Death in the Tunnel

by Miles Burton

  “It would have made things a lot easier for us. He would have been certain to discover the trick within a day or two. He would have declared that he had not authorised the filling in of cheques 2 or 3, or the writing of the letter of introduction. And he could have told us who might have stolen the signed cheques and notepaper. That may have been one reason why he was murdered.”

  “It may have been. But let’s suppose for a moment that you are Sir Wilfred Saxonby, alive and well after the discovery of the forgery, and that I am Inspector Arnold, seeking information from him. I have still a few questions to put. In the first place, when did you learn that Kirby was going abroad on November 9th?”

  “I suppose the answer to that is, Kirby announced his intentions to me a week or two ago, when we were lunching together.”

  “You had quite forgotten your previous resentment against Kirby?”

  “Obviously, since recently we have been in the habit of meeting for lunch fairly frequently.”

  “Do you not consider it peculiar that these events should have taken place at a time when your son, your daughter and your secretary were all out of London, in each case their absence being due to your own suggestion?”

  “The forger probably took advantage of their absence to effect his purpose.”

  “Kirby’s absence was also essential to him. In fact, the coincidence of these absences in his favour is remarkable. You were in the City on Tuesday, November 12th, as your niece has informed us. Can you tell me how you occupied your time that day?”

  “In my accustomed duties at my office, of course.”

  “May I point out that it was the day upon which the Malcolm Dredger account was opened at the bank? Now, let me call your attention to the section of the report dealing with cheque 3. Observe the order in which it was written. First, your signature, a day or two before the body of the cheque and the forger’s signature. Lastly, the endorsement, hastily blotted as though the forger were pressed for time. I suggest that you must have signed this cheque no later than Tuesday, the 12th?”

  “I have already told you that I must have signed it inadvertently, among other blank cheques presented to me for signature.”

  “Including cheque B, drawn by you in favour of Malcolm Dredger?”

  “Yes, I suppose so.”

  Merrion laughed. “I thought I should lead you into that trap,” he said. “You can’t have signed 2 and 3 at the same time. The forger had 2 in his possession before he went to the bank. He could not have obtained the form on which 3 is written until the account was opened. You must, then, have signed two separate batches of cheques, one before the forger went to the bank and one afterwards.”

  “That’s quite likely,” Arnold replied, in some confusion.

  “If so, quite a considerable percentage of your time at the office must have been spent in signing cheques. Let us pass on to the next point. In the case of 1 and 2, the forger endorsed the cheques at the same time as he forged them. He did not do this in the case of 3. Can you suggest the reason?”

  “No, and can’t see that the fact is of the slightest sig-

  nificance.”

  “But I can. Now, one last question. Look at these three cheques. You will observe that 3 has been folded in half, while 1 and 2 have not. How do you account for that?”

  This last question was too much for Arnold’s patience. “Oh, damn it all!” he exclaimed. “Do you think I should have asked Sir Wilfred such a fool question? How could he be expected to account for it?”

  “Because he folded the cheque himself. But your imaginary answers have been far too conscientious. Saxonby, had he lived to be questioned, would have pointed out that since his supposed writing of the body of cheque 2 was admittedly a forgery, it followed that his signatures on 2 and 3 were forgeries as well. He would have maintained that the experts were wrong in believing the signatures to be genuine, and we must admit that possibility ourselves.

  “Forging a signature is a very much easier business than forging a set of words and figures. In the first case you have an exact copy to work from. A skilful forger would spend hours copying the signature and comparing it with the original until he had satisfied himself that he could reproduce it perfectly. As an additional safeguard, he could use tracing paper to guide him. This would explain the signature being apparently perfect. If Saxonby had chosen to declare that the signatures were forged, even your experts could not disprove the statement. And their bare opinion would not carry much weight against the word of a man like Saxonby. And he would have given the same explanation as Kirby, to account for the forger’s possession of cheque 2. His cheque-book, or a form from it, had been stolen.”

