by John Bude
“My fifth and last point is the motive for the crime. Now I’ve been over the case again and again in an attempt to shake my original theory. But for all that, I’ve found myself unable to supply a more feasible motive. I still hold to my original opinion— Clayton was murdered because the gang valued his silence at a higher price than his life.” The Chief pushed aside his papers, capped them with a paperweight and sprawled back in his chair. “Well, there we are. Those are the known facts. Any questions?”
Meredith nodded. “About that chemical apparatus, sir. You don’t think it possible that the murderer thought to gain time by using it instead of the exhaust?”
“I don’t quite see how you mean, Inspector.”
“This way, sir. If Prince and Bettle did murder Clayton, then the first thing which concerned them was the establishing of an alibi. They had to prove that they were back in the depot at a time which would have made it impossible for them to have committed the crime. In other words—they had to juggle with time in such a way as to make it look as if they left the Derwent earlier than they actually did. If you’ve no objection, sir, I’d like to tabulate the various events which took place on that Saturday night. Chronologically, I mean.”
“Yes, do, Inspector. I’m still a trifle hazy about the all-important time-factor.”
At the end of five minutes Meredith had made out a neatly written time-table, which he handed over to the Chief. It ran as follows:
5.45. Lorry leaves the Lothwaite.
6 o’clock (circa). Braithwaite postman stops at Derwent.
6.20 (circa). Driver and fireman see lorry parked on roadside near Jenkin Hill.
7.20. Major Rickshaw and wife draw up for petrol at the Derwent. Served by Clayton. Lorry standing by pumps.
7.35. Freddie Hogg cycles past Derwent. Sees Clayton standing in garage entrance. Lorry gone.
7.55. Frank Burns sees lorry passing at high speed through Threlkeld.
8.35. Lorry arrives back at depot.
“I think that makes it quite clear, sir,” said Meredith when Colonel Hardwick had studied the paper. “You can see at a glance that we’ve got the lorry’s movements pretty well pinned down. We know that it must have left the Derwent at some time between 7.20 and 7.35. And we can fairly safely say that before 7.35 it was parked up that side-turning—otherwise Freddie Hogg would have met it on his way back from the Keswick cinema.”
The Chief agreed. “So far so good, Inspector; but how do these facts combine with the chemical apparatus supposition? I don’t quite see what you’re leading up to?”
“This, sir,” explained Meredith. “My first theory was that Prince returned to the Derwent directly after Hogg had gone by, leaving Bettle up the side-turning with the parked lorry. I then reckoned it would take about forty-five minutes for Prince to administer the drug, wait for it to take effect, place Clayton in the car, start the engine and get back to the waiting lorry. This meant that the lorry would not set off for the depot until eight-twenty, arriving there about nine-thirty. But since we learnt from Dancy that the lorry actually arrived at the depot at eight-thirty-five, I immediately dismissed this reconstruction of the crime as impossible. But suppose Prince took advantage of the chemical apparatus? Suppose both Prince and Bettle returned to the garage, and that while Bettle held Clayton, Prince clapped the nozzle of the apparatus over Clayton’s face and gassed him? He would be dead inside five minutes at the most. They then carry him to the car, sit him upright in the seat, start the engine and race back to the bulk-wagon. Say eight minutes to do the double journey between the lorry and the garage. Five minutes to actually commit the murder. Five minutes to arrange their victim in the car and start the engine. In all eighteen minutes. They would then start on their homeward run at about seven-fifty. And since we know that they arrived at the depot at eight-thirty-five, it means they covered the nineteen odd miles in forty-five minutes. The question is, could an empty bulk-wagon keep up an average of”—Meredith made a quick mental calculation—“some twenty-five miles per hour? What do you think, sir?”
The Chief considered the point for a moment.
Then: “Frankly,” he said, “I don’t think it could. The road, if I remember rightly, twists and turns a good bit. It was dark, too, and there are one or two nasty gradients on the run. What do you say, Thompson?”
