Chapter III: Part 3

And therein lay their fate. Some quarter of a mile from the road were a number of those treacherous, vivid green areas of quagmire, to stumble into which is to run the risk of a horrible death. They were not quite in the direct line to the house, but in one of the mists which come up so frequently and unexpectedly it would not have been difficult for the men to lose their way. The sergeant at once knocked up Colonel Domlio, only to learn that he had not seen or heard of either.

When the car was examined, the cause of the stoppage was discovered. A short circuit had developed in the magneto, which interfered with the sparking to such an extent that the cylinder charges could not be ignited.

French was a good deal disappointed by the account. He had hoped that he was onto the solution of his problem, but now he doubted it. That Berlyn had murdered Pyke and sent off his body in the crate had seemed at first sight a promising theory. But French could see no evidence of foul play in the story. It read merely as a straightforward narrative of an unfortunate mishap.

At the same time the coincidence of the dates was remarkable and French felt that he could not dismiss the matter from his mind until he had satisfied himself that it really was the accident for which it had been taken.

He wondered if any tests were possible, and gradually four considerations occurred to him.

First, there was the breakdown of the car. If the breakdown had been an accident the whole affair was almost certainly an accident, for he did not think it possible that advantage could have been taken of an unexpected incident to commit the murder. The details of the disposal of the crate had been too well worked out to have been improvised. But if the breakdown had been faked it meant foul play.

Secondly, a valuable check in all such investigations was the making of a time-table. French felt sure that if murder had been committed the car must have gone from Tavistock to the works and back to where it was found. If not, he did not see how the body could have been taken to the works. Probably, also, it had waited at the works while the murderer was substituting the body for the duplicator. Then the radiator must have been hot when the car was abandoned, and it was cold when Sergeant Daw arrived on the scene. If French could find out how long all these operations would have taken he might find that they could not have been carried out in the time available.

Thirdly, French wondered if in a place of the size of the Veda Works there was no night watchman, and if there was, how the contents of the crate could have been changed without his knowledge.

Lastly, there was the question of the disposal of the duplicator. Assuming that murder had been done, it was extremely probable that the murderer had found the duplicator packed in the crate. How could he have got rid of so heavy and cumbrous an object?

If these four points were investigated French thought he would obtain sufficient information to settle the main question. It was, therefore, with a second line of enquiries in his mind that he returned to Ashburton and walked out to the Veda Works.

These stood a short distance beyond the town at the end of North Street, and formed a rather imposing collection of buildings, small but modern and well designed. The principal block was of five stories, showing narrow pilasters of cream-coloured concrete separating wide glazed panels. The remaining buildings were single-storey sheds. The place seemed spotlessly clean and tidy.

French entered a door labelled “Office,” and sending in his private card, asked for Mr. Fogden. He was shown into a comfortably furnished room in which a youngish man with a pleasant face sat at a table desk.

“Good afternoon, Mr. French. Won’t you sit down? What can I do for you, sir?”

“I should explain first who I am, Mr. Fogden.” French handed over his official card. “I have called on business which has already been brought to your notice by the local sergeant. It is about the crate which was sent by your firm to Mr. James B. Stephenson at the G. W. Goods Station at Swansea.”

“I saw the sergeant when he called,” Mr. Fogden answered, a trifle shortly. “That was yesterday, and I gave him all the information at my disposal.”

“So he told me, sir.” French’s manner was very suave. “My troubling you on the same business, therefore, requires a little explanation. I must ask you, however, to consider what I have to tell you confidential. That crate which you sent to Swansea was duly called for. It eventually reached Burry Port. There it was opened—by the police. And do you know what was found in it?”

Mr. Fogden stared at the other with a rapidly growing interest.

“Good Heavens!” he cried. “You surely don’t mean to say that it contained that body that we have been reading so much about in the papers recently?”

French nodded.

“That’s it, Mr. Fogden. So you will see now that it’s not idle curiosity which brings me here. The matter is so serious that I must go into it personally. I shall have to investigate the entire history of that crate.”

“By Jove! I should think so. You don’t imagine, I take it, that the body was in it when it left the works?”

