Inspector French and the Cheyne Mystery

by Freeman Wills Crofts

  As Price finished speaking he unlocked and threw open the cabin door, motioning his prisoner to follow him on deck. There Cheyne saw that they were far down the estuary, in fact, nearly opposite Warren Lodge and a mile or more from the town.

  ‘I thought you were going to take me to Johnson’s jetty,’ he remarked.

  ‘An obvious precaution,’ the other returned smoothly. ‘I trust you won’t mind.’

  The freshness and the freedom of the deck were inexpressibly delightful to Cheyne after his long confinement in the stuffy cabin. He stood drawing deep draughts of the keen invigorating air into his lungs, as he gazed at the familiar shores of the estuary, lighted up in the brilliant April sunlight. Nature seemed in an optimistic mood and Cheyne, in spite of his experiences and Price’s gruesome remarks, felt optimistic also. He still felt he would devote all his energies to getting even with the scoundrels who had robbed him, but he no longer regarded them with a sullen hatred. Rather the view of the affair as a game in which he was pitting his wits against theirs gained force in his mind, and he looked forward with zest to turning the tables upon them in the not too distant future.

  In the launch’s dinghy, which was made fast astern, was Lewisham, engaged in untying the painter of a second dinghy which bore on its stern board the words ‘S. Johnson, Dartmouth.’ The explanation of the starting and stopping of the motor now became clear. The conspirators had evidently gone in to pick up this boat and had towed it down the estuary so as to ensure their escape before Cheyne could reach the shore to lodge any information against them.

  The painter untied, Lewisham passed it aboard the launch and Price, drawing the boat up to the gunwale, motioned Cheyne into it.

  ‘As I said, I’m sorry we shall have to ask you to row yourself ashore, but the run of the tide will help you. Good-bye, Mr Cheyne. I deeply regret all the inconvenience you have suffered, and most earnestly I urge you to regard the warning which I have given you.’

  As he spoke he threw the end of the painter into the dinghy and the launch’s motor starting, she drew quickly ahead, leaving Cheyne seated in the small boat.

  Full of an idea which had just flashed into his mind, the latter seized the oars and began pulling with all his might not for Johnson’s jetty, but for the shore immediately opposite. But try as he would, he did not reach it before the launch Enid had become a mere dot on the seaward horizon.

  5

  An Amateur Sleuth

  Cheyne’s great idea was that instead of proceeding directly to the police station and lodging an information against his captors, as he had at first intended, he should himself attempt to follow them to their lair. To enter upon a battle of wits with such men would be a sport more thrilling than big game hunting, more exciting than war, and if by his own unaided efforts he could bring about their undoing he would not only restore his self-respect, which had suffered a nasty jar, but might even recover for Arnold Price the documents which he required for his claim to the barony of Hull.

  Whether he was wise in this decision was another matter, but with Maxwell Cheyne impulse ruled rather than colder reason, the desire of the moment rather than adherence to calculated plan. Therefore directly a way in which he could begin the struggle occurred to him, he was all eagerness to set about carrying it out.

  The essence of his plan was haste, and he therefore bent lustily to his oars, sending the tiny craft bounding over the wavelets of the estuary and leaving a wake of bubbles from its foaming stem. In a few minutes he had reached the shore immediately beneath Warren Lodge, tied the painter round a convenient boulder, and racing over the rocky beach, had set off running towards the house.

  It was a short though stiff climb, but he did not spare himself, and he reached the garden wall within three minutes of leaving the boat. As he turned in through the gate he looked back over the panorama of sea, the whole expanse of which was visible from this point, measuring with his eye the distance to Inner Froward Point, the headland at the opposite side of the bay, around which the Enid had just disappeared. She was going east, up channel, but he did not think she was travelling fast enough to defeat his plans.

  Another minute brought him to the house, and there, in less time than it takes to tell, he had seen his sister, explained that he might not be back that night, obtained come money, donned his leggings and waterproof, and starting up his bicycle, had set off to ride into Dartmouth.

  Pausing for a moment at the boat slip to tell Johnson of the whereabouts of his dinghy, he reached the ferry and got across the river to Kingswear with the minimum of delay possible. Then once more mounting, his machine, he rode rapidly off towards the east.

  The land lying eastward of Dartmouth forms a peninsula shaped roughly like an inverted cone, truncated, and connected to the mainland by a broad isthmus at the north-west corner. The west side is bounded by the river Dart, with Dartmouth and Kingswear to the south-west, while on the other three sides is the sea. Brixham is a small town at the north-east corner, while further north beyond the isthmus are the larger towns of Paignton and, across Tor Bay, Torquay.

  Most of the ground on the peninsula is high, and the road from Kingswear in the south-west corner to Brixham in the north-east, crosses a range of hills from which a good view of Tor Bay and the sea to the north and east is obtainable. Should the Enid have been bound for Torquay, Teignmouth, Exmouth or any of the seaports close by, she would pass within view of this road, whereas if she was going right up Channel past Portland Bill she would go nearly due east from the Froward Points. Cheyne’s hope was that he should reach this view-point before she would have had time to get out of sight had she been on the former course, so that her presence or absence would indicate the route she was pursuing.

