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:
Tavistock depart 10.50 P. M.
A fast daylight run had taken 63 minutes—for night
say 70. Add for actual murder 5 minutes.
Then
Veda Works arrive 12.05 A. M.
Open gates and get car placed under differential, 12.10 A. M.
close gates
Square watchman and lift out body 12.25 〃
Open crate carefully so as not to damage lid 12.30 〃
Lift out duplicator and place it in car 12.40 〃
Take outer clothes off body 12.50 〃
Place body in crate 1.00 〃
Make good the lid of crate 1.05 〃
Take car out of works and lock gates 1.10 〃
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.