said in a low voice.

“Not necessarily. I am asking if you can think of anything which could sustain that view?”

Mrs. Berlyn could not think of anything. She did not know of anyone who had a grudge against either of the men. Indeed, only for the inspector’s assurance she could not have brought herself to believe that Mr. Pyke had met so dreadful an end.

French then began pumping her in his quiet, skilful way. But though she answered all his questions with the utmost readiness, he did not learn much that he had not already known.

Her father, she told him, was a doctor in Lincoln and there she had known the Pykes. Stanley’s mother—his father was dead—lived about a mile from the town, and he and his cousin Jefferson, who boarded with them, used to walk in daily to school. The three had met at parties and children’s dances and had once spent a holiday together at the seaside. The Pykes had left the town when the boys had finished their schooling and she had lost sight of them. Then one day she had met Stanley in London and he told her that he was at the Veda Works. She had mentioned that she was going on a cruise to the Mediterranean and he had said that his employer, Mr. Berlyn, was going on the same trip and to be sure to look out for him. That was the way she had met Mr. Berlyn. He had proposed to her on the trip and she had accepted him.

French then delicately broached the question of her relations with Stanley Pyke. And here for the first time he was not satisfied by her replies. That there had been something more between them than friendship he strongly suspected. Indeed, Mrs. Berlyn practically admitted it. As a result of French’s diplomatic probing it came out that Mr. Berlyn had shown marked disapproval of their intimacy and that about four months prior to the tragedy they had decided that for the sake of peace they should see less of each other. They had carried out this resolve and Berlyn’s resentment had apparently vanished.

French next turned to the subject of Colonel Domlio, but here Mrs. Berlyn had as good as laughed. It appeared that the man had tried to flirt with her, but her opinion was evidently that there was no fool like an old fool. French had no doubt that any lovemaking that might have taken place was not serious, on the lady’s side, at all events.

Thinking that he had obtained all the information that he was likely to get, French at last rose to go. But Mrs. Berlyn signed to him to sit down again and said, gravely:

“If that is all, Mr. French, I want to ask you a question. I never think there is any use in pretending about things, and from your questions I cannot but guess what is in your mind. You think my late husband may have murdered Mr. Pyke?”

“I take it from that, Mrs. Berlyn, that you want a perfectly straight answer? Well, I shall give it to you. The idea, of course, occurred to me, as it would to anyone in my position. I am bound to investigate it and I am going to do so. But I can say without reservation that so far it remains an idea.”

Mrs. Berlyn bowed.

“Thank you for that. Of course I recognise that you must investigate all possibilities, and I recognise, too, that you will not give any weight to what I am going to say. But I must tell you that if you suspect Mr. Berlyn you are making a mistake. Though he was not perfect, he was utterly incapable of a crime like that—utterly. If you had ever met him you would have known that. I wish I could say or do something to convince you. Besides, if he were alive, why did he disappear? If he were guilty, would he not have come forward with a story that Mr. Pyke had gone alone across the moor and been lost in the mires?”

French had already noted the point as the chief difficulty in his theory, and he admitted it fully. He added that Mrs. Berlyn’s statement had made an impression on him and that he would not fail to bear it in mind. Then promising to let her know the result of his enquiry, he took his leave.

He had not lied when he said her statement had impressed him. That it represented her firm conviction he had not the least doubt. And it certainly was a point in Berlyn’s favour that such testimony should be forthcoming from his wife, when it was evident that their married life had been an indifferent success. Of course it might be simply that the woman did not wish to be involved in the misery and disgrace which would come with proof of Berlyn’s guilt. But French did not think it was this. Her thought had seemed to be for her husband rather than herself.

It was still fairly early in the afternoon and French thought he would have time to make another call. He therefore walked up the Fulham Road and took an eastbound district train at South Kensington. Half an hour later he was at the headquarters of the Ardlo Magneto Company in Queen Elizabeth Street.

When the managing director heard French’s business he touched a bell.

“You had better see Mr. Illingworth, our chief electrical engineer,” he said. “I am afraid I could not help you in these technical matters.”

