Chapter V: Part 5

All the next day, which was Sunday, the problem of the magneto remained subconsciously in French’s mind, and when on Monday morning he took his place in the 10.30 A.M. Limited to return to Devonshire, he was still pondering it. In a dream he watched the bustle of departure on the platform, the arrival of more and ever more travellers, the appropriation of seats, the disposal of luggage. (That armature _had_ been tampered with. It must have been, because otherwise it would not have worked in with a prearranged crime.) Lord! What a pile of luggage for one woman to travel with! American, he betted. (But, it could not have been done at the time. In no way could it have been made to fail just when it was wanted.) What price that for a natty suit? Why, the man was a moving chessboard! What was the connection between chessboard suits and horses? (It must have been tampered with; but it couldn’t have been. That was the confounded problem.) There was the guard with his green flag, looking critically up and down and glancing first at his watch and then over his shoulder at the platform clock. It was just twenty-nine and a half minutes past. In another half minute. . . .

Suddenly into French’s mind flashed an idea and he sat for a moment motionless, as with a sort of trembling eagerness he considered it. Why, his problem was no problem at all! There was a solution of the simplest and most obvious kind! How had he been stupid enough not to have seen it?

As the guard waved his flag French sprang to his feet, and, amid the execrations of the porters, he hurled himself and his baggage from the moving train. Then, smiling pleasantly at the exasperated officials, he hurried from the station, jumped into a taxi, and told the man to drive to the Ardlo Magneto Works in Queen Elizabeth Street.

“Sorry to trouble you so soon again, Mr. Illingworth,” he apologised on being shown in, “but I’ve thought of a way in which that car could have been disabled at the time and place required and I want to know if it will hold water.”

“If your method covers all the factors in the case as you have described it, I should like to hear it, Mr. French.”

“Well, it’s simple enough, if it’s nothing else. I take it that if the magneto of my car goes wrong I can buy another?”

“Why of course! But I don’t follow you.”

“They are all made to a standard—interchangeable?”

Mr. Illingworth whistled.

“Gee! I’m beginning to get you! Yes, they’re all made standard. There are several models, you understand, but all the magnetos of any given model are interchangeable.”

“Good! Now tell me, what’s to prevent my man from buying a duplicate magneto, damaging the armature winding invisibly with a needle, and running it on his car till it gives up; then taking it off, carrying it as a spare, and putting it on again when he had got the car to the point of breakdown?”

“You’ve got it, Mr. French! Great, that is! I didn’t think it was possible, and there, as you say, it’s as simple as A B C.”

“Well,” said French. “Then did he?”

Illingworth looked his question and French went on:

“I’m looking to you for proof of the theory. First, do these magnetos carry a number? If so, is there a record of the number fitted to each car? If so, what was the number supplied with Mr. Berlyn’s car? Next, is that the number that came in for repair? Next, was there a magneto of that type ordered separately recently, and if so, by whom?”

“Steady on, Mr. French,” Mr. Illingworth laughed. “What do you take me for? I’m not a detective. Now let’s go over that again, one thing at a time. Magnetos carry a number, yes, and we have a note of the numbers supplied to the different car manufacturers. They can tell you the number of the magneto they put on any given car. What car are you interested in?”

“A fifteen-twenty four-seater Mercury touring car, number thirty-seven thousand and sixteen, supplied through Makepeace to a Mr. Berlyn of Ashburton.”

“Right. I’ll ring up the Mercury people now.”

Mr. Illingworth was indefatigable in his enquiries, but he was not prepared for the state of delighted enthusiasm into which his results threw French.

“That’s got it,” the latter cried, eagerly. “A long shot, but a bull’s-eye! I have to thank you for it, Mr. Illingworth, and you don’t know how grateful I am.”

The first fact was not encouraging. The magneto which had been supplied originally with Mr. Berlyn’s car was the same that had been sent in by Makepeace with the short-circuited winding. So far, therefore, the breakdown might have been genuine enough. But it was the second item which had so transported French. A precisely similar magneto had been sold as a spare about a month earlier and under circumstances which left no doubt as to the motive. It had been ordered by a Mr. Henry Armstrong, in a typewritten letter headed “The Westcliff Hotel, Bristol,” and it was to be sent to the parcels office at St. David’s Station, Exeter, marked, “To be kept till called for.” The letter was being sent over by hand, and when French received it a few minutes later he saw that it had been typed by the same machine as that ordering the duplicator.

“That’s fine, Mr. Illingworth,” he repeated in high delight. “That’s one of my major difficulties overcome. I just want you to tell me one other thing. How long would it take to change the magneto—out in the country on a dark night?”

“It’s a half-hour’s job for a skilled man. The actual lifting in and out of the machine is easy, but the setting is the trouble. The contact-breaker, as I’m sure you know, has to be set so as to give the spark at the right point in the engine cycle. That takes a bit of time.”

“I follow that. But is there no way that the adjustable parts could be set beforehand to save that time?”

“That’s right. They could be marked and everything set to the marks. That would speed things up.”

“By how much, should you say?”

“With everything marked, a man could do the whole thing in fifteen minutes.”

“Good!” said French. “I guess that’s everything at last.”

He returned to Paddington and caught the 1.30 express for Exeter. He was overjoyed at his progress. The issue was rapidly narrowing.

