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.