“I don’t, but of course I can’t be sure. I must investigate all the possibilities.”

“That is reasonable.” Mr. Fogden paused, then continued: “Now tell me what you want me to do and I will carry out your wishes as well as I can. I have already explained to the sergeant that the crate contained a Veda Number Three duplicator, a special product of the firm’s, and that it was ordered by this Mr. Stephenson in a letter written from the Euston Hotel. I can turn up the letter for you.”

“Thank you, I should like to see the letter, but as a matter of fact I should like a good deal more. I am afraid I must follow the whole transaction right through and interview everyone who dealt with it.”

“I get you. Right. I’ll arrange it. Now first as to the letter.”

He touched the bell and ordered a certain file to be brought him. From this he took out a letter and passed it to French.

Chapter Six

The Despatch of the Crate

The letter was written on a single sheet of cream-laid, court-sized paper and bore the legend “Euston Hotel, London. N. W. 1.” in blue type on its right corner. It was typed in black, and French could see that the machine used was not new and that some of the letters were defective and out of place. It was signed “James S. Stephenson” in a hand which French instinctively felt was disguised, with blue-black ink apparently of the fountain-pen type. It read:

12 August.

Messrs. The Veda Office Equipment Manufacturing Co. Ltd.,
Ashburton,
South Devon.

Dear Sirs,

I should be obliged if you would kindly forward to Mr. James S.
Stephenson, Great Western Railway Goods Station, Morriston Road,
Swansea, marked “To be kept till called for,” one of your patent
Veda electric duplicators, No. 3, to take brief size. The motor to
be wound for 220 volts D.C. and to have a flexible cord to plug into
the main.

Please have the machine delivered at Swansea not later than 19th
inst., as I wish to ship it from there on the following day.

I enclose herewith money order value £62.10.0, the price, less
discount, as given in your catalogue. Please advise receipt of money
and despatch of duplicator to this hotel.

Yours faithfully,
James S. Stephenson.

There were here, French realised, several lines of enquiry. Something might be learned at the Euston Hotel. Unfortunately, the fact that the letter was written on the hotel paper and the reply was to be sent there did not mean that “Stephenson” had stayed there. French remembered his own letter from the Charing Cross Hotel to Dr. Philpot in the Starvel case up in Yorkshire. But enquiries could not be omitted. Then there was the money order. It would be easy to learn the office at which it had been obtained, and there was at least the possibility that the purchaser had been observed. Lastly there was the typewriter. French felt sure that it could be identified from the irregularities of the type.

“I may have this letter, I suppose?” he asked.

“Of course.”

He put the paper slowly away in his pocketbook and then in his careful, competent way began to ask questions.

“You sent the receipt and notification of the despatch of the crate to the Euston Hotel?”

“Certainly.”

“What is the process of despatch? When that order came in to whom did it go?”

“Well, I read it first and dropped it into a basket, from which it went automatically to the accounts department. Following the ordinary routine, the money would be collected, and if all was O.K. an order would go to the sales department for the despatch of the goods. When the despatch had taken place a notification in duplicate would be returned to the office, and one copy, with the receipt, would be mailed to the purchaser. The whole thing is, of course, routine, and so far as I know that routine was carried out in this case. But we can see all concerned, if you like.”

“That’s just what I would like,” French declared.

“Come along, then.”

“There’s another thing, Mr. Fogden,” French interposed. “I have told you my business because I wanted your help. But I am anxious that no one else suspects it. If I give out that the duplicator was stolen and that you have employed me to find the thief, will you back up the yarn?”

“Certainly. I am naturally anxious to have the affair cleared up. But do you think you can keep your real business secret?”

“I can for a time. But that may be long enough for me to get my man.”

In the sales department French was first shown a duplicator. It was an elaborate machine with the usual large cylinder and ingenious devices for turning out copies at high speed.

“What does it weigh?” he asked, when he had duly admired it.

“About two hundredweight.”

“Do you always send them out in crates of the same kind?”

“Always. The crate is specially made for the purpose. Unfortunately, it is an odd size and cannot be used for any of the other products.”