Mr. Illingworth was a pleasant young man with a quiet, efficient manner. He took French to his office, supplied him with cigarettes, and asked what he could do for him.

French put his problem, recounting the enquiries he had already made.

“Those people told you quite correctly,” was Mr. Illingworth’s answer. “Your question is this: Could a man drive a car up to a certain place and then short circuit the magneto armature so that the car couldn’t be started again? The answer is, Yes, but not without leaving marks.”

“But that’s just my puzzle,” French returned. “That’s exactly what seems to have been done.”

“Well,” Mr. Illingworth answered with a smile, “you may take it from me that it wasn’t.”

“Then in the case that I have described, the breakdown must have been a pure accident?”

“I should say, absolutely. Mind you, I don’t say that a breakdown couldn’t be faked without leaving traces. It could be. But not so as to stop the car then and there. The concealed injury would take time to develop.”

“That’s a bit cryptic, isn’t it? Can you make it clearer to a lay intelligence?”

“Well, it is possible to damage the insulation by jamming a needle into the armature winding between the wire and the iron core, and if you’re careful it’ll leave no mark. But it won’t disable the magneto straight away. In fact, the car will run as usual and it may be a considerable time before any defect shows. But sparking takes place at the injury, perhaps at first only when the engine is working specially hard. This causes carbonisation of the insulation, leading eventually to complete breakdown. The car begins to misfire and it gradually grows worse until it won’t run at all.”

“I follow you. I may take it, then, that it is possible to cause a breakdown without leaving a mark, but that this is a comparatively lengthy process and cannot be done at a given time.”

“That’s right.”

“Suppose the winding was short-circuited as you describe, could an electrician afterwards tell what had been done?”

“No. It might have happened through some carelessness in the original winding.”

“That seems pretty clear. Now, just one other point, Mr. Illingworth. Those people, Makepeace, in Ashburton, sent the actual magneto up here to be overhauled. Can you trace it and let me know just what was wrong?”

“Certainly. We have records of every machine which passes through our hands.” He consulted an index, finally withdrawing a card. “This is it. Sent in from John Makepeace, Ashburton, on Monday, twenty-second August. Would that date work in?”

“Yes, that’s all right.”

“We’ve not had another from Makepeace for five years previously, so it must be,” Mr. Illingworth went on, rapidly turning over the cards. “Well, it’s just what we were speaking of. It failed from a short-circuit in the armature winding and it might have been caused purposely or it might not. There was nothing to indicate.”

French rose.

“That’s good enough for me,” he declared.

He felt his brain reel as he considered the contradictory nature of the evidence he was getting. The breakdown of the car had happened, and at a time and place which made it impossible to doubt that it had been deliberately caused. To cause such a breakdown was mechanically impossible. That was the dilemma which confronted him. And the further he probed this contradiction, the more strongly he found its conflicting details confirmed.

In a dream he returned to the Yard, and there with an effort switched his mind off the conundrum and on to the features of his case which had been dealt with from headquarters.

Inspector Tanner, it appeared, had handled these matters, and by a lucky chance French found him just about to leave for home.

“I’ll walk with you,” said French. “I don’t want to delay you, and what’s more to the point, I want to get home myself.”

Tanner was a man who liked a joke, or at least what he considered a joke. He now chaffed French on being unable to carry on his case by himself, and they sparred amicably for some time before coming to business. But Tanner was also exceedingly able, and when he described what he had done at the hotels and post office, French was satisfied that no further information could be extracted from these sources.

All the next day, which was Sunday, the problem of the magneto remained subconsciously in French’s mind, and when on Monday morning he took his place in the 10.30 A.M. Limited to return to Devonshire, he was still pondering it. In a dream he watched the bustle of departure on the platform, the arrival of more and ever more travellers, the appropriation of seats, the disposal of luggage. (That armature had been tampered with. It must have been, because otherwise it would not have worked in with a prearranged crime.) Lord! What a pile of luggage for one woman to travel with! American, he betted. (But, it could not have been done at the time. In no way could it have been made to fail just when it was wanted.) What price that for a natty suit? Why, the man was a moving chessboard! What was the connection between chessboard suits and horses? (It must have been tampered with; but it couldn’t have been. That was the confounded problem.) There was the guard with his green flag, looking critically up and down and glancing first at his watch and then over his shoulder at the platform clock. It was just twenty-nine and a half minutes past. In another half minute. . . .

