Chapter II: Part 2

The murderer’s object was to get rid of the crate. Would he, therefore, choose a rising or half tide which might drift it back inshore? Surely not; he would select one which would take it as far as possible out to sea. French felt that only ebb tides need be considered. He turned again to Manners.

“I suppose a good ebb develops some strong currents in these channels?”

“You may say so, Mr. French. An average of five knots you may reckon on. A deal faster than you could walk.”

“Five knots an hour?”

“No, sir. Five knots. It’s like this ’ere. A knot ain’t a distance; it’s a speed. If I say five knots I mean five sea miles an hour.”

“A sea mile is longer than an ordinary one?”

“That’s right. It varies in different places, but you may take it as six thousand and eighty feet ’ere.”

French made a short calculation.

“That is about five and three-quarters English miles per hour,” he remarked as he scaled this distance up the Inlet from the position of the crate. And then his interest quickened suddenly.

A little over five miles from the point at which the crate had sunk the estuary narrowed to less than a quarter of a mile in width. At this point it was crossed by two bridges, carrying, respectively, the main road and the railway between Swansea and Llanelly. Had the crate been thrown from one of these?

French saw at once that no more suitable place for the purpose could be found. Objects pushed in from the bank would tend to hug the shore and to be caught in backwaters or eddies. Moreover, even if they escaped such traps they would not travel at anything like the maximum speed of the current. But from a bridge they could be dropped into the middle of the stream where the flow was quickest.

“What about the bridge up at Loughor?” he asked. “If the crate was dropped off that on an ebb tide, do you think it would get down all right?”

Manners was impressed by the suggestion. Given a good ebb, about an hour should carry the crate to where it was found. French rose with sudden energy.

“Let’s go and see the place. How soon can we get there?”

By a stroke of luck a train was approaching as they entered the station, and twenty minutes later they reached their destination.

Loughor proved to be a straggling village situated on the left bank of the estuary where the latter made a right-angled bend towards the north. The two bridges ran side by side and a couple of hundred yards apart. That carrying the road was a fine wide structure of ferro-concrete, fairly new and leading directly into the village. The railway bridge was lower downstream, considerably older, and supported on timber piles. Both were about three hundred yards long, and built with short spans and many piers. The tide was out and the usual wide mudbanks were exposed on either shore.

Directly French saw the spot he felt that here indeed was what he sought. On a dark night it would have been easy to drop the crate from the road bridge in absolute secrecy. Nor, as far as he could see from the map, was there any other place from which it could have been done.

He had assumed that the criminal would select an ebb tide for his attempt, in order to ensure the crate being carried as far as possible out to sea. For the same reason French believed he would choose the time of its most rapid run. That time must also be in the dead of night to minimise the risk of discovery from passing road traffic. From 2 to 4 A.M. would probably best meet the conditions, as the chances were a thousand to one that the road would then be deserted.

French wondered if he could get anything from these considerations. He turned to Manners.

“I suppose it takes a bit of time to get up a good run in an estuary like this? How soon after high water would you say the current was running at full speed under the bridge?”

“From one to two hours, more or less.”

One to two hours previous to the period 2 to 4 A.M. meant between midnight and 3 A.M.

“Now, Mr. Manners, can you tell me whether high water fell between twelve and three on any night about five or six weeks ago?”

Manners once more produced his tide table.

“Five or six weeks ago,” he repeated, slowly. “That would be between the sixteenth and the twenty-third of August.” He ran his stubby finger up the pages, then read out: “‘Twenty-first, Sunday, O point five—that’s five minutes past midnight, you understand. Twenty-second, Monday, one-twenty-three A.M.; twenty-third, Tuesday, two-fifty-five A.M.’ ’Ow would that suit you, sir?”

“All right, I think,” French answered as he noted the three dates. “Any of those top springs?”

“No, sir; you don’t get ’igh water of springs at night. ’Bout six or seven o’clock it runs. Those dates wot I gave you are about dead neaps.”

“But there is still a strong flow at neaps?”

“Oh, bless you, yes! Not so strong as at springs, o’ course, but plenty strong enough.”

All this seemed satisfactory to French and he felt a growing conviction that the small hours of the 21st, 22nd, or 23rd of August had witnessed the launch of the crate. But this was mere theory, and theory is popularly admitted to be worth only one-sixteenth of the value of practice. Could not he arrive at something more definite?

Suddenly he thought he saw his way.

“You say it was neap tides on those three dates in August? What rise and fall does that represent?”

“’Bout eighteen feet.”

“How soon shall we have that again?”

“Not for nearly a week we shan’t. Say next Monday.”

“I can’t wait for that. What’s the rise to-morrow?”

“Twenty-one foot, eleven.”

“And what hour is high water?”

“Eight o’clock in the morning.”

“That’ll have to do. Look, here is a bus labelled ‘Llanelly.’ Let us get aboard.”

At the police station they found not only the superintendent, but Chief Constable Lloyd.

