Inspector French: Sir John Magill's Last Journey

by Freeman Wills Crofts

  While it was yet in sight French and Rainey relaxed their stiff attitudes, and creeping back through the bushes to the path, began to follow. As they expected, the slow chase led up until the unknown was opposite the clump of rhododendrons. There it stopped and the pursuers froze into immobility. Then guessing what was about to happen, they slipped off the path on the opposite side to the clump and took cover behind its bordering laurels. With the utmost care they crept upward parallel to the path until they were opposite to the unknown. Then turning, they edged slowly forward until they were within some six feet of their victim.

  Had it not been for the rain and wind they would not have ventured so near, but they thought that should the man raise his torch the swinging of the bushes would mask their movements and the noise of the storm would cover any sounds they made.

  They had scarcely taken up their position when another flitting light warned them that someone else was approaching. A shadow loomed up out of the darkness and Mallace’s voice called softly: ‘That you, Teer?’

  There was an acquiescent murmur and then in louder accents, ‘Damn this blasted weather! I’m wet through already. How long have we to wait for those other two?’

  ‘They should be here any time. Half an hour should see the thing through.’

  ‘Got the trowel?’ came Teer’s voice.

  ‘Got it here.’

  ‘A helluva place and a helluva night,’ Teer growled.

  ‘I guess we’ll have earned our money by the time we’re through,’ came Mallace’s voice in return. He crossed the path. ‘I think there’s a bit more shelter under these shrubs.’

  French’s heart missed a beat, as Mallace stepped up against the bush under which he and Rainey were lying. The man stood not more than two feet away. Fortunately he had put out his torch. Teer slowly joined him. He had scarcely done so when another flickering light appeared.

  It was Joss. He also cursed the weather, and shutting off his torch, took up his stand beside Mallace. By putting out his hand French could have touched him. Both he and Rainey lay scarcely daring to breathe.

  ‘Helluva nuisance, this whole business,’ Teer grumbled. ‘If that blasted fool Magill had had the wit of a sheep he’d have seen he wasn’t overlooked and we’d have been saved all this. Darned idiot, if ever there was one!’

  Joss murmured some reply.

  ‘Where’s the fool got to now?’ went on Teer’s voice. ‘I suppose he’s going to keep us standing here in this infernal rain till we get our deaths.’

  ‘He can’t be long now,’ Mallace answered shortly.

  ‘That’s right,’ came Joss’s voice. ‘I wish to heaven, Teer, you’d give over your endless grouse. Things are bad enough without that confounded whine going on all the time.’

  Teer gave a savage snort.

  ‘A confounded whine, is it?’ he answered harshly. ‘Curse you, Joss! Let me tell you, you’re getting above yourself. Don’t you forget who’s boss of this outfit. I’ll grouse when I want to and you’ll hold your blasted tongue. See?’

  ‘All right; all right,’ Joss returned irritably. ‘Nobody’s questioning your position—and responsibility.’

  ‘What the hell do you mean by that?’ Teer questioned in louder tones. ‘Responsibility!’ He emitted a torrent of blasphemy. ‘You’re a nice one to talk, you are, and you with murder on your soul! And easy to prove it too. Who bought a rubber tube with a closed end? Who bought shotgun cartridges? Cartridges for a man without a gun! You hold your blasted tongue or—’

  ‘Steady on, Teer,’ Mallace interposed with evident relief. ‘Here’s Magill. Now we’ll get a move on.’

  Teer’s further threats were lost in the arrival of Victor. He followed his companions’ example and began by wholeheartedly cursing the weather.

  ‘For heaven’s sake, Magill, cut that and get on with the job,’ Teer snarled. ‘Where’s the damned place?’

  Victor subsided suddenly. ‘This way,’ he said sulkily, moving towards the clump.

  ‘Then Malcolm’s not in it,’ Rainey breathed, and even in his lowered voice French detected satisfaction. ‘You go ahead while I collect the men.’ He vanished instantly.

