Death in the Tunnel

by Miles Burton

  “But I wasn’t satisfied with that. It struck me that perhaps, by some miracle, somebody might have got into the tunnel and been run over. So, as soon as I heard about the driver’s report, I sent a search party through, to look for a body, or bits of one. Of course, they found nothing of the kind. I never for a moment expected that they would. You may take it from me, inspector, that there was nobody in the tunnel yesterday evening.”

  “Then how do you account for the driver’s report?” Arnold asked.

  The station-master shrugged his shoulders.

  “Tunnels are queer places,” he replied. “You’ve never been through one, except in a train, I suppose? And then you’re nice and comfortable, and you run through so quick that you don’t have time to notice things. If you’d ever been through on foot, you wouldn’t want to repeat the experience. It’s pitch dark, to begin with, and then it’s usually full of smoke and steam, unless the wind happens to be blowing through it.

  “I can imagine a driver, even an experienced man, imagining that he saw a light. Maybe a reflection in the window of his cab, or something like that. He’d naturally pull up, for we believe in safety first on the railway, whatever they may think on the roads. And when he saw that it wasn’t a red light at all, but only a reflection, he’d go ahead again.

  “But he’d have to account for slowing down. And he wouldn’t care to make himself look a fool by saying that he thought he saw a red light when there hadn’t been one there at all. So he’d make up a yarn like this, about the red light that turned to green, and his fireman would back him up. And that, you’ll find, is about the truth of it.”

  After this conversation with the station-master at Blackdown, Arnold continued his journey to London. The engine-driver’s report seemed to be disposed of. The train had certainly slowed down in the tunnel, that at least was an established fact. But only because of an hallucination on the part of the driver. He had seen a red and a green light where none could have existed. Rather an uncanny happening, if those lights had been seen at the moment of Sir Wilfred’s death. Could the flash of the pistol have had anything to do with it? By some extraordinary trick of reflection, could the driver have seen this flash as a red light ahead of him? Not under ordinary circumstances, Arnold imagined. But, as the station-master had said, tunnels were queer places.

  He arrived at Cannon Street, and there made a few further inquiries. As a result of these he learnt that passengers had to show their tickets at the barrier before obtaining access to the platforms. The ticket inspector who had been on duty the previous evening happened to know Sir Wilfred by sight. He remembered punching his ticket, the return half of a first-class to Stourford. At the barrier, Sir Wilfred had extracted the ticket from a leather wallet, from which at the same time he took a pound note. The ticket inspector believed that, after his ticket had been examined, Sir Wilfred had put it back in the wallet. When he reached the platform, he stopped and spoke to the guard, and they had walked up the train together. Sir Wilfred had been carrying an attaché-case, but no other luggage.

  This confirmed Turner’s statement, but threw no fresh light on the mystery of the ticket. In fact, it rather tended to deepen that mystery. If Sir Wilfred had put it back in his wallet, the possibility of it having fallen out at Stourford was removed. Arnold made a mental note of this, as one of the puzzling but possibly irrelevant features of the case. He then walked to Shrubb Court, and entered the imposing offices of Messrs Wigland and Bunthorne.

  The death of the chairman of the company did not seem to have upset the decorous routine of the place. Arnold handed in his card, and asked to see the secretary. He was received by a pleasant, energetic-looking man of about forty, tall, clean-shaven and muscular, who introduced himself as Mr. Torrance. “You’ve come about this most unfortunate affair of Sir Wilfred, I suppose, inspector?” he said. “Make yourself comfortable, and I’ll try to answer your questions as well as I can.”

  “That’s very good of you, Mr. Torrance,” Arnold replied. “In the first place, I’d be glad to know something of the firm of Wigland and Bunthorne, and the position which Sir Wilfred held in it.”