“I’m of the same opinion,” answered the Superintendent.
“And quite apart from the time factor, Inspector, you’ve omitted one important fact—the trional. What about that?”
Meredith clicked his fingers in annoyance.
“Confound it, sir! I’d completely forgotten about the drugging! It looks as if I’ve wandered up another of those damned cul-de-sacs!”
“Not so fast!” returned the Superintendent with a laugh. “I don’t think there’s any need to get disheartened ... yet. Your new theory has set me thinking along another line. Let’s reconsider that time-table of yours. When you look into it, aren’t you struck by one very significant fact?”
Meredith appeared puzzled. “I don’t quite see——?”
“I’ll explain,” cut in Thompson. “You know roughly the time the lorry left the garage. You know exactly the time it arrived at the depot. But you haven’t the faintest idea as to the time it arrived at the Derwent! You see, what I am leading up to? Isn’t it possible that the murder was committed before the lorry left the garage?”
“Before!” exclaimed the Chief Constable, astonished.
“Before!” echoed Meredith, bewildered. “But that’s impossible! What about Hogg’s evidence? He saw Clayton standing in the garage after the lorry had left.”
“Admittedly. Did he speak to Clayton?”
“He called out ‘Good night.’”
“And did Clayton answer?”
“Yes. He waved his hand.”
“Exactly!” snapped Thompson triumphantly. “But he didn’t speak! See what I mean? How are we to know for certain that the man Hogg saw at seven-thirty-five was Clayton? I suggest that he thought it was Clayton and that in reality it was Prince disguised to look like Clayton!”
“And the idea, Thompson?”
“Simple, sir,” replied the Superintendent. “A gaining of time. As you pointed out just now, Inspector, Bettle and Prince had to suggest that they left the garage earlier than they did. Well, I uphold that they left the garage at the stated time. When they told you that they left at seven-thirty, they were speaking the truth. They did leave at that hour. But when they left, Clayton was already dead and seated in the car.”
“But what about Major Rickshaw’s evidence?” objected Meredith. “He swears that Clayton served him with petrol at seven-twenty. Surely the drug couldn’t have been administered, the murder committed and the victim placed in the car inside a matter of ten minutes?”
“Quite. But if Hogg was deceived, why not Rickshaw? He didn’t know Clayton personally. He saw a man who looked like Clayton and since he expected to be served by Clayton, he didn’t trouble to think twice about it.”
“In that case—?” demanded the Chief.
“In that case, sir, Bettle and Prince had almost unlimited time in which to commit the murder. We don’t know the exact time they arrived at the Derwent. At six-twenty the train-driver saw them parked at Jenkin Hill, but after that we really know nothing at all about their movements. But suppose, for the sake of argument, we assume that they arrived at the Derwent at six-forty-five.”
“Quite a reasonable assumption,” commented the Chief. “Go on, Thompson.”
“Well, sir, I see it something like this. No. 4 draws up at the garage. Prince connects with the pump, whilst Bettle retires with Clayton to the office. There he suggests a drink to keep out the cold. He produces the doped whisky from his hip-pocket. Clayton takes a good swig and Bettle pretends to follow suit. Prince, in the meantime, keeps a good look-out, whilst Bettle holds Clayton in conversation. At the end of twenty minutes the drug takes effect. The time now is about seven-five. Bettle
signals to Prince, who hastily disguises himself as Clayton by means of a false moustache, felt hat and buff dungarees. He’d have these ready in the cab of the lorry of course. In the office they produce the carbon monoxide apparatus and asphyxiate Clayton. But the job is only just completed when Major Rickshaw draws up and orders a couple of gallons of petrol. Prince, on the alert, is already outside waiting to serve him. Shortly after seven-twenty Rickshaw drives off. The coast being clear, the two men hurriedly carry the dead man to the lean-to. Higgins has already fixed the hose-pipe over the exhaust, planted the mackintosh and the twine and locked the garage door. The key is hidden in a prearranged place. The murderers place the dead man at the wheel, clap the mackintosh over his head, stick the end of the pipe underneath it and tie the twine round his neck. Retaining the key, but leaving the door unlocked, Bettle pours the chemical residue down the drain, climbs up on to the lorry and drives off, whilst Prince hangs about in the lighted entrance to the garage. This part of their programme is all-important. It’s essential that Clayton should appear alive and well after the lorry had left for Penrith. So Bettle parks up that side-turning, without lights, and waits until he sees somebody pass the end of the lane. Freddie Hogg, as it happens, on his way home from the Keswick cinema. The time now is seven-thirty-five. Hogg cycles by the garage, sees Prince and imagines him to be Clayton.
