by Miles Burton
“That’s all very well,” said Arnold. “But you are building up a theory upon a supposition that is pure guess-work. You have assumed the existence of this valuable document without, so far as I can see, the slightest grounds for doing so.”
“Not altogether. You may remember that we considered Saxonby’s actions, and agreed that they fitted in very well with the theory of suicide. He sent the members of his family to a distance, for instance, and gave a large tip to Turner for the privilege of having a carriage to himself. We have now abandoned the theory of suicide, but the actions remain. Can we find, supposing now that Saxonby was murdered, any other theory to account for them? I think we can.
“Suppose that Saxonby knew that on Thursday last he would receive an article, X. I won’t call it a valuable document, if you think that is assuming too much. X was of such a nature as to be carried in his wallet. It was of considerable value, intrinsic or otherwise. It would be delivered to him at his office, and would need to be conveyed to Mavis Court. Its receipt must not be known to Saxonby’s son or daughter, both of whom are directors of Wigland and Bunthorne, and might be in the offices at any time. What would Saxonby do? Why, just exactly what we know him to have done. He disposes of his possibly inquisitive family, on different pretexts. You said, I think, that the secretary, Torrance, happened to be in Manchester last Thursday. I shouldn’t wonder if it turned out that he went there at Saxonby’s suggestion.
“You also said that Saxonby had a visitor, who gave the name of Yates, and was a stranger to the staff. Was he the man who brought X? In any case, we will suppose that Saxonby obtained this mysterious object in the course of the day, and put it in wallet number one. When the time came to go home, his chief concern was lest his pocket should be picked. So he takes all precautions. Instead of walking to Cannon Street, he sends for a taxi, a thing, apparently, which he has never been known to do before. Arrived at the station, he secures, at considerable expense, a carriage to himself, and sees that the door is locked. He fancies then that he is secure. He can’t be expected to divine the deep-laid schemes of the old man with the short grey beard.”
“Upon my word, Merrion, your imagination gets more vivid every day!” Arnold exclaimed. “Don’t let any doubting attitude on my part cramp your style. Can’t you deduce the identity of the murderer in the same brilliant fashion?”
“Do you know, I’m almost tempted to make a guess? You don’t happen to have that automatic in your pocket by any chance, do you?”
“No, I left it at the Yard for the experts to report upon.”
“You said it had initials engraved upon it. Can you describe them?”
“Yes, W.S., in rather ornate letters in the form of a mono-
gram.”
“A monogram! Then how do you know that the initials are W.S. and not S.W.?”
“For the simple and fairly obvious reason that Sir Wilfred’s initials were W.S.”
Merrion smiled. “Saxonby’s daughter married a Major Wardour. Have you ever inquired what his Christian name is? What would you say if it turned out to be Samuel?”
“Dash it all, that’s going too far!” Arnold exclaimed. “I can swallow a good deal, but not that. There isn’t the slightest reason to suspect Major Wardour. Besides, he’s in the South of France, or was when Sir Wilfred was killed.”
“So we are told. And, since at present there isn’t the slightest reason to suspect anybody in particular, we may as well begin with Wardour. Let’s see how he fits in. I’ve shown you how the murderer must have been somebody with an intimate knowledge of Saxonby. Wardour, as his son-in-law, may be supposed to have that knowledge. There seems to be some sort of trouble brewing between Wardour and his wife, in which, apparently, Saxonby took his daughter’s side. The two men may have been on bad terms in consequence. If I were you, I’d try to find out rather more about Wardour than you know at present.”
Arnold grunted. “I’ve got to find out a lot more about several people, it seems to me,” he replied. “Your suggestions are stimulating, my friend, but for the present I find them a bit bewildering. I’d rather stick to plain facts. As I see it, this is pretty much what happened.
