A Stern Chase
When the 10.30 a.m. Riviera express pulled out of Paddington next
morning, Inspector Tanner was occupying a corner seat in one of its
first-class compartments. In his pocket was a warrant for the arrest
of William Douglas, in case his investigations should indicate that
such a step was desirable. He had determined that if his victim could
not account satisfactorily for his actions on the night of the murder,
or if his boots fitted the marks on the Cranshaw River bank, no other
course would be possible.
Once again the Inspector was favoured with magnificent weather for his
country ramble. Indeed, like the previous days, it was too hot, and as
the train slipped swiftly through the sun-baked country, he moved into
the corridor so as to make the most of the draught from the open
windows. Each time that he had made this journey in the past he had
enjoyed it, especially the portion between Exeter and Newton
Abbott—down the estuary of the Exe, past Dawlish and Teignmouth with
their queer spiky, red rocks, and precipitous little cliffs running
out into the blue sea, then farther on inland again through the hilly,
wooded country of South Devon, where one caught unexpected glimpses of
tiny, nestling villages, and of narrow lanes, winding mysteriously,
between mossy, flower-spangled banks under the cool shade of
overhanging trees.
He reached Plymouth—the first stop since leaving Paddington—shortly
before three. Changing at North Road, he boarded a branch line train
after a short wait. A run of a few minutes brought him to Yelverton.
Here he alighted, and when the Launceston and Princetown trains had
rumbled off, he accosted the stationmaster.
‘I am looking for a Mr William Douglas of Myrtle Cottage,’ he said.
‘Can you tell me where that is?’
The stationmaster could. Myrtle Cottage, it appeared, was half a mile
away on the road to Dousland, and Tanner, having received directions
as to his route, set off to walk.
The house was small and surrounded by trees, through which the gables
showed picturesquely. It was set back some little distance from the
road, a path leading through a not very well kept flower garden to the
door. Mr Douglas was evidently an apiarist, for a row of wooden hives
lined each side of the path, and the hum of the insects was audible
even from the road. Along the side of the garden, and passing close to
the gable of the house ran a lane, from which a large gate led to a
yard in the rear. This gate, Tanner noticed, was standing open.
He walked up the path and knocked at the green-painted door. For some
time there was no response, but after a second and more peremptory
summons he heard footsteps approaching. The door was opened by a small
man with grey hair and a beard trimmed short.
‘Got him first shot,’ thought Tanner, as he politely asked for Mr
William Douglas.
The man threw the door open.
‘Walk in, sir,’ he said. ‘My brother is upstairs. I’ll call him.’
‘Your brother?’ asked Tanner sharply, as he followed his guide to a
rather poorly furnished sitting room.
‘Yes. I’m John. I’ve lived here for some years, but William is just
back from America.’
Tanner nodded. He recollected the hotel porter had stated that William
Douglas had spoken with an American accent, whereas this man clearly
hailed from the north of England. Besides, the beard was different.
The porter had mentioned a goatee, but the speaker’s was cut to a tiny
point.
‘Sit down, sir,’ said the man civilly. ‘I’ll send my brother down.’
He indicated a chair opposite the door, and Tanner took it. From where
he sat he could see the foot of the staircase, and he watched John
walk to it and leisurely ascend. Presently he heard him call
‘William!’
A nasal voice answered, but the Inspector could not hear the words.
John’s voice, now more distant, mumbled something in reply, and there
was a word, apparently of assent, from the other.
Tanner glanced round the room. Beside the easy chair in which he
sat—leather lined, and very old and worn—there was not much that made
for comfort. A deck chair stood with its back to one of the rather
small windows. In front of the other window was a table on which lay a
number of books, mostly dealing with bee keeping. The floor was
covered by a carpet, the worn, threadbare condition of which was
brought out pitilessly by the rays of the sun which struck obliquely
across it. Tanner got up and began to poke about, but without taking
his eye off the bottom of the stairs. William, it was evident, was in
no hurry to come down.
Suddenly there came faintly the purr of a motor engine, and in a few
seconds the sounds indicated that a car had started at no great
distance away. It grew louder, and Tanner moved to the window. The
sitting-room was in the gable beside the lane, and as the Inspector
looked out he saw a small two-seater with one occupant pass out
towards the road. But this occupant was a small man, and though his
collar was turned up and his cap pulled down over his eyes, Tanner
could see he had a grey beard.
He stood for a moment wondering how John had got downstairs without
having been seen. Then, as the house seemed strangely quiet, an idea
flashed into his mind, and he ran to the stairs and called, ‘Anyone
there?’ There was no answer, and with a sudden feeling of foreboding,
he raced up. Three rooms opened off a short landing, and the doors
being open, he glanced into each in turn. They were all empty!