“Glad to see you together, gentlemen,” French greeted them. “I’ve been going into the matter of tides and currents in the Inlet with Mr. Manners here, and now I want your help in trying an experiment. Manners informs me that about six weeks ago, the time at which the doctors believe our man was murdered, it was high water in the dead period of the night. To-morrow, Thursday, it will be high water at eight A.M. The maximum run out to sea, Manners says, will begin between one and two hours later, say at nine-thirty. Now, gentlemen, I want to load the crate with a weight equal to that of the body and throw it into the estuary from the Loughor bridge at nine-thirty to-morrow morning. Will you help me?”

While French had been speaking, the three men had stared uncomprehendingly, but as he reached his peroration something like admiration showed on their faces.

“Well, I’m blessed!” the superintendent said, slowly, while Major Lloyd gave the suggestion his instant approval.

“Glad you agree, gentlemen,” said French. “Now if we’re to be ready we shall want a few things arranged. First we’ll have to put stones in the crate to equal the weight of the body. Then we’ll want a carpenter to repair the top where Mr. Morgan broke it. He’ll have to make it watertight with pitch or putty or something: I don’t want it to take any water through the cracks. A lorry will also be needed to carry the crate to the bridge and three or four men to lift it over the parapet.”

“Very good,” the chief constable answered. “Nield can arrange all that. Advise him, will you, Superintendent? But you’d better see him yourself, Inspector, and make sure he forgets nothing. Anything else?”

“Yes, sir. We don’t want to lose the crate. We shall want a rope round it and a boat in attendance.”

“You can fix that up, Manners, can’t you?”

“Certainly, sir. I’ll see to it.”

“Good. I’ll come down to watch the experiment. Shall we say nine-thirty at the bridge?”

At nine o’clock next morning two vehicles left the Burry Port police station. The first was a lorry and on it stood the crate, repaired and loaded with the necessary weight of shingle, due allowance having been made for the fact that the wood was now water-logged. Behind followed a car containing French, Nield, and three constables in plain clothes.

The weather was ideal for their purpose. The fine spell had lasted and the sun shone with a summery warmth and brilliance. Not a breath of wind dulled the shining surface of the Inlet, still calm and placid from the turn of the tide. Inland the hills showed sharp against the clear blue of the sky. Out beyond the Gower Peninsula was a steamer going up to Swansea or Cardiff.

The chief constable and Superintendent Griffiths were waiting for them at Loughor. Already the tide was running swiftly, swirling and eddying round the piers of the bridge. Moored to the bank at the east end was a broad-beamed boat with Manners in the stern sheets and two oarsmen amidships.

“Good Heavens! They’ll never row against that current!” French exclaimed, aghast at the rushing flood.

“They’re not going to try,” Nield declared. “This is what I’ve arranged with Manners. He has an extra-long painter fixed to his boat. We’ll get the end up on the bridge and tie it to the crate. Then we’ll throw crate and rope over together and Manners can pull the slack of the rope into the boat and float down beside the crate.”

“Right. Let me get into the boat first and then carry on.”

French scrambled down the stone pitching of the bank and with some difficulty got aboard. The rope had been passed up to the bridge and was now worked across till the boat was nearly in midstream. Even with the help of the oarsmen it was all those above could do to hold on. Then the crate appeared rising slowly on to the parapet. Presently it turned over and fell, the rope being thrown clear at the same time.

The crate entered the water with a mighty splash, drenching the boat with spray and disappearing momentarily beneath the surface. Then it came up again, and bobbing about like some ungainly animal, began to move quickly downstream. The boatmen rowed after it, while Manners hurriedly pulled in the slack of the rope.

After the first few plunges the crate settled down on what might be called an even keel, floating placidly down the estuary. They were rapidly approaching the railway bridge, the roar of the water through the piles being already audible. The passage was not without danger and the oarsmen worked hard to keep the boat clear of the piles and to ensure its passing through the same opening as the crate. Then with a rush they were through and floating in the calm water beyond.

French enjoyed that unconventional trip down the Inlet. Apart from the interest of the quest, the glorious weather and the charming scenery made it a delightful excursion. Borne on by the current, they first hugged the salt marshes of the northern shore, then heading out towards midchannel, they passed the post on Careg-ddu and rounded the point at the Llanelly rifle range. They kept inside the long training-bank or breakwater and, passing the entrance to Llanelly harbour, stood out towards the open sea. From the water the highlands north and south looked rugged and picturesque, and even the dingy buildings of the town became idealised and seemed to fit their setting. French took frequent bearings so as to be able to plot their course on the map.

The crate had been settling down steadily, and now only about two inches of freeboard showed, every tiny wavelet washing over it. The rope had been carefully coiled so as to run out easily when the time came. Presently the crate was entirely awash and the air escaping through the upper holes bubbled as the little surges covered them. Then it was below the surface, showing like a phantom under the waves. At last, just one hour and seven minutes after they had left the bridge, it slowly vanished from sight and the rope began to run out.

“That will do,” French said as soon as he had taken bearings. “That’s all I want. We may haul it up and get ashore.”

They followed the example set by Mr. Morgan, and pulling up the crate until the top was showing beneath the surface, made the rope fast to the after-thwart and pulled for the Burry Port harbour. There they beached their burden, the sergeant undertaking to salve it when the tide fell.