This was interesting. Did it, French wondered, show an internal knowledge of the firm’s methods on the part of “Stephenson”?

“Now about the actual despatch. You say an order comes from the accounts department when anything is to be sent out. Could I see this particular order?”

Mr. Fogden looked through a file, finally producing a tiny sheet of paper. But small as was the chit, it was comprehensive. On it were given not only all details of the duplicator and the address of the consignee, but also Mr. Fogden’s O.K., the initials of the storekeeper who had given out the machine and the crate, of the packer who had packed it, of the carter who had taken it to the station, and of the railway goods clerk who had received it, with the dates when all these things had been done.

“By Jove!” French remarked when he had taken all this in. “You don’t leave much to chance in this establishment!”

“We believe in individual responsibility,” Mr. Fogden explained. “If anything goes wrong we can usually plant the blame on the right shoulders.”

“Well, it’s a help to me, at all events. Can I see these men who have initialled this order?”

“Certainly. Come down to the stores.” Mr. Fogden led the way to a large room furnished with multitudinous bins containing thousands of articles neatly stacked and each labelled with its code number and with a card showing the stock. Owing to its opposite walls being composed almost entirely of glass, there was a brilliant light everywhere. French marvelled at the cleanliness and tidiness of everything and expressed his admiration of the way the place was kept.

“This,” continued Mr. Fogden, whose heart was evidently reached by French’s comments, “is what we call the part store. Here are the parts of all our machines arranged in sets. Here, for example, are small parts. Those bins carry lock rods for card indexes, those ball-bearing rollers for file cases, those rings for loose-leaf books, and so on. Over there you get the wooden parts—panels for vertical file cabinets, multiple bookcases, parts of desks and chairs. We carry a definite stock of each part, and every time it drops to a definite number an order automatically goes to the works department for a new lot to be made.”

“Good system.”

“We have to do it or we should get wrong. I’ll show you now the erecting shop. This way.”

They passed into a large room where a score or more men were busily engaged in putting together machines of every type and kind. But they did not halt there long. After a general look round Mr. Fogden led the way across the shop and through another door.

“This,” he said, “is our completed-articles store. Here we keep our products ready for immediate despatch. We stock a certain number of each class, and the same arrangement holds good with regard to the parts. Directly a number falls to the minimum, an order automatically goes to the assembly department to build so many new pieces. That keeps our stock right. Of course, an order for a large number of pieces has to be dealt with specially. For example, we always keep a minimum of twelve Number One duplicators complete and ready to go out, and that enables us to supply incidental orders without delay. But when an order for fifty comes in, as we had yesterday from the Argentine, we have to manufacture specially.”

French murmured appreciatively.

“With regard to the Number Three duplicators,” went on Mr. Fogden, pointing to the machines in question, “we always keep a minimum of three in stock. They are not in such demand as the Number Ones. Now let me see.” He compared the order with the bin or stock card. “Only two of these have gone out since the one you are interested in. I dare say the men will remember yours.” He referred again to the order. “Packed by John Puddicoombe. . . . Here, Puddicoombe. A moment.”

An elderly man approached.

“Do you happen to remember packing a duplicator of this type on fifteenth of August last? It was a Monday and there’s the docket.”

The man scratched his head. “I don’t know as I do, sir,” he answered, slowly. “You see, I pack that many and they’re all the same. But I packed it, all right, if I signed for it.”

“Where did you pack it?” French asked.

“In packing-shed next door,” the man replied, after an interrogatory glance at his chief.

“Come in and see the place,” Mr. Fogden suggested, and they moved to a smaller room, the next in the series.

“You packed it in here,” French went on. “Now tell me, did you close up the crate here?”

“Yes, as soon as the duplicator was properly in I got the lid on. I always do.”

“Got the lid on and made it fast?”

“Yes, nailed it down.”

“And was the crate despatched that same day?”

“No,” Mr. Fogden intervened. “The dates show that it lay here that night. It was sent out the following day.”

“Ah, that’s what I want to get at,” said French. “Now where did it lie all night?”

“Here,” the packer declared. “It was packed here and lay here until the lorry came for it the next day.”

“But if you don’t remember this particular case?” French persisted. “Don’t mind my asking. The matter is important.”