How rapidly it was narrowing struck him even more forcibly as he thought of a further point. The trick had been played with Berlyn’s car. Could it have been done without Berlyn’s knowledge? Could, in fact, anyone but Berlyn have carried it out? French did not think so. It was beginning to look as if the solution of the whole problem were in sight.

At Exeter he went about the package. As far as book entries were concerned, he was quickly satisfied. But no one remembered the transaction, nor could anyone recall enquiries having been made by a tallish, red-faced man with light hair and glasses.

Nothing daunted, French caught the last train from Exeter to Ashburton, full of an eager anxiety to get to grips with his remaining problems.

Chapter Eleven

John Gurney, Night Watchman

French had now reconciled the apparent contradiction in regard to one of his four test points. Obviously his next job was to clear up the other three.

As he considered on which he should first concentrate, his mind fastened on the one point which at the time had seemed not completely satisfactory—the slightly suspicious manner of Gurney, the night watchman. During the night, as he now knew, the body of Stanley Pyke had been taken to the works and put into the crate. It was impossible that this could have been done without Gurney’s knowledge. Gurney must be made to speak.

Accordingly, after breakfast next morning he set off to the man’s house. He passed out of the town on the Newton Abbot road, then turning into a lane to the left, struck up the side of the valley. Soon he reached the cottage, a tiny place with deep overhanging eaves and creeper-covered walls. In front was a scrap of well-kept garden and in the garden was the man himself.

“Good morning, Gurney,” French greeted him. “I thought you would have been in bed by now.”

“I be just going,” answered the old man. “I came out an’ begun a bit o’ weeding an’ the time ran round without my noticing.”

“That’s lucky for me,” said French, heartily. “I want a word with you. A nice place you’ve got here.”

“Not too bad, it ain’t,” the other admitted, looking about him with obvious pride. “The soil’s a bit ’eavy, but it don’t do so bad.”

“Good for your roses, surely? Those are fine ones beside the house.”

Gurney laid aside his hoe and led the way to the really magnificent bed of La Frances to which French had pointed. It was evident that these were the old man’s passion. French was not a gardener, but he knew enough to talk intelligently on the subject and his appreciation evidently went straight to the watchman’s heart. For some minutes they discussed horticulture, and then French wore gradually round to the object of his visit.

“Terrible business that about Mr. Berlyn and Mr. Pyke,” he essayed. “It must have set this town talking.”

“It didn’t ’alf, sir. Everyone was sorry for the poor gentlemen. They was well liked, they was.”

“And that was another terrible affair,” pursued French after the local tragedy had been adequately discussed, “that finding of the dead body in the crate. Extraordinary how the body could have been put in.”

“I didn’t ’ear naught about that,” Gurney answered, with a sudden increase of interest. “You don’t mean the crate you was speaking about that day you was up at the works?”

“No other. Keep it to yourself and I’ll tell you about it.” French became deeply impressive. “That crate that I was enquiring about was sent from here to Swansea. There it was called for by a man who took it on a lorry to a place called Burry Port and threw it into the sea. A fisherman chanced to hook it and it was brought ashore more than a month later. And when it was opened the dead body of a man was found inside.”

“Lord save us! I read in the noospaper about that there body being found, but it fair beats me that the crate came from ’ere, it does.”

French continued to enlarge on the tale. That Gurney’s surprise was genuine he felt certain. He could have sworn that the man had no inkling of the truth. But he marked, even more acutely than before, a hesitation or self-consciousness that indicated an uneasy mind. There was something; he felt sure of it. He glanced at the man with his shrewd, observant eyes and suddenly determined on directness.

“Look here, Gurney,” he said. “Come over and sit on this seat. I have something important to say to you.” He paused as if considering his words. “You thought a good deal of your employers, those two poor men who were lost on the moor?”

“An’ I had reason to. It wasn’t an accident ’appening in the execution of my dooty, as you might say, as made me lame and not fit to work. It was rheumatism, and they could ’ave let me go when I couldn’t work no more. But they found this job for me and they let me the ’ouse cheap. Of course it was Mr. Berlyn as ’ad the final say, but I know as Mr. Pyke spoke for me. It wasn’t everyone as would ’ave done that, now was it, sir?”

Consideration on the part of an employer was not, French knew, to be taken as a matter of course, though it was vastly more common than the unions would have the public believe. But gratitude on the part of an employee was not so frequent, though it was by no means unique. Its exhibition, however, in the present instance confirmed French in the course he was taking.

“Now, Gurney, do you know who I am?” he went on. “I’m an inspector from Scotland Yard and I’m down here to try to solve these two mysteries. Because, Gurney, do you know what I think? I think that on that night the body of one of these two gentlemen was taken to the works and put into the crate.”

Gurney started and paled. “Lord save us!” he muttered. “But wot about the accident?”

“There was no accident,” French replied, sternly. “There was murder. Who committed it, I don’t know at present. Where the other body is, if there is another body, I don’t yet know. But I have no doubt about one of the bodies. It was put into the crate on that night.”

Gurney moistened his dry lips.

“But——” he began, and his voice died away into silence.