French, delighted with the result of his experiment, hurried to the hotel and plotted their course on his map. And then he was more delighted still. The crate had passed within fifty yards of its previous resting-place.

It was true it had gone nearly half a mile further, but that was to be expected and was attributable to the greater fall of the tide.

That the crate had been thrown from the Loughor bridge on the night of the 21st, 22nd, or 23rd of August French had now no doubt. The first problem of the investigation had therefore been solved and he congratulated himself on having made so brilliant a start in his new case.

But as was usual in criminal investigations, the solution of one problem merely led to another: How had the crate been transported to the bridge?

There were three possibilities: by means of a handcart, a horse cart or a motor lorry. All, however, had the serious objection that it would take at least three men to lift the crate over the parapet. Murders, of course, were sometimes the work of gangs, but much more frequently they were carried out by individuals, and French would have preferred a theory which involved only one man. However, there was nothing for it but to follow the theory which he had.

As far as he could see, the only factor differentiating between the three vehicles was that of radius of operation. If a hand cart had been used the body must have been brought from Loughor, Bynea, or some other place in the immediate vicinity. The same remarks applied to a horse vehicle, though to a lesser extent. With a motor the distance travelled might have been almost anything.

French did not believe that the body could have come from anywhere near by. Had anyone disappeared or left the neighbourhood under suspicious circumstances, the police would have known about it. The motor lorry was, therefore, the more likely of the three.

He began to see the outlines of an enquiry stretching out before him. Had anyone seen a motor, loaded with something which might have been the crate, in any part of the surrounding country on the night of the 21st, 22nd, or 23rd of August?

Going to the police station, French rang up the chief constable, reported the result of the experiment, and asked him to see that his question was circulated, not only among the Carmarthenshire police, but also among those of adjoining counties. Then, thinking he had not done so badly for one day, he returned to the hotel for lunch.

A good deal of the afternoon he employed in speculating as to what he should do if there were no answer to his circular, but next morning he was delighted to find that his labour had not been in vain. Sergeant Nield appeared to say that there had just been a message from the police at Neath, saying that a lorry answering to the description had been seen on the evening of Monday, 22nd August. It was fitted with a breakdown crane and carried a large package covered with a tarpaulin which might easily have been the crate. A constable had seen it about eight at night, standing in a lane some two miles north of the town. The driver was working at the engine, which he said had been giving trouble.

“That’s a bit of good news, Sergeant,” French said, heartily. “How can I get to this Neath quickest?”

“Direct train _via_ Swansea. It’s on the main line to London.”

“Right. Look up the trains, will you, while I get ready?”

French had little doubt that he was on a hot scent. He had not thought of a portable crane, but now he saw that nothing more suitable for the purpose could be obtained. There were, he knew, cranes—auto-cranes, he believed they were called—which were fixed on lorries and used for towing disabled cars. In certain types the jibs could be raised or lowered under load. With the jib down a load could be picked up from the ground behind the lorry. The jib could then be raised to its highest position, and if the load was right up at the pulley it would clear the tail end of the lorry. When the load was lowered it would come down on the lorry. And all this could be done by one man.

As French closed his eyes he seemed to see the reverse process being carried out—a crane-lorry arriving on the Loughor bridge, stopping, backing at right angles to the road until its tail was up against the parapet—the road was wide enough to allow of it; the driver getting down, taking a tarpaulin off a crate, swinging the crate up to the pulley of his crane, lowering the jib until the crate swung suspended over the rushing flood beneath, then striking out some type of slip shackle which allowed the crate to fall clear. It was all not only possible but easy, and French had not the slightest doubt that it had been done.

A couple of hours later he was seated in the police station at Neath, listening to Constable David Jenkins’s story.

It seemed that about eight o’clock on the night of Monday, the 22nd of August, Jenkins was walking along a lane leading through a small spinney some two miles north of the town, when he came on a lorry drawn in close to one side. It was fitted with a crane such as is used for motor breakdowns, and behind the crane was an object covered with a tarpaulin. This object was rectangular shaped and about the size of the crate. There had been engine trouble which the driver was trying to make good. Jenkins paused and wished the man good night, and they talked for a few minutes. The man was slightly over middle height and rather stout, and was dressed as a lorryman—a workingman, evidently. He had reddish hair, a high colour, and glasses, and Jenkins felt sure he would know him again. The man explained that he was going from Swansea to Merthyr Tydfil and had got out of his way in trying to take a short cut. Then his engine had broken down and he was thus kept very late. But he had now found the defect and would be able to get on in a few minutes. Jenkins had stayed chatting, and in five minutes the man had said, “There, that’s got it,” and had closed up the bonnet and moved off.

“Coming from Swansea, was he?” French said. “Does that lane lead from Swansea?”

“Oh, yes, it leads from Swansea all right, but it doesn’t lead to Merthyr Tydfil.”

“Where does it lead to?”

“More like to Pontardawe.”

That was all right. French was delighted with the way news was coming in. That the constable had seen his man he did not doubt.

At the time, Jenkins went on, it had struck him as curious that a breakdown lorry should be used for transporting goods. But on reading French’s circular he had seen that here was a plant which would lift the goods over the parapet of a bridge. And when he remembered that the tarpaulin-covered object was about the size given, he felt he ought to report the occurrence.

