by Miles Burton
“I’m not interested in details like that,” said Arnold impatiently. “Do look at the matter sensibly, there’s a good chap. We know now that Prentice and Haynes weren’t imagining things when they saw those lights. Therefore a man had entered the tunnel with the definite object of slowing down the train. Why should he want to slow down the train? Tell me that.”
“So that he could board it, I suppose,” Merrion replied. “Look here, Arnold, have you ever climbed into an English railway carriage when it wasn’t standing at a platform?”
“Yes, I climbed into that first-class coach when it was standing in the siding at Stourford yesterday morning.”
“Would you have liked to have done so with a battery weighing at least fifty pounds slung round your neck, and the coach moving?”
“Oh, damn the battery!” Arnold exclaimed. “This chap did it, anyhow. You admit that his only possible reason for slowing down the train was that he could board it. What did he board it for? To get a free ride to Stourford?”
“You think that finding these lamps in the tunnel is sufficient evidence that Saxonby was murdered?”
“No, I don’t. By themselves, the lamps are evidence that the driver and fireman were speaking the truth, and no more. But the fact that the train was deliberately slowed down by some unauthorised person considerably strengthens the possibility of murder. We can say now that we have reason to believe that some one got on to the train in the tunnel. We have to find that person, and discover whether he knows anything about Sir Wilfred’s death.”
“That’s very clearly put,” said Merrion approvingly. “But, you know, all the difficulties which we discussed yesterday still remain. How did the man know that Saxonby was alone, or which compartment he occupied? For he must have entered the train by that particular compartment. You see why. All the others were occupied, and his sudden entry into any of them from the tunnel would have caused at least a mild surprise. Then, what became of him? You’ll have to interview those twenty-four first-class passengers, I’m afraid.”
“Marden, down at Stourford, is rounding them up for me. They all live round about there, as it happens. I shall have to go down and see him to-morrow, and hear what he’s done. Care to come?”
Merrion agreed, readily enough. The problem fascinated him, since every possible solution presented apparently insuperable difficulties. He had seen for himself the impossibility of entering or leaving the tunnel unobserved. Yet somebody must have entered it, or how could the presence of the lamps be explained? That they had been casually thrown from a passing train was too fantastic a theory to be entertained for a moment.
And how had the man left the tunnel? In the train, or on foot? The former seemed most likely. He had taken Saxonby’s ticket, and hid in the lavatory till the train got to Stourford. That was it, undoubtedly. As for the battery, he must have thrown it out of the window, somewhere between the tunnel and Stourford. Since nobody had been allowed to get out of the coach without giving a name and address, it ought to be possible to trace him.
Merrion laid this reasoning before Arnold on their way to Stourford next morning. The inspector saw the force of it, and it was evidently in his mind when they met Marden at the police station. For his first question was, “Have you traced all those twenty-four passengers, Mr. Marden?”
“Every one of them,” Marden replied. “It wasn’t difficult for they are all local people, and there’s nothing in any way suspicious about any of them.”
“Yes, but are you quite sure that they all got into the train at Cannon Street? That’s the point.”
“As sure as any one can be. They have all given accounts of their movements, which can be checked. But the curious thing is that there ought to be twenty-five of them, instead of twenty-four.”
“What do you mean, Mr. Marden?” Arnold asked eagerly.
“Why, so far as I can make out, there was one passenger who got on to the train at Cannon Street who wasn’t in the coach when it reached here. I expect you’ll like to hear the story at first hand. If so, I’ll take you to see a couple of ladies who live close here. Mrs. Clutsam a widow, and her daughter.”
Marden took them to a fine old house on the outskirts of the town, and introduced them to Mrs. Clutsam. She was quite ready to repeat her story, and called her daughter to support her.