A casement window on the landing was open, and as Tanner looked out,
he saw what had been done. About three feet below the sill was the
roof of a low shed. Nothing could be easier than to step out of the
window on to the roof, and drop to the ground. The open door of the
outhouse to which led many wheel tracks showed where the motor had
been kept.
Tanner swore savagely. Never before had he been so completely and so
easily duped. It was now evident to him that William Douglas had
recognised him approaching the house, and had invented a brother to
enable him to hold the Inspector’s attention while he bolted. And he
had played his cards skilfully! Ruefully the Inspector had to admire
the trick, though he surmised it had been worked out beforehand in
view of just such an emergency.
‘He’ll not get far,’ the angry man growled, as he prepared to follow.
But, thinking a moment or two would now make little difference, he
turned his steps instead to the kitchen. There on a shelf, as he had
expected, were three or four pairs of boots. Drawing from his pocket a
tracing of the marks on the Cranshaw River bank, he eagerly compared
it with the soles. Those of the first pair he took up corresponded!
Here was proof, if proof were required. William Douglas had been at
the Luce Manor boathouse on the night of the murder!
Seizing a small handbag he had noticed in the sitting room, the
Inspector packed the boots, then, after closing the windows, and
locking the yard gates and the house doors, he hurried back along the
road towards Yelverton. Inquiring for the local telephone call office,
he rang up the Plymouth police authorities, describing, so far as he
was able, the man and the car, and asking them to have a ring formed
round the locality. Hastening on to the Yelverton police station, he
told the sergeant what had occurred, and handing him the keys of the
cottage, instructed him to take charge, and to make a thorough search
of the premises.
He learned that a train left for Plymouth in a few minutes, and
travelling by it, he soon reached the police headquarters of that
city. Here he was met by a superintendent, and the two men discussed
the affair in detail.
‘I have done, I think, everything possible,’ the Superintendent
concluded. ‘All the stations at a radius of about twenty miles or more
have been advised, and the roads will be watched from Looe and
Liskeard round by Launceston, Okehampton, and Moreton Hamstead, to
Newton Abbott. All trains and steamers, as far as possible, will be
examined before departure, and the railway people at the smaller
stations will be advised. I don’t think he’ll make for Cornwall, you
know. It’s too much of a dead end. He will either go east in his car,
or come to Plymouth and try the trains, or even more likely, the
steamers.’
‘That is my own view,’ Tanner returned. ‘I suppose there’s nothing to
be done now but wait for information?’
‘I think we’ll hear something before long. If you haven’t had a meal,
I should get it while you have the chance. The Dartmoor Arms, a few
doors away, is quite good, and I’ll send for you if there is news.’
As this seemed sound advice, Tanner followed it. But he had not
finished his hastily served dinner when he was sent for. News had come
in.
‘I have a wire from the Tavistock men,’ the Superintendent explained.
‘A car answering your description has just been found abandoned in a
lane about quarter of a mile on the Yelverton side of Tavistock.
Evidently your man wouldn’t risk taking it through the town.’
‘Then he must be there himself.’
‘Unless he got away by rail. What time did you say he left Yelverton?’
‘About quarter-past four, or slightly later.’
‘From Yelverton to Tavistock is not more than about five miles. He
would do it easily in fifteen minutes. Say he would reach Tavistock
between half past four and quarter to five.’ The Superintendent picked
up a Bradshaw. ‘Here we are. By the Great Western there’s a 5.27 for
Plymouth and a 6.02 for Launceston. Now for the South-Western. There’s
a 5.22, and a 7.50 for Exeter. He’s gone either by that 5.27 to
Plymouth or the 5.22 to Exeter, and I should say the latter.’
‘It seems likely. Would your men have reached the stations before
those trains left?’
The Superintendent shook his head.
‘It’s just possible,’ he answered, ‘but I hardly think so. Your phone
was received at’—he referred to a paper—‘4.42. Orders were issued
immediately, but considering telegraphic delays, they were probably
not received at Tavistock till five or slightly after. The men would
then have to be collected and instructed. They might have seen those
trains out, but it’s unlikely.’
‘Well, I’ll go on to Tavistock now anyway,’ Tanner decided. ‘I presume
you will have those trains searched?’
‘Of course. I issued a new set of orders immediately. Both trains will
be carefully examined, and the country all about Tavistock will be
scoured. We are well accustomed to that,’ the Superintendent added
with a grim smile.
‘The Princetown convicts? I suppose you are,’ answered Tanner, as with
a brief word of farewell he withdrew.
There being no train by either line for some little time, Tanner took
a car. As they climbed the long, slow incline to Yelverton, out of the
relaxing, enervating Plymouth air, he felt himself growing fresher and
more energetic. He was grimly determined not to rest till he had laid
his hands on the man who had duped him. From merely professional, the
matter had become personal. Tanner’s pride was involved. No one, he
swore, should play him such a trick and get off with it.