“Quite right, constable,” French said, heartily. “I am sure your superiors will not overlook your action.”

French’s next step was clear. A crane-lorry should not be difficult to trace. He would go back to Swansea and put the necessary enquiries in train.

Chapter Four

A Change of Venue

On reaching Swansea French looked up Superintendent Howells at the police station.

“Glad to see you, Mr. French,” the superintendent greeted him. “I’ve known your name for a considerable time and since I heard you were down over this job I’ve been hoping we should meet. That Neath report any good to you?”

“I think so,” French answered. “It sounds promising, at all events. On the strength of it I’ve come in to ask for your help.”

“That’s all right. What do you want us to do?”

“I want to trace the lorry your man saw out at Neath. I’ve got his description of it, and I must say that, seeing he suspected nothing at the time, he observed it pretty closely. A smart man, Superintendent.”

“I’m glad you think so, Inspector. Right. I’ll put through a call to all stations immediately.”

“Splendid. And can you ask Superintendent Griffiths at Llanelly to advise the Carmarthen men also?”

The necessary circular drafted, the two chatted for some minutes until French excused himself on the ground that since he was at Swansea he might as well have a look round the town.

“There’s not much to see in it, Mr. French,” Howells rejoined, “but Mumbles is worth visiting. I should advise you to take a bus there and walk round the Head and back by Langland. If you’re fond of a bit of good coast you’ll enjoy it. You’ll have plenty of time before we get any replies. Sorry I can’t go with you, but I’m full up here.”

French went out, and after a stroll through some of the principal streets got on board a bus for Mumbles. There he took the walk Superintendent Howells had recommended. He enjoyed every minute of it. As he left the houses behind and the road began to rise up the side of the cliff he felt he was having one of the compensations of a country case. He walked up through the long rock cutting until at the top the wide expanse of the Bristol Channel came into view, with the islands and lighthouse off the Head in the foreground. There was some wind and the deep blue of the sea was flecked with white. He stood and watched three outward-bound steamers pitching gently in the swell, the smoke from their stacks trailing away east. Then he took the footpath round the cliffs, rising high round Rams Tor and dropping again to Langland Bay, from which another road led across the neck of the peninsula back into Mumbles. It was getting on towards five when he returned to the police station.

“You’ve come at the right time, Inspector,” Superintendent Howells greeted him. “I’ve just had two pieces of news. Your lorry was seen twice. About five o’clock on Monday evening, 22nd August, the evening in question, it was seen by one of our men passing through Morriston. Morriston is a town some two miles north of Swansea; indeed, it is really a suburb. The lorry came from the Swansea direction and turned east at Morriston towards Neath. It was then carrying the tarpaulin-covered object.”

“Then it started from Swansea?”

“Looks like it. And it looks as if it finished up at Swansea also. It was seen again on the following morning. About ten o’clock a patrol saw a breakdown lorry coming towards Swansea along the Pontardulais road. It corresponded with the description in every respect except that it was carrying the tarpaulin only.”

“By Jove! Superintendent, that’s good. It won’t be long till we run it to earth. I take it there are not many breakdown lorries in Swansea.”

“Give you a list in half an hour.” He touched a bell. “Here, Thomas, start in and ring up all the local garages and find out how many have repair lorries. You know what I mean, fitted with cranes. And see here. You needn’t worry about any with fixed jibs—only those that can be raised and lowered. Got that?”

The constable saluted smartly and withdrew. Howells turned to French and was beginning a remark, when his desk telephone rang.

“Yes. Superintendent Howells speaking. . . . Yes. . . . Gorseinon. . . . Yes. . . . What time was that? . . . Very good, I’ve got you.” He rang off. “There’s another, Mr. French. I think you’re all right this time. At half past twelve that same Monday night a patrol found your lorry in another lane, also hidden by trees. It was a mile or so east of a little place called Gorseinon: that’s about five miles northeast of Loughor. It was standing in the lane and the driver was working at his engine. Our men stopped and spoke, and the driver said he had been on a job out beyond Llandilo and was returning to Swansea. The description matches and the crate was then on the lorry.”

“Fine!” French exclaimed. “That settles it. He was evidently going round killing time until it was late enough to throw in the crate. Could we fix his course from all those places you mentioned?”

“Pretty nearly, I think. Here is a map of the district. He seems to have just made a circle from Swansea to Loughor _via_ Morriston, Neath, Pontardawe and Gorseinon: say twenty-five miles altogether. Goodness knows how he returned, but it may have been through Bynea and Pontardulais. We may take it he made another détour, anyhow.”

“He made a blunder going with the lorry in that open way,” French said, grimly.

“I don’t see what else he could have done. But I bet he wasn’t worrying much about being seen. He was banking on the crate not being found.”

“You’re right, and on odds he was justified. It was by a pretty thin chance that it was discovered. I was saying that to Nield—how the one unlikely chance that a man overlooks or discounts is the one that gets him.”

“That’s a fact, Inspector, and it’s lucky for us it is so. I remember once when——”

But French was not destined to hear the superintendent’s reminiscence. The telephone bell once again rang stridently.