“We had been up to London for the day to do some shopping,” she said. “Now that they’ve reduced the price of day tickets, we always travel first. It’s so much more comfortable, and it isn’t a very great extravagance. We got to Cannon Street about ten minutes to five, and looked for seats in the train. We never go in smoking carriages if we can help it, for they always seem more crowded. And we found a non-smoker, with only one old gentleman in it.
“He was sitting in the corner seat next to the corridor, facing the engine, and he had put a newspaper in the opposite seat. He kept looking out on to the platform, and then at his watch. He was obviously expecting somebody, we could see that. He got very perturbed as the time came for the train to start, but nobody came. And when the train began to move, we heard him mutter, ‘Dear, dear, she’s missed it again!’ Didn’t we, Betty?”
“Yes, we certainly did,” replied Miss Clutsam. “The poor old boy seemed very much annoyed, or disappointed, perhaps. But after a minute or two he took his paper from the opposite seat, and began to read it.”
“He read it for quite a long time,” her mother chimed in. “I noticed that he seemed very nearsighted, for he held it close to his eyes. Then, after a while, he took out a cigarette-case, chose a cigarette, and was just going to light it when he remembered that he was in a non-smoker. He held the unlighted cigarette and looked at it in such a funny way that I couldn’t help laughing. And then I said to him, ‘Please light your cigarette. We don’t mind a bit.’ Didn’t I, Betty?”
“I don’t think he liked being laughed at,” replied Miss Clutsam. “He mentioned something about not thinking of inconveniencing us, and that he could easily find a seat in a smoking carriage. And with that he got up and tottered off.”
“We were passing through a station at the time. Blackdown, I think it must have been. And we never saw him again.”
“I wonder if you could describe him, Mrs. Clutsam?” Arnold asked.
“Oh, I should think he must have been about seventy. He was wearing a heavy dark brown overcoat, and he had a short grey beard. I couldn’t see much of his face, for he held the paper so close to it. But it seemed to me very much wrinkled.”
“He had a hooked nose, and reminded me of a parrot,” said Miss Clutsam.
“He stooped as he walked, and seemed very tottery on his legs. I told mother that it was a shame to have laughed at him, since it had driven him out of the carriage.”
Neither of the ladies could add anything to this. The two inspectors and Merrion left the house and returned to the police-station. “Now, I’ll carry on the story,” said Marden. “As soon as I heard about this old man with the short grey beard, I went round the rest of the passengers again. None of them had seen him. Neither he nor anybody else had entered any of the compartments after the train had left Cannon Street. No stranger, I mean. Three or four of the passengers had left their seats to go to the lavatory, but they had all returned to them.
“Then I went to the railway station, and questioned our friend Cutbush and his merry men. Cutbush is perfectly certain that nobody answering to that description was in the coach when it arrived here. Being thorough by nature, he had ascertained that there was nobody in either of the lavatories. The ticket-collector is equally certain that the old man with the short grey beard did not pass the barrier. Having been here for many years, he knew nearly all the passengers by sight, and he is quite certain that this man was not among them. Now, what about it?”
Arnold shook his head. “It beats me,” he replied. “It seems to me that very remarkable things happen on this line o
f yours. I’ll tell you what Mr. Merrion and I found yesterday.”
Marden listened with interest. “So there was a man in Blackdown Tunnel, after all!” he exclaimed. “That’s two men we’ve got to look for, now. But where can the old chap with the beard have got to? He can’t have got out of the train when it slowed down in the tunnel, surely? You heard what Miss Clutsam said about his being tottery.”
“I shouldn’t wonder if that, and the beard, and the wrinkles and all were put on,” Arnold replied. “This business will take years from my life. It’s impossible for anybody to get in or out of that tunnel without being seen. Yet, on Thursday evening, people seem to have gone in and out at their own sweet will. From what I can make out one must have gone in, and two came out. But how? Merrion, your imagination has never been known to fail. Tell me how?”
