"DEAR SIR,--You may not remember me, but you did me a good
turn once in Shanghai. Do me another now. I must have money to get
out of the country. I'm well hid here, I hope, but any day they may
get me. The Big Four, I mean. It's life or death. I've plenty of
money, but I daren't get at it, for fear of putting them wise. Send
me a couple of hundred in notes. I'll repay it faithful--I swear to
that.--Your servant, sir,
"JONATHAN WHALLEY."
"Dated from Granite Bungalow, Hoppaton, Dartmoor. I'm afraid I regarded
it as rather a crude method of relieving me of a couple of hundred
which I can ill spare. If it's any use to you--" He held it out.
"_Je vous remercie_, monsieur. I start for Hoppaton _à l'heure
même._"
"Dear me, this is very interesting. Supposing I come along too? Any
objection?"
"I should be charmed to have your company, but we must start at once.
We shall not reach Dartmoor until close on nightfall, as it is."
John Ingles did not delay us more than a couple of minutes, and soon
we were in the train moving out of Paddington bound for the West
Country. Hoppaton was a small village clustering in a hollow right on
the fringe of the moorland. It was reached by a nine-mile drive from
Moretonhamstead. It was about eight o'clock when we arrived; but as the
month was July, the daylight was still abundant.
We drove into the narrow street of the village and then stopped to ask
our way of an old rustic.
"Granite Bungalow," said the old man reflectively, "it be Granite
Bungalow you do want? Eh?"
We assured him that this was what we did want.
The old man pointed to a small gray cottage at the end of the street.
"There be t'Bungalow. Do yee want to see t'Inspector?"
"What Inspector?" asked Poirot sharply; "what do you mean?"
"Haven't yee heard about t'murder, then? A shocking business t'was
seemingly. Pools of blood, they do say."
"_Mon Dieu!_" murmured Poirot. "This Inspector of yours, I must
see him at once."
Five minutes later we were closeted with Inspector Meadows. The
Inspector was inclined to be stiff at first, but at the magic name of
Inspector Japp of Scotland Yard, he unbent.
"Yes, sir; murdered this morning. A shocking business. They 'phoned to
Moreton, and I came out at once. Looked a mysterious thing to begin
with. The old man--he was about seventy, you know, and fond of his
glass, from all I hear--was lying on the floor of the living-room.
There was a bruise on his head and his throat was cut from ear to ear.
Blood all over the place, as you can understand. The woman who cooks
for him, Betsy Andrews, she told us that her master had several little
Chinese jade figures, that he'd told her were very valuable, and these
had disappeared. That, of course, looked like assault and robbery;
but there were all sorts of difficulties in the way of that solution.
The old fellow had two people in the house; Betsy Andrews, who is a
Hoppaton woman, and a rough kind of man-servant, Robert Grant. Grant
had gone to the farm to fetch the milk, which he does every day, and
Betsy had stepped out to have a chat with a neighbour. She was only
away twenty minutes--between ten and half-past--and the crime must
have been done then. Grant returned to the house first. He went in by
the back door, which was open--no one locks up doors round here--not
in broad daylight, at all events--put the milk in the larder, and went
into his own room to read the paper and have a smoke. Had no idea
anything unusual had occurred--at least, that's what he says. Then
Betsy comes in, goes into the living-room, sees what's happened, and
lets out a screech to wake the dead. That's all fair and square. Some
one got in whilst those two were out, and did the poor old man in. But
it struck me at once that he must be a pretty cool customer. He'd have
to come right up the village street, or creep through some one's back
yard. Granite Bungalow has got houses all round it, as you can see. How
was it that no one had seen him?"
The Inspector paused with a flourish.
"Aha, I perceive your point," said Poirot. "To continue?"
"Well, sir, fishy, I said to myself--fishy. And I began to look about
me. Those jade figures, now. Would a common tramp ever suspect that
they were valuable? Anyway, it was madness to try such a thing in
broad daylight. Suppose the old man had yelled for help?"
"I suppose, Inspector," said Mr. Ingles, "that the bruise on the head
was inflicted before death?"
"Quite right, sir. First knocked him silly, the murderer did, and then
cut his throat. That's clear enough. But how the dickens did he come
or go? They notice strangers quick enough in a little place like this.
It came to me all at once--nobody did come. I took a good look round.
It had rained the night before, and there were footprints clear enough
going in and out of the kitchen. In the living-room there were two sets
of footprints only (Betsy Andrews' stopped at the door)---Mr. Whalley's
(he was wearing carpet slippers) and another man's. The other man had
stepped in the blood-stains, and I traced his bloody footprints--I beg
your pardon, sir."
"Not at all," said Mr. Ingles, with a faint smile; "the adjective is
perfectly understood."
"I traced them to the kitchen--but not beyond. Point Number One. On
the lintel of Robert Grant's door was a faint smear--a smear of blood.
That's point Number Two. Point Number Three was when I got hold of
Grant's boots--which he had taken off--and fitted them to the marks.
That settled it. It was an inside job. I warned Grant and took him into
custody; and what do you think I found packed away in his portmanteau?
The little jade figures and a ticket-of-leave. Robert Grant was also
Abraham Biggs, convicted for felony and housebreaking five years ago."
The Inspector paused triumphantly.
"What do you think of that, gentlemen?"
"I think," said Poirot, "that it appears a very clear case--of a
surprising clearness, in fact. This Biggs, or Grant, he must be a man
very foolish and uneducated, eh?"
"Oh, he is that--a rough, common sort of fellow. No idea of what a
footprint may mean."
"Clearly he reads not the detective fiction! Well, Inspector, I
congratulate you. We may look at the scene of the crime. Yes?"
"I'll take you there myself this minute. I'd like you to see those
footprints."
"I, too, should like to see them. Yes, yes, very interesting, very
ingenious."
We set out forthwith. Mr. Ingles and the Inspector forged ahead. I
drew Poirot back a little so as to be able to speak to him out of the
Inspector's hearing.
"What do you really think, Poirot. Is there more in this than meets the
eye?"
"That is just the question, _mon ami_. Whalley says plainly enough
in his letter that the Big Four are on his track, and we know, you
and I, that the Big Four is no bogey for the children. Yet everything
seems to say that this man Grant committed the crime. Why did he do so?
For the sake of the little jade figures? Or is he an agent of the Big
Four? I confess that this last seems more likely. However valuable the
jade, a man of that class was not likely to realise the fact--at any
rate, not to the point of committing murder for them. (That, _par
exemple_, ought to have struck the Inspector.) He could have stolen
the jade and made off with it instead of committing a brutal and quite
purposeless murder. Ah, yes; I fear our Devonshire friend has not used
his little gray cells. He has measured footprints, and has omitted to
reflect and arrange his ideas with the necessary order and method."