They slipped quietly through the fifteen or sixteen miles of
charmingly wooded country, dropping into Tavistock as the shadows
began to lengthen across the road. The sergeant had been advised of
Tanner’s arrival, and was expecting him. Together they ran back and
examined the abandoned car. Though they found nothing directly
helpful, Tanner felt sure it was the one he had seen from the sitting
room at Myrtle Cottage.
He turned to his companion.
‘Did you hear about this in time to examine the Plymouth and Exeter
trains at 5.27 and 5.22?’ he asked.
The other shook his head.
‘No, sir, I’m sorry to say we did not. But I have since made
inquiries. No one with a grey beard was seen at either station. At the
Great Western Station four persons booked, all third single to
Plymouth, but the clerk remembers one of these was a young sailor and
the others women. At the South-Western Station two tickets were issued
to Exeter, one a first to Major Reading, who lives here, the other a
third single to a little, elderly, clean-shaven man. Our men were
there within ten minutes of the train’s departure, so that’s how the
clerks remembered—between that and there being so few bookings.’
‘A small, elderly, clean-shaven man, sergeant? Let us go round the
Tavistock barbers.’
The sergeant looked up sharply.
‘By Jove! sir, a likely enough ruse,’ he cried. ‘It won’t take long to
find out—there are only three.’
They ran back to the little town, and at the first barber’s learned
that a small, elderly man with a short grey beard and moustache had
called at a few minutes before five, and had had his beard and
moustache shaved off.
‘Now to the telegraph office. We’ll have him before long.’
The Inspector sent messages to Plymouth, to Exeter, and to some of the
principal stations beyond, explaining that the bearded man of the
previous wires had had himself shaved. Then he looked at his watch.
‘Quarter to eight. Can I catch the 7.50? Phone to hold it while I run
across.’
He jumped into the car and drove to the South-Western Station. There
he caught the train for Exeter with a minute to spare.
He leaned back in the corner of a first-class compartment, and slowly
drew out and lit a cigar, while he turned over in his mind the next
step to be taken. He thought that at all events he should go on to
Exeter. The 5.22 from Tavistock, by which Douglas had travelled,
reached that city before his wire about the shaving had been sent out.
Therefore it was hardly likely that the man would have been detained
en route. Tanner, of course, recognised that a freshly shaven chin was
unmistakable, but he did not think a village constable would have the
sharpness to deduce what Douglas might have done, and act accordingly.
But from Exeter in what direction would the quarry head?
There seemed two possibilities. Probably he would try either to reach
London, or to get abroad. London, as Tanner knew, was perhaps the
safest place in the world for a criminal to lie hidden. But many
ill-doers had an overwhelming desire to put as great a distance as
possible between themselves and the scene of their misdeeds. If
Douglas were of this class he would try to get out of the country, and
if, as the hotel porter had stated, he spoke like an American, would
he not be likely to try to reach the country in which he might most
easily pass for a native? There was, of course, no means of knowing,
but at least it was clear that the approaches to London as well as the
ports should be closely watched.
In any case, whatever the fugitive’s goal, he would be almost certain
to pass through Exeter. It was true he could double back to Plymouth,
but the probabilities were he would keep away from the district in
which he was known. As Tanner’s train ran into St David’s Station,
Exeter, he felt sure his victim was not far before him.
A tall efficient looking sergeant of police was waiting on the
platform. This man, sharply scrutinising the alighting travellers,
promptly fixed on Tanner.
‘Inspector Tanner, sir?’ he questioned, and as the other nodded,
continued, ‘they phoned us from Plymouth you were coming through on
this train. We have inquiries in hand both here and at Queen Street,
the other station. So far we have heard nothing of your man.’
‘What exactly are you doing?’
‘We have a man at each station working the staffs—booking-clerks,
ticket collectors, porters, refreshment rooms—the usual thing. Another
man is going round the hotels, another the restaurants open at that
hour, and another the garages, in case he might have gone on by car.
Is there any other line you would wish taken up?’
‘Why no, sergeant. I think you have covered all the ground. Have you
advised your men that the fellow got shaved?’
‘Some of them, sir; some of them we couldn’t get hold of. We advise
them as we can get in touch with them.’
Tanner nodded again.
‘Well, we had better go to headquarters and wait for news.’
For a considerable time Tanner remained, chafing and impatient, until,
just as eleven was booming from the town clocks, a constable appeared
accompanied by a tall, fair-haired young man in a leather coat and
breeches, and a peaked cap. The latter explained that he was a taxi
owner, driving his own vehicle, and he believed he knew something that
might be of value.