The packer regarded him with what seemed compassion and replied with a tolerant forbearance.

“I know because that’s what’s always done and there weren’t no exception in the case of any machine,” he replied, conclusively.

This seemed to end the matter as far as Puddicoombe was concerned, and French next asked to see the carter who had taken it to the station.

The man, fortunately, was available, and French questioned him minutely. He stated he remembered the occasion in question. On the Tuesday morning he had loaded up the crate, Puddicoombe assisting. It was lifted by a differential and pushed out of the packing-shed on a small overhead runway and lowered on to the lorry. He had driven it to the station, unloading it in the goods-shed, and had obtained the usual signature. He had not allowed it out of his sight all the time it was in his charge and it was quite impossible that its contents could have been tampered with.

“I shall see the station people, of course,” French declared to Mr. Fogden when they returned to the latter’s office, “though I don’t suppose the crate could have been tampered with during the journey. What you have told me has satisfied me as to its stay here except on one point. Could the duplicator have been taken out during the night?”

Mr. Fogden believed it impossible.

“We have a night watchman,” he explained; “quite a reliable old fellow, too. Nothing could have been done without his knowledge.”

“Could I see him?”

“Of course. But you’ll have to wait while I send for him.”

After some time an office boy ushered in a wizened old man with a goatee beard who answered to the name of Gurney. He blinked at French out of a pair of bright little eyes like some wise old bird, and spoke with a pleasing economy of words.

He came on duty, he said, each evening at seven o’clock, relieving one of the late stokers, who kept an eye on things between the closing of the works at 5.15 and that hour. His first care was to examine the boilers of the electric power plant, of which he had charge during the night, then he invariably made an inspection of the whole premises. For part of the time he sat in the boiler-house, but on at least three other occasions he walked round and made sure everything was in order. The boiler fires were banked and did not give much trouble, but he had to watch the pressure gauges and occasionally to adjust the dampers. At six in the morning he was relieved by the early stokers and he then went home.

He declared that it would be impossible for anyone to tamper with the goods in the packing-shed unknown to him. The packing-shed and the boiler-house were at opposite sides of a narrow yard, and should the light be turned on in the former no one in the latter could fail to see it.

He remembered the Monday night in question, because it was that on which Mr. Berlyn and Mr. Pyke had lost their lives. On that night he had come on duty as usual and had gone his customary rounds. He was very emphatic that no one had entered the works during his period of duty.

Though the man’s character was vouched for by Mr. Fogden and though he made his statement without hesitation, French was conscious of a slight dissatisfaction. His perception of the reliability of witnesses had become so acute from long experience as to be practically intuitive. He did not think that Gurney was lying, but he felt that he was protesting more strongly than the occasion warranted. He therefore took him aside and questioned him severely in the hope of inducing some give-away emotion. But in this he failed. The watchman answered without embarrassment and French was forced to the conclusion that his suspicions were unfounded. From the boiler-house he saw for himself the effect of turning up the light in the packing-shed, with the result that Gurney’s statement on this point was confirmed. Then he examined the stokers who had been in charge before and after Gurney, but their statements as to visitors were the same as the watchman’s. As far as oral testimony went, therefore, it was impossible that the crate could have been interfered with while it lay at the works.

French next betook himself to the station. But there he learned only what he expected. While no one actually remembered the transaction, its complete records were available. The crate had been received on Tuesday morning, the 16th of August, and had been unloaded in the goods-shed and put immediately into a wagon for Plymouth. From the time it arrived until it left by the 11.35 A.M. goods-train no one could have tampered with it, two porters being continuously about.

As after dinner that night French wrote up his report, he was conscious of a good deal of disappointment. The attractive theory that the remains were those of Pyke was not obtaining support. He had now gone into two of the four test-points he had considered and the evidence on each of them was against it. Unless he could find some way round these difficulties, it followed that the body _must_ have been put in after the crate had reached Swansea.

The other two test-points, however, remained to be investigated—the cause of the breakdown and the possible running time-tables of the car.

French decided, therefore, that unless there was news from Howells in the morning he would carry on with these.

