Death in the Tunnel

by Miles Burton

  “This would be the simplest thing in the world. He had only to go abroad, buy a pistol while there, and smuggle it in. He was probably known to the customs officers at the port where he landed, and they would not make any very extensive search of his baggage. Besides, a little pistol like that could easily be concealed about the person, and with it a dozen rounds of ammunition.”

  “You haven’t yet traced the purchase of the pistol, have you?” Merrion asked.

  “No, but with the help of a firearms expert, I hope to.”

  “You’re probably on the right track. I have only one comment to make. I can’t imagine, somehow, that Saxonby bought the pistol for the sole purpose of killing himself with it. Why should he have his initials engraved upon it, if so?”

  “I’ve got an idea about that. I told you, I think, that none of the other firearms at Mavis Court have initials on them. I believe that Sir Wilfred had them engraved upon the automatic for a definite purpose. He wanted it to be quite clear that the pistol was his, to prevent suspicion falling upon anybody else. Suicides do that kind of thing, you know.”

  “Such as leaving letters behind them, explaining their actions. All right, go ahead.”

  “Having provided himself with the weapon, Sir Wilfred’s next move was to get his family out of the way. I imagine that he hated the idea of any fuss or bother. He would like to be buried and out of the way before his sorrowing relatives could make a scene. At all events, he suggested that his son and his wife should go to America, and his daughter and her husband to the South of France. That, I think, is an indication of what was in his mind.”

  “Very possibly,” Merrion replied. “So far as you know, he took no steps to get his niece out of the way?”

  “Apparently not. But perhaps he knew that she would not come into the category of a sorrowing relative. From what I saw and heard, I don’t think that Miss Olivia is likely to break her heart over her uncle’s death. Sir Wilfred’s next step was to decide upon the time and place of his suicide. His dislike of fuss would prevent him from shooting himself either at his office or at Mavis Court. Too many people about. They would rush in at the sound of the shot, and possibly disturb his last moments. He knew the line between London and Stourford well enough, and must have noticed how suitable Blackdown Tunnel was to his purpose. If he could get a carriage to himself, he could fire the shot as the train was passing through the tunnel, and it would be very unlikely that his death would be discovered until it reached Stourford.”

  “And that, you think, is what actually happened?”

  “I’m willing to bet that it is what the coroner and his jury will think. After all, if you find a man dead in a locked railway carriage, with the weapon which killed him within a couple of feet or so, the suggestion of suicide is bound to be pretty strong.

  “But, all the same, there are certain objections to the suicide theory. In the first place, I haven’t been able to light upon a vestige of reasonable motive. The only hint, so far, is that Sir Wilfred was worried by the disagreement between his daughter and her husband. But I refuse to believe that any amount of friction, however serious, between a daughter and a son-in-law would drive a man to suicide. Certainly not a man like Sir Wilfred. And, after all, the Wardours can’t have been on such desperately bad terms, since, apparently, they agreed to go off on a motor tour together.”

  “I wouldn’t jump too hastily to the conclusion that there was a complete lack of motive,” said Merrion. “Saxonby was a man of many interests, and you may find that something had gone very seriously wrong somewhere. He may have had something on his mind which he shared with nobody else. What are your other objections to the suicide theory?”

  “They are so trifling that they are hardly worth discussing. I’ll try to put them as simply as I can. Torrance says that there was a letter from Mrs. Wardour waiting for Sir Wilfred when he reached the office yesterday. The assistant secretary says that when he arrived, he selected one of his letters, read it, and laid it aside. I think we may assume that it was the one from his daughter, since he was anxious about her. Now, where is that letter? It was not to be found in his room, and there is no fire there in which he could have burnt it. Torrance suggests that he put it in his pocket. Most likely he did. But why wasn’t it in his pocket when the train reached Stourford? Again, we know that he presented his ticket at the barrier at Cannon Street, and we believe that, having done so, he put it back in his wallet. What became of that ticket?

  “There are, of course, a thousand possible explanations of the disappearance of the letter and the ticket. For instance, Sir Wilfred may have thrown them out of the carriage window before the train reached Blackdown. But I can’t forget that curious and unexplained incident in the tunnel. Whether the driver actually saw those red and green lights, or whether he only imagined them, the fact remains that the train slowed down to about ten miles an hour or less. You can laugh at me, if you like.”

  “I’m not likely to do that,” Merrion replied. “But I’d like you to explain the possible significance of that slowing down.”

  “It’s hopelessly far-fetched. To begin with, the compartment had two doors. One, the left-hand one, looking towards the engine, led into the corridor, and was locked. The other, the right-hand one, led into the open, and was unlocked. Now, in this country, trains follow the rule of the road, and keep to the left. If anybody was in the tunnel as the train passed through, he would be standing on the up line, to avoid being run over by the train, which was on the down line. It would not have been impossible for him to have jumped upon the footboard, and entered Sir Wilfred’s compartment by the unlocked door.”

  Merrion nodded. “I admit the possibility. We can go further, and say that it would be possible for this man to have shot Saxonby, stolen his ticket and the letter from his daughter, and jumped off the train again. But, apart from the possibility, we are bound to examine the probability of this having happened. And I’m bound to confess that I see a whole host of difficulties in the way. I’ll put them to you as they appear to me.

