Death in the Tunnel

by Miles Burton

  “Can you give me Mr. Dredger’s address?”

  “Certainly. He lives with his widowed daughter-in-law at 75 London Road, Blackdown.”

  It cost Arnold a considerable effort to conceal his amazement at this information. He buried himself in making a note of this address, then changed the subject. “You told me that Sir Wilfred had a visitor on Thursday afternoon,” he said. “A man who gave the name of Yates. You know nothing of him, I think you said?”

  “Nothing whatever. And nobody else in the office seems to have seen him before. Somebody who knew Sir Wilfred at Mavis Court, I expect.”

  “I wonder if I could have a description of him?”

  “Nothing easier. I’ll send for the clerk who interviewed him.”

  The clerk, upon being questioned, remembered Mr. Yates perfectly. A very pleasant-spoken gentleman, somewhere between twenty and thirty. Tall, dark, clean-shaven, exceptionally well-dressed. Was carrying nothing but a pair of gloves and an umbrella. Since he had an appointment, was not asked his business. Sir Wilfred was evidently expecting him, for as soon as he was announced, he had ordered him to be sent to his room at once. Mr. Yates had not stayed more than a few minutes.

  “I can’t offer any suggestion,” said Torrance, when the clerk had gone. “Now and then Sir Wilfred had personal visitors when he was here, but they were usually old business friends who dropped in to see him, and of course I knew them all. This Mr. Yates is a new one on me.”

  “Well, I mustn’t take up too much of your time. Just one more question. Do you keep a record of the numbers of five-pound notes that pass through the office?”

  “I expect so. But it’s hardly my department. Come along and see the cashier.”

  Arnold repeated his question to the cashier, who replied in the affirmative. The inspector gave him a slip of paper, on which were written the number of the notes found in the wallet. “Have you any record of these?” he asked.

  The cashier compared the slip of paper with his book. “Yes, I have,” he replied. “They are among a number of notes drawn by me from the bank last Monday, a week ago to-day.”

  This was more than Arnold had dared to hope for. “And can you tell me how you disposed of them?” he asked.

  “Certainly. They are booked out to Sir Wilfred. On Thursday morning he sent me down a private cheque to be cashed, for twenty pounds, asking for three five-pound notes and five one-pound notes. These are the numbers of the notes which I gave him.”

  Arnold next produced the wallet, now emptied of its contents. “Do you recognise that, Mr. Torrance?” he asked.

  Torrance took the wallet, opened it, closed it again, and returned it to the inspector. “Sir Wilfred’s,” he said briefly.

  “Can you be absolutely certain of that?” Arnold asked. “You have never actually handled the wallet before, I suppose?”

  Torrance smiled. “I’ve never handled it, certainly,” he replied, “but I’ve seen Sir Wilfred take it out of his pocket, often enough. I suppose, if you were to put me in the witness-box, I couldn’t actually swear that this was the one. But I haven’t the slightest doubt that it is.”

  Arnold was about to leave the office, when a remark from Torrance detained him. “By the way, Mrs. Wardour looked in here this morning,” he said. “She’s just back from the South of France. She’s gone down to Mavis Court. The funeral was this afternoon, you know.”

  “Did her husband come back with her?” Arnold asked.

  “Well, no. She told me that her husband came back to England some days ago, leaving her out there. I gather that Sir Wilfred’s scheme for effecting a reconciliation between them was not altogether successful. She told me that she had not seen her husband since her return.”

  “Where do the Wardours live?”

  “They’ve got a house in Hampstead, and a cottage near Saffron Walden in Essex. Latterly, since the disagreement between them, Mrs. Wardour has spent most of her time in Hampstead, and Major Wardour in the country.”

  Arnold made a note of the two addresses, and returned to Scotland Yard.

  XI

  The inspector’s inquiries at the offices of Messrs. Wigland and Bunthorne had considerably shaken his faith in Merrion’s theory. Certainly, Merrion’s conjecture that Torrance’s visit to Manchester had been at Sir Wilfred’s instigation had proved correct. But for the rest the evidence was against him.

