Now that he was in London, French decided that he should complete
certain enquiries.
First he should satisfy himself that everything possible had been done
to trace the letter-writers of the Euston and St. Pancras hotels and
the purchaser of the money order for £62.10.0. Next he must visit the
manufacturers of the Ardlo magneto and get their views on
short-circuited windings. Lastly he must have an interview with Mrs.
Berlyn.
As it happened, he took the last of these items first, and three
o’clock that afternoon found him ascending the stairs of No. 70b Park
Walk, Chelsea. The house was divided into a number of what seemed
small but comfortable flats. Pretty expensive, French thought, as he
rang.
A neatly dressed maid opened the door and, after taking in his card,
announced that Mrs. Berlyn would see him. He followed her to a tiny,
but pleasantly furnished drawing room, and there in a few minutes he
was joined by the lady of the house.
French looked at her with some curiosity. Of medium height and with a
slight, graceful figure, she still gave an impression of energy and
competent efficiency. She was not beautiful, but her appearance was
arresting and French felt instinctively that she was a woman to be
reckoned with. Her manner was vivacious and French could imagine her
dancing all night and turning up next morning to breakfast as cool and
fresh and ready for anything as if she had had her accustomed eight
hours’ sleep.
“Inspector French, Scotland Yard,” she said, briskly, glancing at the
card in her hand. “Won’t you sit down, Mr. French, and tell me what I
can do for you?”
“Thank you, Mrs. Berlyn. I am sorry to say I have called on
distressing business. It may or may not concern your late husband. I
am hoping for information from you which may decide the point.”
The lady’s expression became grave.
“Suppose you give me the details,” she suggested.
“I am about to do so, but I warn you that you must prepare yourself
for a shock. It is in connection with the tragedy by which Mr. Berlyn
and Mr. Pyke were believed to have lost their lives.”
Mrs. Berlyn started and her gaze became fixed intently on French.
“It has been discovered that Mr. Pyke was not lost on the moor as was
supposed. Of Mr. Berlyn’s fate nothing new has been learnt. But I
deeply regret to inform you that Mr. Pyke was murdered.”
“Stanley Pyke murdered! Oh, impossible!” Horror showed on the lady’s
face and her lips trembled. For a moment it looked as if she would
give way to her emotion, but she controlled herself and asked for
details.
French told her exactly what had occurred, from the discovery of the
crate to Jefferson Pyke’s identification of the birthmark.
“I’m afraid it must be true,” she said, sadly, when he had finished.
“I remember that birthmark, too. We were children together, the Pykes
and I, and I have often seen it. Oh, I can’t say how sorry I am! Who
_could_ have done such a terrible thing? Stanley was so jolly and
pleasant and kind. He was good to everyone and everyone liked him. Oh,
it is too awful for words!”
French made a noncommittal reply.
“But what about my late husband?” Mrs. Berlyn went on. “You said
nothing had been learnt about him. But—if they were together——?”
She paused suddenly, as if seeing that a meaning which she had not
intended might be read into her words. But French replied, soothingly:
“That’s one of the things I wanted to talk to you about, Mrs. Berlyn.
Did you know if either he or Mr. Pyke had any enemies? You need not
fear to tell me the merest suspicions. I will act only on knowledge
that I obtain, but your suspicion might suggest where to look for that
knowledge.”
“Are you suggesting that my husband might have been murdered also?”
she said in a low voice.
“Not necessarily. I am asking if you can think of anything which could
sustain that view?”
Mrs. Berlyn could not think of anything. She did not know of anyone
who had a grudge against either of the men. Indeed, only for the
inspector’s assurance she could not have brought herself to believe
that Mr. Pyke had met so dreadful an end.
French then began pumping her in his quiet, skilful way. But though
she answered all his questions with the utmost readiness, he did not
learn much that he had not already known.
Her father, she told him, was a doctor in Lincoln and there she had
known the Pykes. Stanley’s mother—his father was dead—lived about a
mile from the town, and he and his cousin Jefferson, who boarded with
them, used to walk in daily to school. The three had met at parties
and children’s dances and had once spent a holiday together at the
seaside. The Pykes had left the town when the boys had finished their
schooling and she had lost sight of them. Then one day she had met
Stanley in London and he told her that he was at the Veda Works. She
had mentioned that she was going on a cruise to the Mediterranean and
he had said that his employer, Mr. Berlyn, was going on the same trip
and to be sure to look out for him. That was the way she had met Mr.
