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.