Death in the Tunnel

by Miles Burton

  Arnold let him go, and said nothing until he was well out of earshot. Then he remarked lightly, “We all suffer at times from a defective memory, Mr. Dredger. Won’t you think again about what you did last Thursday? Let me try to help you. You went out for your usual morning drive. But you didn’t go all the way to Medbridge. You turned off the road, and came here instead. Then, with our friend’s assistance, you pushed the car on to the grass beside the shaft. Then you walked back to the main road and, I dare say, took a bus home. About half-past five that evening, a breakdown lorry came and took the car away. Don’t you remember, now?”

  Mr. Dredger passed his hand across his forehead. “I don’t understand it,” he replied pathetically. “I’m no longer a young man, but my memory is perfectly good. I’m ready to swear that what I have already told you about my doings last Thursday is perfectly true.”

  “And yet, curiously enough, you can’t call any witnesses to support you?”

  “That’s not my fault. As it happened, after my daughter left, I spoke to nobody all day, except to the maid at lunch-time, and when she came home in the evening.”

  “It is unfortunate that you have no witnesses, Mr. Dredger, for there are quite a number on my side. The farmer who has just left us, for one. And two ladies, whom I’m sure you’ll enjoy meeting again.” The inspector’s voice hardened suddenly. “Now, hadn’t you better make a clean breast of it?”

  “I have told you the truth, and I shall adhere to it,” replied Mr. Dredger, not without dignity.

  “Then there is nothing for it but to ask you to drive me back to Blackdown. And, if you will be so good, we will stop at the police-station.”

  Even this remark, intentionally ominous, did not shake Mr. Dredger. They drove back in grim silence, and the car pulled up at the police-station. Arnold got out. “I need not trouble you any further, Mr. Dredger,” he said. “I should go home now, if I were you, and think things over a bit. We shall meet again very shortly, I haven’t a doubt.” And he walked into the building.

  Here he had a conversation with the local inspector, who was acquainted with Mr. Dredger. Arnold told him as much of the story as he thought fit, and succeeded in exciting his colleague’s surprise. Dredger had the reputation of being a quiet old stick, and was the last man in the world whom one would suspect of engaging in a desperate enterprise. Mrs. Dredger, his daughter-in-law, had lived in the town for a long time, and was highly respected. However, if Mr. Arnold liked, inquiries should be made locally for anybody who might have seen Mr. Dredger on the previous Thursday. And, in addition, a watch should be kept on his future movements. Assured of this, Arnold returned to Scotland Yard, with yet another puzzle to be disentangled.

  That Mr. Dredger was the murderer, he did not for a moment believe. It was incredible that a man of his age and infirmities should have performed a feat which demanded the highest degree of agility. But it was not impossible that Sir Wilfred had been the victim of a conspiracy, and that the late manager of his Manchester office was one of the conspirators. If so, what was the exact significance of the part which he had played?

  The telegram which had called Mrs. Dredger from home was deeply suspicious. Had such a telegram really been sent? That was easily discovered. Arnold wrote a note to the Plymouth police, asking them to search the files of the various telegraph offices in the borough. In any case, his daughter-in-law’s absence had resulted in Mr. Dredger being alone, and unquestioned, that Thursday. It was doubly convenient that it should have been the maid’s day out. Mr. Dredger could come and go unobserved. His own account of his actions could not be contradicted. And a very unsatisfactory account it was.

  He had declared that he had driven to Medbridge. That was natural, for, to reach the tunnel shaft, he would have to leave Blackdown by the Medbridge road. Any of his acquaintances might have seen him doing so, and recognised him. But had he actually got as far as Medbridge? He might even have done that, and turned off to the shaft on his way back.