  “That’s an easy one to start with, inspector. We are importers of produce, mainly from the East. Tea, coffee, rubber, spices, almost everything you can think of. The business was started in a small way over a hundred years ago by two partners, the original Wigland and Bunthorne. Their successors were bought out some fifty years ago by Oscar Saxonby, Sir Wilfred’s father. Oscar became Lord Mayor, and received a baronetcy. At his death, Sir Wilfred succeeded him. When his son, Richard, came of age, he made the business into a private company, with himself as chairman, and Richard and two others as directors. For some time after that Sir Wilfred took an active part in the management. But, shortly after Lady Saxonby’s death, Richard Saxonby was appointed managing director, and his father practically handed over the direction of the business to him. Since then Sir Wilfred has confined himself to attending directors’ meetings, and coming up here once, and occasionally twice a week.”

  “What did he do on those occasions?”

  “Either one of the directors or myself would give him a sort of résumé of the past week. He would comment upon this, and make suggestions. Then he would study the various market reports. He had a room of his own here, where he could sit without being disturbed. I will show it to you, if you care to see it.”

  “I should like to do so later. Sir Wilfred was here yesterday, I understand?”

  “He was. I did not see him personally, as I had gone to Manchester, where we have a branch office. However, my assistant was with him shortly before he left here to catch his train home.”

  “You had, however, seen him fairly recently, I suppose, Mr. Torrance?”

  “I saw him on the previous Thursday, the seventh, and spent a considerable time with him in his room.”

  “Then you may be able to tell me whether you noticed any change in Sir Wilfred lately. Did he seem the same, when you last saw him, as you had always known him?”

  Torrance hesitated. “Well, to all appearances he seemed the same. But I happen to know that he had something on his mind, for he discussed it with me that very day.”

  “I don’t want to ask indiscreet questions, Mr. Torrance,” said Arnold. “But was this something connected with the business?”

  “Oh, dear no, nothing like that. I may as well tell you at once that Sir Wilfred had no business worries. He didn’t trouble himself about the minor matters which are the principal sources of anxiety to heads of departments. And, for the rest, the firm’s affairs are in an exceptionally flourishing condition. We escaped the worst consequences of the depression, and since the recent improvement in trade we have gone ahead rapidly. Sir Wilfred, when I saw him, was very pleased with a report from Mr. Richard—Sir Richard, as he is now—who is in America. He said himself that the prospects of the firm were never brighter.”

  “Then he felt no concern over his financial affairs?”

  “Not the slightest. He had no occasion to do so. But he was worried, in my opinion rather unduly worried, about his daughter, Mrs. Wardour. She and Major Wardour have not been hitting it off for some time past. How serious their disagreement is, I do not know, though Mrs. Wardour, who is now one of our directors, has made disparaging remarks about her husband in my hearing. But Sir Wilfred must have taken a particularly gloomy view, for he asked me about the legal aspect of separation. And I could see that he was very much worried over the situation that had arisen.”

  “Major and Mrs. Wardour are now motoring in the South of France, are they not?”

  “Yes, at Sir Wilfred’s suggestion. I think he had an idea that if they went together away from their usual surroundings, they might find a means of composing their differences. I may say that there was a letter from Mrs. Wardour awaiting him here yesterday.”

  “Was it usual for Mrs. Wardour to write to her father
here, and not at Mavis Court?”

  “Not unusual. Sir Wilfred used to have a good deal of his correspondence addressed here. Mainly, I think, because there was a typist available, and he could dictate the replies. Any letters that came for him were laid on his table, to await his next visit. Naturally I know Mrs. Wardour’s handwriting, and I noticed this letter. It bore a French stamp, and arrived here on Tuesday. I put it on Sir Wilfred’s table myself that morning.”

  A rather curious idea passed through Arnold’s mind. “Richard Saxonby’s visit to America is connected with the affairs of the firm, I understand. Was it undertaken at Sir Wilfred’s suggestion?”

  “Yes, decidedly. We have considerable interests there, and for some time Sir Wilfred had maintained that one of the directors should go over and observe conditions at first hand. At one time he spoke of going himself, but he abandoned the idea not long ago, and urged Mr. Richard to go instead. He said that the trip would do him good, and that if he took his wife they would both enjoy it.”

  “And Richard Saxonby fell in with his father’s suggestion?”

  “People usually fell in with Sir Wilfred’s suggestions,” replied Torrance dryly.