“A certain individual was already seated in the train at the time when Sir Wilfred secured his solitary compartment. This individual appeared to be elderly, bearded, and somewhat decrepit. Until the train started, he kept a careful watch upon the platform. To explain this, he deliberately gave Mrs. Clutsam and her daughter the impression that he was expecting somebody to join him. Just before the train entered the tunnel, he left the compartment.
“I think we may assume that he was elaborately disguised. The next question is, what became of him? He did not enter any of the compartments occupied by the surviving first-class passengers. He may have entered Sir Wilfred’s compartment, but he was not there when Turner looked in, at which time the train was gathering speed again. He cannot have left the first-class coach by unlocking one of the doors at the end of the corridor, for Turner and his assistant were approaching the coach from opposite directions, and one or other must have seen him.
“I can think of only two possibilities. He may have gone into one of the lavatories, and there removed his disguise. Later, he may have gone along the train, and taken a seat in one of the thirds, whose occupants were not questioned. Or he may have left the train as it slowed down in the tunnel. Since it was slowed down intentionally by some unauthorised person, that seems to me the most likely theory.”
Merrion nodded. “So it does to me. And subsequently two men, carrying a heavy battery between them, left the tunnel without being spotted. And that seems to me to need a devil of a lot of explanation.”
“Explanation or no explanation, they must have left it. They weren’t there yesterday afternoon, as we know well enough. And I think we may take it that they weren’t there when the railwaymen looked through the tunnel on Friday morning. Now, people don’t hold up trains just for fun, at least not in this country. Nor do they jump off them in tunnels just because they feel they’d like to stretch their legs a bit. There must have been some very good reason for these happenings. One naturally concludes that the shooting of Sir Wilfred constituted this reason.
“But, as you probably realise as well as I do, there is no conclusive evidence to prove that the man with the beard was the murderer. We don’t know that he entered Sir Wilfred’s compartment and shot him. We only believe that he had the opportunity of doing so. And as for your motive, the wish to secure the object X, that’s pure guess-work.”
“It’s rather more than that, if it’s correct that the wallets were interchanged,” said Merrion thoughtfully. “You’ve got the numbers of those five-pound notes, I suppose? It’s a very faint hope, but there’s just the chance that you may be able to trace them.”
“Yes, I’ve got the numbers. Hallo, here we are at that confounded tunnel again! Well, I’d rather go through it in the train than the way we did yesterday.”
“So would I. I thought I was going to be suffocated before we got half-way through. Half-way through? By Gad, I believe I’ve got it!”
“Got what?” Arnold demanded.
“The essential brainwave. No, I’m not going into details now. It may be one of those flights of my imagination which don’t come off somehow. What are you doing to-morrow morning?”
“I meant to take the day off, but I’m not sure now that I can.”
“Oh, yes, you can. I’ll show you a way of combining business with pleasure. We’ll take an early train to Blackdown, and then go hiking together. Oh, yes, we will. It’ll do you all the good in the world. Besides, there are some very good pubs in those parts, I believe. So we’ll take it as settled.”
IX
Arnold allowed himself to be persuaded. He knew by experience that Merrion never acted from mere caprice. There was also some good, if sometimes imaginative reason, for what he did.
So the pair of them arrived at Blackdown station about ten o’clock on Monday morning, and avoiding the station-master walked into the town. Here they took the main road leading southwards, and followed it for rather more than a mile. On reaching a signpost, Merrion consulted a map which he had brought with him. They turned to the right, along a secondary road, which carried comparatively little traffic. Some distance along this, they came to a grassy lane, which wandered off through a wood. After another glance at his map, Merrion decided that they would take this. They passed through the wood, and emerged upon an open expanse of pastureland. Merrion stopped, and pointed straight in front of him. “See that?” he exclaimed triumphantly.
Arnold looked in the required direction. A few hundred yards from where they stood was a cylindrical brick structure, about six feet in diameter and eight feet high, not unlike a factory chimney cut off short just above the base. The suggestion was heightened by the fact that a feather of whitish smoke was floating lazily from the top. The inspector looked at it without interest. “That thing that’s smoking over there?” he replied. “Yes, I see it. What is it? A lime-kiln, or something?”