  Then came the matter of the farmer’s instant recognition of him. The farmer’s statement was above suspicion. What possible reason could he have for spinning a false yarn? Besides, his manner had carried complete conviction. There could be no doubt that he firmly believed that the man whom he had seen on Thursday, and Mr. Dredger, were one and the same. Further, the independent evidence of the tyre marks was not to be lost sight of. A very large percentage of cars were fitted with Dunlop tyres, certainly. Mr. Dredger’s car was of the mass-production type, turned out by the thousand, and the farmer could not be expected to swear to the individual vehicle. Yet all these details helped to swing the balance against Mr. Dredger. And in the other scale was nothing but his own unsupported statement.

  On the whole, it seemed highly probable that Mr. Dredger had driven his car to the shaft on Thursday morning, and left it there. If he had done so, it could only have been as a pretext for the visit of the breakdown lorry in the evening. The lorry, with its equipment, had been essential to the drama in the tunnel. Then it followed that Mr. Dredger had connived at the performance of that drama, and thus at the murder of Sir Wilfred.

  Had his part in the conspiracy ended there? Or had he actually travelled up to London in the afternoon, and come back by the five o’clock train from Cannon Street? He must be confronted with the Clutsam ladies. That was obviously the next step. If they recognised him, what then? There was a link missing somewhere. By a stretch of the imagination Arnold could contemplate the possibility that he had shot Sir Wilfred, who would not have been unduly alarmed at seeing his old manager enter his compartment. What the inspector could not contemplate was Mr. Dredger leaping from the moving train, and being hauled out of the darkness of the tunnel with a rope.

  But Arnold felt that he could afford to leave Mr. Dredger to enjoy his freedom. It was not at all unlikely that he would attempt to communicate with his fellow-conspirators, or they with him. Meanwhile, there were other matters to be attended to. First and foremost, a small package from Inspector Marden.

  XII

  After unwrapping many sheets of paper, Arnold reached the kernel of the packet, which proved to be a misshapen pellet of lead. Accompanying it was a note from Marden. “The enclosed was found behind the upholstery of the railway compartment in which Sir Wilfred Saxonby’s body was found. As you will see, though badly flattened, it is still recognisable as a bullet. There is a faint mark on the steel partition, where the bullet struck it. The position of this mark corresponds with that of the wound, supposing Sir Wilfred to have been sitting upright at the time he was shot. It also corresponds with the hole in the upholstery, seen by you.”

  Arnold wasted no time over the bullet, but sent it straight to the firearms experts, for comparison with the pistol. This done, he turned his attention to the arrears of work, unconnected with the present case, which awaited him. This occupied him for the rest of the afternoon.

  Next morning he took a train to Saffron Walden. His first call was at the police station, where he inquired what was known about the Wardours. Of Mrs. Wardour, he found, very little was known. She was not often in the neighbourhood, and it was understood that she spent most of her time in London. Major Wardour, however, was a familiar figure. He lived some little distance outside the town, where he owned a small house, to which was attached a fair-sized poultry farm. He had been abroad recently, but had now returned.

  “What sort of a fellow is he?” Arnold asked.

  “Oh, he’s all right, if you take him the proper way,” was the reply. “His temper is a bit uncertain, and he has quarrelled with a good many people round here. But he can be pleasant enough when he chooses.”

  “Am I likely to find him at home if I go over to his place now?”

  “Certain to. He’s always at home in the morning, messing around his fowl-houses. He’s quite a successful poultry farmer, they say.”

  Arnold, having ascertained the way to get to Major Wardour�
��s house, set out on foot, and covered the distance in half an hour or so. He rang the bell, and after some delay the door was answered by a forbidding-looking woman, with a scrubbing-brush in her hand. No, the major was not in. He’d be about the farm somewhere. And Arnold found the door slammed in his face.

  Nothing daunted, he walked round to the back of the house and looked about him. Some little distance away he saw a masculine figure moving about among a group of chicken-houses. He walked towards him, and was within a few yards of the man before his approach was noticed. The man was tall and muscular, with a heavy, not over intelligent expression, and dressed in breeches and a shooting coat. He eyed Arnold suspiciously. “Who are you, and what do you want?” he asked gruffly.

  “I am Inspector Arnold, from Scotland Yard. You are Major Wardour, I believe?”