Suddenly into French’s mind flashed an idea and he sat for a moment motionless, as with a sort of trembling eagerness he considered it. Why, his problem was no problem at all! There was a solution of the simplest and most obvious kind! How had he been stupid enough not to have seen it?

As the guard waved his flag French sprang to his feet, and, amid the execrations of the porters, he hurled himself and his baggage from the moving train. Then, smiling pleasantly at the exasperated officials, he hurried from the station, jumped into a taxi, and told the man to drive to the Ardlo Magneto Works in Queen Elizabeth Street.

“Sorry to trouble you so soon again, Mr. Illingworth,” he apologised on being shown in, “but I’ve thought of a way in which that car could have been disabled at the time and place required and I want to know if it will hold water.”

“If your method covers all the factors in the case as you have described it, I should like to hear it, Mr. French.”

“Well, it’s simple enough, if it’s nothing else. I take it that if the magneto of my car goes wrong I can buy another?”

“Why of course! But I don’t follow you.”

“They are all made to a standard—interchangeable?”

Mr. Illingworth whistled.

“Gee! I’m beginning to get you! Yes, they’re all made standard. There are several models, you understand, but all the magnetos of any given model are interchangeable.”

“Good! Now tell me, what’s to prevent my man from buying a duplicate magneto, damaging the armature winding invisibly with a needle, and running it on his car till it gives up; then taking it off, carrying it as a spare, and putting it on again when he had got the car to the point of breakdown?”

“You’ve got it, Mr. French! Great, that is! I didn’t think it was possible, and there, as you say, it’s as simple as A B C.”

“Well,” said French. “Then did he?”

Illingworth looked his question and French went on:

“I’m looking to you for proof of the theory. First, do these magnetos carry a number? If so, is there a record of the number fitted to each car? If so, what was the number supplied with Mr. Berlyn’s car? Next, is that the number that came in for repair? Next, was there a magneto of that type ordered separately recently, and if so, by whom?”

“Steady on, Mr. French,” Mr. Illingworth laughed. “What do you take me for? I’m not a detective. Now let’s go over that again, one thing at a time. Magnetos carry a number, yes, and we have a note of the numbers supplied to the different car manufacturers. They can tell you the number of the magneto they put on any given car. What car are you interested in?”

“A fifteen-twenty four-seater Mercury touring car, number thirty-seven thousand and sixteen, supplied through Makepeace to a Mr. Berlyn of Ashburton.”

“Right. I’ll ring up the Mercury people now.”

Mr. Illingworth was indefatigable in his enquiries, but he was not prepared for the state of delighted enthusiasm into which his results threw French.

“That’s got it,” the latter cried, eagerly. “A long shot, but a bull’s-eye! I have to thank you for it, Mr. Illingworth, and you don’t know how grateful I am.”

The first fact was not encouraging. The magneto which had been supplied originally with Mr. Berlyn’s car was the same that had been sent in by Makepeace with the short-circuited winding. So far, therefore, the breakdown might have been genuine enough. But it was the second item which had so transported French. A precisely similar magneto had been sold as a spare about a month earlier and under circumstances which left no doubt as to the motive. It had been ordered by a Mr. Henry Armstrong, in a typewritten letter headed “The Westcliff Hotel, Bristol,” and it was to be sent to the parcels office at St. David’s Station, Exeter, marked, “To be kept till called for.” The letter was being sent over by hand, and when French received it a few minutes later he saw that it had been typed by the same machine as that ordering the duplicator.

“That’s fine, Mr. Illingworth,” he repeated in high delight. “That’s one of my major difficulties overcome. I just want you to tell me one other thing. How long would it take to change the magneto—out in the country on a dark night?”

“It’s a half-hour’s job for a skilled man. The actual lifting in and out of the machine is easy, but the setting is the trouble. The contact-breaker, as I’m sure you know, has to be set so as to give the spark at the right point in the engine cycle. That takes a bit of time.”