  Arnold nodded. He had gathered as much already. “Do you think I might see your assistant, whom you mentioned as having seen Sir Wilfred yesterday?” he asked.

  The assistant secretary was sent for. He was an older man than Torrance, and Arnold guessed that he had risen from the position of chief clerk. He had been in attendance on Sir Wilfred all day, off and on. Sir Wilfred had arrived at the office between half-past eleven and twelve. There were perhaps a dozen letters awaiting him. One of these he had picked up, read, and laid aside.

  He had then asked for the usual résumé, which he had read and discussed with various members of the firm. This had occupied him until shortly after one, when he had gone out to lunch. He came back about two, and shortly afterwards sent for a typist, to whom he dictated half a dozen letters. Some further papers, dealing with matters of routine, and of no particular importance, were put before him. In the course of the afternoon he had a visitor, a well-dressed young man, who gave the name of Yates, and said he had an appointment with Sir Wilfred. On being informed of his visit, Sir Wilfred gave orders that he was to be shown up to his room at once. He remained there for ten minutes, certainly not longer, then went away. He and Sir Wilfred were alone in the latter’s room during the interview.

  Neither Torrance nor his assistant were acquainted with this man Yates. The latter was of the opinion that he had called upon a personal matter, since Sir Wilfred had made no subsequent allusion to his visitor.

  Asked if he had noticed anything unusual in Sir Wilfred’s manner during the day, the assistant secretary replied that he had not. He had seemed much the same as usual, except for one trifling incident. At about a quarter to five he had ordered a taxi to be sent for, and had told the man to drive him to Cannon Street Station.

  “A taxi!” exclaimed Torrance, who obviously heard this for the first time. “I never knew him do that before. He wasn’t ill, or anything? You’re sure of that?”

  “There didn’t seem to me to be anything the matter with him,” replied the assistant secretary. “And I’ve known him, man and boy, for the last forty years and more.”

  “That’s peculiar,” said Torrance. “As you know, inspector, it’s only a few hundred yards from here to Cannon Street. Sir Wilfred always walked it, whatever the weather was like. I’ve never known him take a taxi before. It’s most unlike him. And now, perhaps, you’d like to come and see his room?”

  Arnold agreed, and they went along the passage to a door which Torrance opened with a key. “It’s always kept locked,” he explained. “Sir Wilfred had one key, Mr. Richard another, and I have the third. The only person who has been in here since Sir Wilfred left yesterday afternoon is myself. I came in this morning to see if he had left any message for me. But, finding there was none, I touched nothing, and came out at once. That was before I heard of Sir Wilfred’s death.”

  “How did the news reach you, Mr. Torrance?” Arnold asked.

  “Miss Olivia Saxonby telephoned to the office about ten o’clock this morning. She said that her uncle had been found shot in the train. Of course, I asked her for particulars, but she said that she knew no more, but from what she had heard she gathered that he had committed suicide.”

  Arnold made no comment upon this, but he wondered what grounds Miss Olivia could have had for her opinion, as early as ten o’clock that morning. Then he remembered that Sir Wilfred’s car had been waiting for him at Stourford Station. No doubt the chauffeur had gleaned such scraps of information as were available, and had carried them to Mavis Court.

  He turned his attention to the room, thickly carpeted and luxuriously furnished. The most conspicuous feature was a heavy mahogany table, upon which stood a couple of letter trays, holding a few sheets of correspondence. Beside the table was a waste-paper basket, holding a few fragments of torn letters.

  “I wonder if you would mind looking for the letter from Mrs. Wardour, Mr. Torrance?” said Arnold.

  Torrance ran through the trays, then turned his attention to the waste-paper basket. “I can’t see any signs of it, or of the envelope, for that matter,” he reported at last. “I dare say Sir Wilfred put it in his pocket and took it home with him. The rest of this stuff is of no importance, but perhaps you’d like to look through it?”

  Arnold did so, without discovering anything that could throw light upon Sir Wilfred’s death. Half a dozen letters upon indifferent subjects, as many appeals for subscriptions to various charities. Nor were the carbon copies of the letters dictated by Sir Wilfred on the previous day any more informative.