It appeared that he had been at St David’s Station when Douglas’s
train had come in. He was engaged by a small, elderly, clean-shaven
man with grey hair, dressed in a tweed overcoat and a cloth cap. The
man seemed nervous and excited, and told him to drive to any
ready-made clothes store which would be open at that hour. He took him
to a shop in the poorer part of the town. The man went in, returning
in a few minutes dressed in a soft, grey felt hat and a khaki coloured
waterproof, and carrying a bundle. He re-entered the taxi and told the
driver ‘Queen Street Station as quick as you can.’ He drove there, and
the man paid him and hurried into the station, and that was all he
knew.
‘What time did you reach Queen Street?’ asked Tanner.
‘Going on to half-past seven.’
‘We’d better go to Queen Street and find out what trains leave about
that hour.’
Their visitor’s car was waiting outside, and engaging it, they drove
rapidly off.
For those who do not know Exeter, it may be explained that the Great
Western and London and South-Western Railways, both running from
London to Plymouth, form a gigantic figure 8, the centre where the
lines cross being St David’s Station, Exeter. In the same town, but a
mile nearer London on the South-Western, is Queen Street Station.
While therefore St David’s is joint between the two Companies, Queen
Street is South-Western only, and these facts seemed to indicate to
Tanner the probability that Douglas was going for a South-Western
train bound Londonwards.
A glance at the time table at Queen Street supported this view. A
train left for London at 7.32.
‘Your constable saw the booking-clerk, I suppose?’ Tanner asked.
‘Yes, sir. But of course he gave the wrong description. He did not
know the man had changed his cap and coat.’
‘That’s true,’ Tanner assented. ‘We had better see him again.’
The booking office was closed and the clerk had gone home. With
considerable difficulty they obtained his address from a watchman.
Then stepping into their waiting taxi, they were driven to it.
The house was in darkness, but their third thunderous knock produced a
sleepy and indignant householder. Tanner, who was a past-master in the
art, soothed his ruffled feelings, and he brought them in and civilly
asked their business.
‘You have been troubled about this before, I’m afraid,’ the Inspector
began. ‘I shall explain the affair in a word and you’ll see its
importance. A murder has been committed, and we have traced the
suspected man to Queen Street Station. He drove up in a great hurry
just before half-past seven this evening, and we imagine he must have
travelled by the 7.32. Now you will see why we want your help. If you
can recall the man and recollect where he booked to, it would be of
material assistance to us.’
‘A clean-shaven man in a brownish cap and coat?’ the clerk replied.
‘But I have already answered that. I saw no one so dressed.’
‘We have just discovered that he had bought a waterproof and a grey
felt hat. Can you recall him now?’
The clerk made a sudden gesture.
‘Why yes, I can,’ he cried excitedly, ‘I remarked him because he was
in such a fuss, and I told him he was time enough. I should have
thought of it when the constable asked me, but the description put me
off.’
‘Quite naturally,’ Tanner assured him smoothly, ‘but now if you can
tell us where he booked to, you’ll do us a very great service.’
‘I can do so. His excitement drew my attention to him. He took a third
single to Southampton.’
‘Southampton! Just as I expected,’ exclaimed Tanner. ‘Making for the
ships!’
The other nodded and Tanner went on:
‘Where would he get to from there? Would he catch the night boat for
Havre?’
‘No,’ answered the clerk as he fetched a time table and rapidly turned
over the leaves. ‘The 7.32 gets to Salisbury at 10.52, and there’s a
train on to Southampton Town at 11.00. It doesn’t go to the Harbour.
But the connection at Eastleigh is bad, and you don’t get to
Southampton till 12.30. The Havre boat leaves at 11.30.’
‘And what time do you get to Eastleigh?’
‘11.37.’
‘And from there to Southampton is how far?’
‘About seven miles to the docks.’
‘So that if he had taken a motor at Eastleigh he could have been there
by midnight?’
‘Yes, I should say about that.’
Tanner looked at his watch. It was five minutes to twelve. In from
five to thirty-five minutes Douglas would probably reach Southampton.
Would there be time to intercept him there?
Hastily thanking the clerk, the two men jumped once more into their
taxi and drove to the police station. There the Inspector hurried to
the telephone to call up the Southampton police. But there was a delay
in getting through. For thirty minutes he fumed and fretted. Then at
half-past twelve he got his connection.
‘I’m afraid the train will be in,’ replied the distant voice, ‘but if
it’s late we’ll get your man if he’s on it. If we miss him there,
we’ll go on to the Docks. There’s a Union Castle liner due out at five
o’clock. He may be going for that. What about the warrant?’
‘Hold on a minute,’ said Tanner, then turning to the sergeant, he
spoke rapidly:
‘A liner leaves Southampton at five for South Africa. Can I get there
with a good car? There are no trains, of course?’
‘None, sir. It’s about a hundred miles and you should do thirty miles
an hour—say three and a half hours. If you left here at 1.00, you
should be there by 4.30.’