But Merrion shook his head. “I wish I could,” he replied. “Unless they had the cloak of the fairy stories, which made them invisible. But I think we should be pretty safe in assuming now that these extraordinary happenings had some connection with Saxonby’s death.”
“Meaning that Sir Wilfred was murdered by the man with the beard?” said Arnold. “Well, we’ve got to try and find the chap, I suppose. But it won’t be any too easy. He was obviously disguised, and we haven’t the slightest idea what the real man looks like.
“What do we know about him? Precious little. He got into the five o’clock from Cannon Street on Thursday. That job about expecting some one to join him was rather neat. It gave him the chance of watching for Sir Wilfred, and seeing which compartment he got into. Just before the train reached the tunnel, he left his own compartment, and walked along the corridor. We must suppose he entered Sir Wilfred’s compartment, and if so he must have had a railway key. He shot him, and put the pistol under the seat where it was certain to be found. Then, when the train had slowed down sufficiently, he dropped off it. We’ve got to work on that theory, I think. By the way, how did the inquest go off yesterday, Mr. Marden?”
“Adjourned for further evidence,” Marden replied. “I think the coroner was a bit surprised when we made the suggestion. Nobody about here has any doubt that Sir Wilfred shot himself.”
At this moment the telephone bell rang, and Marden answered it. He held a short conversation, then turned to the others. “That was Miss Olivia Saxonby,” he said. “She wants to drive over here and see me at once. A matter of some importance, she said. I told her to come along. Perhaps you gentlemen would like to be present at the interview?”
“Thanks,” replied Arnold. “We may as well. Have you any idea what she wants to see you about?”
“None whatever. I sent Sir Wilfred’s clothes and things to Mavis Court this morning. That may have something to do with it.”
While awaiting their visitor, they discussed the new aspects of the case. The vital point now was to discover the identity of the man with the beard. But they had reached no conclusion when Miss Saxonby was announced. She showed no trace of excitement, or, indeed, of any other emotion. Having been accommodated with a chair, she produced a wallet, which Arnold recognised as the one which had been found in the dead man’s pocket, and laid it on the table. “That didn’t belong to Uncle Wilfred,” she said.
“But it was the one which was found in his pocket, Miss Saxonby,” Marden replied. “How can you be sure that it did not belong to him?”
“Perhaps I expressed myself badly. It may have belonged to him, though I have never seen it before. It certainly is not the wallet which he took with him on Thursday morning, though, it is exactly like it.”
“Are you sure that it is not the same, Miss Saxonby?”
“Quite sure. Uncle Wilfred had a wallet exactly like this, which was given to him by my cousin Dick last Christmas. Since then he always used it, carrying it about with him in his pocket.
“On Wednesday afternoon, at tea time, he took it out and showed me where the silk lining had gone torn. I told him that I thought I could stitch it up for him. He emptied the wallet, and gave it to me. I mended it as best I could, and gave it back to him. As you see, the lining is of light blue silk. I hadn’t any thread exactly that colour, and had to use a darker shade, which made the stitches show.
“Just before he left Mavis Court on Thursday morning, he took his wallet from his pocket to give me some money, and I noticed the stitches then. So the wallet which he took to London was the one which I had mended. If you look at this one, you will see that though the lining is frayed in places, it is not torn, and there are no stitches in it.”
This was certainly the case, but the significance of the fact was not immediately apparent. It was left to Merrion to ask the next question. “Do you happen to know where your cousin bought the wallet which he gave to your uncle?”
“I haven’t the slightest idea,” she replied. “You can ask him when he gets back from America.”
“You found all the rest of Sir Wilfred’s possessions correct, Miss Saxonby?” Arnold asked.
“So far as I know. But, of course, I can’t tell exactly what he had in his pockets or his attaché-case when he went up to London.”
She rose, and Marden escorted her from the room. Merrion smiled. “If she’s telling the truth, and if Saxonby was murdered, I believe that we’re beginning to get an inkling of the motive,” he said.
