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.