  But when, having reached the place, he found that no trace of the Enid was to be seen, he realised that he had made a mistake. From Inner Froward Point to Brixham was only about seven miles, to Paignton about ten, and to Torquay eleven or twelve. The longest of these distances the launch should do in about twenty-five minutes, and as in spite of all his haste no less than forty-seven minutes had elapsed since he stepped into the dinghy, the test was evidently useless.

  But having come so far, he was not going to turn back without making some further effort. The afternoon was still young, the day was fine, he had had his lunch and cycling was pleasant. He would ride along the coast and make some inquiries.

  He dropped down the hill into Brixham, and turning to the left, pulled up at the little harbour. A glance showed him that the Enid was not there. He therefore turned his machine, and starting once more, ran the five miles odd to Paignton at something well above the legal limit.

  Inquiries at the pier produced no result, but as he turned away he had a stroke of unexpected luck. Meeting a coastguard, he stopped and questioned him, and was overjoyed when the man told him that though no launch had come into Paignton that morning, he had about three-quarters of an hour earlier seen one crossing the bay from the south and evidently making for Torquay.

  Quivering with eagerness, Cheyne once more started up his bicycle. He took the three miles to Torquay at a reckless speed and there received his reward. Lying at moorings in the inner harbour was the Enid.

  Leaving the bicycle in charge of a boy, Cheyne stepped up to a group of longshoremen and made his inquiries. Yes, the launch there had just come in, half an hour or more back. Two men had come off her and had handed her over to Hugh Leigh, the boatman. Leigh was a tall stout man with a black beard: in fact, there he was himself behind that yellow and white boat.

  Impetuous though he was, Cheyne’s knowledge of human nature told him that in dealing with his fellows the more haste frequently meant the less speed. He therefore curbed his impatience and took a leisurely tone with the boatman.

  ‘Good-day to you,’ he began. ‘I see you have the Enid there. Is she long in?’

  ‘’Bout ’arf an hour, sir,’ the man returned.

  ‘I was to have met her,’ Cheyne went on, ‘but I’m
afraid I have missed my friends. You don’t happen to know which direction they went in?’

  ‘Took a keb, sir: taxi. Went towards the station.’

  The station! That was an idea at least worth investigating. He slipped the man a couple of shillings lest his good offices should be required in the future, and hurrying back to his bicycle was soon at the place in question. Here, though he could find no trace of his quarry, he learned that a train had left for Newton Abbot at 3-33—five minutes earlier. It looked very much as if his friends had travelled by it.

  For those who are not clear as to the geography of South Devon, it may be explained that Newton Abbot lies on the main line of the Great Western Railway between Paddington and Cornwall, with Exeter twenty miles to the north-east and Plymouth some thirty odd to the south-west. At Newton Abbot the line throws off a spur, which, passing through Torquay and Paignton, has its terminus at Kingswear, from which there is a ferry connection to Dartmouth on the opposite side of the river. From Torquay to Newton Abbot is only about six miles, and there is a good road between the two. Cheyne, therefore, hearing that the train had left only five minutes earlier and knowing that there would be a delay at the junction waiting for the main line train, at once saw that he had a good chance of overtaking it.

  He did not stop to ask questions, but leaping once more on his machine, did the six miles at the highest speed he dared. At precisely 4-0 p.m. he pushed the bicycle into Newton Abbot station, and handing half a crown to a porter, told him to look after it until his return.

  Hasty inquiries informed him that the train with which that from Torquay connected was a slow local from Plymouth to Exeter. It had not yet arrived, but was due directly. It stopped for seven minutes, being scheduled out at 4-10 p.m. On chance Cheyne bought a third single to Exeter, and putting up his collar, pulling down his hat over his eyes and affecting a stoop, he passed on to the platform. A few people were waiting, but a glance told him that neither Price nor Lewisham was among them.

  As, however, they might be watching from the shelter of one of the waiting-rooms, he strolled away towards the Exeter end of the platform. As he did so the train came in from Plymouth, the engine stopping just opposite where he was standing. He began to move back, so as to keep a sharp eye on those getting in. But at once a familiar figure caught his eye and he stood for a moment motionless.

  The coach next the engine was a third, and in the corner of its fourth compartment sat Lewisham!

  Fortunately he was sitting with his back to the engine and he did not see Cheyne approaching from behind. Fortunately, also, the opposite corner was occupied by a lady, as, had Price been there, Cheyne would unquestionably have been discovered.

  Retreating quickly, but with triumph in his heart, Cheyne got into the end compartment of the coach. It was already occupied by three other men, two sitting in the corner seats next the platform, the third with his back to the engine at the opposite end. Cheyne dropped into the remaining corner seat—facing the engine and next the corridor. He did not then realise the important issues that hung on his having taken up this position, but later he marvelled at the lucky chance which had placed him there.

  As the train proceeded he had an opportunity, for the first time since embarking on this wild chase, of calmly considering the position, and he at once saw that the fugitives’ moves up to the present had been dictated by their circumstances and were almost obligatory.