  His theory had been founded upon an imaginary substitution of the wallets. But it seemed to Arnold very doubtful that any such substitution had taken place. Torrance was certain that the wallet found in the dead man’s pocket had been the property of Sir Wilfred. Miss Olivia, on the other hand, was positive that this was not the case. Miss Olivia, it might be argued, should know best. She had actually handled and repaired the wallet, while Torrance admitted that he had never handled it.

  But the evidence of the notes was entirely in Torrance’s favour. The notes found in the wallet were demonstrably those given to Sir Wilfred by his cashier on Thursday morning. Now, according to Merrion’s theory, the wallets had been interchanged for one definite reason, to save the time which must otherwise have been expended in extracting object X from Sir Wilfred’s wallet, and then replacing this in his pocket. But, since the notes were in Sir Wilfred’s wallet, which Merrion had called number one, if an exchange had been made, they must have been transferred to number two. What, then, had been gained, either in time or convenience? It would have been as easy to remove object X from Sir Wilfred’s wallet as to transfer the notes.

  Again, what proof was there of the existence of this mysterious object? None whatever. Perhaps the man who had given his name as Yates had handed it to Sir Wilfred during their interview. But that he had done so was a matter of pure conjecture.

  Finally, there was the wholly unexpected emergence of Mr. Dredger, who lived at Blackdown. Arnold fully realised that, pending identification, Mr. Dredger must not be taken too seriously. Elderly men with short grey beards were not uncommon. Torrance had recognised him from a very sketchy second-hand description. He might have been entirely mistaken. Still, it was remarkable that Mr. Dredger lived at Blackdown, of all places in the world. He would have to be interviewed, of that there could be no doubt.

  Merrion had advised Arnold not to lose sight of Major Wardour. Here, again, was a disturbing factor. Wardour was said to have returned to England some days ago. How long ago? Before November 14th, the day on which Sir Wilfred had been killed? What had he to gain by the death of his father-in-law?

  Arnold decided that it was too late to pursue his inquiries that evening. But early next morning he went once more to Blackdown, and made his way to 75 London Road. He found this to be a substantial and well-kept villa, and upon ringing the bell he found that Mr. Dredger was at home. He was taken to a comfortably-furnished sitting-room, where an elderly man was reading a newspaper in front of a bright fire. He looked up as Arnold was announced. The inspector’s first impression was of a short grey beard, then of a lined and wrinkled face and a hook nose. In a flash he remembered Miss Clutsam’s description. Like a parrot, she had said.

  Mr. Dredger certainly seemed surprised to see his visitor. But his manners were beyond reproach. “Sit down here by the fire, inspector,” he said. “It’s cold out, I’ve no doubt. That’s right. Now, what can I have the pleasure of doing for you?”

  “You can give me some information, if you will, Mr. Dredger,” Arnold replied. “To begin with, I want you to fix your mind upon last Thursday. The date was November 14th.”

  “I’m not likely to forget it. That was the day Sir Wilfred shot himself. And whatever he did it for passes my comprehension. A man in his position, without a care in the world! It must have been Lady Saxonby’s death, preying on his mind, though he never showed it. And there’s another reason why I shouldn’t forget last Thursday. It was the day my daughter—at least, she’s not my daughter, but my dead so
n’s wife, but I always call her my daughter—was called down to Plymouth on a fool’s errand.”

  “I see you remember the day well enough. Can you tell me how you employed your time?”

  “No difficulty about that. It was about nine o’clock, when we were having breakfast, that the telegram came. My daughter was terribly upset, for the lad is her only nephew, the son of her brother that’s dead, and she’s always been very fond of him. So she went off at once…”

  “One moment, Mr. Dredger,” Arnold interposed. “You’re going a bit too fast for me. Who is this lad, and what was the telegram about?”

  “Harold, his name is. He’s been working this last couple of years in a house-agent’s office at Plymouth. And very well he’s doing, from all accounts. Well, on Thursday morning, Alice, that’s my daughter, you understand, got this telegram. It said that Harold had met with a serious accident, and asked her to come down at once. The telegram was signed Fred, which is the name of Harold’s chum in the office.

