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.