‘I’ll do that.’ Then turning back to the telephone: ‘I’m leaving here
now by road for Southampton. You may expect me at the Union Castle
berth about 4.30. I’ll have the warrant.’
The taxi-driver they had been employing being unfamiliar with the
surrounding country, they drove to the nearest garage and after some
difficulty succeeded in knocking up a sleepy manager and hiring a
powerful car and a man who knew the road, at least as far as
Salisbury. But there were delays in getting away, and though the
manager did his best, it was nearly half-past one when the big vehicle
swung out of Exeter, eastward bound.
The night was fine but dark. As they purred swiftly along the smooth
road, Tanner lay back on the comfortable cushions and let the cool air
blow in on his heated forehead, while he took stock of the position.
He was perfectly aware that he might be on a wild-goose chase. The
taking of the ticket to Southampton might have been a blind, and
Douglas might not have done the obvious thing in making a bolt to the
most convenient port. After the ruse the man had employed at Myrtle
Cottage, Tanner felt he would not do the obvious thing unless he was
impelled to it by some strong consideration. But such a consideration
existed. There was the element of time. The man would realise that on
such a journey he must inevitably be traced, but he would hardly
imagine he could be traced in time. Before his pursuers could reach
Southampton he would count on having been able to adopt a new
personality, and put hundreds of miles of sea between himself and
them. The more Tanner thought over this possibility, the more likely
it seemed. If he were in Douglas’s position it was the view he himself
would have taken.
They were running well. Tanner watched the whirling hedges, lit up by
the strong headlights, and blurred by the speed into quivering
smudges, and judged they must be doing well on to forty miles an hour.
It was, of course, breaking the law; moreover, it was by no means
safe, but Tanner did not let such considerations weigh against the
chance of checkmating the man who had duped him. He had informed the
chauffeur he would be responsible if there was trouble.
He fell to reckoning distances. He was not very well up in the
geography of the district, but he knew there were two roads, north
through Yeovil and Salisbury, and south through Dorchester and Poole.
He imagined neither of these was quite direct, but he did not know if
there was a good road lying between them.
In about half an hour they slackened for a town, after which the road
rose for some miles. Then in half an hour more it fell again and they
ran through another town, whose name appeared on several
buildings—Chard. ‘The Salisbury Road,’ thought Tanner. Forty minutes
later they left Yeovil behind and at 4.10, nearly three hours after
leaving Exeter, they turned out of Salisbury on the Southampton road.
‘Not bad going,’ thought Tanner. ‘If we can keep it up we should be at
the boat at twenty to five.’
But alas! the driver’s knowledge of the road which had served them so
well up to Salisbury, now failed them. They had to reduce speed at
cross roads and run more cautiously. Fortunately, it was now fairly
light, or their progress would have been still slower.
Tanner, was getting nervous. It was going to be a near thing. He held
his watch in his hand and counted the mile-posts as one after another
they dropped behind. Now it was half-past four, and still they had
nine miles to go.
At last they came to the town. But here matters instead of mending,
grew much worse. Neither Tanner nor the driver knew the streets, and
precious minutes were wasted trying to puzzle out the way from the
rather inferior map the latter had brought.
Quarter to five. Tanner was in desperation. And then to his relief his
eye fell on a policeman. It was the work of a moment to call him over,
explain the situation, and get him up beside the driver. Then their
troubles were over. The streets were empty and they made fine speed.
It wanted ten minutes to five as the car pulled up at the docks, and
Tanner leaped out and raced to the berth of the great liner. A man
whom he instantly recognised as a policeman in plain clothes stood
near the bottom of each gangway, while a third was sauntering along
the edge of the wharf beside the boat. Tanner spoke hurriedly to the
latter.
‘He’s not on board, sir,’ the man answered. ‘We were here before he
could have got down from the Town Station, and besides we made
inquiries.’
‘The other side of the ship?’ queried the Inspector.
‘We have a man rowing up and down.’
Tanner grunted.
‘Who’s in charge?’ he asked.
‘Sergeant Holmes. He went to phone the station. He’ll be back
directly.’
Tanner was woefully disappointed. He felt that if Douglas was not
already aboard he would never risk it now. Had the man, he wondered,
been sharper than he had counted on, and once again given him the
slip? Fortunately, he had taken the obvious precaution of wiring all
the stations at which the 7.32 stopped, so that, even if Douglas had
alighted elsewhere, he would almost certainly be spotted. But had
Douglas travelled by the 7.32 at all? Was his haste with the taxi and
his purchase of the ticket another trick, and was he lying low in
Exeter, intending still further to alter his appearance and make a
bolt elsewhere? Or was he walking all night with the object of joining
a train at some quite different station in the morning? Tanner could
not guess.
Three minutes only remained and Tanner grew more and more anxious. It
was now or never. Then, as the gangways were being hoisted, a sergeant
of police appeared and went up to one of the plain clothes men. Tanner
hurried forward.