  Having climbed the paling in the wake of the others, French dropped on his knees and began to crawl slowly across the grass. Out of the comparative shelter of the bushes the wind whirled down, booming in off the open mountain side above. That he was in danger French was well aware. If that flitting torch were turned in his direction a bullet would doubtless end his earthly career, and it was therefore with a lively satisfaction that at length he reached the clump. The quartet had withdrawn into its shelter, but he could see their torches flickering ahead and he pressed on after them. He was already wet, but as he crawled slowly through the dripping leaves he was soon soaked to the skin. But he had no time to think of such trifles. The four had halted and he went on till he was within seven or eight feet of them. There he lay down under a clump of lowgrowing bushes, and motionless as a log, set himself to watch and listen.

  ‘It should be about here,’ Victor was saying. ‘Naturally I didn’t mark the place, so it’s a bit hard to find.’

  For the second time that evening French’s heart stood still, while bitterly he cursed himself for his rashness. All four began flashing their electric torches on the surrounding ground. He pulled his hat down over his eyes, and lowering his head so that no light could reach his face, began carefully to back away. He could not hasten lest he should attract attention, and as the search extended he realised that death was close beside him. With a sickening anxiety he watched the little circles of light advance and retreat. They flitted away, came back, veered sideways. Suddenly he gave himself up for lost. A beam flashed on the ground not a foot from his head. It began to creep slowly nearer. And then, just as the rim of the circle touched his hat there was a cry from Victor a dozen yeards away.

  ‘Here it is,’ he called. ‘We’re all right.’

  Despite the cold, the sweat was dripping from French as the other three turned towards Victor. Dimly he could see them crowd together, gazing at the ground. He heard Teer’s voice: ‘Well, start in and get the infernal thing opened,’ and digging began.

  French, his panic over, began crawling nearer, but just then a hand closed on his ankle and he heard Rainey’s voice.

  ‘That the place?’ he breathed. ‘I have seven men there besides ourselves. They’re going to surround it and converge to the centre and when I fire we’ll close. You push in straight ahead. I’m going to the right.’

  French slowly wormed his way forward, then lay still. He listened to the howling of the gale and watched the faint radiance ahead, obscured at intervals by the dark silhouettes of the men as they bent over their task. This ghastly business would surely end the case! After such a giveaway no jury would fail to convict. French felt he should be thankful, but he was not. For some reason his nerves were all on edge. As he lay waiting time itself seemed to be standing still. But for the four men ahead he seemed to be absolutely alone in the universe, and yet he knew that eight others, palpitating with life and energy and fierce determination, were there close beside him, hidden in the inky blackness.

  He moved slightly forward to get a better view of the quartet. Victor was now digging and for five minutes he worked in silence. Then suddenly he stooped forward.

  ‘Got it!’ he said in relieved tones, and stooping down he drew a black box from the hole.

  ‘About time,’ came from Teer. ‘Get that infernal hole filled up and we’ll get away. Hell! What’s that?’

  A sharp crack had come from Rainey’s pistol. Instantly the surrounding foliage became alive with moving figures.

  ‘Hands up!’ Rainey shouted. ‘You’re all covered. Anyone who moves is a dead man!’

  Teer gave a bellow like that of a wounded bull.

  ‘Down with your lights, you fools!’ he yelled, and in a moment inky blackness reigned.