  There was a large filing-cabinet in the room, and Arnold pointed to this. “What’s in there?” he asked.

  Torrance shook his head. “I don’t know,” he replied. “It’s locked, and Sir Wilfred is the only person who had a key to it. I have an idea that he used to put his personal letters in it.”

  The front of the cabinet was closed by a sliding shutter, fitted with a lock. In order to demonstrate his words, Torrance went up to it, and tried to raise the shutter. “Well, I’m damned!” he exclaimed. “It isn’t locked, after all! That’s the most extraordinary thing. There certainly must have been something on Sir Wilfred’s mind yesterday. I’ve never before known him to leave this cabinet unlocked.”

  “Well, we may as well see what’s inside it,” said Arnold. Their search revealed nothing but a mass of correspondence, all carefully filed. As in the case of the other letters, there was nothing in there which could be considered in any way out of the ordinary. But, as Arnold drew out one of the documents, he heard something rattling. He removed the files it contained, and beneath them found half a dozen small metal objects. They were pistol cartridges, exactly similar in appearance to those which had been found in the magazine of the automatic.

  Arnold picked them out of the drawer, and laid them on the table. “Can you account for these, Mr. Torrance?” he asked.

  Torrance shook his head. “No, I can’t,” he replied. “They have probably been there a long time. Years ago, when I first knew him, Sir Wilfred was very fond of target shooting, and was a very good shot, both with rifle and revolver. But recently, I believe, he had given it up. I expect these are the remains of some cartridges which he used to keep here.”

  Arnold made no comment upon this. He put the cartridges in his pocket, and helped Torrance to replace the correspondence in the drawer. “By the way,” he remarked, while they were thus engaged, “has your firm got any connections in Belgium?”

  “Belgium?” Torrance replied. “We’ve got connections all over the world, and in Belgium, among other countries.”

  “I am told that Sir Wilfred paid a visit to Belgium last summer. Was this on a matter of business?”

  “Not to my knowledge. Sir
Wilfred liked spending a few days abroad, from time to time. He may have called upon one or two people in Brussels and Antwerp with whom we do business, but only in a friendly way.”

  “When do you expect Richard Saxonby?”

  “We had a cable from him to-day, saying that he would arrive at Southampton on the 23rd. I presume that Miss Olivia had informed him of Sir Wilfred’s death.”

  Arnold had no further inquiries to make, and he returned to Scotland Yard.

  V

  Desmond Merrion happened to be staying for a few days in London, at his rooms in St. James’s. He was something of an amateur criminologist, and a friend of Arnold’s. So, when he received a telephone call from the Inspector, suggesting that they should dine together that Friday evening, he guessed that Arnold was engaged upon some case which presented points of interest.

  But he was rather surprised when he heard that Arnold had been engaged upon investigating the death of Sir Wilfred Saxonby. “I’ve read what the papers have to say,” he said. “And, to all appearances, it seemed a pretty obvious case of suicide. I’m astonished that the Yard should have been called in at all. The importance of Sir Wilfred’s position accounts for it, I suppose?”

  “That’s about it,” Arnold replied. “I don’t think there’s much room for doubt that Sir Wilfred shot himself. But the papers don’t know quite as much as I do. I’d like to tell you what I’ve heard, and see what you make of it.”

  He described his investigations in detail. “Now, it strikes me that Sir Wilfred planned his suicide some time in advance,” he continued. “He decided that he would shoot himself. He already possessed a revolver, but that was too cumbrous and noisy a weapon for his purpose. A small automatic would be just as deadly, and much more convenient.

  “But how was he to get hold of one? As you know, automatic pistols cannot be bought in this country without the production of a firearms certificate. Certainly a man in Sir Wilfred’s position would not have had the slightest difficulty in obtaining such a certificate. But secrecy is a characteristic of the intending suicide. Sir Wilfred would imagine that people would wonder what he wanted an automatic for, and would be afraid that they would guess correctly. It would suit him far better to get hold of one without the necessity of applying for a certificate.