“I follow that. But is there no way that the adjustable parts could be set beforehand to save that time?”

“That’s right. They could be marked and everything set to the marks. That would speed things up.”

“By how much, should you say?”

“With everything marked, a man could do the whole thing in fifteen minutes.”

“Good!” said French. “I guess that’s everything at last.”

He returned to Paddington and caught the 1.30 express for Exeter. He was overjoyed at his progress. The issue was rapidly narrowing.

How rapidly it was narrowing struck him even more forcibly as he thought of a further point. The trick had been played with Berlyn’s car. Could it have been done without Berlyn’s knowledge? Could, in fact, anyone but Berlyn have carried it out? French did not think so. It was beginning to look as if the solution of the whole problem were in sight.

At Exeter he went about the package. As far as book entries were concerned, he was quickly satisfied. But no one remembered the transaction, nor could anyone recall enquiries having been made by a tallish, red-faced man with light hair and glasses.

Nothing daunted, French caught the last train from Exeter to Ashburton, full of an eager anxiety to get to grips with his remaining problems.

Chapter Eleven: John Gurney, Night Watchman

French had now reconciled the apparent contradiction in regard to one of his four test points. Obviously his next job was to clear up the other three.

As he considered on which he should first concentrate, his mind fastened on the one point which at the time had seemed not completely satisfactory—the slightly suspicious manner of Gurney, the night watchman. During the night, as he now knew, the body of Stanley Pyke had been taken to the works and put into the crate. It was impossible that this could have been done without Gurney’s knowledge. Gurney must be made to speak.

Accordingly, after breakfast next morning he set off to the man’s house. He passed out of the town on the Newton Abbot road, then turning into a lane to the left, struck up the side of the valley. Soon he reached the cottage, a tiny place with deep overhanging eaves and creeper-covered walls. In front was a scrap of well-kept garden and in the garden was the man himself.

“Good morning, Gurney,” French greeted him. “I thought you would have been in bed by now.”

“I be just going,” answered the old man. “I came out an’ begun a bit o’ weeding an’ the time ran round without my noticing.”

“That’s lucky for me,” said French, heartily. “I want a word with you. A nice place you’ve got here.”

“Not too bad, it ain’t,” the other admitted, looking about him with obvious pride. “The soil’s a bit ’eavy, but it don’t do so bad.”

“Good for your roses, surely? Those are fine ones beside the house.”

Gurney laid aside his hoe and led the way to the really magnificent bed of La Frances to which French had pointed. It was evident that these were the old man’s passion. French was not a gardener, but he knew enough to talk intelligently on the subject and his appreciation evidently went straight to the watchman’s heart. For some minutes they discussed horticulture, and then French wore gradually round to the object of his visit.

“Terrible business that about Mr. Berlyn and Mr. Pyke,” he essayed. “It must have set this town talking.”

“It didn’t ’alf, sir. Everyone was sorry for the poor gentlemen. They was well liked, they was.”

“And that was another terrible affair,” pursued French after the local tragedy had been adequately discussed, “that finding of the dead body in the crate. Extraordinary how the body could have been put in.”

“I didn’t ’ear naught about that,” Gurney answered, with a sudden increase of interest. “You don’t mean the crate you was speaking about that day you was up at the works?”

“No other. Keep it to yourself and I’ll tell you about it.” French became deeply impressive. “That crate that I was enquiring about was sent from here to Swansea. There it was called for by a man who took it on a lorry to a place called Burry Port and threw it into the sea. A fisherman chanced to hook it and it was brought ashore more than a month later. And when it was opened the dead body of a man was found inside.”

“Lord save us! I read in the noospaper about that there body being found, but it fair beats me that the crate came from ’ere, it does.”

French continued to enlarge on the tale. That Gurney’s surprise was genuine he felt certain. He could have sworn that the man had no inkling of the truth. But he marked, even more acutely than before, a hesitation or self-consciousness that indicated an uneasy mind. There was something; he felt sure of it. He glanced at the man with his shrewd, observant eyes and suddenly determined on directness.