VIII
It was not until he and Arnold were alone, in the train going back to London, that Merrion deigned to explain himself.
“If that isn’t the wallet which Saxonby took with him to London, where did it come from?” he asked. “You will have observed that it does not appear to be new. Both the leather and the silk lining are worn. That, I think, disposes of our theory. Saxonby’s aesthetic taste may have been displeased by the stitches put in by his niece. He might have bought another wallet to replace his own, while he was in London. But then he would have bought a new one. And it is in the highest degree improbable that he possessed two exactly similar wallets, which could only be distinguished by the lining of one of them being torn.
“May I remind you of the railway ticket and the letter from Mrs. Wardour? Their disappearance has puzzled us, and now that we believe that a man left the train in the tunnel, instead of boarding it, my ingenious theory to account for the ticket won’t do. To these missing articles we have to add Saxonby’s wallet. Do you mind telling me again what were the contents of the wallet found in his pocket?”
Arnold referred to his note-book. “A few of Saxonby’s visiting cards, a book of stamps, with two or three torn out, three five-pound notes, seven one-pound notes, and two ten-shilling notes.”
“Nothing, in fact, particularly intimate. Nothing that anybody might have procured for himself. Even the visiting cards could have been copied from one given to somebody by Saxonby. But we have reason to believe that, when Saxonby started on his journey home, his wallet contained also his daughter’s letter and his ticket. Are you beginning to see daylight?”
“No, I’m blest if I am,” Arnold replied. “I haven’t the least idea what you’re driving at.”
“Very well. Now, suppose that Saxonby’s wallet, which we will call number one, contained, besides all these things, some valuable document. A certain person decides to possess himself of that document. With that end in view he works out a scheme for murdering Saxonby in Blackdown Tunnel, in such a way as to make it appear that he committed suicide.
“The very essence of his scheme is speed. He dare not remain in Saxonby’s compartment an instant longer than he can help, for fear that somebody passing along the corridor may see him. He must choose the moment when the train is travelling at its minimum speed. Then he must enter the compartment, shoot his victim, secure the document, and get off the train. And all this must be done within a few seconds.
“This rapid programme allowed no time for looking through wallet number one, which may have contained a quantity of letters and pape
rs. Nor could he just take the wallet and leave nothing in its place. Its absence would arouse suspicion as soon as the body was found. So he evolves rather a neat scheme. He provides himself with a second wallet, which we will call number two, exactly similar, so far as he knows, to number one. And in this wallet he puts things such as Saxonby habitually carried about him. Visiting cards, a book of stamps, and a fair amount of money. What he can’t put in is the return half of a railway ticket to Stourford, and Mrs. Wardour’s letter. The ticket, because it was a day return, and he would have had to purchase it at Stourford, and the letter, for obvious reasons. Wallet number two he had all ready with its contents. All he had to do when he had killed Saxonby was to take number one, and put number two in its place.”
“I don’t understand…” Arnold protested, but Merrion cut him short. “Of course you don’t. Nor do I, yet. But I’ll bet you I’m right. Saxonby was murdered by somebody who wanted to secure something that he had in his wallet. If that’s the case, we can deduce quite a lot of things about that somebody. He was intimately acquainted with Saxonby, to such an extent as to know the exact appearance of his wallet. And that seems to me to show a remarkable degree of intimacy. We’ve known one another several years. I habitually carry a wallet, which you must have seen me produce a hundred times. Could you go and buy one exactly like it?”
Arnold shook his head. “I remember that it is brown, and made of crocodile skin. But I couldn’t tell you what colour the lining is, for instance.”
“Exactly. Now, what else do we know about the supposed murderer? He was aware that Saxonby would be carrying the valuable document, or whatever it was, on Thursday evening. And people don’t carry a thing like that about with them all day and every day. They keep it in a place of safety. Another suggestion, I think, that Saxonby’s murderer knew a great deal about his victim’s private affairs.”