Berlyn. He had proposed to her on the trip and she had accepted him.
French then delicately broached the question of her relations with
Stanley Pyke. And here for the first time he was not satisfied by her
replies. That there had been something more between them than
friendship he strongly suspected. Indeed, Mrs. Berlyn practically
admitted it. As a result of French’s diplomatic probing it came out
that Mr. Berlyn had shown marked disapproval of their intimacy and
that about four months prior to the tragedy they had decided that for
the sake of peace they should see less of each other. They had carried
out this resolve and Berlyn’s resentment had apparently vanished.
French next turned to the subject of Colonel Domlio, but here Mrs.
Berlyn had as good as laughed. It appeared that the man had tried to
flirt with her, but her opinion was evidently that there was no fool
like an old fool. French had no doubt that any lovemaking that might
have taken place was not serious, on the lady’s side, at all events.
Thinking that he had obtained all the information that he was likely
to get, French at last rose to go. But Mrs. Berlyn signed to him to
sit down again and said, gravely:
“If that is all, Mr. French, I want to ask you a question. I never
think there is any use in pretending about things, and from your
questions I cannot but guess what is in your mind. You think my late
husband may have murdered Mr. Pyke?”
“I take it from that, Mrs. Berlyn, that you want a perfectly straight
answer? Well, I shall give it to you. The idea, of course, occurred to
me, as it would to anyone in my position. I am bound to investigate it
and I am going to do so. But I can say without reservation that so far
it remains an idea.”
Mrs. Berlyn bowed.
“Thank you for that. Of course I recognise that you must investigate
all possibilities, and I recognise, too, that you will not give any
weight to what I am going to say. But I must tell you that if you
suspect Mr. Berlyn you are making a mistake. Though he was not
perfect, he was utterly incapable of a crime like that—utterly. If you
had ever met him you would have known that. I wish I could say or do
something to convince you. Besides, if he were alive, why did he
disappear? If he were guilty, would he not have come forward with a
story that Mr. Pyke had gone alone across the moor and been lost in
the mires?”
French had already noted the point as the chief difficulty in his
theory, and he admitted it fully. He added that Mrs. Berlyn’s
statement had made an impression on him and that he would not fail to
bear it in mind. Then promising to let her know the result of his
enquiry, he took his leave.
He had not lied when he said her statement had impressed him. That it
represented her firm conviction he had not the least doubt. And it
certainly was a point in Berlyn’s favour that such testimony should be
forthcoming from his wife, when it was evident that their married life
had been an indifferent success. Of course it might be simply that the
woman did not wish to be involved in the misery and disgrace which
would come with proof of Berlyn’s guilt. But French did not think it
was this. Her thought had seemed to be for her husband rather than
herself.
It was still fairly early in the afternoon and French thought he would
have time to make another call. He therefore walked up the Fulham Road
and took an eastbound district train at South Kensington. Half an hour
later he was at the headquarters of the Ardlo Magneto Company in Queen
Elizabeth Street.
When the managing director heard French’s business he touched a bell.
“You had better see Mr. Illingworth, our chief electrical engineer,”
he said. “I am afraid I could not help you in these technical
matters.”
Mr. Illingworth was a pleasant young man with a quiet, efficient
manner. He took French to his office, supplied him with cigarettes,
and asked what he could do for him.
French put his problem, recounting the enquiries he had already made.
“Those people told you quite correctly,” was Mr. Illingworth’s answer.
“Your question is this: Could a man drive a car up to a certain place
and then short circuit the magneto armature so that the car couldn’t
be started again? The answer is, Yes, but not without leaving marks.”
“But that’s just my puzzle,” French returned. “That’s exactly what
seems to have been done.”
“Well,” Mr. Illingworth answered with a smile, “you may take it from
me that it wasn’t.”
“Then in the case that I have described, the breakdown must have been
a pure accident?”
“I should say, absolutely. Mind you, I don’t say that a breakdown
couldn’t be faked without leaving traces. It could be. But not so as
to stop the car then and there. The concealed injury would take time
to develop.”
“That’s a bit cryptic, isn’t it? Can you make it clearer to a lay
intelligence?”