“That’s it,” French went on, impressively. “Now, Gurney, I’m not accusing you of anything. But you know something. You needn’t attempt to deny it, because it has been plain to me from the first moment I spoke to you. Come now. Something out of the common took place that night. What was it?”

Gurney did not deny the charge. Instead he sat motionless, with scared, unhappy eyes. French remained silent also; then he said, quietly:

“What was it? Were you away from your post that night?”

“No, sir, not that. I was there all the time,” the other answered, earnestly. Again he paused, then with a sudden gesture he went on: “I didn’t know nothing about what you ’ave been saying, but I see now I must tell you everything, even if I gets the sack over it.”

“You’ll not get the sack if I can help it,” French said, kindly, “but go on and tell me, all the same.”

“Well, sir, I did that night wot I never did before nor since. I slept the ’ole night through. I sat down to eat my supper in the boiler-’ouse like I always does, an’ I didn’t remember nothing more till Peter Small ’e was standing there shaking me. ‘Wake up,’ ’e says; ‘you’re a nice sort of a night watchman, you are.’ ‘Lord,’ I says. ‘I never did nothing like that before,’ an’ I asks him not to say nothing about it. An’ ’e didn’t say nothing, nor I didn’t, neither. But now I suppose it’ll come out an’ I’ll get wot for about it.”

“Don’t you worry about that,” French said, heartily. “I’ll see you through. I’ll undertake to get Mr. Fogden to overlook this little irregularity on one condition. You must tell me everything that took place that night without exception. Go ahead now and let’s have the whole of it.”

The old man gazed at him in distress.

“But there weren’t naught else,” he protested. “I went to sleep, an’ that’s all. If there were anything else took place, w’y I didn’t see it.”

“That’s all right. Now just answer my questions. Go back to when you left your house. What time was that?”

“The usual time, about twenty minutes to seven.”

“You brought your supper with you?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Who prepared it?”

“My wife.”

“Did you meet anyone on your way to the works?”

“Well, I couldn’t rightly say. No one that I remember.”

“No one could have got hold of your supper, anyway?”

The man started. “You think it might ’ave been tampered with?” he queried. He thought for some moments, then shook his head. “No, sir, I’m afraid not. I don’t never let my basket out o’ my ’and till I gets to the boiler-’ouse.”

“Very well. Now when you got to the boiler-house?”

“I put it where I always do, beside one o’ the boilers.”

“And you left it there?”

“While I made my rounds, I did. But there wasn’t no one else in the works then.”

“How do you know?”

Gurney hesitated. In the last resort he didn’t know. But he had not seen anyone and did not believe anyone had been there.

“But suppose some one had been hidden in the works,” French persisted. “He could have doctored your supper while you were on your rounds?”

“If there ’ad been ’e might,” the man admitted. “But I didn’t see no one.”

“What time do you have your meal?”

Gurney, it appeared, had two meals during the night. Time hung heavy on his hands and the meals made a break. He had his dinner about six, started work at seven, and had his first meal about eleven. His second meal he had about three, and he was relieved at six.

On the night in question he had his first meal at the usual time. Until then he had felt perfectly normal, but he had scarcely finished when he found himself growing overpoweringly sleepy, and the next thing he remembered was being wakened by the fireman at six the next morning.

“It’s clear that your supper was doped,” French said. “Now think, did nothing in any way out of the common happen between six and eleven?”

Gurney began a denial, then stopped.

“There were one thing,” he said, slowly, “but I don’t believe as ’ow it could have ’ad anything to do with it. A little before ten there were a ring at the office door. I went to open, but there weren’t no one there. I didn’t think naught of it, because children do ring sometimes just by way o’ mischief. But there weren’t no children there so far as I could see.”

“How far is this door that you opened from the boiler-house?”

“At t’other end o’ the building. Two ’undred yards, maybe.”

“Is that the only door?”

“No, sir, there be a gate near the boilers for lorries, but people going to the office use the other.”

“Is the large gate locked at night?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Who keeps the key?”

“I do. There’s a key in the office that any o’ the gentlemen can get if they wants, but I carry one with me.”

For some moments French sat thinking, then a fresh point struck him.

“What did your supper consist of on that night?”

“Tea an’ bread an’ butter and a slice o’ meat. I have a can o’ tea. I leave it on the boiler and it keeps ’ot.”

“You mean that you don’t make your tea separately for each meal? You drink some out of the can at the first meal and finish what is left at the second?”

“That’s right, sir.”

“And the same with food?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Now on the night we’re talking about you had only one meal. You slept through the time of the second. What happened to the tea and food that was left over?”

“We ’ad it for breakfast, my wife an’ I.”

“That is what I wanted to get at. Now did either of you feel sleepy after breakfast?”

A mixture of admiration and wonder showed in the old man’s eyes.

“Why, no, we didn’t, an’ that’s a fact,” he said in puzzled tones. “An’ we should ’ave if so be as wot you think is true.”

This looked like a snag, but French reminded himself that at the moment he was only getting information and his theorising could wait till later. He continued his questions, but without learning much more.

“Now, Gurney,” he said at last, “under no circumstances are you to mention what we have been speaking of—not to your wife nor to Mr. Fogden nor to anyone. You understand?”

“I understand, sir, right enough.”

“Very good. Now I’m anxious to go into this matter further, and I’ll call at the works to-night.”