“Lime-kiln!” Merrion retorted scornfully. “Don’t you remember walking through the tunnel on Saturday? And when I remarked to the ganger that the atmosphere seemed a trifle less poisonous towards the middle, he said that was because there was a ventilating shaft there. Well, we’re just about over the middle of the tunnel now, and that’s the top of the shaft. The smoke you see comes up from the tunnel beneath. Now, let’s go and have a look at it.”
To do so, they had only to follow the lane which ran within a few feet of the shaft. Merrion looked at this thoughtfully. “I wish we’d thought of bringing a ladder,” he said. “Never mind, there are one or two holes in the brickwork. Enough to give me a foothold, I think. Lend me your back a moment, will you?”
With Arnold’s aid he scrambled up the side of the shaft, and perched himself on the top, with his legs dangling over the edge. He sat there for so long in silence that the inspector became impatient. “Are you going to stop up there for the rest of the day?” he asked.
“Shut up, I’m listening,” replied Merrion sharply. And it was not for several minutes that he spoke again.
“It’s all right,” he said at last. “It works perfectly. Sitting up here I can hear the whistle of the trains as they enter the tunnel, and I’m beginning to be able to distinguish the direction from which they are coming. The roar is faint at first, then becomes louder as the train approaches the shaft. The noise is quite different as it passes under the shaft, more like a rattle. Then the roar begins again, and dies away as the train proceeds towards the other end of the tunnel. That’s all I want to know to begin with. Lend me a hand down, will you?”
Arnold did so. “Listening to trains isn’t a hobby of mine,” he said. “Since you appear to be satisfied, let’s see if we can’t find a decent pub where we can have a drink.”
“You’ll have to curb your thirst for a little longer, I’m afraid,” Merrion replied. “Look here, on the grass between the lane and the shaft. See that track? Made by a biggish car or a light lorry, unless I’m greatly mistaken. And I think these are the wheel-marks of a smaller and lighter car too. Neither of these tracks are many days old. Come and have a look at them for yourself.”
“Yes, I see the tracks all right,” said Arnold. “What about them?”
“Sit down here, on the leeward side of the stack, and light your pipe. What has been our chief difficulty with regard to the man or men in the tunnel?”
“Why, how they got in or out unobserved.”
“Right. Well, this shaft is the way out of that difficulty. Let me explain how the trick was worked. Because we found those lamps in the tunnel, we jumped to the conclusion that there must have been a man down there to work them. But that’s just where we were wrong. They were worked from up here.
“There were two men concerned, A and B. A was the man with the beard, B his confederate. B arrived here some time before half-past five in a car. I don’t understand why there should be two sets of tracks, but that’s a detail. He had with him in the car the battery that puzzled me so much, and the two lamps, each attached to a considerable length of flexible cord, on each of which, at the battery end, was a switch.
“He ran the car up against the shaft. I expect that it was a saloon and that by getting on to the roof he could overlook the top of the shaft. And I also expect that he had made his observations beforehand, and knew pretty well what he was about. He had probably used a lead-line, and knew the distance from the top of the shaft to the floor of the tunnel.
“He got everything ready, then waited till he heard the whistle of Saxonby’s train as it entered the tunnel. Then he lowered his lamps, so that they hung by the flexible cords, and switched on the red lamp. He could tell pretty well by the sound what was happening below. He would hear the train slowing up, and when he judged it had done so sufficiently, he switched off the red lamp and switched on the green. This bears out what Prentice and Haynes told us. The lamps swung slowly across the tunnel, between the two sets of rails. That’s just what they would do if they were suspended from here.
“As the train gathered way again, B switched off the green, and started to haul up his lamps. But he wasn’t quite quick enough. The engine caught them, smashed them to pieces, and broke the flexible cord. The men on the engine would see or hear nothing of that. It is too dark in the tunnel, and far too noisy. The impact threw the remains of the lamps to where we found them, which, you will remember, was some yards to the southward of the middle of the tunnel.