‘Mr Tanner, sir?’ said the sergeant. ‘I’m very sorry, sir, but you’re
late.’
‘Late?’ Tanner cried sharply. ‘What do you mean, sergeant? There’s
plenty of time to go on board still.’
The sergeant shook his head.
‘He’s not there, sir. He’s gone. I’ve just learnt that he left by the
_Vaal River_. She sailed at four o’clock.’
‘Damnation!’ cried Tanner angrily. ‘What were you thinking about,
sergeant? How in hell did you let him slip through your fingers?’
‘The man I sent down, sir, missed him. I can’t imagine how he did it,
but you’ll hear what he has to say yourself. After I had all—’
‘I’ll see him,’ said Tanner grimly. ‘How did you find it out?’
‘I posted the men, sir, first, then I went round them myself. I got to
the _Vaal River_’s berth as she was sheering out. I made inquiries at
the office. There is no doubt the man booked.’
‘Where to?’
‘Tangier, sir.’
‘H’m—Morocco, and there’s no extradition from there. Where else does
the boat call?’
‘Lisbon, Marseilles, Naples, Suez, Delagoa Bay and Durban.’
‘I’ll get him at Lisbon. Show me the office.’
They hurried down to the East Africa Line Quay office. There Tanner
interviewed the booking clerk and satisfied himself that Douglas
really had sailed. He had booked under the name of Walter Donnell.
‘Lisbon is the first call?’ asked the Inspector.
‘Yes. She’s due there about six on Thursday morning.’
‘And this is Tuesday. That’s about a fifty hour run?’
‘About that.’
‘I must get there before her. How am I to do it?’
The clerk stared.
‘I’m afraid you can’t,’ he answered slowly. ‘She’s not a specially
fast boat, but there’s no other leaving soon enough to pass her.’
‘Overland?’
‘No. There’s not time. If you had caught the Havre boat last night you
could have done it. You can’t now.’
‘Let me see the time table.’
The clerk produced a Continental Bradshaw.
‘Here you are,’ he said, turning to the ‘Through Routes’ on page 6.
‘You see there are two trains a day from Paris to Lisbon. One, the
ordinary, leaves Paris at 10.22 at night. It gets to Lisbon at 12.33
two nights later—that is, about a fifty hours’ run. That’s out of the
question, and you’ll see the other is too. It’s a special fast train,
the Sud Express, and it leaves Paris at 12.17 midday, and reaches
Lisbon at 10.50 the following evening—that is thirty-four hours and a
half. Now if you could catch that train today you’d be all right. But
you couldn’t. Even if you could catch the 8.00 a.m. from Victoria,
which you couldn’t. That would only bring you into Paris at 5.29—five
hours late.’
‘How long does your boat lie at Lisbon?’
‘About four hours. She’s due away about ten on Thursday morning.’
Tanner felt he was up against it. So far as he could see it was
impossible for him to reach Lisbon before 10.50 on the Thursday night,
and by that time the man he wanted would already have left some twelve
hours. And if he missed him at Lisbon, he would miss him for good. He
could never get him once he was ashore at Tangier. Nor was it any more
possible for another officer from the Yard to go in his place.
Of course, there were the Portuguese police. Tanner had never been in
Portugal, and knew nothing whatever about its police, but he had the
not uncommon insular distrust of foreign efficiency. As he put it to
himself, he would rather rely on himself any day than trust to any of
these foreign chaps. But there seemed no other way.
Absently thanking the clerk, he walked with the sergeant back to his
car and drove to the police station. As he dismounted an idea shot
suddenly into his mind.
‘Get the car ready for another run,’ he shouted and hurrying to the
telephone, put through a call to Scotland Yard.
‘Yes, I’m Tanner,’ he said, when the connection was made. ‘The Ponson
Case. That man Douglas I’m after got away on the _Vaal River_. Sailed
from Southampton at four this morning. First call Lisbon. I must be
there to meet him. It can only be done if I leave Paris at 12.17
today. None of the ordinary services would get me over in time. Can
you arrange with the Air people to give me a plane?’
He was told to wait, and at six o’clock the reply came.
‘The Deputy Chief has arranged for a fast plane to leave the drome
near Petersfield as soon as possible. Get there at once and report to
Major Forbes. Call at Hendon and we shall have French and Portuguese
money for you, as well as the extradition warrant.’
Tanner was not long in reaching Petersfield, but there was a delay at
the aerodrome, and he chafed impatiently as the precious minutes
slipped away. It was not indeed till a little after seven that the
actual start was made. The morning was clear at first, and they made
good speed to Hendon, alighting and picking up the money and papers.