“Got it in one,” Howells observed after listening to the message. “There is only one lorry in Swansea fitted with a movable crane, and it is owned by Messrs. Llewellyn of Fisher Street. Moreover, it was hired about four o’clock on the afternoon of that Monday, twenty-second August, and returned next morning. Will you see them now? If so, I’ll come along and show you the place.”

They soon reached Fisher Street, where was a large garage bearing the name, “The Stepney Motor Car Co.” The superintendent, entering, asked for Mr. Llewellyn.

The proprietor looked thrilled when he learned French’s business.

“By Jove! You don’t say that that crate was carried on my lorry!” he exclaimed. “I read about its discovery, and a dam’ good tale it made. How did you find out so much?”

“I’ve not proved anything,” French replied. “The whole thing is pure suspicion. But you may lead me to certainty. I’d be obliged if you would tell me what took place.”

“Surely. I’ll tell you all I can, but it won’t be much.” He opened a daybook and ran down the items. “The 22nd of August,” he went on. “Yes, here it is. We hired out the lorry on that date. But it was ordered beforehand. We got a letter several days before from London from one of the big hotels, signed Stewart, asking if we had a breakdown lorry for hire, and if so, at what rate. It particularised one with a movable jib which would pick up a load from the ground and set it on the lorry table. The machine would be wanted on the afternoon of the 22nd for one day only. If we agreed, the writer’s man would call for it about four on that afternoon and would return it before midday on the 23rd. As the writer was a stranger, he would be willing to deposit whatever sum we thought fair as a guaranty. The lorry was wanted to pick up a special machine which the writer was expecting by sea from London, and carry it to his place in Brecknock, where it was to be lowered on to a foundation. As it was part of an invention he was perfecting, he didn’t want any strangers about. He made it a condition, therefore, that his man would drive.

“It wasn’t a very usual request, but it seemed reasonable enough, and of course it was none of my business what he wanted the machine for. At first I wasn’t very keen on letting it go, but I thought if he would pay a deposit of three hundred pounds and five pounds for the hire, I should be safely covered. It was only a Ford ton truck with the crane added. I wrote him the conditions and he replied agreeing to the figures and asking that the lorry should be ready at the hour mentioned.

“At the time stated a man came in and said he had been sent for the machine by his employer, Mr. Stewart. He produced the three hundred pounds and I gave him a receipt. Then he drove away.

“Next day about ten-thirty he came back and said he had got done earlier than he expected. I had the lorry examined, and when I found it was all right I paid him back two hundred and ninety-five pounds. He returned me my receipt and went out, and that was all about it.”

“It’s a pleasure to get a clear statement like that, Mr. Llewellyn,” French said, with his friendly smile, “and it’s surprising how seldom one does get it. There are just one or two further points I should like information on. Have you got those letters from the London hotel?”

“No, I’m afraid they’re destroyed. They were kept until the transaction was finished and then burned.”

“But you have the address?”

“Mr. John F. Stewart, St. Pancras Hotel, London.”

“You might give me the dates of the correspondence.”

This also the owner was able to do, and French added them to his notes.

“Can you describe the hand they were written in?”

“They were typewritten.”

“Purple or black ribbon?”

Mr. Llewellyn hesitated.

“Black, I think, but I couldn’t be sure.”

“Now about the driver. Can you describe him?”

“He was a middling tall man, middling stout also. His hair was red and his complexion fresh, and he wore glasses.”

“His dress?”

“I could hardly describe it. He was dressed like a well-to-do labourer or a small jobbing contractor or something of that sort. He was untidy and I remember thinking that he wanted a shave pretty badly. I took him for a gardener or general man about a country place.”

“You couldn’t guess where he had come from by his accent?”

“No, I couldn’t tell. He wasn’t local, but that’s all I could say.”

“The same man came back next day?”

“Yes.”

“Had you any conversation with him on either occasion?”

“No, except that he explained about lowering the machine on to the foundation, same as in the letter.”

This seemed to French to be all he could get, and after some further talk he and the superintendent took their leave.

“He’s loaded up the crate here in Swansea, at all events,” French exclaimed when they were in the street. “That seems to postulate docks and stations. I wonder if I can trespass still further on your good nature, Superintendent?”

“Of course. I’ll send men round first thing to-morrow. It’s too late to-night; all the places would be shut.”

“Thanks. Then I’ll turn up early in the morning.”

At the nearest telegraph office French sent a message to the Yard to have enquiries made at the St. Pancras Hotel as to the mysterious Mr. John F. Stewart. Then, tired from his exertions, he returned to his hotel at Burry Port.

Early next morning he was back in Swansea. It was decided that with a constable who knew the docks he, French, was to apply at the various steamship offices, while other men were to try the railway stations and road transport agencies. If these failed, the local firms and manufacturers who usually sent out their products in crates were to be called on. French did not believe that the search would be protracted.

This view speedily proved correct. He had visited only three offices when a constable arrived with a message. News of the crate had been obtained at the Morriston Road Goods Station.

Fifteen minutes later French reached the place. He was met at the gate by Sergeant Jefferies, who had made the discovery.