“Prince, aware that Hogg has taken a good look at him, waits until he is out of sight, then rushes to the shed and starts up the engine of Clayton’s car. He closes the doors and races along the road to where Bettle, who has now smashed the flasks with a stone, is waiting with the lorry. Time, say seven-forty. The coast being clear, the lorry backs out on to the main road and speeds off on its homeward run. It arrives at the depot at eight-thirty-five—all perfectly normal, of course, since the stated time of their departure from the garage was seven-thirty. That’s my reconstruction of the crime, sir. I don’t know whether you’ll agree with it or not. But it does, at any rate, incorporate and explain away nearly all the known facts.”
The Chief Constable sat immobile for a moment drumming the rims of his reading-glasses against the desk. It was obvious that he was adjusting his mind so as to view the case from this entirely new angle.
At length he looked up and observed: “Impersonation, eh? Well, it’s certainly a feasible explanation. You agree, Inspector?”
Meredith gave an emphatic nod.
“I do, sir. Wholeheartedly!”
“Still, it’s very dangerous,” went on the Chief in measured tones, “to accept a theory just because it fits so many of the known facts. You’ll acknowledge that yourself, Thompson. On the other hand, it certainly opens up a new line of investigation. If we follow up these new assumptions, there’s always a chance that we shall find proof to uphold them.”
“I agree there, sir,” put in Thompson. “For example—the disguise. Prince must have got rid of this incriminating evidence somehow. We might find out how he did it—if he did it.”
“A job for you, Meredith,” said the Chief, glancing at his watch. “Well, gentlemen, I can’t discuss the matter more fully at the moment. I’ve an appointment at eleven. So I’ll leave you two to thrash matters out on your own account. I feel strongly now that the arrests ought to be held up, pending further investigations. We’ll keep an eye on Ormsby-Wright, also on the four garages and the six tied houses. In the meantime, we’d better arrange for the rest of the hotels to be searched. Maltman will probably help us there. Now that he knows what to look for, I think it would be best for him to play a lone hand, Inspector. There’s less chance of arousing suspicion if he takes in these places as part of his usual round. From now on you’d better concentrate on the murder case. You’ll find plenty of new lines to follow up if you use the Superintendent’s theory as the basis for fresh inquiries. Keep in touch with us here. And remember what I said before—I want results. Good morning, gentlemen.”
Back in Thompson’s office the two men threw off a good deal of their official restraint and plunged into a lively discussion of the new viewpoint.
“I admit,” said Thompson, “that there was an element of chance in their scheme. Prince’s wait at the garage, for instance. If Hogg hadn’t turned up so soon after the lorry had driven off, it might have been ages before another witness came along. They couldn’t have waited for much over twenty minutes without arriving suspiciously late at the depot. Still, it was Saturday night, and it was odds on that the necessary witness would come along.”
“There’s another point, sir,” put in Meredith, who had been over this identical point before. “They hoped that a suicide verdict would be brought in at the inquest. After all, that was their strong suit. If the jury brought in suicide then we shouldn’t have pushed our investigations any further. Only unfortunately, like most criminals, they made one or two little slips in staging the scene. Clayton’s clean hands, for example, and that waiting meal.”