  “Well, as I say, the poor girl was terribly upset, and went off at once. She caught the 10.30 at Paddington, and when she got to Plymouth went straight to the office to make inquiries. And the first person she saw was Harold, fit as a fiddle, and nothing whatever wrong with him. He’d never had an accident, and the whole thing was a hoax. They tackled Fred, and he swore he’d never sent the wire. However, Alice stayed down there that night, and they had a very good time between them, from what I can make out. I shouldn’t wonder if those two young fellows hadn’t fixed it up between them, to get Alice down there.”

  “So that you were left alone for the whole of Thursday, Mr. Dredger?”

  “And the best part of Friday, too. Alice didn’t get back until late that afternoon.”

  “Rather hard on you, wasn’t it? How did you get on?”

  “Oh, I can manage to take care of myself, as a rule. In the morning I went out for a run in my car, as I pretty well always do. You see, I’m not so young as I was, and walking bothers me. But the doctor says that it’s good for me to get out for a bit every day, even if it’s only in a car.”

  “Do you remember where you went?”

  “Why, yes. I went to Medbridge, had a look in at the market, and came home again. I was back here for lunch at one o’clock.”

  “Did you see anybody you knew at Medbridge?”

  “I can’t say that I did. But then I don’t know many people that way.”

  “Did you have any trouble with the car?” Arnold asked.

  Mr. Dredger looked at him shrewdly. “Oh, so that’s it, is it?” he replied. “I’ve been wondering all this time what you’ve been after. There’s been an accident, I suppose, and you think I was involved. No. I had no trouble with the car of any kind, and I neither saw nor heard of any accident. You can see the car for yourself, if you like. She’s shabby, but you won’t find that she’s been damaged.”

  “I’d like to see the car later. Now, what did you do after lunch? It was a nice bright day, I remember. You went out again, didn’t you?”

  Mr. Dredger shook his head. “I couldn’t do that, with Alice away,” he replied. “You see, it was the maid’s afternoon out, and somebody has to stay at home and look after the house. I never set foot out of doors again after lunch. The maid went out about half-past two and came back at ten. I made myself a cup of tea, and cooked myself a bit of supper, and as soon as the maid had come in I went to bed.”

  “Did you have any visitors during the afternoon or evening?”

  “No, I didn’t see a soul. I spent the best part of my time reading. I’m very fond of a good book, and since I’ve retired I read a lot.”

  “Do you ever go up to London, Mr. Dredger?”

  “Now and again. I drop in sometimes to see my friends at Wigland and Bunthorne’s. Torrance, the secretary, is a very decent chap, and Mr. Richard—Sir Richard, he’ll be now, I suppose, was always glad to see me. But I’ve not been up for several weeks now. I had a touch of arthritis, and it’s made it a bit difficult for me to get about.”

  “It didn’t occur to you, since you were alone, to go up on Thursday?”

  “I never gave it a thought. I wouldn’t have gone out and left the house empty. I haven’t a word to say against the police, inspector, but places do get burgled sometimes.”

  “Yes, I’m afraid they do. Did you think of going out in your car this morning, Mr. Dredger?”

  “Why, yes. It’s a bit cold, but I don’t mind that if it’s fine. I shall take a short run directly, I dare say.”

  “I wonder if you would take me with you? I want to go to a farm not far from Little Hazelbury. Do you know that road?”

  Mr. Dredger showed no discomfort at the mention of this village. “I’ll take you, willingly enough, inspector,” he replied. “I know the way to Little Hazelbury well enough. Turn off to the right from the main Medbridge road, and then again to the left. I don’t often go that way, for it’s very narrow and winding. But we’ll find the place, right enough.”

  Mr. Dredger’s car was garaged in a shed at the end of his garden, the doors of which opened on to a back street. Arnold noticed that the comings and goings of the car could not be overlooked from the house. The car itself was a miniature saloon, of respectable age but apparently in good condition. They took their places in it, Mr. Dredger at the wheel, and set off.

  The drive was uneventful. Mr. Dredger’s driving, though by no means spectacular, was sufficiently cautious to satisfy the most exacting. They followed the same route as Arnold and Merrion had taken on the previous morning. The inspector was on the look-out, and when they reached the lane which led past the shaft, he spoke. “The farm I want to get to lies along there,” he said. “Have you ever been down this lane before, Mr. Dredger?”