But as they reached the coast they ran into a haze, which soon
developed into a thick fog. The pilot did his best, going straight on
by dead reckoning, but when in another hour they got through it, they
found they had gone a good deal out of their course in a northerly
direction. Tanner swore bitterly, for he found his margin of time was
growing less and less. Finally they picked up the main line of the
Northern Railway, and following it fairly closely, at last saw
creeping up over the horizon the buildings of the capital.
‘Down in ten minutes,’ the pilot roared, and Tanner nodded as he
looked his watch.
It was eleven minutes to twelve, and the Inspector recognised he would
have to run for it. Soon they were above Argenteuil and crossing the
great loops of the Seine, with St Cloud on the right and the vast city
stretching away to the left. Now they were planing rapidly down, till
with a gentle shock they alighted at the edge of the flying ground at
Issy. Tanner leaped out and ran to the entrance as fast as the
stiffness of his legs would allow. As he did so twelve sounded from
the clock towers. He had seventeen minutes, the Gare Quai d’Orsay was
two miles away, and there were no taxis within sight.
There was but one thing to do and Tanner did it. Some private cars
were drawn up on the road just outside the flying ground. Tanner ran
his eye hastily over them and selected one, a racing car from which a
sporting looking man was just descending. The detective hailed him.
‘Sir,’ he panted, ‘I have crossed by aeroplane from England to catch
the 12.17 at the Gare Quai d’Orsay, and now I can’t get a taxi. If you
would run me till we meet a taxi, I just couldn’t say how grateful I’d
be.’
The man looked puzzled.
‘I not speak Engleesh,’ he said slowly, then adding interrogatively,
‘You weesh—aller, aller—go—á la Gare Quai d’Orsay?’
Tanner nodded emphatically, and taking out his watch, ran his finger
from the minute hand, which was now standing at five minutes past the
hour, to seventeen minutes past. The man threw up his left hand to
signify comprehension.
‘Ah, oui,’ he answered. ‘Bon. Montez vite, monsieur. Chomp een.’
Tanner had obeyed the gesture before the man finished speaking, and
the powerful car, swinging round, shot rapidly eastwards along the
quais.
‘Where you—allez—go?’ jerked out the man as they tore along. Tanner
understood.
‘Lisbon,’ he called.
‘Ah, Lisbonne. Oui,’ the man nodded.
Suddenly they came to a great building—Tanner did not know his
Paris—and the car stopped abruptly. The man jumped out followed by his
passenger. As they ran into the concourse of the huge Quai d’Orsay
Station, the hands of the clock pointed to fifteen minutes past
twelve. Two minutes to get the ticket! Without his new friend Tanner
would have been utterly lost. The taking of a ticket seemed a
complicated and interminable affair. But at last it was accomplished,
and Tanner raced for the bridge across the low level tracks. But just
before he reached the inclined plane descending to the platform, the
ticket examiner slammed the gate. There was a voluble outcry from the
sporting man, but for answer the official shrugged his shoulders and
pointed to the roofs of the carriages. The train was already moving.
Once again Tanner swore bitterly, as he gazed at the disappearing
vehicles. But his friend gave him no time for self-commiseration.
‘Vite! Vite!’ he cried, signing to the other to follow him, and
rushing once more out of the station.
They threw themselves into the car, which started off at a furious
pace eastwards. Then Tanner recollected that the terminus of the
Paris-Orleans line had formerly been the Gare d’Austerlitz farther up
the river, the Gare Quai d’Orsay being a new station at the end of a
recently made extension. All trains, he farther remembered having
read, stopped at the Gare d’Austerlitz to enable the electric engine
which worked through the extension tunnel to be replaced by a steam
locomotive. Evidently his friend thought he could overtake the train
at the Austerlitz Station.
And he did—just. After wringing the hand of the man who had taken so
much trouble to help him, he dashed to the platform and climbed into a
carriage as the train began to move.
‘Lord!’ he said to himself as he wiped his forehead, ‘only for that
old sport I’d have missed it.’
Then began a long tedious journey. Though the train was rapid and
luxurious, Tanner was pretty sick of it before he reached his
destination. There was a restaurant car forward, and as they raced
across the sunny country south of Paris, the Inspector did full
justice to an excellent lunch.
After a time he grew wearied by the monotony of the flat lands, but
the scenery became more interesting as they crossed the hills between
Poitiers and Angoulême. Bordeaux was passed about seven o’clock, and
as darkness fell they were traversing the dreary, desolate, sandy
wastes and pine forests of Les Landes.
They reached Irun just before midnight, changing there into the
broad-gauge carriages of Spain, and waiting for customs examination.
The moon rose as they passed through the rocky country north of
Burgos, and it was daylight when they reached the latter town. Then on
again through Valladolid to Medina, where the Madrid portion of the
train branched off; through Salamanca of legendary fame, but now, for
Spain, a considerable railway centre, then into Portugal, where the
train hurtled along at considerably over thirty miles an hour.