  “I wish I knew what you were driving at, Merrion,” said Arnold impatiently. “What you’ve just told me that Sir Wilfred might have said is quite possibly what actually happened. But in any case a forgery has been committed, and both Sir Wilfred and Kirby swindled out of a lot of money. Whether Sir Wilfred’s signatures are forged or genuine is a detail.”

  “A detail which may prove to be the essential clue, not only to the forgery, but to the murder as well. However, it’s getting late, and I’d like to sleep on all this before I discuss it any more. You’re going to meet Richard Saxonby at Southampton to-morrow, aren’t you?”

  “Yes. I want to make certain that he didn’t leave America until the end of last week.”

  “Then you’ll have an opportunity of asking him a question to which I should very much like an answer.”

  “What’s that?” asked Arnold suspiciously.

  “Ask him where he bought the wallet that he gave his father for a Christmas present.”

  XIX

  Among the first to board the Iberia when she docked at Southampton next morning was Inspector Arnold. He was not for the moment concerned with making the acquaintance of Richard Saxonby. That could wait. He sought out the purser and satisfied himself that Mr. and Mrs. Saxonby had boarded the ship at New York on November 15th.

  That established a convincing alibi, as far as they were concerned. He left the ship and went to the customs shed, where he recognised Irene Wardour in conversation with a couple. The man, from his likeness to his father, could be none other than Richard Saxonby. Arnold introduced himself, and the four travelled up to London together in the boat-train. The topic of conversation was naturally Sir Wilfred’s death, and Arnold contrived to remain non-committal. But he contrived tactfully to question Richard Saxonby upon various points. The latter stated emphatically that he had never written to his sister upon the subject of rhododendrons. He had certainly spoken about buying some, probably to several visitors to the house. But he had never given the matter another thought since he had been in America.

  On the subject of Dredger he was perfectly frank. “He’s a decent old chap, though he’s apt to be a bit of a bore at times. He’s fond of pottering about in that old car of his, and he comes over to see us sometimes when we’re in the country. I asked him to keep an eye on the place now and then while we were away, more because I knew it would please him than for any other reason. Quince is thoroughly to be trusted.”

  It was not until the train was approaching Waterloo that Arnold had an opportunity of putting Merrion’s question. “The wallet?” Richard Saxonby replied. “I don’t know where it came from. Torrance could tell you. He and I were talking about what I should give my father, and he suggested a wallet. And next day he had half a dozen sent to the office for me to choose from. I selected one of them and asked him to have my father’s initials put on it.”

  When this reply reached Merrion’s ears that afternoon he frowned. “It seems almost impossible to get a definite answer about anything connected with this case,” he said. “Now we shall have to ask Torrance where the wallet came from. By the way, I suppose your people are busy tracing the numbers of the notes drawn by the forger from the Bank of Great Britain?”

 
“Yes, and they have got on to the track of one or two of them already,” Arnold replied. “These were exchanged for foreign currency, in notes of which no particulars were taken by the houses where the foreign currency was bought.”

  “I thought that was probably what had been done with them. Now, shall we go and pay an afternoon call on Torrance? Being Saturday, we’re quite likely to find him at home. And I’m really very anxious to know about that wallet.”

  Arnold allowed himself to be persuaded, and they set out for Maida Vale. Torrance was at home, in the bosom of his family, and insisted upon their having tea. Arnold introduced the subject of the wallet, and Torrance seemed for the moment perplexed. “A wallet bought by Mr. Richard for his father?” he said. “Do you mean the one that you showed me the other day?”

  “That appears to be the one,” Arnold replied. “I am told that you had a selection sent to the office for Mr. Richard to choose from.”

  “Oh, yes, I do remember the incident, now you mention it. We had a girl in the office then who came to us from a leather shop in Cheapside. I asked her if she would mind going round there in her lunch hour and bringing a few wallets back. But the girl has left us now, and I can’t remember the name of the shop.”