“Meanwhile, A had jumped off the train and made his way to the bottom of the shaft. How did he know when he had got there, you ask? Because he had a torch, which he kept pointing upwards, instead of downwards, as we did. He then calls up to B, who lowers a rope-ladder. A swarms up it, the rope-ladder is raised, and there you are.”
“This time I really believe you’ve hit the nail on the head,” said Arnold approvingly. “Your theory certainly clears up the difficulties. But I don’t much like the rope-ladder part. A rope-ladder of any length is a confoundedly bulky thing to carry about. And heavy, too, for that matter.”
“To be quite frank, I’m not in love with the rope-ladder, either. When I was up there just now, I looked for some place where the top end could be fixed, and couldn’t find one. However, I’m pretty sure that A must have left the tunnel by the shaft, rope-ladder or no rope-ladder.”
Arnold stood up and looked about him. “This confounded country seems utterly deserted,” he said. “I shouldn’t wonder if that car drove up and away again without anybody seeing it.”
“We mustn’t be too pessimistic. There must be a cottage or a farm or something somewhere. Suppose we follow this lane for a bit, and see where it leads to?”
They went on for about half a mile, and then, upon rounding a shoulder of the downs, came to a small farmhouse. An elderly man of benevolent aspect was working in the yard, and Merrion addressed him. “Can you tell us where this lane leads to?” he asked.
The man looked up and gave them a friendly smile. “Well, sir, ’tis a funny old lane, and no mistake,” he replied. “It don’t rightly lead nowhere, properly speaking. Just through the farm here, and out again to the road, half a mile beyond.”
“Then you don’t get much traffic along here, I suppose?”
“There’s nobody comes along but the few folk what wants to get to the farm. Barring now and then somebody who’s out for a nice walk, same as you might be, or what has lost his way and turned along the lane by mistake. There was one of them last Thursday.”
“A car, do you mean?” Merrion asked casually.
“Aye, one of them little cars like overgrown prams. Bloke what was driving it turned in at the end of the lane. Said he wanted to get to Little Hazelbury. But the turning to Little Hazelbury is nigh on a mile be
yond the lane, as I told him.”
“Did you see him turn into the lane?”
“No, for I’d have set him right if I had, wouldn’t I? ’Twas later on that I saw him, when he’d got as far as the shaft, and his car wouldn’t go any further. It chanced that I was out that way, looking for a young heifer that had strayed. And I saw the car and the bloke standing by it.”
“By Jove!” Merrion exclaimed. “I wonder if that was my friend Jones? He told me that his car had broken down somewhere in these parts, one day last week. What did he look like?”
“Elderly gentleman, with a short grey beard and walked with a stoop. I can’t say that I took any particular notice of him. I went up to him and asked him if the car wouldn’t go, and he said that he thought the magneto had broken down. That’s when he told me that he was bound for Little Hazelbury.”
“Poor old Jones! He’s always in trouble with that bus of his. Did he manage to get her going again?”
“No. He fiddled about for a bit, and then said that he would have to find a garage and get them to send some one out. He said he’d walk back to the main road, where he could pick up a bus to take him into Blackdown. I told him it wouldn’t do to leave the car where it was, as it was right in the middle of the lane, and nothing couldn’t get by. He said he wasn’t strong enough to move it by himself, so I lent him a hand, and we pushed it on to the grass, right beside the old shaft. And then he went off, though any one could see that he wasn’t much good at walking.”
“No, the poor old chap suffers terribly from rheumatism. It must have taken him a long time to walk to the main road. What time was this, by the way?”
“Somewhere round about twelve o’clock in the morning. And the chaps from the garage didn’t hurry themselves about getting here. It was nigh on dark when I saw one of they breakdown lorries coming along. You’ll know what I mean, sir. One of them things with a crane and tackle in them, so they can hoist a car up.”