“I asked in the goods office first, sir,” the sergeant explained, “but they didn’t remember anything there. Then I came out to the yard and began enquiring from the porters. At the fifth shot I found a man who remembered loading the crate. I didn’t question him further, but sent you word.”

“That was right, Sergeant. We shall soon get what we want. This the man?”

“Yes, sir.”

French turned to a thick set man in the uniform of a goods porter, who was standing expectantly by.

“Good day,” he said, pleasantly. “I want to know what you can tell me about that crate that was loaded upon a crane lorry about six weeks ago.”

“I can’t tell you nothing about it except that I helped for to get it loaded up,” the porter answered. “I was trucking here when Mr. Evans came up; he’s one o’ the clerks, you understand. Well, he came up and handed me a waybill and sez: ‘Get out that crate,’ he sez, ‘an’ get it loaded up on this lorry,’ he sez. So I calls two or three o’ the boys to give me a hand and we gets it loaded up. An’ that’s all I knows about it.”

“That’s all right. Now just take me along to Mr. Evans, will you?”

The man led the way across the yard to the office. Mr. Evans was only a junior, but this fact did not prevent French from treating him with his usual courtesy. He explained that the youth had it in his power to give him valuable help for which he would be very grateful. The result was that Evans instantly became his eager ally, willing to take any trouble to find out what was required.

The youth remembered the details of the case. It appeared that shortly after four o’clock one afternoon some five or six weeks previously a man called for a crate. He was of rather above medium height and build, with reddish hair and a high colour and wore glasses. He sounded to Evans like a Londoner. At all events, he was not a native. Evans had looked up the waybills and had found that a package had been invoiced to some one of the name given. The crate answered the man’s description, and was carriage paid and addressed, “To be called for.” Evans had, therefore, no hesitation in letting him have it. Unfortunately, he could not remember the stranger’s name, but he would search for it through the old waybills.

He vanished for a few minutes, then returned with a bulky volume which he set down triumphantly before French.

“There you are,” he exclaimed, pointing to an item. “‘Mr. James S. Stephenson, Great Western Railway Goods Station, Morriston Road, Swansea. To be called for.’ ‘Stephenson’ was the name. I remember it now.”

This was good enough as far as it went, but Evans’s next answer was the one that really mattered.

“Who was the sender?” French asked, with thinly veiled eagerness.

“‘The Veda Office Equipment Manufacturing Co., Ltd., Ashburton, South Devon,’” read Evans.

The name seemed dimly familiar to French, but he could not remember where he had heard it. Evans went on to say that the crate was invoiced from Ashburton on Tuesday, 16th August, and had reached Swansea on Saturday, 20th. Carriage had been paid by the Veda Company and the whole transaction had been conducted in a perfectly ordinary and regular way.

French left the goods office, and at the nearest telephone call office rang up the police station in Ashburton. After a considerable delay he got through. Would the sergeant enquire for him whether the Veda Company had sent out a crate on the 16th August last, addressed to the Morriston Road Goods Station, Swansea, to be called for, and if so, what was in this crate and who had ordered it.

For nearly three hours he hung about the police station before being recalled to the telephone. The Ashburton sergeant reported that he had been to the Veda Works and that the manager confirmed the sending out of the crate. It contained a large duplicator, a specialty of the firm’s. The machine had been ordered by letter from the Euston Hotel by a Mr. James S. Stephenson. He enclosed the money, £62.10.0, stating that they were to send it to the Morriston Road Goods Station in Swansea, labelled, “To be kept till called for.” It was to be there not later than on the 20th August, and he would call for it when the ship by which he intended to despatch it was ready to sail.

The news did not seem very hopeful to French as over a belated lunch he discussed it with Howells.

“This opens a second line of enquiry at Ashburton,” he began, “but I do not think, somehow, that we shall get much from it. I believe the real scent lies here.”

“Why so? I should have said it depended on what was in the crate when it reached Swansea. And that’s just what we don’t know.”

“I agree. But to me that sergeant’s report sounds as if things at Ashburton were O.K. If so, it follows that the body was put in sometime during that lorry run from Swansea to Loughor. But that doesn’t rule out enquiries at Ashburton. Even if I am right, something may be learned from the order for the machine.”

“Quite. Both ends will have to be worked. And how do you propose to do it?”

“Can’t you guess?” French said, blandly. “Surely there can be but one answer. I couldn’t hope to do it without the able and distinguished help of Superintendent Howells.”

The other laughed.

“I thought it was shaping to that. Well, what do you want me to do?”

“Trace the run, Superintendent. You can do it in a way I couldn’t attempt. I would suggest that with a map we work out the area which could have been visited during that night, allowing time for unpacking the duplicating machine and putting the body in its place. Then I think this area should be combed. If murder has taken place, you’ll hear of it.”

“And you?”

“I shall go to Ashburton, learn what I can from the order, and, if it seems worth while, follow it up to London. Then I’ll come back here and join forces with you. Of course we shall have to get Superintendent Griffiths on the job also.”