  “Your belief is correct,” replied the other. “I thought perhaps you were an official of the Egg Marketing Board. They’re always coming here and worrying me about something or other. Well, what can I do for you?”

  Arnold smiled disarmingly. “You can answer a few questions, if you will. In the first place, what is your Christian name, Major Wardour? I want to be certain that I’m talking to the right person.”

  “Stephen. Major Stephen Wardour, retired. Late of the Royal Rutlandshires. Now trying to make a living by persuading a lot of damn obstinate fowls to lay eggs. How does that suit you?”

  “Perfectly,” Arnold replied. And he meant it. Merrion’s wild guess had come off. The man’s initials actually were S. W. But it had got to be shown whether there was any significance in that. “You’ve been abroad lately, haven’t you, Major Wardour?” Arnold continued.

  “And if I have, is it any affair of yours?” Wardour replied. “Don’t think I want to be rude, but I think I have a right to know your reasons for questioning me.”

  It was clear to Arnold that Wardour was a person who must be treated with considerable tact. “I am engaged in investigating the death of Sir Wilfred Saxonby,” he replied simply.

  “My late lamented father-in-law? So that’s it, is it! I saw by the papers that the inquest had been adjourned. There’s no doubt that he shot himself, is there?”

  Arnold parried the question. “Can you suggest any reason why he should have shot himself, Major Wardour?”

  Wardour shrugged his shoulders. “When a fellow does away with himself, it is usually for some reason that he doesn’t care to talk about,” he replied. “I’m afraid that I was never sufficiently in Saxonby’s confidence to know much about his private affairs. Have you spoken to my wife?”

  “Not yet,” said the inspector. “I wanted to talk to you first.”

  Wardour grinned. “Just as well, perhaps. Irene and I are rather at loggerheads just now, and she might have painted me in darker colours than I deserve. Well, go ahead, but I warn you in advance that I can’t throw the faintest glimmer of light on Saxonby’s death.”

  “Well, to begin with, you and Mrs. Wardour were abroad together, weren’t you? Was it your suggestion or hers?”

  “Neither. It was Saxonby’s. He suddenly felt called upon to adopt the role of peacemaker. It’s no good making any secret of the fact that Irene and I don’t get on together. We haven’t for years. I dare say it’s my own fault, but I can’t stand being nagged at. And I’m inclined to get a bit short tempered when Irene tries it on. So she spends most of her time at the house in Hampstead, which, by the way, is hers, and I spend most of mine here. This place, also by the way, belongs to me.

  “Saxonby was well aware of this, and it never seemed to worry him. My brother-in-law, Richard, who, between ourselves, is a bit of a prig, tried to lecture me on the subject once, but I soon put him in his place. And then, last month, Saxonby asked me to meet him at his office on an urgent matter. I went, and, bless me, if he didn’t begin to talk about Irene! I was never so surprised in my life.”

  “Would it be impertinent to ask what he said?”

  “Not a bit. He said that it grieved him to see Irene and me living apart, and that he was very anxious to do something to draw us together again. Of course, I put my ears up at that. I asked him straight out if Irene or Richard had been getting at him. He told me positively that they had not, and he wasn’t a man to tell a deliberate lie without some very good reason for it.”

  “Had he any proposition to put forward?” Arnold asked.

  “Rather! He suggested that we should take Irene’s car and go for a motoring trip in the south of France. He said that if we were both interested and amused, and away from our usual haunts, we should probably be able to hit it off together. I had my doubts, and told him that I didn’t think it would do much good. But he insisted, and begged me to try the experiment, as a personal favour to him. If it failed, things would be no worse than before. So at last, seeing that he was absolutely set upon it, I agreed.

