Inspector French and the Sea Mystery

by Freeman Wills Crofts

  ‘That sounds interesting.’

  ‘I don’t know how he did it, but while he was dressing he knocked the basin off the stand and it broke, and soaked his shoes and deluged the room. You know, they have old-fashioned separate basins there, not running water as you get abroad. I imagine he must have set the basin down on a corner of the towel, and when he picked up the towel it twitched the basin off. The wretched thing must have been cracked for it went into two pieces. But they charged him for it, all right.’

  ‘Rough luck, Mr Pyke. And after that you both thought one night enough to stay?’

  Pyke laughed.

  ‘I wanted rooms,’ he explained. ‘Next day I found these and moved in.’

  ‘I suppose your late cousin went back to Ashburton at the same time?’

  ‘Not quite directly, I think. He went to see some people near Bath; I believe he said for two days only, but I’m not sure.’

  ‘Do you soon return to the Argentine, Mr Pyke?’

  ‘I’ve not made up my mind. I like this country and I’m half thinking of settling down here and growing flowers for the London market. I’m sick of ranching anyway and I’ve instructed my solicitors to begin negotiations for the sale of my property. Of course, I’ll have to go out to see to that, but I think I’ll come back very soon.’

  They continued chatting about the Roman remains in Provence, until at last French looked at his watch and said he must go.

  He was jubilant as to his progress. He believed that he had accounted for his presence and that Pyke suspected nothing. He had also obtained enough information to check practically the whole of the man’s movements from his departure with Stanley for his holiday down to the present time. The end of the affair was in sight. And that evening, he promised himself, should see him a step further on his road.

  18

  On Hampstead Heath

  French telephoned for a relief to take over the shadowing of Pyke during the afternoon, but by six o’clock he was back in Kepple Street, with the intention of being, if possible, present at the rendezvous of his new suspects.

  ‘He’s not shown up since,’ Sergeant Harvey explained. ‘No one called, but one person left the house, a girl of about twenty. She returned in about two hours.’

  ‘Tall, good-looking girl, fair hair and blue eyes?’ French suggested. ‘I know her; the landlady’s daughter. I saw her when I called. That’ll do, Harvey, you can get away. I shall manage alone.’

  It was a fine evening, but cold. The last glimmerings of daylight were disappearing from the sky and outside the radius of the street lamps stars began to show. It looked as if there would be frost later.

  To keep a secret watch on a house in a city street is a feat requiring no little skill. Though French had reached the stage in which he left most of such work to his underlings, he was a past master in the art. Yet, as first seven, then eight, then nine struck from the surrounding clocks it required all his ingenuity to give the appearance of being detained on some ordinary and unimportant business. He strolled up and down, hiding in alley-ways and behind projecting, corners and moving on at intervals from one such place of vantage to another. He had engaged a taxi in case his quarry should do the same, and for a good part of the time he employed the old device of sitting back in its deepest recesses, while the driver gave a lengthy first-aid to his refractory engine.

  At last, when he had become stiff with cold and was cursing mentally but steadily at the delay, Pyke appeared and started off quickly towards Russell Square. French drew back into the entry in which he was taking cover and allowed him to pass, then having signed to his driver to keep him in sight, he followed the quarry as closely as he dared. Pyke turned down Montague Street, walking by New Oxford Street and Charing Cross Road to Charing Cross Station. He seemed about to enter the station, but suddenly glancing round, he turned to the right and dived down the steps to the Hampstead and Highgate tube. French had already settled up with his driver and he followed without delay.

  Keeping close behind, French shadowed his man to the platform and entered the next coach of the Hampstead train which the other boarded. At each station he watched the alighting passengers, but it was not until Hampstead was reached that Pyke appeared. Twenty feet apart, the two men passed out into the street and up the hill towards the Heath.

  At the wide space at the entrance to the Heath, French fell further behind. Pyke was now strolling easily along, as if out for a breath of air before bed. He passed in towards the left near Jack Straw’s Castle, taking one of the side paths which led to the wilder areas. Here were fewer people and French dropped back till he could just see the man’s light fawn coat like a faint smudge against the dark background of the trees.

  Some four or five hundred yards from the entrance, down in the hollow, there are a number of thick clumps of bushes. Round one of these Pyke passed and instantly became invisible. French stopped in his turn, and tiptoeing to the nearer side of the clump, began stealthily to creep nearer. Though a certain amount of starlight showed in the open, among the bushes it was pitchy black. There was no wind and, in spite of the vast city surrounding the place, scarcely a sound broke the stillness. French crept on, stopping every few seconds to listen intently. Presently he heard movements close by. There were faint footsteps, as if of a man pacing up and down, and occasional soft scraping of leaves and snapping of small twigs. Crawling under a bush, French crouched down and waited.

  For close on fifteen minutes the man paced backwards and forwards, while French grew stiff in his cramped position. Then light footsteps were heard on the path alongside the clump and a woman cleared her throat. The man moved out and said something in a low voice, to which the other replied. Then French heard Pyke say: ‘Come behind the shrubs. There is no one about and we shan’t be heard.’

  They moved close, to French, though not so near as he would have liked. Listening intently, he could hear a good deal, though not all, of their conversation. The woman was Mrs Berlyn and she was saying: ‘He suspects something; I’m sure of it. I’ve been just sick with terror all day. I thought I must see you and this seemed the only way. I was afraid he might follow me if I met you publicly.’

  There was a murmur of Pyke’s voice, but French could not distinguish the words nor could he hear Mrs Berlyn’s reply. Then he heard Pyke say: ‘I don’t think so. The note was there on the chimney-piece, but I’m quite certain it hadn’t been opened. I examined it carefully.’

  Mrs Berlyn’s intonation sounded like a question.

