The Hog's Back Mystery

by Freeman Wills Crofts

  It occurred to him that when he was about it, he should confirm the time it took to walk the distance. He therefore left the sergeant’s bicycle at Polperro, and set off on foot.

  A delightful walk he found it, and a base temptation assailed him to forget the sergeant’s bicycle when he came into these parts in future, so as to have more walks. He had no difficulty in finding his objective, and soon he was knocking at Mr. Galbraith’s door.

  It was opened by a little white-haired old woman, with a pair of the most intelligent eyes French ever remembered to have seen. A determined little woman, too, from the strength of her jaw and the set of her features. She looked at French dubiously.

  “Can I see Mr. Galbraith?” he asked.

  Mr. Galbraith was at his business in Godalming and would not be home till the evening, and her manner seemed to suggest that anyone who was any good would also have been at his business at that hour.

  “Perhaps then, madam, you could tell me what I want to know,” French went on, producing his official card.

  “You’d better come in,” she said, leading the way to an aggressively tidy sitting-room and pointing to a chair. French sat down.

  The old lady made no difficulty about answering his questions. Yes, she was Mr. Galbraith’s housekeeper. Mr. Galbraith was a lawyer in Godalming and lived here alone. Yes, she remembered the Sunday night of Dr. Earle’s disappearance. Mr. Galbraith usually went out on Sunday evenings to play cards with some friends. She didn’t hold with cards, particularly on a Sunday evening. However, that wasn’t what the inspector wanted to know. Before Mr. Galbraith went out he gave her a book; one of those trashy novels, it was; and told her that Mr. Gates would call for it later. Mr. Gates did call and she gave it to him. She went then to bed at her usual time, but before she was asleep she heard Mr. Galbraith letting himself in with his latchkey. In fact, everything that evening passed as usual.

  “That’s just what I wanted to know,” French said, complimenting her on her clear statement. “I suppose you couldn’t say just what time Mr. Gates called?”

  Not to a minute, she couldn’t, but approximately she could. She had finished all the work of the house for that evening at about half-past eight, and had settled down with a book to enjoy a comfortable read. She hadn’t been reading more than ten or fifteen minutes when Mr. Gates came. That would make it about a quarter to nine: say from twenty minutes to ten minutes to nine.

  This clinched the matter. Gates had left home about eight. He had returned about half-past nine, or an hour and a half altogether. From French’s own experience it took about three-quarters of an hour to walk between the two houses. Two three-quarters of an hour, there and back, would just make up the time. As in addition to this Gates had called at his objective at the middle of the period, confirmation was complete.

  Not only so, but there was even more convincing proof of Gates’ innocence in this little old lady’s statement, than the mere confirmation of his story. At almost the very time that the murder of Earle had been committed, Gates was on the doorstep of Galbraith’s house, some four miles away.

  French was by this time tired of Gates and all his works, as he had worn round to the belief that he was not his man. However, there still remained the checking of Gates’ statement as to how he had spent the second Sunday, the Sunday of Ursula Stone’s death. French felt a little inclined to get these two Sunday afternoons mixed up, and he therefore consulted his notebook to make sure he was clear on the matter.

  On that second Sunday Gates had stated he had gone out for a walk immediately after tea, which he had with Mrs. Frazer and her cousin. He had returned about half-past six, and he had given the itinerary of his walk.

  French had recourse once again to his friend the butler, and once again he got adequate confirmation. The man distinctly remembered Gates having tea with the two ladies on Sunday. Tea was at 4.15, a little earlier than usual, as supper was earlier on Sundays. He had not seen Gates after tea till about 6.30, when the man had come in. As to Gates’ statement that he went for a stroll in the grounds after dinner, the butler was able to confirm that he was out for certainly not more than an hour. The chauffeur stated definitely that on that Sunday none of the cars were out.

  French sighed as he turned away. He had now checked up his two most promising suspects, and in each case he had drawn a blank. At least he had no doubt he would do so, for he had yet to confirm the visit of Hermione Frazer to Budleigh Salterton.

  This, however, was soon accomplished. A run down to Devon, armed with a description and photograph, set the matter at rest. Mrs. Frazer had unquestionably stayed there during the critical week-end.

  Once again feeling rather up against it, French sat down in the hotel to post his notes to date.

  Chapter XXI

  Action at Last

  French was getting tired of working in that bedroom at the hotel. Not so much tired either of the room itself, nor yet of work, of which he was not afraid, but tired of the thankless and unprofitable and unsuccessful work with which the room had become associated. Now as he turned once again to this problem which had so long baffled him, he vowed he would not stop wrestling with it until it had yielded up its secret, or if not its whole secret, at least some vital part of it.

  During the progress of the case he had successively suspected and acquitted in his mind no less than six persons: Julia, Marjorie, Slade, Campion, Mrs. Frazer and Gates. Beyond these six he had been unable to think of anyone who might be guilty, and now, reconsidering the point, he found himself still unable to do so. Going slowly over the names of all the other persons he had come in contact with since his arrival, he felt satisfied that not one of them could be involved.