“Well, it is possible to damage the insulation by jamming a needle
into the armature winding between the wire and the iron core, and if
you’re careful it’ll leave no mark. But it won’t disable the magneto
straight away. In fact, the car will run as usual and it may be a
considerable time before any defect shows. But sparking takes place at
the injury, perhaps at first only when the engine is working specially
hard. This causes carbonisation of the insulation, leading eventually
to complete breakdown. The car begins to misfire and it gradually
grows worse until it won’t run at all.”
“I follow you. I may take it, then, that it is possible to cause a
breakdown without leaving a mark, but that this is a comparatively
lengthy process and cannot be done at a given time.”
“That’s right.”
“Suppose the winding was short-circuited as you describe, could an
electrician afterwards tell what had been done?”
“No. It might have happened through some carelessness in the original
winding.”
“That seems pretty clear. Now, just one other point, Mr. Illingworth.
Those people, Makepeace, in Ashburton, sent the actual magneto up here
to be overhauled. Can you trace it and let me know just what was
wrong?”
“Certainly. We have records of every machine which passes through our
hands.” He consulted an index, finally withdrawing a card. “This is
it. Sent in from John Makepeace, Ashburton, on Monday, twenty-second
August. Would that date work in?”
“Yes, that’s all right.”
“We’ve not had another from Makepeace for five years previously, so it
must be,” Mr. Illingworth went on, rapidly turning over the cards.
“Well, it’s just what we were speaking of. It failed from a
short-circuit in the armature winding and it might have been caused
purposely or it might not. There was nothing to indicate.”
French rose.
“That’s good enough for me,” he declared.
He felt his brain reel as he considered the contradictory nature of
the evidence he was getting. The breakdown of the car _had_ happened,
and at a time and place which made it impossible to doubt that it had
been deliberately caused. To cause such a breakdown was mechanically
impossible. That was the dilemma which confronted him. And the further
he probed this contradiction, the more strongly he found its
conflicting details confirmed.
In a dream he returned to the Yard, and there with an effort switched
his mind off the conundrum and on to the features of his case which
had been dealt with from headquarters.
Inspector Tanner, it appeared, had handled these matters, and by a
lucky chance French found him just about to leave for home.
“I’ll walk with you,” said French. “I don’t want to delay you, and
what’s more to the point, I want to get home myself.”
Tanner was a man who liked a joke, or at least what he considered a
joke. He now chaffed French on being unable to carry on his case by
himself, and they sparred amicably for some time before coming to
business. But Tanner was also exceedingly able, and when he described
what he had done at the hotels and post office, French was satisfied
that no further information could be extracted from these sources.
All the next day, which was Sunday, the problem of the magneto
remained subconsciously in French’s mind, and when on Monday morning
he took his place in the 10.30 A.M. Limited to return to Devonshire,
he was still pondering it. In a dream he watched the bustle of
departure on the platform, the arrival of more and ever more
travellers, the appropriation of seats, the disposal of luggage. (That
armature _had_ been tampered with. It must have been, because
otherwise it would not have worked in with a prearranged crime.) Lord!
What a pile of luggage for one woman to travel with! American, he
betted. (But, it could not have been done at the time. In no way could
it have been made to fail just when it was wanted.) What price that
for a natty suit? Why, the man was a moving chessboard! What was the
connection between chessboard suits and horses? (It must have been
tampered with; but it couldn’t have been. That was the confounded
problem.) There was the guard with his green flag, looking critically
up and down and glancing first at his watch and then over his shoulder
at the platform clock. It was just twenty-nine and a half minutes
past. In another half minute. . . .
Suddenly into French’s mind flashed an idea and he sat for a moment
motionless, as with a sort of trembling eagerness he considered it.
Why, his problem was no problem at all! There was a solution of the
simplest and most obvious kind! How had he been stupid enough not to
have seen it?
As the guard waved his flag French sprang to his feet, and, amid the
execrations of the porters, he hurled himself and his baggage from the
moving train. Then, smiling pleasantly at the exasperated officials,
he hurried from the station, jumped into a taxi, and told the man to
drive to the Ardlo Magneto Works in Queen Elizabeth Street.
“Sorry to trouble you so soon again, Mr. Illingworth,” he apologised
on being shown in, “but I’ve thought of a way in which that car could
have been disabled at the time and place required and I want to know
if it will hold water.”
“If your method covers all the factors in the case as you have
described it, I should like to hear it, Mr. French.”