  First, he now understood that they must have landed at Brixham, Paignton or Torquay, and of these Torquay was obviously most suitable to their purpose, being larger than the others and their arrival therefore attracting correspondingly less attention. But they must have landed at one of the three places, as they were the only ports which they could reach before he, Cheyne, would have had time to give the alarm. Suppose he had lodged information with the police immediately on getting ashore, it would have been simply impossible for the others to have entered any other port without fear of arrest. But at Paignton or Torquay they were safe. By no possible chance could the machinery of the law have been set in motion in time to apprehend them.

  He saw also how the men came to be seated in the train from Plymouth when it reached Newton Abbot, and here again he was lost in admiration at the way in which the pair had laid their plans. The first station on the Plymouth side of Newton Abbot was Totnes, and from Torquay to Totnes by road was a matter of only some ten miles. They would just have had time to do the distance, and there was no doubt that Totnes was the place to which their taxi had taken them. In the event, therefore, of an immediate chase, there was every chance of the scent being temporarily lost to Torquay.

  These thoughts had scarcely passed through Cheyne’s mind when the event happened which caused him to congratulate himself on the seat he was occupying. At the extreme end of the coach, immediately in advance of his compartment, was the lavatory, and at this moment, just as they were stopping at Teignmouth, a man carrying a small kitbag passed along the corridor and entered. Approaching from behind Cheyne, he did not see the latter’s face, but Cheyne saw him. It was Price!

  Cheyne took an engagement book from his pocket and bent low over it, lest the other should recognise him on his return. But Price remained in the lavatory until they reached Dawlish, and here another stroke of luck was in store for Cheyne. At Dawlish, at which they stopped a few moments later, his vis-à-vis alighted, and Cheyne immediately changed his seat. When, therefore, just before the train started, Price left the lavatory, he again approached Cheyne from behind and again failed to see his face.

  As he passed down the corridor Cheyne stared at him. While in the lavatory he had effected a wondrous change in his appearance. Gone was now the small dark moustache and the glasses, his hat was of a different type and his overcoat of a different colour. Cheyne watched him pause hesitatingly at the door of the next compartment and finally enter.

  For some moments as the train rattled along towards Exeter, Cheyne failed to grasp the significance of this last move. Then he saw that it was, as usual, part of a well-thought-out scheme. Approaching Teignmouth, Price had evidently left his compartment—almost certainly the fourth, where Lewisham sat—as if he were about to alight at the station. Instead of doing so, he had entered the lavatory. Disguised, or, more probably, with a previous disguise removed, he had left it before the train started from Dawlish, and appearing at the door of the second compartment, had attempted to convey the idea, almost certainly with success, that he had just joined the train.

  A further thought made Cheyne swing across again to the seat facing the engine. They were approaching Starcross. Would Lewisham adopt the same subterfuge at this station? But he did not, and they reached Exeter without further adventure.

  The train going no further, all passengers had to alight. Cheyne was in no hurry to move, and by the time he left the carriage Price and Lewisham were already far down the platform. He wished that he in his turn could find a false moustache and glasses, but he realised that if he kept his face hidden, his clothes were already a satisfactory disguise. He watched the two men begin to pace the platform, and soon felt satisfied that they were proceeding by a later train.

  They had reached Exeter at 5-02 p.m. Two expresses left the station shortly after, the 5-25 for Liverpool, Manchester and the north, and the 5-42 for London. Cheyne sat down on a deserted seat near the end of the platform and bent his head over his notebook while he watched the others.

  The 5-25 for the north arrived and left, and still the two men continued pacing up and down. ‘For London,’ thought Cheyne, and slipping off to the booking hall he bought a first single for Paddington. If the men were travelling third, he would be better in a different class.

  When the London express rolled majestically in, Price and Lewisham entered a third near the front of the train. Satisfied that he was still unobserved, Cheyne got into the first-class diner farther back. He had not been very close to the men, but he noticed that Lewisham had also made some alteration in his appearance, which e
xplained his not having changed in the lavatory on the local train.

  The express was very fast, stopping only once—at Taunton. Here Cheyne, having satisfied himself that his quarry had not alighted, settled himself with an easy mind to await the arrival at Paddington. He dined luxuriously, and when at nine precisely they drew up in the terminus, he felt extremely fit and ready for any adventure that might offer itself.

  From the pages of the many works of detective fiction which he had at one time or another digested, he knew exactly what to do. Jumping out as the train came to rest, he hurried along the platform until he had a view of the carriage in which the others had travelled. Then, keeping carefully in the background, he awaited developments.

  Soon he saw the men alight, cross the platform and engage a taxi. This move also he was prepared for. Taking a taxi in his turn, he bent forward and said to the driver what the sleuths of his novels had so often said to their drivers in similar circumstances: ‘Follow that taxi. Ten bob extra if you keep it in sight.’

  The driver looked at him curiously, but all he said was: ‘Right y’are, guv’nor,’ and they slipped out at the heels of the other vehicle into the crowded streets.