“Luckily for us,” smiled Thompson. “Well, Meredith, it looks as if you’ll have to try and find out if either Prince or Bettle bought a suit of buff dungarees about five weeks ago. Or you might go round the local theatrical costumiers and wig people to see if you can trace the sale of that moustache. I doubt if he could have manufactured it himself. On the other hand, he may have taken the precaution of ordering it from London or Blackpool or some other big town. Same with the clothes. I doubt if Prince would be such a fool as to get the things locally. Still, it’s worth making inquiries. Then, there’s the purchase of the acids. A forlorn hope, I’m afraid, as they probably originated from Ormsby-Wright. It looks as if you’re in for a colossal job, Inspector!”
Meredith pulled a long face.
“Universal would fit the case better, sir! I’d rather look for that proverbial needle in a haystack!”
Thompson laughed.
“Well, I wish you luck of it!”
“Thanks, sir,” replied Meredith grimly. “I’ll need it all right. Nothing more?”
“Not at the moment. I shall want a usual nightly report.”
“Right, sir. Then I’ll be up and doing.”
“What?” laughed the Superintendent. “The labours of Hercules?”
Meredith scowled.
“Hardly. He knew exactly what he was up against. I don’t! I’m like a chap that’s spoiling for a fight but doesn’t know where to look for an opponent!”
CHAPTER XXII
CIRCUMSTANTIAL EVIDENCE
BACK in Keswick, however, surrounded by the familiar objects in his office, a great deal of Meredith’s pessimism evaporated. After all, was he up against such a monumental task as Thompson suggested? He might, of course, make a long and methodical round of the local shops in the hope of pinning down the purchases. But that was not the sole line of investigation. There was another, which on the face of it, appeared to afford a greater chance of result. Prince must have bought the necessary clothes and make-up for the impersonation. Meredith didn’t deny that. On the other hand, Prince was also faced with the necessity of getting rid of the disguise after the murder had been committed. To find out exactly how he managed this was a formidable but not an impossible task, surely?
Meredith’s first action was to consider the details of Clayton’s appearance when Luke Perryman had made his tragic discovery. Crossing over to a cupboard, he unlocked it and laid out the exhibits on his desk. The blue lounge suit and the various articles of underwear did not concern him. These would be entirely concealed by the suit of dungarees. What then was he left with? Brown brogue shoes, grey worsted socks, a suit of buff dungarees opening at the neck with a zip fastener and a green felt hat. Both the dungarees and the hat were decidedly the worse for wear—the former blotched with oil and grime, the band of the latter sweat-stained. To this he had to add the moustache—that small, characteristic moustache, which Major Rickshaw had graphically described as a “Hitler”.
Both Prince and Bettle wore peaked caps and butcher-blue overalls, with the name of the company emb
lazoned on the lapels of their collars. This was their regulation attire. It meant, therefore, that Prince would have to discard his overalls and cap, and exchange them for the buff dungarees and the green felt hat. That was all. A transformation, even with the addition of the moustache, that would take only a few seconds. A point, Meredith felt, strongly in favour of Thompson’s argument.
Dungarees. Hat. Moustache. Buff. Green felt. Hitler.
Again and again these facts circled round in his mind. Dungarees ... Hat ... Moustache ... round and round without cessation.
Then, suddenly Meredith started. A sharp exclamation sprang involuntarily from his lips. Was there anything in it? Was it a clue or pure coincidence? But surely? A green felt hat! A Hitler moustache!
Scarcely able to restrain his excitement and impatience, he snatched up his cap, buttoned on his cape and strode out into the street. At the end of five minutes’ brisk walk he turned into the gate of a small, semi-detached cottage and knocked on the door. After the lapse of a few seconds, an unkempt, poorly-dressed woman thrust her head out of an upper window and demanded in a stentorian voice to know who it was.