  “And then, to my astonishment, I found that he had everything cut and dried. We were to go on the seventh of this month, and stay at least a fortnight. He said that I mustn’t say anything to Irene, for he would talk to her, and he knew that she would consent. I wasn’t a bit keen on the idea, and I tried to think of objections. The only one that occurred to me was rather feeble, I’m afraid. There are only two directors of Wigland and Bunthorne, Irene and Richard. Richard had just gone to America, and, though I don’t suppose that Irene is much of a business asset to the firm, this would mean that both directors were away together. However, Saxonby swept all that aside. Torrance, the secretary, was quite capable of looking after things. And Saxonby himself would come up to London if anything out of the way happened.

  “Well, to make a long story short, we went. Fortunately, I’ve got a chap here who can be trusted to look after things in my absence. We took the car over and started to drive across France. Irene seemed to enjoy it, but I was bored stiff. And we didn’t seem to hit it off any better than usual. Where Irene wanted to go, I didn’t, and what I wanted to do, she didn’t. You know how it is when two people are like that, I dare say. I stuck it as long as I could, and then I chucked my hand in. I left Irene with the car to go her own way and came home by train and boat.”

  “When did you come home, Major Wardour?”

  “I left Irene at Cannes on Wednesday, the 13th, and got to London next day, at about half-past three.”

  That was on the very day of Sir Wilfred’s death! It seemed to Arnold that in whatever direction he pursued his inquiries, that particular date gained some new significance. But he allowed nothing of his thoughts to escape him. “You got back to London about half-past three on Thursday,” he said. “What did you do then?”

  “Oh, just mooched about. Called at the club, looked in at Leadenhall Market, went to a shop or two. Nothing particular. Stood myself a bite of dinner, and came down here afterwards. And here I’ve been ever since.”

  “You didn’t go to Sir Wilfred’s funeral yesterday?”

  “No. Sent a wreath instead. Guessed that Irene would have heard the news and hurried back. I’m not particularly anxious to meet her. We had words when we parted.”

  “Do you know any of the staff of Wigland and Bunthorne, Major Wardour?”

  “Any of the chaps in the office, you mean? Oh, yes, I know most of them slightly. Irene has introduced me. Torrance is the best of them. Very capable fellow. Saxonby always looked on him as his right hand, and told him more than he ever told anybody else, even Irene or Richard. If he can’t tell you why Saxonby shot himself, then you may take it from me that nobody else can.”

  “In the course of Thursday afternoon Sir Wilfred had a visitor who seems to have been a complete stranger to the staff. He gave his name as Yates. Do you know of any such person?”

  “Yates? That’s the name of Saxonby’s lawyer. Not the one who looks after the legal business of the firm, but his private solicitor. A man of about Saxonby’s own age, with a thin face and a sarcastic way
of talking.”

  “I’m afraid that description will hardly fit,” Arnold remarked. “This man is described as young and smartly dressed.”

  “Well, old Yates has a son, whom he has just admitted to partnership. Bit of a lad, I believe, though I’ve never met him. He may be your man. His office is in Coleman Street, if you want to know. I forget the number.”

  “Thank you, Major Wardour,” Arnold replied. “I’ll make a note of that. By the way, are you interested in shooting?”

  “Game shooting, you mean? I do a bit now and then, but not very often. I have quite enough birds to kill without that. I’ve been out once or twice with Saxonby at Mavis Court. He was a very fine shot in his day. I’ve no doubt that’s why he chose a pistol to finish himself off with. Knew he’d make a clean job of it.”

  “As a soldier, I expect you are a good shot with a pistol?”

  “Pretty fair. Better than I am with a scattergun anyhow. This place is infested with rats. They come after the chicken food, you know. I go after them sometimes with a little automatic I’ve got, and I usually account for a good few of them. It’s not bad sport.”

  “I dare say it is very good fun. What sort of automatic have you?”

  “Oh, just a cheap little thing, .22 calibre, which I happened to see in a shop in Brussels when I was over there at the beginning of the year. I’ve taken out a certificate for it, so you needn’t suspect me of infringing the law.”

  “I wonder if I might see the pistol and the certificate, Major Wardour?”

  “I don’t see why you shouldn’t. But you’ll have to come back to the house. I don’t carry it about with me, you know.”