“Right, sir. I’ll be on the lookout.”

It was dark as French rang at the big gate of the works. Gurney soon appeared at the wicket and French followed him across the yard to the boiler-house, a distance of perhaps forty yards. It was a fair-sized shed, housing five Babcock & Wilcox water-tube boilers with mechanical stokers and the usual stoker engines and pumps. On a ledge of the warm brickwork near one of the ash openings stood the old man’s can of tea, and his basket of food was placed on the repair bench close by. French took in these details and then said:

“I want now to try an experiment. Will you lend me your key of the wicket. I will go out, lock the wicket behind me, and go round to the office door and ring. When you hear the ring you go and open. Repeat everything exactly as you did that night so as to get back here at the same time. In the meantime I shall let myself in again by the wicket and see if I should have time to dope your tea and get away again before you appear. You understand?”

This program was carried out. French went out and rang at the office door, then ran round to the large gate, let himself in through the wicket, found the can of tea, opened it and counted ten, closed it and relocked the wicket. Then he began to time. Three minutes passed before Gurney appeared.

So that was all right. Anyone who had access to the key in the office could have doctored the watchman’s food. Moreover, the fact that the Gurneys had breakfasted without ill effect on the remainder was not such a difficulty as French had at first supposed. The criminal might have doped the tea on his first visit and during his second poured away what was over and replaced it with fresh. In fact, if he were to preserve his secret he must have done so. The discovery of the drugging would have started an enquiry which might have brought to light the whole plot.

Though French was enthusiastic about his discovery, he saw that it involved one disconcerting point. What about the theory of Berlyn’s guilt? The ring at the office door had come shortly before ten. But shortly before ten Berlyn was at Tavistock. Therefore some other person was involved. Was this person the murderer and had he made away with Berlyn as well as Pyke? Or was he Berlyn’s accomplice? French inclined to the latter supposition. In considering the timing of the car he had seen that it could have been used to carry the body to the works provided an accomplice was ready to drive it back to the moor without delay. On the whole, therefore, it looked as if the murder was the work of two persons, of whom Berlyn was one.

But whether principal or accomplice, it was at least certain that the man who had drugged Gurney’s food knew the works intimately and had access to the key in the office. Only a comparatively small number of persons could fill these requirements and he should, therefore, be quickly found.

Well pleased with his day’s work, French returned to the hotel and spent the remainder of the evening in writing up his diary.

Chapter Twelve

The Duplicator

The saying “it never rains but what it pours” is a popular expression of the unhappy fact that misfortunes never come singly. Fortunately for suffering humanity, the phrase expresses only half the truth. Runs of good luck occur as well as runs of bad.

As French was smoking his after-breakfast pipe in the lounge next morning it was borne in on him that he was at that time experiencing one of the most phenomenal runs of good luck that had ever fallen to his lot. Four days ago he had proved that the dead man was Pyke. Two days later he had learned how the breakdown of the car had been faked. Yesterday he had found the explanation of the watchman’s inaction, and to-day, just at that very moment, an idea had occurred to him which bade fair to solve the problem of the disposal of the duplicator! Unfortunately, nothing could be done towards putting it to the test until the evening. He spent the day, therefore, in a long tramp on the moor, then about five o’clock walked for the second time to Gurney’s house.

“I want to have another chat with you,” he explained. “I haven’t time to wait now, but I shall come up to the works later in the evening. Listen out for my ring.”

He strolled back to the town, had a leisurely dinner, visited the local picture house, and killed time until after eleven. Then when the little town was asleep he went up to the works. Five minutes later he was seated with Gurney in the boiler-house.

“I have been thinking over this affair, Gurney,” he began, “and I am more than ever certain that some terrible deeds were done here on that night when you were drugged. I want to have another look around. But you must not under any circumstances let it be known that I was here.”

“That’s all right, guv’nor. I ain’t goin’ to say nothing.”

French nodded.

“You told me that you had been a mechanic in the works before your rheumatism got bad. Have you worked at any of those duplicators like what was packed in the crate?”

“I worked at all kinds of erecting works—duplicators an’ files an’ indexes an’ addressing machines an’ all the rest o’ them. I knows them all.”

“Good! Now I want you to come round to the store and show me the different parts of a duplicator.”

Gurney led the way from the boiler-house.

“Don’t switch on the light,” French directed. “I don’t want the windows to show lit up. I have a torch.”

They passed through the packing-shed and into the completed-machine store adjoining. Here French called a halt.

“Just let’s look at one of these duplicators again,” he said. “Suppose you wanted to take one of them to pieces, let me see how you would set about it. Should I be correct in saying that if five or six of the larger pieces were got rid of, all the rest could be carried in a handbag?”

“That’s right, sir.”

“Now show me the bins where these larger parts are stocked.”

They passed on to the part store and across it to a line of bins labelled “Duplicators.” In the first bin were rows of leg castings. French ran his eye along them.

“There must be fifty or sixty here,” he said, slowly. “Let’s see if that is a good guess.”

On every bin was a stock card in a metal holder. French lifted down that in question. It was divided into three sets of columns, one set showing incomes, the second outgoes, and the third the existing stock. The date of each transaction was given, and for each entry the stock was adjusted.