  Merrion interposed before Arnold could reply. “Oh, well, it doesn’t matter,” he said. “Miss Olivia Saxonby’s identification of it will be quite sufficient. By the way, there seems to be some doubt as to the time when Sir Wilfred’s death became known. When did you first hear of it, for instance?”

  “Not until the Friday morning. Miss Olivia rang up the office soon after I got there. About half-past nine, I think it was.”

  “You didn’t by any chance go to the office after you came back from Manchester on Thursday?”

  “No, I arrived in London far too late. The place was closed by then. I reached Euston at 8.15, having left Manchester by the 4.20. My wife and a friend of hers met me, and we went into the hotel and had dinner. Miss Olivia might have rung me up here that night, but I don’t suppose she knew my address or telephone number. And, in any case, I couldn’t have done anything until the morning.”

  Merrion turned the conversation, and not long afterwards he and Arnold left the house. The inspector seemed puzzled and slightly annoyed. “Why did you drag me all this way to ask a question, and then say it didn’t matter?” he demanded.

  “Oh, come now!” Merrion replied. “Surely we got all the information we required? There can only be a limited number of leather shops in Cheapside, and it ought not to be beyond the powers of the Yard to trace the purchase of the wallet.”

  “I don’t understand why you’re so anxious about that confounded wallet,” Arnold grumbled.

  “For this reason. I don’t believe the wallet given to Saxonby by his son was the one found in his pocket. If it wasn’t, then somebody must have procured one exactly like it. And it’s ten to one they went to the shop where the original came from. And the shop will remember this second purchase, because of the initials which had to be put on the wallet. So if I were you, I’d get a chap on the job first thing on Monday morning. Meanwhile, you and I are going up to Manchester to-morrow evening.”

  “To Manchester!” Arnold exclaimed. “Whatever for?”

  Merrion smiled. “You’ve got a very short memory,” he replied. “Have you forgotten already that Dredger was the manager for Wigland and Bunthorne in that salubrious city? Don’t you think it would be worth while to make a few inquiries on the spot as to his activities before his retirement?”

  “And what about this forgery case that I’m supposed to be investigating?”

  “Oh, that! That’s a very sticky business, and if I were you, I’d handle it pretty carefully. It wouldn’t surprise me if, when the facts were known, some way were found of satisfying the aggrieved parties. In any case, the murder of Saxonby seems to me of greater importance.”

  Arnold allowed himself to be persuaded, and they went to Manchester together on Sunday night. On the following morning they called at the offices of Wigland and Bunthorne, where they were received by the manager who had replaced Mr. Dredger, and who, as it turned out, had been the latter’s assistant for many years.

  It had been arranged that Merrion should lead the conversation. He made several inquiries about Dredger’s habits and peculiarities, without eliciting anything which Arnold did not already know. And then, for no apparent reason, he changed the subject. “You had Mr. Torrance here, the week before last, hadn’t you?” he asked.

  “Yes, he paid us one of his occasional visits,” the manager replied. “He came up from London during Tuesday night, spent the whole of Wednesday and Thursday morning here, and went back that afternoon.”

  “When did you last see him?”

  “He left me about half-past one on Thursday. He said he was going to call on one or two people in Manchester whom he knew, and then catch the 4.20. I remember he said that he would have to be careful not to miss it, as his wife was meeting him at Euston.”

  Merrion’s curiosity seemed to be satisfied. After a few more words, he and Arnold left the office. Once outside, he laughed rather bitterly. “Sorry, but my bright idea hasn’t exactly come off,” he said. “It couldn’t have been done in the time.”

  “I haven’t the remotest idea what you’re talking about,” Arnold replied.

  “Perhaps it’s just as well. I’d rather keep my failures to myself.”

  They walked on for a short distance in silence. And then suddenly Merrion gripped Arnold by the arm. “Good heavens, man, look at that!” he exclaimed.

  “Steady on!” replied the inspector resentfully. “You’ve got infernally powerful fingers. Look at what?”