  He felt thrown back therefore on his six former suspects. Had he made a mistake? Could it be that one or more were guilty after all?

  As a sort of desperate last resource he decided he would once again go over the case against these six and satisfy himself absolutely of their innocence.

  However, second thoughts left him precisely where he was before. So far as he could still see, not one of the six could be guilty. It was out of the question that either Julia Earle or Marjorie Lawes could have poisoned old Frazer, though conceivably (but most improbably) they might have been guilty of the other three crimes. French did not for a moment believe they were guilty of even these, but of Frazer’s death they were innocent beyond yea or nay.

  Slade was the next possibility. French had not been thinking so much of Slade lately owing to his preoccupation with the Frazer affair. Slade he recognised as the most likely member of his band of suspects, though even Slade by no means filled the bill.

  In the first place he had been unable to think of any reason why Slade should have desired old Frazer’s death. Nor could he obtain any evidence that Slade had been in the old man’s room during his illness and therefore could have administered the poison. Admittedly the young man had been several times in the house at Polperro since Frazer had became seriously ill, but this in itself proved nothing.

  Slade, moreover, had alibis in the cases of all three other victims. Admittedly those covering the deaths of the nurse and Earle were not very convincing and conceivably might be broken down, but that for the day of Ursula Stone’s murder seemed absolutely watertight.

  On the other hand the most suspicious item of the entire case was against Slade: the clay found in his car. There could be no question that it indicated a visit to the by-pass, but French could not prove that Slade had paid it, nor could he break down Slade’s rebuttal of the charge.

  Incidentally he wondered whether a search for clay on the shoes of all his suspects—or at least those who might have killed Ursula Stone—would be of any use. None, he decided. Too much time had elapsed since that fatal Sunday. However, he noted the idea as a last resource.

  Deeply dissatisfied as to the part Slade had played in the affair, French turned to hi
s next possibility, Campion.

  Campion he had suspected of stealing the manuscript of Earle’s book, and of murdering Earle to allow him to obtain the benefits and fame of Earle’s discoveries. But the case against Campion had broken down for five reasons:

  1.The book had not been stolen.

  2.Campion was with his womenfolk at the time, or almost at the time, of Earle’s disappearance.

  3.Campion was with his womenfolk all the afternoon and evening of Ursula Stone’s disappearance and could not conceivably have murdered her.

  4.Though Campion could have met the nurse on the Hog’s Back, he could not possibly have had time to bury the body.

  5.Campion might conceivably have sent the nurse out of the room during a visit to Frazer, while he put arsenic into his patient’s medicine. This, however, was most unlikely for two reasons. First, if the nurse were afterwards to suspect poison, she would be almost certain to remember the incident: which would doubtless give her to think. Second, it looked as if before taking the poison Frazer’s faculties were quite clear, and if so, it would be impossible for Campion to tamper with the medicine unknown to him.

  French saw that Campion might be ruled out. Since the book theory had collapsed there was no reason to suspect him, while there was definite proof of his innocence of at least two of the murders.

  His next suspect had been Mrs. Frazer. She could have poisoned her husband, and might, though it was most unlikely, have murdered Ursula Stone. But she was unquestionably innocent of the deaths of Nurse Nankivel and Earle.

  Lastly French had suspected Gates. Gates could have poisoned old Frazer and might, though again it was most unlikely, have murdered Ursula Stone. But he could not have killed either the nurse or Earle.

  Not one of his suspects could possibly have killed all four victims. Nor could any combination of them have done so, for so far as he could see, none of them could have killed Earle.

  And once again, if these six were innocent, he couldn’t think of anyone else who might be guilty.

  All that evening his difficulties weighed on French’s mind. He tried very hard to dismiss the case from his mind while he was dining, but found that even then he could not do so. And when after the meal was over he withdrew to the lounge, he remained silent from preoccupation; morose, his manner was considered by certain other visitors who essayed light conversation.

  Bankrupt! That was the proper word for his condition. All the promising strings he had had to his bow had failed him and he was left without any. He simply did not know where to turn or what further investigations to make.

  It was not good enough, he told himself. The thing had an explanation. He was not like an inventor working on what might really be an insoluble problem. He was more like a man trying to solve a crossword puzzle, the antecedent condition of his work being that the puzzle had a solution. Equally certainly, this case had a solution: more certainly, in fact, because in the crossword there was always the possibility of a misprint. In real life there was no possibility of error, unless such error as he had made himself.

  His stalemate worried him terribly, though he kept on trying to assure himself that the affair was taking its normal course. Other cases he had been held up in, many of them, but always temporarily. (Or very nearly always.) But he could not afford to be held up in this. It was an important case. It had fired the imagination, not only of the British people, but of those of the Continent and America. In an age when murder was unhappily far too common, it stood out as a notable case: one of those big cases which for some reason best known to itself the public exalts into tests by which it may measure the efficiency of the police. French had not only his own reputation in his keeping, but that of his entire service. Was he going to let both down?