“Not such a bad guess,” French remarked, slowly, as he scrutinised the entries. “There are just fifty-four.”

The card was large and was nearly full. French noticed that it went back for some weeks before the tragedy. He stood gazing at it in the light of his torch while a feeling of bitter disappointment grew in his mind. Then suddenly he thought he saw what he was looking for, and whipping out a lens, he examined one of the entries more closely. “Got it, by Jove! I’ve actually got it!” he thought, delightedly. His luck had held.

One of the entries had been altered. A loop had been skilfully added to a six to make it an eight. The card showed that two castings had been taken out which either had never been taken out at all or, more probably, which had been taken out and afterwards replaced.

Convinced that he had solved the last of his four test problems, French examined the cards of the other bins. In all of those referring to large parts he noticed the same peculiarity; the entries had been tampered with to show that one more duplicator had been sent out than really was the case. The cards for the small parts were unaltered and French could understand the reason. It was easier to get rid of the parts themselves than to falsify their records. The fraud was necessary only in the case of objects too big and heavy to carry away.

French was highly pleased. His discovery was not only valuable in itself, but he had reached it in the way which most appealed to his vanity—from his own imagination. He had imagined that the fraud might have been worked in this way. He had tested it and found that it had been. Pure brains! Such things were soothing to his self-respect.

He stood considering the matter. The evidence was valuable, but it was far from permanent. A hint that suspicion was aroused, and it would be gone. The criminal, if he were still about, would see to it that innocuous copies of the cards were substituted for these dangerous ones. French felt he dare not run such a risk. Nor could he let Gurney suspect his discovery, lest unwittingly the old man might put the criminal on his guard. He therefore went on:

“Now all I want is to make a sketch of each of these parts. The duplicator which went out in the crate may have been taken to pieces and I want to be able to recognise them if they’re found. I suppose I could get a sheet or two of paper in the storeman’s desk?”

In one corner a small box with glass sides constituted an office for the storeman. French led the way thither. The door was closed but not locked. The desk, which he next tried, was fastened. But above it in a rack he saw what he was looking for, a pile of blank bin-cards. He turned back.

“It doesn’t matter about the paper, after all,” he explained. “I see the desk is locked. I can make my sketches in my notebook, though it’s not so convenient. But many a sketch I’ve made in it before.”

Chatting pleasantly, he returned to the bins and began slowly to sketch the leg casting. He was purposely extremely slow and detailed in the work, measuring every possible dimension and noting it on his sketch. Gurney, as he had hoped, began to get fidgety. French continued talking and sketching. Suddenly he looked up.

“By the way,” he said, as if a new idea had suddenly entered his mind, “there is no earthly need for me to keep you here while I am working. It will take me an hour or two to finish these sketches. If you want to do your rounds and to get your supper, go ahead. I’ll find you in the boiler-house when I have done.”

Gurney seemed relieved. He explained that it really was time to make his rounds and that if French didn’t mind he would go and do so. French reassured him heartily, and he slowly disappeared.

No sooner had his shuffling footsteps died away than French became an extremely active man. Quickly slipping the four faked cards from their metal holders, he carried them to the office. Then taking four fresh cards from the rack, he began slowly and carefully to copy the others. He was not a skilful forger, but at the end of half an hour’s work he had produced four passable imitations. Two minutes later he breathed more freely. The copies were in the holders and the genuine cards in his pocket. Hurriedly he resumed his sketching.

French’s work amounted to genius in the infinite pains he took with detail. In twenty minutes his sketches were complete and he effectually banished any suspicion which his actions might have aroused in Gurney’s mind by showing them to him when he rejoined him in the boiler-house. Like an artist he proceeded to establish the deception.

“Copies of these sketches sent to the men who are searching for the duplicator will help them to recognise parts of it if it has been taken to pieces,” he explained. “You see the idea?”

Gurney appreciated the point, and French, after again warning him to be circumspect, left the works.

The problem of what he should do next was solved for French by the receipt of a letter by the early post. It was written on a half sheet of cheap notepaper in an uneducated hand and read:

Ashburton.
12th October.

Dear Sir,

If you would come round some time that suits you I have something I
could tell you that would maybe interest you. It’s better not wrote
about.

Lizzie Johnston.

French had received too many communications of the kind to be hopeful that this one would result in anything valuable. However, he thought he ought to see the ex-parlourmaid and once again he made his way to her cottage.

“It’s my Alf,” she explained. “Alf Beer, they call him. We’re being married as soon as he gets another job.”

“He’s out of a job, then?”

“Yes, he was in the sales department in the works; a packer, he was. He left there six months ago.”

“How was that?” French asked, sympathetically.

“He wasn’t well and he stayed home a few mornings, and Mr. Berlyn had him up in his office and spoke to him something wicked. Well, Alf wouldn’t take that, not from no man living, so he said what relieved his feelings and Mr. Berlyn told him he could go.”

“And has he been doing nothing since?”

“Not steady, he hasn’t. Just jobbing, as you might say.”

“Hard lines, that is. You say he had something to tell me?”

The girl nodded. “That’s right,” was her original reply.

“What is it, do you know?”