After some further discussion this program was agreed to. French, with the superintendent’s help, was to estimate the area to be covered and to organise the search. To-morrow was Sunday, and if by Monday evening nothing had come of it he was to leave Howells to carry on while he paid his visits to Ashburton and if necessary to London.

The longest unknown period of the lorry’s operations being from 8.30 to 12.30 at night, this was taken as being the ruling factor in the case. During these four hours the machine had travelled from Neath to Gorseinon, a distance of about twenty-five miles. About two hours would be accounted for by the journey and the changing of the contents of the crate, leaving two or more hours for additional running—an hour out and an hour back. This meant a radius of about twenty-five miles. The problem, therefore, was to make an intensive search of the country within, say, thirty miles of Swansea.

This was a large area and the work involved the coöperation of a good many men. However, with Superintendent Howells’s help it was arranged, and by that evening operations were everywhere in progress.

During the whole of the next two days French remained on the job, working out possible routes for the lorry and making special enquiries along them. But no further information was obtained, and when Monday evening came without result he decided that unless he heard something next morning he would start for Ashburton.

But next morning news had come in which made a visit there essential. It appeared that about 9.30 on the evening in question the lorry had been seen standing in the same lane at Gorseinon in which, three hours later, the police patrol had found it. A labourer reported that he had passed it on his way home. As he approached, the driver was sitting on the step, but, on seeing him, the man had jumped up and busied himself with the engine. The labourer had passed on out of sight, but, his way taking him along a path at right angles to the lane, he had looked back across country and noticed the driver again seated on the step and lighting a cigarette. The position of the lorry was the same then as three hours later, and the conclusion that it had not moved during the whole period seemed unavoidable.

But if so, it made it much less likely that the body had been put into the crate during the motor drive. The time available would have been so short that the area in which the change could have been made would have been very small indeed. The chances of a disappearance remaining unknown to the police would, therefore, have been correspondingly reduced. For the first time French began to consider seriously the possibility that the body had come from Devonshire.

While, therefore, Superintendent Howells in no way relaxed his efforts, French took an early train south. He was in a thoughtful mood as they pulled out of the station. This, it was evident, was going to be one of those troublesome cases in which an ingenious criminal had enveloped his evil deeds in a network of false clues and irrelevant circumstances to mislead the unfortunate detective officer to whom an investigation into them might afterward be assigned. Confound it all! It was not long since he had got rid of that terribly involved affair at Starvel in Yorkshire, and here was another that bade fair to be as bad. However, such was life, and worrying wouldn’t alter it. He was starting on an interesting journey and he might as well forget his case and make the most of the scenery.

Chapter Five

Messrs. Berlyn and Pyke

Shortly before six o’clock that evening French stepped out of the train at the little terminus of Ashburton.

He had enjoyed his run, particularly the latter portion through the charming South Devonshire scenery, along the coast under the red cliffs of Dawlish and Teignmouth, and then inland through the well-wooded hills of Newton Abbot and Totnes. He was pleased, too, with the appearance of Ashburton, a town T-shaped in plan and squeezed down into the narrow valleys between three hills. He admired its old world air and its pleasant situation as he walked up the street to the Silver Tiger, the hotel to which he had been recommended.

After a leisurely dinner he went out for a stroll, ending up shortly after dark at the police station. Sergeant Daw had gone home, but a constable was despatched for him and presently he turned up.

“I went to the works at once, sir,” he explained in answer to French’s question. “They’re out at the end of North Street. A big place for so small a town. They employ a hundred or more men and a lot of women and girls. A great benefit to the town, sir.”

“And whom did you see?”

“I saw Mr. Fogden, the sales manager. He turned up the information without delay. The duplicator was ordered from London and he showed me the letter. You can see it if you go up to-morrow. There was nothing out of the way about the transaction. They packed the machine and sent it off, and that was all they could tell me.”

Suspiciously like a wild-goose chase, thought French as he chatted pleasantly with the sergeant. Like his _confrère_ at Burry Port, the man seemed more intelligent and better educated than most rural policemen. They discussed the weather and the country for some time and then French said:

“By the way, Sergeant, the name of this Veda Works seemed vaguely familiar when you telephoned it. Has it been in the papers lately or can you explain how I should know it?”

“No doubt, sir, you read of the sad accident we had here about six weeks ago—a tragedy, if I may put it so. Two of the gentlemen belonging to the works—Mr. Berlyn, the junior partner, and Mr. Pyke, the travelling representative—lost their lives on the moor. Perhaps you recall it, sir?”

Of course! The affair now came back to French. So far as he could recall the circumstances, the two men had been driving across Dartmoor at night, and while still several miles from home their car had broken down. They had attempted to reach the house of a friend by crossing a bit of the moor, but in the dark they had missed their way, and getting into one of the soft “mires,” had been sucked down and lost.

“I read of it, yes. Very sad thing. Unusual, too, was it not?”

“Yes, sir, for those who live about here know the danger and they don’t go near these doubtful places at night. But animals sometimes get caught. I’ve seen a pony go down myself, and I can tell you, sir, I don’t wish to see another. It was a slow business, and the worse the creature struggled the tighter it got held. But when it comes to human beings it’s a thing you don’t like to think about.”