  All the evening he wrestled unhappily with the problem; wrestled till he felt himself stale and tired to death of the whole thing. He went out hoping to achieve a change of thought, but the advertisement of the Eastern train was still on the boards at his customary cinema and he felt he could not summon up the energy to find another picture-house. For some time he walked, through an unpleasant drizzle, then returned to the hotel and his puzzle.

  He went to bed at his usual time, but still he could not get rid of the gnawing uneasiness. Up till this stage in the case he had always had something to fall back on. Whatever point he was engaged on, there was another line to turn to if it failed. Now that was so no longer. His last hope had petered out.

  The more French tried to compose himself, the farther sleep seemed to go from him. His mind was vividly alive and full of energy. His imagination also was abnormally active. Ideas poured out, ideas of all kinds. He marvelled at their range and originality. For a time he found himself wishing he were a novelist, so simple did the provision of the necessary matter seem.

  But all this wealth of mental picture and imagery had one outstanding feature: it did not help with his case. None of these brilliant ideas solved his problem or suggested where he might profitably search for a solution.

  He remembered vividly a similar experience through which he had passed some years previously. In Glasgow in the smoking-room of the St. Enoch Hotel he had spent hours wrestling with the Sir John Magill problem: agonising over it would rather describe his state of mind. He had been up against blank despair and—he had pulled through! He had got his idea and his case. How he wished that on this occasion history might repeat itself!

  It was well on into the small hours and French was growing tired of tossing and turning and thinking at a white heat of irrelevant matters, when something happened. A still further new idea flashed into his mind: an idea this time about his case. For a moment he toyed with it, then with an intense shock he realised that this was something different, something vital. He grew rigid, as if afraid that movement might dispel the thought, while he lay wondering, wondering, had he got his solution? Did he really see the end of his case? Were his troubles over?

  He sweated with excitement as he turned this precious idea over in his mind. Had he got his solution? Fearfully he allowed himself to admit it looked like it!

  Quietly he got up, switched on the light, and slipped on some clothes. Then he lit the gas fire, poured himself out a stiff drink from his pocket flask, and drawing the most comfortable chair up to the fire, sat down with a writing-pad to consider systematically the great thought.

  He soon reached the conclusion that while he had stumbled on something of the utmost value—nothing more nor less than, he believed, the actual truth of what had happened—he had by no means cleared the affair up. His main idea, he could swear, was sound, but several of the details wouldn’t work in. There were discrepancies and there were contradictions; fundamental discrepancies and contradictions which he couldn’t reconcile. He made a list of these so far as he could visualise them.

  After continuing his broad survey of the case till he thought he had extracted from it everything that it could be made to yield, he changed his method. Taking up the difficulties one after another, he began trying to find ways of overcoming them. In this, it must be admitted, he had little success.

  About half-past four he suddenly grew sleepy. Well satisfied with what he had accomplished, he got into bed again and a few minutes later he was slumbering as peacefully as an infant.

  Next morning he settled down with the dossier to consider systematically the difficulties of his new theory. He was a profound believer in the motto: Take care of the cons and the pros will take care of themselves. Obviously on its objections the theory would stand or fall.

  Hour after hour he sat racking his brains, turning the facts about, looking up details of time or place or action from the dossier, considering possibilities and alternatives and generally going through the slow tedious work of those who solve problems. But all without result.

  Presently feeling stale, he went out for a sharp walk, then after a light lunch with plenty of strong
coffee, he set to work again. For two more hours he worked, then suddenly his experience of the night was repeated.

  His first difficulty was no difficulty at all! There was a solution to it, an obvious solution, so simple that he was now lost in amazement that it should have baffled him so long!

  This discovery, he felt, practically proved his new theory, and it was with renewed zeal that he set himself to deal with the remaining objections. Though minor in character, these proved no easier to meet than the first, and night came before he had any more progress to record.

  However, he was now convinced that success was merely a matter of time, and happier than he had been since he started the case, he resolutely put it out of his mind, dined and went to the pictures. Next morning, however, he was at it again, and almost at once he had another success. A second difficulty was overcome.

  The clearing away of this second difficulty seemed to have removed the dam which was holding up the stream, and with an ease and speed which delighted French, further fact after further fact dropped into place. In an hour his theory was complete. He spent another hour noting his facts and deductions in logical sequence, then turned to consider what, if any, confirmation he could get.

  At once he found his ardour checked. The possibility that certain happenings had taken place was one thing; the proof was quite another. His theory was good, but if he couldn’t prove it, it was no more use to him than if the whole thing had been a fairy-tale. At present he had no case to take into court: he doubted if he had enough even to justify an arrest.

  Then at last he saw that there was one point, admittedly a secondary and incidental point, which he might be able to establish. It would, he thought, provide “moral” proof of the whole affair, though unquestionably it would not be sufficient for court. However, moral proof was better than none.