Finally, with brakes grinding, they descended the steep incline
tunnelled beneath one of the seven hills on which Lisbon is built, and
pulled up, twenty minutes late, in the Rocio Station.
When Tanner emerged into the brilliantly lighted streets and gazed
down the splendid vista of the Avenida da Liberdade, he literally held
his breath with amazement. The Portuguese he had always looked on as a
lazy, good-for-nothing set, but this great new boulevard made him
reconsider his opinion. He booked a room in the Avenida Palace Hotel,
and then, crossing the Dom Pedro Square, walked down to the steamboat
offices in the Rua da Alfandega.
The office was open—every one seemed to be on the move all night—and
one of the clerks spoke English. The steamer, it appeared, was due
about half-past six. Tanner took the clerk into his confidence, and
the latter made arrangements for the Inspector to get aboard with the
first boat from the shore.
At six o’clock Tanner was down on the Praça do Commercio, admiring in
the brilliant sunlight the splendid river which flowed before him, and
the charming setting of the town on its range of hills. In the river
lay several steamers, some quite large, and all tugging at their
anchors with their bows upstream. Down seawards, but inside the
comparatively narrow mouth of the Tagus, a grey, two-funnelled boat
was coming slowly up—the _Vaal River_—with, as Tanner hoped, William
Douglas on board.
His friend the clerk arriving a moment later, the two men embarked on
a motor launch. As the _Vaal River_’s anchor fell with a mighty
splash, they sheered alongside and made fast.
When the port authorities had gone aboard, Tanner was allowed to
follow. He went straight to the captain, who was still on the bridge,
and showing him his card, explained his business.
‘And so Mr Walter Donnell’s wanted for murder,’ the captain commented.
‘Guess he’s aboard all right. I thought he had something on his mind.
See the chief steward and you’ll find him. What are you going to do
with him?’
‘Take him back to London.’
‘Of course. But how?’
‘I don’t know. What would you advise?’
The captain pointed to a single-funnelled steamer of about 4000 tons
lying not two hundred yards on their port quarter.
‘That’s the _Chrysostom_, a Booth liner, due out in about an hour. If
you take my advice you’ll get aboard and don’t favour the shore with
your presence. I’ll run you over in the launch.’
Tanner thanked the man warmly.
‘Guess that’s all right,’ he answered dryly. ‘I’m as interested in
getting him out of my ship as you are in taking him.’
Finding the chief steward, Tanner explained the matter in hand, adding
that he wished to make the arrest as quietly as possible. The man
seemed mildly interested and promised his help.
Douglas, alias Donnell, was, it appeared, still in his cabin, and the
two went thither. He was in bed, and rose to open the door. When he
saw Tanner his eyes started from his head with amazement, then his jaw
dropped and his face went grey. Stepping quickly back, he collapsed on
to the cabin sofa and sat staring helplessly.
‘William Douglas or Walter Donnell,’ Tanner said solemnly, ‘I arrest
you on a charge of being concerned in the death of the late Sir
William Ponson, of Luce Manor, Halford. I have to warn you that
anything you say will be used against you.’
The man made a desperate effort to pull himself together.
‘My God!’ he gasped. ‘How did you trace me?’ Then, Tanner not
replying, he went on with pitiable earnestness:
‘But you’ve made a mistake. I am innocent. I know the circumstances
look bad, but I’m innocent, I swear it in God’s name.’
‘That will do,’ said Tanner not unkindly. ‘You’ll have every chance to
put yourself right if you can do it. But you’ll have to come back to
London with me. And for your own sake, the less you say the better.’
For a moment the idea of making a desperate resistance seemed to cross
the prisoner’s mind. Then, apparently realising his hopeless position,
he said quietly, ‘I’ll go with you. Let me pack my things.’
Tanner nodded, keeping a keen eye on the other’s movements for fear he
would attempt suicide. But such an idea did not seem to occur to him.
He dressed and packed expeditiously enough, and then said he was ready
to go.
The launch was waiting, and in a few minutes they stood on the deck of
the _Chrysostom_, homeward bound. Presently the anchor was hoisted and
the vessel, swinging round, commenced her 1200 mile trip to Liverpool.
Having explained his business to the captain and seen Douglas securely
locked in a cabin, Tanner stood leaning on the rail of the upper deck,
watching the pleasantly situated town slip slowly astern. He could see
the Cathedral of Belem standing, damaged, just as it was left by the
earthquake of 1755. Then out of the mouth of the river and past the
picturesque pleasure resort of Mont Estoril, with, just beyond it, the
sleepy, old-world village of Cascaes till, rolling easily in the
Atlantic swell, they turned northwards. The Burlings Islands, which
they passed later in the day, were the last land they saw until, on
the third morning, they awoke to find themselves lying in the Mersey.
By midday Tanner and his prisoner were in London.