“He wouldn’t say. I told him you was in asking questions and he seemed sort of interested. ‘Wants to know about Berlyn and Pyke and Mrs. Berlyn’s goings-on with Pyke, does he?’ he sez. ‘I thought some one would be wanting to know about that before long. Well, I can tell him something,’ he sez.”

“But he didn’t mention what it was?”

“No. I asked him and he sez ‘Value for cash,’ he sez. ‘He puts down the beans and I cough up the stuff. That’s fair, ain’t it?’ he sez. ‘Don’t be a silly guff, Alf,’ I sez. ‘He’s police and if he asks you questions, why, you don’t half have to answer them.’ ‘The devil I have,’ he sez. ‘I ain’t done no crime and he hasn’t nothing on me. You tell him,’ he sez, ‘tell him I know something that would be worth a quid or two to him.’ And so I wrote you that note.”

“Tell me why you thought I was police,” French invited.

Miss Johnston laughed scornfully.

“Well, ain’t you?” she parried.

“That’s hardly an answer to my question.”

“Well, everybody knows what you’re after. They say you think Pyke was murdered on the moor and that Berlyn murdered him. Leastways, that’s what I’ve heard said.”

This was something more than a blow to French, and his self-esteem reeled under it. For the _n_th time he marvelled at the amazing knowledge of other people’s business to be found in country districts. The small country town, he thought, was the absolute limit! There he was, moving continually among the townspeople, none of whom gave the least sign of interest in his calling, yet evidently they had discussed him and his affairs to some purpose. The garrulous landlady, Mrs. Billing, was no doubt responsible for the murder of Pyke becoming known, but the belief that he, French, suspected Berlyn of murdering him was really rather wonderful.

“It seems to me,” he said with a rather sickly smile, “that your townspeople are better detectives than ever came out of Scotland Yard. So your young man thinks I’m police and wants to turn an honest penny, does he? Where am I to find him?”

“He’ll be at home. He’s living with his father at the head of East Street—a single red house on the left-hand side just beyond the town.”

In the leisurely, holiday-like way he had adopted, French crossed the town and half an hour later had introduced himself to Mr. Alfred Beer. Lizzie’s Alf was a stalwart young man with a heavy face and a sullen, discontented expression. French, sizing him up rapidly, decided that the suave method would scarcely meet the case.

“You are Alfred Beer, engaged to Lizzie Johnston, the former servant at Mr. Berlyn’s?” he began.

“That’s right, mister.”

“I am a police officer investigating the deaths of Mr. Berlyn and Mr. Pyke. You have some information for me?”

“I don’t altogether know that,” Beer answered, slowly. “Just wot did you want to know?”

“What you have to tell me,” French said, sharply. “You told Miss Johnston you had some information and I’ve come up to hear it.”

The man looked at him calculatingly.

“Wot do you think it might be worth to you?” he queried.

“Not a brass farthing. You should know that witnesses are not paid for their evidence. Don’t you misunderstand the situation, Beer, or you’ll find things mighty unpleasant. Come along now. Out with it.”

“How can I tell you if you won’t say wot you want?”

“I wouldn’t talk to you any more, Beer, only, I think you don’t understand where you are,” French answered, quietly. “This is a murder case. Mr. Pyke has been murdered. If you know anything that might help the police to discover the murderer and you don’t tell it, you become an accessory after the fact. Do you realise that you’d get a good spell of years for that?”

Beer gave an uncouth shrug and turned back to his digging.

“I don’t know nothing about no murder,” he declared, contemptuously. “I was just pulling Lizzie’s leg.”

“You’ve done it now,” French said, producing his card. “There’s my authority as a police officer. You’ve wasted my time and kept me back from my work. That’s obstruction and you’ll get six months for it. Come along to the station. And unless you want a couple of years you’ll come quietly.”

This was not what the man expected.

“Wot’s that?” he stammered. “You ain’t going to arrest me? I ain’t done nothin’ against the law, I ain’t.”

“You’ll soon find out about that. Look sharp now. I can’t spend the day here waiting for you.”

“Aw!” The man shifted nervously. “See, mister, I ain’t done no harm, I ain’t. I don’t know nothing about no murder. I don’t, honest.”

“I don’t want to be hard on you,” French answered. “If you tell your story without any more humbugging I’ll let the rest go. But I warn you, you needn’t start inventing any yarn. What you say will be gone into, and Heaven help you if it’s not true.”

“I’ll take my davy it’s true, mister, but it ain’t about no murder.”

“Well, get along sharp and let’s hear it.”

“It was one night about six months ago,” said Beer, now speaking almost eagerly. “Me and Lizzie were walking out at that time. Well, that night we’d fixed up for to go for a walk, and then at the last minute she couldn’t get away. Mrs. Berlyn was goin’ out or somethin’, and she couldn’t get off. We’d ’ad it fixed up that when that ’appened Lizzie would come down to the shrubbery after the rest ’ad gone to bed. Well, I wanted to see ’er that night for to fix up some little business between ourselves, so I went up to the ’ouse and gave the sign—three taps with a tree branch at ’er window. You understand?”

French nodded.

“Well, I went back into the shrubbery for to wait for her. It was dark, but a quiet night. An’ then I ’eard voices an’ steps comin’ along the path. So I got behind a bush so as they’d not see me. There was a man and a woman, an’ when they came close I knew them by their voices. It was Pyke and Mrs. Berlyn. I stayed still an’ they passed me close.”