Chapter Seven

Dartmoor

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.

Chapter Eight

A Fresh Start

It is wonderful what an effect a good night’s sleep and a bright morning will have on the mind of a healthy man. French had gone to bed tired and worried about this case. He woke cheery and optimistic, philosophic as to his reverses, and hopeful for the future.

On such a morning, indeed, it was impossible that anyone could be despondent. Though October had begun, the sun shone with a thin brilliancy reminiscent of early summer. The air, floating up gently from the garden in the rear of the hotel, was surprisingly warm and aromatic for the time of year. Birds were singing in the trees and there was a faint hum of insects from below. As he looked out of his window French felt that life was good and that to squander it in sleep was little better than a sin.

He breakfasted at his leisure, then lighting his pipe, he sauntered out into the little town to take what he called “a turn” before settling down to the serious work of the day.

Though his conclusions of the previous evening still seemed incontrovertible, he was surprised to find that his sense of disappointment had vanished. At first he thought this was due simply to his night’s rest, then gradually he realised the reason.

In his heart of hearts he distrusted these conclusions. In spite of the difficulties involved, he was not satisfied that the Berlyn-Pyke affair should be eliminated from the case.

The murderer had shown himself an extremely ingenious man. Could it not be that these seeming impossibilities were really intentionally designed to throw investigating detectives off the scent?

French reconsidered the strength of the coincidences otherwise involved.

A disappearance at a certain time and place was required to account for the body in the crate. At that very time and place, and there only, a disappearance was known to have occurred. French could not bring himself to dismiss the possibility of a connection between the two facts.

He decided that he had not exhausted the possibilities. He must learn more about Berlyn and Pyke.

For preliminary enquiries Sergeant Daw seemed the most hopeful source of information, and he lost no time in walking down to the police station and asking his help.

“I want to know who everybody is, Sergeant. You know the local people and you might tell me something which would give me the hint I am looking for.”

The sergeant did not think this likely, but he was willing to do anything to oblige.

“Very good. Then I’ll ask questions. First of all, will you tell me what you can about Mr. Berlyn?”

Daw put on his best police-court manner and proceeded to deliver himself.

“Mr. Berlyn was junior partner at the works. I understand that some eight or nine years ago he and Colonel Domlio bought up nearly the whole of the stock between them. Mr. Berlyn dealt with the commercial side and attended the office every day as if he was an official, but the colonel looked on the business as a hobby. He acted as a sort of consulting engineer and only went to the works when it pleased him. I believe there are other directors, but in practice they don’t amount to anything.”

“Was Mr. Berlyn liked?”

“As a matter of fact, sir, he wasn’t altogether popular among the work people. From what I’ve heard, he wanted too much and he wouldn’t make allowances for people making mistakes. It was get on or get out with him, and you know yourself, Mr. French, that if that’s pushed too far it doesn’t always work. But he was straight enough and what he said he stuck to.”

“A man like that would make enemies. Do you know of anyone he was on bad terms with?”

“No, sir. No one.”

“He hadn’t his knife in Mr. Pyke, for instance?”

“Not to my knowledge.”

“Was Mr. Berlyn married?”

“Yes, four or five years ago. Very pleasant lady, Mrs. Berlyn.”

“Any children?”

“No, sir.”

“Where did they live?”

“Out along the Buckland road about ten minutes’ walk from the works. Place called Soller. They say it’s the name of some foreign town where he’d met the lady and popped the question, but of course I don’t know anything about that.”

“Then he was a traveller, Mr. Berlyn?”

“Yes; used to go away to France and such places when he had holidays.”

“Wise man,” French commented. “And how did the match turn out?”

For the first time the sergeant hesitated.

“There, Mr. French, you have me. I couldn’t really tell you. From all accounts they got on as well as most people whose tastes differ. He was quiet and liked sitting at home in the evenings, and she wanted a bit of life. There’s not much of what you might call gaiety in this town, as you may guess, but whatever there was Mrs. Berlyn was in the centre of it. At first he used to go out with her to Torquay and so on, but he gradually gave that up and she had to find some one else to go with or stay at home.”

“And she found some one?”