  But only for a moment. From all round electric torches co
nverged on the four as with a shout the police officers dashed forward. Teer was fumbling desperately in his pocket and as French bounded towards him his arm flew up. A bullet whistled past French’s ear. But it just missed him and instantly he closed with Teer. At first the other three members of the quartet seemed paralysed with amazement, but in a moment they also sprang to life, pulled out revolvers and began firing. But Rainey’s men closed in quickly and in a couple of seconds four groups were struggling confusedly in the darkness. Round and round they crashed, reeling and stumbling over shrubs and bushes, the sobbing of their breath rising above the howl of the storm. Teer was a bigger man than French and he succeeded in getting a left-hander on French’s jaw which made the latter go sick and faint. As had happened before, French saw death very near as with all his might he concentrated on keeping Teer’s right hand with its automatic pistol turned away. He gripped the man’s wrist with both hands and clung on for dear life. This left him undefended from the blows Teer began raining on him, and the end would have been a foregone conclusion had not M’Clung seized hold in the darkness, and enveloping the couple in his mighty arms, stopped the shower of blows. French gasped out the situation and M’Clung, at last distinguishing friend from foe, threw his weight into the balance. In a few minutes Teer was thrown, disarmed and handcuffed.

  By the time French was able to stagger panting to his feet, the battle was over. All four members of the gang were secured. And at comparatively small cost. Rainey had a nasty cut over one eye, one of his men was winded and temporarily knocked out, while a couple were bleeding profusely from mouth and nose. Soon they were able to make a move for headquarters, and within an hour all four prisoners were lodged in the cells.

  A short further investigation enabled French to clear up the few points which still remained doubtful. The case, when thus completed, proved to be practically as he had outlined it to the sergeants at Stranraer.

  The first thing demonstrated was that the entire responsibility for the crime lay with the quartet, Malcolm Magill and Breene being absolutely innocent. Malcolm’s apparent connection with it had been carefully engineered by them in the hope that he would be suspected and executed, thus bringing his £400,000 into Victor’s hands. The circumstances which brought Breene under suspicion were in themselves wholly fortuitous and his predilection for Miss Magill, which was the only real justification for that suspicion, was proved to have been only another figment of Teer’s facile brain.

  The second discovery was that the root of the whole ghastly affair lay in Victor Magill’s inordinate love of gambling. This proved to have been a much greater factor in his life than had been realised. Beginning in a small way, he had gradually increased his commitments until at last he had become irretrievably involved. Ruin stared him in the face and for a time he hovered on the brink of suicide. Then an evil chance befell him. Circumstances gave him an opportunity, as he thought, to recover himself. While in Teer’s rooms one day he found an unused cheque. At the moment he had in his pocket a cheque of Teer’s for a small amount together with some betting memoranda in Teer’s handwriting. In a moment of desperation and madness he lost his head and forged a cheque for £3000. But he never presented it. Teer discovered the affair and in the presence of Mallace and Joss taxed him with it. From that moment Victor’s last chance of happiness vanished. He soon found that he had given himself over, bound hand and foot, into the hands of a cruel and unscrupulous trio. Teer’s crafty and scheming brain was just the instrument for meeting such a case. He immediately realised the advantage he had got and he worked out a plan for its utilisation. He and his friends were hard up. Victor’s uncle was rolling in money. Very well; a redistribution was the idea. Old Magill was to be murdered by violence. His heir, Malcolm, was to be murdered judicially. The money, which would then come to Victor, both directly and through Malcolm, was to be shared equally among the quartet. Even Victor was to get his share. In this Teer of course only showed his wisdom and knowledge of human nature. He recognised that if Victor was pushed too far he would commit suicide and the money would be lost. All four were therefore to be bound together by equal responsibility and equal reward.

  At first Victor declined absolutely to have anything to do with such a plan, declaring that he would rather go to prison. But Victor was inherently weak and in the hands of a man like Teer he was as wax. Fear and familiarity with the idea had their effect, and at last he agreed to join in. This point settled, the details were worked out by Teer. This was four months before the actual crime.

  The first thing was to pay Victor’s debts and to make him a substantial allowance. There must be no question of poverty to back up any breath of suspicion which might be aroused. So Victor appeared with plenty of money in hand, his explanation being that his uncle had once again come to his help.