“Go ahead. Did you hear what they said, or what are you getting at?”

“I ’eard wot they said when they were passing. ‘I tell you ’e knows,’ she said. ‘I’m frightened,’ she said. ‘You don’t know him. If ’e once thinks you’ve played ’im false ’e’ll make a ’ell of a trouble.’ An’ then Pyke says: ‘Nonsense!’ ’e said. ‘’E’s not that sort. Besides,’ ’e said, ‘’e don’t know anything. ’E knows we’re friends, but that’s all.’ ‘No,’ she said, ‘I’m sure ’e knows or ’e guesses, anyway. We’ll ’ave to separate,’ she said. ’E said they ’ad been careful enough, and then they went past an’ I didn’t ’ear no more.”

“That all?”

“That’s all,” said Beer, disgustedly. “Ain’t it enough?”

“Nothing to boast about,” French replied, absently. He remembered that the man had been dismissed by Berlyn and he wondered if this statement was merely the result of spite. He therefore questioned him closely. But he was unable to shake him and he formed the opinion that the story was true.

If so, it certainly had a pretty direct bearing on the theory he was trying to evolve, for there could be little doubt as to who “’e” was. As he considered the matter he was surprised to find how complete that theory was and how much of it had been definitely established. There were gaps, of course, but there was no doubt as to its general correctness.

As French now saw it, the affair stood as follows:

Stanley Pyke and Phyllis Berlyn, friends during childhood, find that they love each other when they renew their acquaintance in later years. But it is then too late for the course of true love to run smooth and a clandestine attachment follows. Berlyn learns of this some four months before the tragedy and as a result of his interference the two decide to discontinue their meetings—in public, at all events. The flirtation with Colonel Domlio is possibly deliberately undertaken by Mrs. Berlyn to prove to her husband that her interest in Pyke is over.

But the two find that they cannot give each other up and the intrigue is continued secretly. Berlyn, however, is not hoodwinked. He sees his friend betraying him and he determines on vengeance.

His first move is to get an accomplice to assist in the details. Here French admitted to himself that he was out of his depth. He could not imagine who the accomplice was or why he should have been required. But if Berlyn were guilty, the murder was clearly a two-man job. Simultaneous activities in different places proved it.

The arrangements about the crate are next made. French was aware that these had not yet been properly followed up; other matters had been more urgent. But they represented a second string to his bow which he would develop if necessary.

Then comes the night of the crime. While Berlyn and Pyke are at Tavistock, the accomplice drugs the watchman’s food. He then waits for the car. Pyke is sandbagged and his body carried into the works. One of the men then unpacks the crate, and taking the duplicator to pieces, returns the larger parts to stock. He has already doctored the cards, as well, necessarily, as the corresponding books. He then strips the recognisable clothes off the body, puts the latter in the crate, smashes in the face, closes the crate, and leaves all as before. Finally he escapes with Berlyn’s outer clothes and the smaller parts of the duplicator. He has only to get rid of these and his part in the ghastly business is complete.

In the meantime his confederate has driven the car out to a lonely part of the moor, changed the magneto, and made the tracks leading from the road.

The facts which pointed to Berlyn’s guilt were sixfold:

1. Berlyn in all probability was consumed by jealousy, one of the strongest of human motives for crime.

2. Berlyn had an unparalleled opportunity for the deed, which only he could have arranged.

3. It was not easy to see how anyone but Berlyn could have handled the magneto affair.

4. Berlyn had the necessary position in the Veda Works to carry out the watchman and stock-card episodes.

5. Berlyn answered the description of the man who had called for the crate.

6. Berlyn had disappeared, an incomprehensible action if he were innocent.

As French thought again over the accomplice, he recognised that here was the snag in his theory. Motives of personal jealousy and private wrong leave no room for an accomplice. Moreover, it was incredible that a man who had shown such ingenuity could not have devised a scheme to carry out the crime single-handed.

But though French recognised that there were points in the case as yet unexplained, he saw that his own procedure was clear. He must start the search for Berlyn and he must learn the identity of the accomplice.

The first of these was easy. He had compiled a pretty accurate description of the junior partner and Daw had got hold of his photograph. A note in the _Police Gazette_ would start every police officer in the country on the search.

The second problem he found more difficult. Rack his brains as he would, he could think of no one who might have helped Berlyn.

He thought his next plan would be an enquiry into the whereabouts at ten o’clock, on the night of the crime, of everyone whom it was possible to suspect. That, coupled with an investigation as to who was in London when the various letters were posted, should yield results.

The fact that a number of possible suspects had been at Mrs. Berlyn’s party from eight to eleven on the fatal evening seemed to rule them out. But French thought he should get some more definite information on the point. Accordingly, he went up to the works and asked for Mr. Fogden, one of those whom Lizzie Johnston had mentioned as being present.

“I heard a peculiar story about Mrs. Berlyn,” he said _a propos_ of nothing special when they had talked for some time. “I was told she had a premonition of Mr. Berlyn’s death and was miserable and upset all that evening of the crime. A peculiar thing, if true, isn’t it?”

“Who told you that?” Mr. Fogden asked, sceptically.