  “Never,” replied Mr. Dredger, as he obediently turned the car in the required direction. “But there’s no harm in trying, I suppose.”

  Arnold made no further remark until they came in sight of the tunnel ventilating shaft. “What’s that thing like a short chimney, smoking away over there?” he asked casually.

  “Couldn’t say,” replied Mr. Dredger briefly. “I’ve never seen it before.”

  Shortly afterwards Arnold caught sight of the farmer, walking along the lane towards them. “Why, there’s the very man I want to speak to!” he exclaimed. “Would you mind pulling up when we reach him?”

  Mr. Dredger nodded. They went on for a short distance, then, as the car stopped, Arnold slipped quietly out of it. The farmer stared at the car, then at Mr. Dredger. “Back again, then?” he asked pleasantly.

  “Back again?” replied Mr. Dredger. “What do you mean?”

  “Why, just what I say. I’m the chap what helped you push the car on to the grass over by the stack yonder, that day when it broke down last week. Don’t you remember me?”

  “I never remember setting eyes on you before,” replied Mr. Dredger indignantly. “My car never broke down last week, here or anywhere else. You’re mistaking me for somebody else.”

  The farmer winked knowingly. “You can’t kid me,” he said. “I knew you the moment I set eyes on you, aye, and the car too.”

  Arnold, who had remained in the background, now came forward. “You say you’ve seen this gentleman before?” he asked innocently.

  The farmer began to imagine that he was being made the object of some obscure joke. “Yes, and I’ve seen you before,” he replied tartly. “You and another gentleman spoke to me about this very time yesterday. And it’s no good your saying that you didn’t, for I know better.”

  “I shouldn’t venture to say anything of the kind,” said Arnold hastily. “But you hear what this gentleman says. Are you sure you aren’t mistaken about him?”

  “Not I. I know him, right enough. He’s the bloke I told you about yesterday. He drove along in this very car, and then stopped. He told me the car had broke
n down, and I helped him push it out of the road.”

  “That’s ridiculous!” exclaimed Mr. Dredger. “When do you say this happened?”

  “Last Thursday, round about noon, as you know as well as I do.”

  “Quite a number of unusual things seem to have happened last Thursday, Mr. Dredger,” said Arnold quietly. Then, turning to the farmer, “You’re sure it was the same car?”

  “I wouldn’t go so far as to swear, not knowing much about cars myself. But, if it wasn’t this very car, it was the very spit of it.”

  “This seems most extraordinary,” said Arnold. “Would you mind turning the car, Mr. Dredger, and driving back to where this man says he helped you to push the car on to the grass?”

  Mr. Dredger seemed too bewildered to make any objection. Arnold and the farmer walked to the shaft, with the car following behind them. “That’s the place,” said the farmer. “You can see the tracks of the car still. Aye, and the tracks of the lorry what came to draw it away.”

  The tracks were certainly there, though no longer very distinct. Enough of them, however, could be discerned to show that they had been made by a set of Dunlop tyres, with the treads in good condition. Arnold looked significantly at Mr. Dredger’s car, which was equipped with a set of nearly new Dunlops. “Are you quite sure you didn’t lose your way last Thursday, Mr. Dredger?” he asked.

  The farmer interposed, before Mr. Dredger could reply. “That’s just what it was. He’d lost his way. Told me he wanted to get to Little Hazelbury. And I told him he ought to have kept on, instead of turning down here like he’d done.” He turned upon Mr. Dredger, almost belligerently. “You’re never going to deny that, now, when you know it’s the gospel truth?”

  Mr. Dredger became purple in the face. “Of course I deny it!” he exclaimed.

  “Then I say you’re a blinking liar,” replied the farmer. “Likely enough you were up to no good, and you don’t want this gentleman to know it. Well, it’s your affair and not mine. But, mark my word, you’ll come to no good. And you with one foot in the grave, so to say.” And with this the farmer departed about his business, surrounded by an aura of virtuous indignation.