“Well, it’s simple enough, if it’s nothing else. I take it that if the
magneto of my car goes wrong I can buy another?”
“Why of course! But I don’t follow you.”
“They are all made to a standard—interchangeable?”
Mr. Illingworth whistled.
“Gee! I’m beginning to get you! Yes, they’re all made standard. There
are several models, you understand, but all the magnetos of any given
model are interchangeable.”
“Good! Now tell me, what’s to prevent my man from buying a duplicate
magneto, damaging the armature winding invisibly with a needle, and
running it on his car till it gives up; then taking it off, carrying
it as a spare, and putting it on again when he had got the car to the
point of breakdown?”
“You’ve got it, Mr. French! Great, that is! I didn’t think it was
possible, and there, as you say, it’s as simple as A B C.”
“Well,” said French. “Then did he?”
Illingworth looked his question and French went on:
“I’m looking to you for proof of the theory. First, do these magnetos
carry a number? If so, is there a record of the number fitted to each
car? If so, what was the number supplied with Mr. Berlyn’s car? Next,
is that the number that came in for repair? Next, was there a magneto
of that type ordered separately recently, and if so, by whom?”
“Steady on, Mr. French,” Mr. Illingworth laughed. “What do you take me
for? I’m not a detective. Now let’s go over that again, one thing at a
time. Magnetos carry a number, yes, and we have a note of the numbers
supplied to the different car manufacturers. They can tell you the
number of the magneto they put on any given car. What car are you
interested in?”
“A fifteen-twenty four-seater Mercury touring car, number thirty-seven
thousand and sixteen, supplied through Makepeace to a Mr. Berlyn of
Ashburton.”
“Right. I’ll ring up the Mercury people now.”
Mr. Illingworth was indefatigable in his enquiries, but he was not
prepared for the state of delighted enthusiasm into which his results
threw French.
“That’s got it,” the latter cried, eagerly. “A long shot, but a
bull’s-eye! I have to thank you for it, Mr. Illingworth, and you don’t
know how grateful I am.”
The first fact was not encouraging. The magneto which had been
supplied originally with Mr. Berlyn’s car was the same that had been
sent in by Makepeace with the short-circuited winding. So far,
therefore, the breakdown might have been genuine enough. But it was
the second item which had so transported French. A precisely similar
magneto had been sold as a spare about a month earlier and under
circumstances which left no doubt as to the motive. It had been
ordered by a Mr. Henry Armstrong, in a typewritten letter headed “The
Westcliff Hotel, Bristol,” and it was to be sent to the parcels office
at St. David’s Station, Exeter, marked, “To be kept till called for.”
The letter was being sent over by hand, and when French received it a
few minutes later he saw that it had been typed by the same machine as
that ordering the duplicator.
“That’s fine, Mr. Illingworth,” he repeated in high delight. “That’s
one of my major difficulties overcome. I just want you to tell me one
other thing. How long would it take to change the magneto—out in the
country on a dark night?”
“It’s a half-hour’s job for a skilled man. The actual lifting in and
out of the machine is easy, but the setting is the trouble. The
contact-breaker, as I’m sure you know, has to be set so as to give the
spark at the right point in the engine cycle. That takes a bit of
time.”
“I follow that. But is there no way that the adjustable parts could be
set beforehand to save that time?”
“That’s right. They could be marked and everything set to the marks.
That would speed things up.”
“By how much, should you say?”
“With everything marked, a man could do the whole thing in fifteen
minutes.”
“Good!” said French. “I guess that’s everything at last.”
He returned to Paddington and caught the 1.30 express for Exeter. He
was overjoyed at his progress. The issue was rapidly narrowing.
How rapidly it was narrowing struck him even more forcibly as he
thought of a further point. The trick had been played with Berlyn’s
car. Could it have been done without Berlyn’s knowledge? Could, in
fact, anyone but Berlyn have carried it out? French did not think so.
It was beginning to look as if the solution of the whole problem were
in sight.
At Exeter he went about the package. As far as book entries were
concerned, he was quickly satisfied. But no one remembered the
transaction, nor could anyone recall enquiries having been made by a
tallish, red-faced man with light hair and glasses.
Nothing daunted, French caught the last train from Exeter to
Ashburton, full of an eager anxiety to get to grips with his remaining
problems.