“A chance remark in the bar of the Silver Tiger; I don’t know the speaker’s name nor, of course, do I know if his story was true.”

“Well, you may take it from me that it wasn’t. I was at Mrs. Berlyn’s that evening and there was nothing wrong with her that I saw.”

This gave French his lead. When he left the office he had obtained all the details of the party that he wanted. On the day before the crime Mr. Fogden had had a telephone call from Mrs. Berlyn saying that Berlyn was to be out on the following evening and that she would be alone, and asking if he and one or two of the others would come and keep her company. Eight people had turned up, including himself, Cowls and Leacock from the works, a Dr. Lancaster and his wife, and two Miss Pyms and a Miss Nesbitt from the town. All these people were very intimate and the party was quite informal. Some of them had played billiards, and the others bridge.

This information seemed to French to eliminate Fogden, Cowls, and Leacock, as well, of course, as Mrs. Berlyn herself. He spent the remainder of the day in racking his brains for other possible accomplices and in thinking out ways to learn their movements on the night in question.

Next morning he took up the matter of the whereabouts of all suspects when the incriminating letters were posted in London.

Fortunately, the enquiry presented but little difficulty. A further application to Mr. Fogden revealed the fact there was an attendance book at the works which all the officers signed, from Mr. Fogden himself down. This book showed that everyone concerned was in Ashburton on the dates of posting. Even Stanley Pyke, who was absent five days out of six on his rounds, had been there. Further, Mr. Fogden’s diary showed that he had had interviews with Colonel Domlio on the critical days. From Lizzie Johnston, French learned that Mrs. Berlyn had also been at home during the period.

French was more puzzled than ever. It looked as if someone must have been mixed up in the affair of whose existence he was still in ignorance.

Just as he was about to step into bed that night an idea struck him which gave him sharply to think. As he considered it he began to wonder if his whole view of the crime were not mistaken. He suddenly saw that the facts could bear a quite different interpretation from that which he had placed upon them, an interpretation, moreover, which would go far towards solving the problem of the accomplice.

Once again he swung from depression to optimism as, chuckling gently to himself, he decided that next morning he would embark on a line of enquiry which up to the present he had been stupid enough entirely to overlook.

Chapter Thirteen

The Accomplice?

French’s new idea had been subconsciously in his mind from the very first, but probably owing to his theory of the guilt of one of the two men supposed to be lost, he had never given it the consideration he now saw that it deserved.

Suppose that on the night of the tragedy the lines of footprints had not been faked. Suppose that after leaving the car the two men had walked across the moor _and reached Domlio’s_. Suppose that Domlio was the moving spirit in the affair and Berlyn merely the accomplice.

This idea, French thought, would account not only for the facts which his previous theory had covered, but also for nearly all of those which the latter had failed to meet.

As before, the affair hinged on the fatal attractiveness of Phyllis Berlyn, but in this case Domlio was the victim. Suppose Domlio had fallen desperately in love with Phyllis and that she had encouraged him. So far from this being unlikely, the facts bore it out. Different witnesses had testified to the flirtation and Mrs. Berlyn herself had not denied it.

Domlio then would see that there was a double barrier to the realisation of his desires. There was of course Berlyn, but if Berlyn were out of the way there was still Pyke. How far Mrs. Berlyn loved Pyke, Domlio might not know, but their “affair” was common knowledge and he would want to be on the safe side. If murder were the way out in one case, why not in both? The risk was probably no greater, and once both his rivals were out of the way, his own happiness was secured.

His plan decided on, he would approach his friend Berlyn with insidious suggestions as to the part Pyke was playing with his wife. Gradually he would let it be known that he also had occasion to hate Pyke—obviously for some quite different reason. He would feed the other’s jealousy until at last Berlyn would be as ready for the crime as he was himself. Then he would put forward his proposals.

Pyke was a cause of misery in both their lives; they would combine to remove his evil influence.

Between them they would obtain and damage the spare magneto, then arrange the visit to Tavistock and the ordering of the crate and crane lorry. Berlyn would require Pyke to accompany him to Tavistock. All would be done without raising suspicion.

On the fatal night Domlio would go to the works and drug Gurney’s supper. Later on, during the run back from Tavistock, Berlyn would stop the car and pretend to Pyke that it had broken down. He would suggest looking up Domlio, who would certainly run them into Ashburton in his own car. A light in the colonel’s study would lead them direct to his French window and Domlio would admit them without letting his servants know of their call.

Domlio would immediately get out his car and they would start for the town. A sandbag would be in the car and on the way Pyke would be done to death. The two men would then leave the car in some deserted place, and carrying the body to the works, would pack it in the crate. When the ghastly work was done they would return to the car, taking with them Pyke’s suit and the small parts of the duplicator. These they would get rid of later. Lastly they would change the magneto on Berlyn’s car.

So far French was well pleased with his new theory, but he realised that it contained a couple of nasty snags.

In the first place, it did not account satisfactorily for the disappearance of Berlyn. Presumably Domlio had manœuvred his colleague into such a position that he could give him away to the police with safety to himself. Berlyn would therefore have to do the other’s bidding, which would be to disappear and to get rid of the crate. This was possible, but there was not a shred of proof that it had happened.