  Though Teer had completed the rough outlines of his plan before approaching Victor, there was a lot of detailed work to be done on it. This was carried out at intervals by all four concerned, every detail being rehearsed again and again before the great moment arrived. The plan was practically as guessed by French, its essentials being the tricking of Sir John into the Stranraer boat train, his murder therein, the removal of the body and its burial at Lurigan, with Victor to personate him in Ireland and throw dust in the eyes of possible investigators. French also was correct in his assumption that the legacy and the legacy alone was the goal sought. There were not and never had been any plans for the linen-silk machinery. Sir John was working in the problem, but he had not solved it. Teer had simply used his interest in the subject, firstly, as a bait to get him to Ireland, and secondly, as an explanation for Joss of his conduct in connection with Sir John.

  Curiously enough, what proved the greatest difficulty to the conspirators, was what had at first sight seemed a mere trifle: the finding out on which side of the sleeping car the berths would be on the fatal night. Though in the end their choice proved to some extent a lucky shot, they had done their best to meet the difficulty. For some weeks on one pretext or another they had gone to Euston and examined the make-up of the train both on its arrival and departure. Thus they learned how the sets of carriages were dealt with. By this they were enabled to hazard a good guess as to the conditions on any given night. Unfortunately they found their guess was not always correct, but it was so, seven or eight times out of ten. To provide, however, for disappointment, they had devised an elaborate system of telegrams whereby on the pretext of Coates’s sudden illness Sir John’s journey and all that hinged on it could be postponed from night to night, until a coach of the right type appeared on the train.

  The little additional evidence required for the trial was easily obtained. The chemist was found who supplied Joss with the trional sleeping draught, and Victor’s purchase of the white wig—for an amateur theatrical performance—was traced. Mallace had bought the velvet cloaks for a similar purpose, and Teer, as airplane equipment, had had the rope ladder made.

  There is little more to add. Thanks to the skill of both French and the police of Northern Ireland, murder received its just reward and justice and right were vindicated.

  There was some little difficulty in deciding where the trial should take place. It was not known where the actual murder had been committed, though this was believed to have been between Dumfries and Castle-Douglas. Eventually the case was tried in Belfast, a coroner’s jury of Northern Ireland already having adjudicated thereon. As a result Teer and Joss paid the supreme penalty, the other two receiving sentences of penal servitude for life.

  As for French, in addition to the kudos gained in yet another brilliantly successful case, he found himself the richer by a number of warm friends in Northern Ireland, together with a fresh hunting ground for exploration when the time for his next holiday should come round.

  Footnote

  1. Scotland Yard

  1 NOTE.—There is no such rank as superintendent in the Royal Ulster Constabulary. I have used it in order to avoid referring to an existing offic
er. F. W. C.

  About the Author

  Freeman Wills Crofts (1879–1957), the son of an army doctor who died before he was born, was raised in Northern Ireland and became a civil engineer on the railways. His first book, The Cask, written in 1919 during a long illness, was published in the summer of 1920, immediately establishing him as a new master of detective fiction. Regularly outselling Agatha Christie, it was with his fifth book that Crofts introduced his iconic Scotland Yard detective, Inspector Joseph French, who would feature in no less than thirty books over the next three decades. He was a founder member of the Detection Club and was elected a Fellow of the Royal Society of Arts in 1939. Continually praised for his ingenious plotting and meticulous attention to detail—including the intricacies of railway timetables—Crofts was once dubbed ‘The King of Detective Story Writers’ and described by Raymond Chandler as ‘the soundest builder of them all’.

  Also in this Series

  Inspector French’s Greatest Case

  Inspector French and the Cheyne Mystery

  Inspector French and the Starvel Hollow Tragedy

  Inspector French and the Sea Mystery

  Inspector French and the Box Office Murders

  Inspector French and Sir John Magill’s Last Journey

  By the same author

  The Cask

  The Ponson Case

  The Pit-Prop Syndicate

  The Groote Park Murder

  Six Against the Yard*

  The Anatomy of Murder*