  “To begin with, we have the extreme unlikelihood of there having been a man in the tunnel. According to the station-master at Blackdown, that unlikelihood amounts to impossibility. I wouldn’t go so far as to accept his statement without further investigation. But, all the same, since he knows more about the conditions than we do, we are bound to attach a certain weight to what he says.”

  “It has occurred to me that there are other ways of getting into the tunnel than by entering it on foot,” said Arnold. “One might jump off a train while it was going through.”

  “Yes,” Merrion replied doubtfully. “I shouldn’t care to do it myself, but I suppose it could be done. But I don’t suppose many trains slow up as conveniently as the one in which Saxonby was travelling. However, let’s admit the bare possibility of there having been a man in the tunnel, who deliberately slowed down the train so that he would be able to board it.

  “Now, we pass on to the next point. In order that he could effect his purpose, it would be necessary that Saxonby should be travelling in a compartment by himself, and that his assailant should know which compartment this was. How could he have obtained the knowledge on either of these points? He might, it is true, have guessed that, for some reason with which he was acquainted, Saxonby would want to secure a compartment to himself. But how can he have known that Saxonby had been successful? Or, if he gambled on the probability of this success, how did he know which compartment it was? He couldn’t have seen Saxonby through the window, for that would almost certainly be obscured by the fumes from the engine.”

  “Yes, I’m with you there,” said Arnold. “I noticed that for myself, as I was coming through this morning.”

  “Good. Now we come to the man’s procedure. He provides himself with a pistol upon which he has engraved Saxonby’s initials. There’s nothing unreasonable about that. But, all the same, if the pistol wasn’t re
ally Saxonby’s, it is peculiar that you should have found ammunition to fit it in his private filing cabinet.

  “We needn’t, at present, enter into the question of motive. We don’t know enough about Saxonby and his affairs. We may find that he had a reasonable and sufficient motive for committing suicide. It is equally possible that we find that somebody had a reasonable and sufficient motive for killing him.

  “Finally, there is the disappearance of the ticket and the letter. Now, I’m bound to admit that the theory of a man boarding the train from the tunnel might be twisted to account for that.

  “Suppose this man, having shot Saxonby, did not leave the train again immediately. Suppose he unlocked the door leading into the corridor, passed through it, and locked it behind him. Suppose then that he hid in the lavatory until the train reached Stourford, and then got out? But he would need a ticket before he could leave the station. Foreseeing this necessity, he provided himself with Saxonby’s ticket.”

  “That’s ingenious!” Arnold exclaimed. “I’ve always admired your imagination, as you know. And I’ve got a list of all the passengers who were travelling in that first-class coach.”

  “You’ll probably find that very useful. This imaginary man of ours, having taken the ticket, may also have taken the letter, perhaps because its discovery might have given a clue to his own identity.

  “But, in spite of what you choose to call the ingenuity of my arguments, I don’t like the theory of the man in the tunnel. It seems to me that the difficulties altogether outweigh the suggestion offered by the ticket. Quite frankly, I don’t believe that Saxonby was murdered. I believe that he shot himself. But, if you want a theory of how he might have been murdered, I think I can supply you with one which presents fewer difficulties than that of the man boarding the train in the tunnel.”

  The Inspector smiled. “I’d love to hear it,” he said.

  “Then so you shall. It is this. The murderer did not board the train in the tunnel. He left it there. That gets round the worst of the difficulties. Our man knew that Saxonby would be going home by the five o’clock from Cannon Street yesterday. No difficulty about that, for he did so nearly every Thursday. He may have been watching the train every Thursday for weeks, awaiting his opportunity. Yesterday he saw Saxonby installed in a carriage by himself, and realised that his opportunity had come.

  “He had provided himself with a first-class ticket, and took a seat in another compartment of the coach. As soon as the train entered the tunnel, he went along the corridor, opened the door of Saxonby’s carriage, shot him, relocked the corridor door, and slipped out on to the line through the other door, the train having conveniently slowed down to allow him to do so.”

  “Well, that’s an alternative, certainly,” said Arnold thoughtfully. “It disposes of some of the difficulties, but it raises others. If the man was in the train, and not standing on the line in the tunnel, he can’t have waved that red light at the driver. How, then, did he know that the train would slow down? What would he have done if it hadn’t?”

  “Oh, I’m not defending my theory. I only put it forward as a piece of speculative reasoning. But why shouldn’t he have a confederate in the tunnel, who worked the lights to slow down the train?”

  “No!” exclaimed Arnold decidedly. “That won’t do. In spite of the station-master at Blackdown, I’m prepared to believe in the possibility of one man having slipped in or out of the tunnel unobserved. But you ask me to believe that one man got in, and two came out, and that’s going too far.”

  Merrion laughed. “My dear fellow, I quite agree with you,” he replied. “I told you that I wasn’t defending my theory. But doesn’t all this show the difficulty of forming any plausible theory to account for Saxonby having been murdered?”