“That’s a fact, Sergeant. By the way, it’s like a dream to me that I once met those two gentlemen. I wish you’d describe them.”

“They were not unlike so far as figure and build were concerned; about five feet nine or five feet ten in height, I should say, though Mr. Berlyn was slightly the bigger man. But their colouring was different. Mr. Berlyn had a high colour and blue eyes and reddish hair, while Mr. Pyke was sallow, with brown eyes and hair.”

“Did Mr. Berlyn wear glasses?” French asked, with difficulty keeping the eagerness out of his voice.

“No, sir. Neither of them did that.”

“I don’t think they can be the men I met. Well, I’ll go up and see this Mr. Fogden in the morning. Good night, Sergeant.”

“Good night, sir. If there’s anything I can do I take it you’ll let me know.”

But French next morning did not go to the office equipment works. Instead he took an early bus to Torquay, and calling at the local office of the _Western Morning News_, asked to see their recent files. These he looked over, finally buying all the papers which contained any reference to the tragic deaths of Messrs. Berlyn and Pyke.

He had no suspicions in the matter except that here was a disappearance of two persons about the time of the murder, one of whom answered to the description of the man who had called for the crate. No one appeared to doubt their death on the moor, but—their bodies had not been found. French wished to know what was to be known about the affair before going to the works, simply to be on the safe side.

He retired to the smoking room of the nearest hotel and began to read up his papers. At once he discovered a fact which he thought deeply significant. The tragedy had taken place on the night of Monday, the 15th August. And it was on the following day, Tuesday, the 16th, that the crate had been despatched from Ashburton.

The case was exhaustively reported, and after half an hour’s reading French knew all that the reporters had gleaned. Briefly, the circumstances were as follow:

Charles Berlyn, as has been said, was junior partner of the firm. He was a man of about forty and he looked after the commercial side of the undertaking. Stanley Pyke was an engineer who acted as technical travelling representative, a younger man, not more than five and thirty. Each had a high reputation for character and business efficiency.

It happened that for some time previous to the date in question the Urban District Council of Tavistock had been in communication with the Veda Works relative to the purchase of filing cabinets and other office appliances for their clerk. There had been a hitch in the negotiations and Mr. Berlyn had arranged to attend the next meeting of the council in the hope of settling the matter. As some of the council members were farmers, busy during that season in the daytime, the meeting was held in the evening. Mr. Berlyn arranged to motor over, Mr. Pyke accompanying him.

The two men left the works at half past five, their usual hour. Each dined early and they set out in Mr. Berlyn’s car about seven. They expected to reach Tavistock at eight, at which hour the meeting was to begin. After their business was finished they intended to call on a mill owner just outside Tavistock in connection with a set of loose-leaf forms he had ordered. The mill owner was a personal friend of Mr. Berlyn’s and they intended to spend the evening with him, leaving about eleven and reaching home about midnight.

This program they carried out faithfully, at least in its earlier stages. They reached Tavistock just as the meeting of the Urban Council was beginning, and settled the business of the office appliances. Then they went on to the mill owner’s, arranged about the loose-leaf forms, and sat chatting over cigars and drinks until shortly before eleven. At precisely ten-fifty they set off on their return journey, everything connected with them being perfectly normal and in order.

They were never seen again.

Mrs. Berlyn went to bed at her ordinary time, but, waking up shortly before three and finding that Mr. Berlyn had not returned, she immediately grew anxious. It was so unlike him to fail to carry out his plans that his absence suggested disaster. She hastily put on some clothes and went out to the garage, and on finding that the car was not there she woke the servant and said she was going to the police. Without waiting for the girl to dress, she went out and knocked up Sergeant Daw at his little cottage.

Though the sergeant did his best to reassure her, he was by no means easy in his own mind. The road from Tavistock to Ashburton is far from safe, especially for night motoring. It is terribly hilly and winding and at night extraordinarily deserted. An accident might easily happen and in such lonely country, hours might pass before its discovery.

The sergeant at once called a colleague and the two men started off on motor bicycles to investigate. About eight miles out on the moor they came to Mr. Berlyn’s car standing close up to the side of the road, as if drawn out of the way of passing traffic. It was heavily coated with dew and looked as if it had been there for hours. The engine and radiator were cold and there was no sign of either of its occupants.

At the side of the road was a patch of gravelly soil mixed with peat, and across it, leading from the road out over the moor, were two lines of footsteps. The prints were not sufficiently sharp to give detailed impressions, but the sergeant had no doubt as to whom they belonged. He tried to follow them over the moor, but the grass was too rough to allow of this.

But he soon realised what had happened. Three-quarters of a mile across the moor, in the direction in which the footsteps pointed, lived the senior partner of the Veda Company, Colonel Domlio. His was the only house in the neighbourhood, and it was, therefore, natural that if from a breakdown of the car or other reason the travellers had got into difficulties, they should go to him for help. But the house was not approached from the road on which they were travelling. The drive started from that which diverged at Two Bridges and led northwards to Moretonhampstead. To have gone round by the road would, therefore, have meant a walk of nearly five miles, whereas fifteen minutes would have taken them across the moor. It was evident that they had adopted the latter course.