  “Why, that poster, right in front of you. ‘Time is Money! Save Time and travel by Air!’ I’m getting out of date, that’s what’s the matter with me. Here, come along!”

  He hailed a taxi, and bundled the protesting Arnold into it. “Drive to the aerodrome,” he said.

  He refused to give any explanation of his conduct. But, on arrival at the aerodrome, he began to make rapid inquiries. As a result of these, he discovered that there was a daily air-service, leaving Manchester at 2 p.m. and arriving at Croydon at 3.45 p.m.

  “Now it’s up to you,” he said to Arnold. “Ask to see the passenger list for Thursday, November 14th.”

  Thus prompted, Arnold did so. He found that there had been four passengers that day. Three of these were known to the officials at the aerodrome, as regular passengers. The fourth, who had given the name of Jones, was unknown to them. They could hardly be expected to remember his appearance.

  “Then we shall have to pick up the trail at the other end,” said Merrion, nothing daunted. “And we may as well fly there, now we’re here.”

  They reached the Croydon airport, and resumed their inquiries. And here they met with a stroke of luck. One of the officials of the company remembered the incident of Mr. Jones, though he was unable to describe him. The reason for his recollection was this. The company provided motor transport for their passengers from the airport to the centre of London. Mr. Jones had not taken advantage of this.

  A tedious questioning of those employed at the airport followed. But at last they found a man who carried the story of Mr. Jones a step further. He had been employed in the car-park on the afternoon of November 14th. A chauffeur had driven in, and said that he was expecting the arrival of a passenger. Soon after the plane from Manchester had landed a gentleman had gone up to the car and spoken to the chauffeur. A few minutes later, the gentleman had driven away in the car, leaving the chauffeur behind. The latter had gone off, and the witness had not seen him or the car again.

  “Good enough!” said Merrion. “What about getting something to eat, Arnold? Then we’ll go back to the Yard, and try to unravel the mystery together.”

  A couple of hours later they were seated in the inspector’s room
. Merrion lighted a cigarette and smiled. “Well, have you tumbled to it yet?” he asked.

  “You think that this Mr. Jones was Torrance,” Arnold replied. “But I don’t see how you’re going to prove it.”

  “It’s not my job to prove things. That’s up to you. All I can do for you is to use my imagination and that’s what I’ve done.

  “Ever since we agreed that two men were concerned in Saxonby’s murder, I have been convinced that the identity of the one we called B was the clue to the mystery. A was the actual murderer, no doubt, but he might have been anybody, employed by B for the purpose. We had no clue whatever to his identity, and the task of tracing him was hopeless from the first. But B must have been somebody intimately acquainted with Saxonby, and the search for him was therefore limited.

  “I have no doubt that we both had Torrance in our minds, as fulfilling this condition. But on consideration, Torrance seemed to be ruled out. He answered all your questions with such obliging readiness that you came to be indebted to him for a large part of your information. I won’t stop to point out how cleverly he threw dust in your eyes from the first moment that you saw him. But I must remind you that he was the first person to mention the unlucky Dredger.

  “Apart from his willingness to help you, there were two factors which relieved Torrance from suspicion. He was in Manchester, or on his way back from thence, when the crime was committed. Besides, what possible motive had he for desiring Saxonby’s death? He gained a small legacy, but that would barely cover the elaborate preparations made for the murder. And his accomplice would certainly demand a share of the profits.

  “As you know, the motive of the murder bewildered us both. It seemed to me that only two explanations were possible. Saxonby had been murdered at the instance of some person who would benefit largely by his death. Of these there were three, his son, his daughter, and his niece. Your inquiries made it very difficult to understand how any one of these three could have been implicated. Personally, I inclined to the alternative theory, that Saxonby was murdered for the sake of some valuable object in his possession at the time. I could form no idea of what this valuable object might be. And if I gave any further thought to Torrance this theory seemed definitely to rule him out. He was certainly not at the office on Thursday. How could he know that Saxonby would take something valuable home with him that day?