  “I’ve felt that all along. But I’m bound to think of every possibility, no matter how remote.”

  “Of course you are. Well, let’s see what possibilities there are. We’ll assume that Saxonby was shot while the train was passing through the tunnel. He, or any one else, would naturally choose that time, since the report of the pistol would then be effectively drowned. But I don’t think we need assume that the slowing down of the train had any connection with the event. It may have been merely a coincidence, due to hallucination on the part of the driver.

  “Cutting that out, then, two possibilities remain. The first is that Saxonby was murdered by Turner, the guard. He had plenty of opportunity, but no apparent motive. The second is, that the murderer was some other passenger in the coach, who returned quietly to his own compartment when the deed was done. And, in that case, you ought to be able to identify him. It seems that the only compartment with a single occupant was Saxonby’s. By questioning the twenty-four passengers whose names you have, you will be able to find out if anybody left his seat before the train reached the tunnel, and returned to it afterwards.”

  “I’m going to do that in any case, just as a precaution,” Arnold replied.

  “Good. And, while you’re on the subject of precautions, I wouldn’t dismiss the tunnel altogether. I would see the driver and fireman of the train, and try to find out whether they really saw those lights or not. If they admit that they were mistaken, well and good. If not, I would search the tunnel myself.”

  “Didn’t I tell you that it has been searched already?”

  Merrion shook his head. “Not really searched,” he said. “A party of men went through it, looking for a definite and easily noticeable object, a body. They wouldn’t have been on the look-out for anything less conspicuous, such as a first-class railway ticket, for instance. And if they had, they would not have attached any particular importance to it. And, while you were about it, I should have a look at those signal boxes, and satisfy myself that they really do command the approaches to the tunnel as thoroughly as the station-master makes out. I’d always rather see a thing for myself than rely on somebody else’s description of it.”

  Arnold seemed impressed. “I dare say you’re right,” he replied. “But if the tunnel is to be searched, it ought to be done as soon as possible. If I decide to do it, will you come with me?”

  “And imperil my life in the cause of justice? All right, I don’t mind.”

  “Then I’d better get back to the Yard and see about it,” said Arnold.

  VI

  In the course of the following morning, Merrion was again rung up by the Inspector. “I’ve arranged with the company to see those railwaymen,” he said. “They’re to meet me at Blackdown at two o’clock. If you like, we’ll have a spot of lunch somewhere, and catch a train at Charing Cross about one o’clock.”

  Merrion agreed to this readily enough. In spite of the overwhelming evidence in favour of it, he was bound to admit the possibility of a doubt that Sir Wilfred Saxonby had shot himself. As he had told Arnold, his own belief was that it had been a case of suicide. But belief was not proof, and until all doubt had been removed, suicide could not be accepted as a fact.

  He met Arnold as arranged, and they travelled down to Blackdown together. The station-master, who had been instructed by the railway company to hold himself at Arnold’s disposition, met them. “The driver and fireman have just arrived,” he said. “They are waiting in my office. Will you see them now?”

  “Yes, I’ll see them,” Arnold replied. “But one at a time, I think. I’ll begin with the driver. What’s his name?”

  “Robert Prentice. He has been a driver for fifteen years, and is considered a very steady and reliable man. The fireman’s name is Charles Haynes, another very steady chap.”

  Arnold and Merrion installed themselves in the station-master’s room, into which the driver was introduced. “Sit down, Prentice,” said Arnold. “I want to ask you a few questions. You were the driver of the five o’clock from Cannon Street on Thursday?”

  “That’s right, sir. I’ve been driving that train all the week.”

&nb
sp; “And you slowed up the train in Blackdown Tunnel?”

  The driver’s face hardened. “I’ve already reported why, sir,” he replied.

  “Yes, I know, and you’ve been disbelieved. Now, I’m going to be perfectly frank with you, and I’m sure you’ll be the same with me. As no doubt you’ve seen in the papers, a passenger was found shot in the train when it arrived at Stourford. Well, there’s reason to believe that the shot was fired in Blackdown Tunnel.”

  “I saw about the accident, sir,” said Prentice. “But I didn’t know it happened in the tunnel.”

  “We believe it did. Now you’ll understand why I wanted to talk to you. You reported having seen red and green lights in the tunnel. If you did, the person who showed those lights may have had something to do with the death of the passenger. But are you quite sure you saw them? If you aren’t quite sure, say so, and nobody will blame you in the least.”

  “I wasn’t mistaken,” replied Prentice quietly. “I’ve been through the tunnel too often to imagine lights that aren’t there. I saw a red light that changed to green, and I’ll take my oath upon that.”

  “Tell us exactly what you did see,” said Arnold.

  “I entered the tunnel steaming hard, doing perhaps fifty miles an hour or a bit more. The signals were clear, and there are no more until you get beyond the tunnel on the other side. Often enough, if there’s been an up train through just before, the tunnel is so full of smoke and steam that you can’t see a flare till you’re right on top of it. But on Thursday evening it wasn’t so bad, quite clear in the tunnel, you might say, and there was nothing in the notices about men working in it. So I let her rip, giving a long whistle on entering the tunnel, according to regulations.