  ‘Yes, I rang up Ganope and he said that no inquiries had been made,’ Pyke rejoined. ‘It’s all right, Phyllis, I’m sure. Why, French explained that he had frightened you deliberately in order to find out your real opinion of Domlio.’

  They seemed to turn away, for during some moments French could only hear the murmur of their voices. Then apparently they approached again.

  ‘… I thought it was Charles he suspected,’ Mrs Berlyn was saying, ‘then today I thought it was myself. He knows a lot, Jeff. He knows about Colonel Domlio’s letter and the photograph.’

  ‘Yes, but that’s all immaterial. He doesn’t know what really happened that night, and he won’t know.’

  ‘But if he arrests us?’

  ‘Let him! As far as I am concerned he can do nothing. He can’t break down the evidence of all those people in Manchester with whom I spent the night of the murder. You, I admit, haven’t such a water-tight alibi, but it is impossible that he can prove you committed a crime of which you are absolutely innocent. And he can’t connect you with Charles. Remember that we’ve no reason to suppose he has the least idea that Charles is alive.’

  ‘If he finds that out he’ll suspect Charles and then he’ll suspect me as his accomplice.’

  ‘I dare say,’ Pyke admitted, ‘but he won’t find out. Poor old Charles! I said to him on that last day—’

  The two moved off again, for Pyke’s voice died down into an unintelligible murmur. Again, for some moments, French coul
d not distinguish what was said, then the words came more clearly.

  ‘No,’ Pyke was saying, ‘I have a better plan than that. Tomorrow I’ll call at the Yard to see French and I’ll confess to the murder. I’ll say that my misery through remorse and suspense is worse than anything I could afterwards suffer and that I just can’t bear it any longer. Lots of murderers have done that and he’ll suspect nothing. He’ll, of course, arrest me. Admittedly, he may arrest you also. This, of course, I should infinitely regret, but you will agree there is no other way. He’ll then think he has solved his problem and he’ll look no further afield. Before going to the Yard I’ll communicate with Charles, and Charles can make his get-away. Then, when Charles has had time to get out of the country, I shall produce my Manchester witnesses and prove my innocence. The case against you will then break down.’

  ‘That’s all right, except for two things,’ Mrs Berlyn returned. ‘If Charles believed he could get out of the country he would have done it long ago. Secondly, why, if you prove your innocence, will the case against me break down?’

  ‘Those are easily answered. By the time Charles was well enough to travel suspicion had been aroused and every policeman in the country was on the look-out for the Ashburton murderer. If I confess, the watch at the ports will be relaxed. Besides—’

  Again the words became unintelligible. There was a faint sound of slowly pacing feet and the voice dwindled. But after a short time the footsteps again grew louder.

  ‘… under the circumstances,’ Mrs Berlyn was saying, ‘but, of course, if Charles is taken we shall be accused of being his confederates.’

  ‘Very possibly. But, Phyllis, what can we do? We know old Charles is innocent, though things look so badly against him. We can’t let him down. We must do what we can to help him and take the risk.’

  ‘I know. I know. But isn’t the whole thing just awful! What have we done that we should get into such a position? It’s too much.’

  Her voice, though carefully repressed, was full of suffering and French could picture her wringing her hands and on the verge of tears. Pyke comforted her, though not at all in the tone of a lover, then went on:

  ‘It’s time that we went back, old girl. Until I get the warning to Charles we mustn’t risk being seen together; therefore, you’d better go on by yourself. I’ll follow in ten minutes.’

  They bade each other an agitated farewell, and then Mrs Berlyn’s light footsteps sounded on the path. For another quarter of an hour Pyke remained among the trees, his presence revealed by occasional movements and by the whistling under his breath of a melancholy little tune. Then, at last, he also moved away and French was able to stretch his aching limbs. Carefully he followed his man back to the tube-station and, eventually, to his rooms in Kepple Street.

  He did not know what to make of the conversation to which he had just listened. The statements made were so surprising and unexpected that at first sight he was inclined to dismiss the whole thing as a blind, deliberately arranged to throw him off the scent. Then he saw that for several reasons this could not be. In the first place, neither Phyllis nor Berlyn knew he was listening. In the second, such a plant would require careful pre-arrangement, and since his visit to Pyke the latter had had no opportunity of communicating with Phyllis Berlyn. Then there would be no object in such a scheme. They surely did not imagine that because of it French would relax his watch on them. Moreover, if it were false, its falseness would be demonstrated on the very next day. No, French felt the interview must be genuine.

  And if so, what a completely new view it gave of the crime! Berlyn, Phyllis and Jefferson Pyke all apparently mixed up in the affair, and all innocent! Who, then, could be guilty? French had to own himself completely puzzled. If this view were correct the murderer must be someone whom he had not yet seriously considered.

  Unless it could be Domlio, after all. Nothing that the two had said directly precluded the possibility. Of course, in this case it was difficult to see why they should not denounce Domlio, if it would free themselves and Berlyn from suspicion. But then again they might suspect Domlio, even, perhaps, be reasonably certain of his guilt, and yet unable to prove it.

  French continued to turn the matter over in his mind, and the more he did so the more he leaned to the opinion that Domlio must be after all the murderer. All the arguments which had before led him to this conclusion recurred to him with redoubled force and the difficulties in the theory seemed more and more easily surmountable. Domlio’s motor drive on the night of the crime, his denial of the trip, the hiding of the clothes and duplicator parts in the well, his depressed and absorbed manner—these really were not accounted for by any theory other than that of the man’s guilt. And Domlio might easily have invented the story of the photograph and produced the letter to account for his nocturnal excursion.

  Puzzled and worried, French began to believe that he was on the wrong track in London and that he must return to Devon and try once more to get the truth from Domlio. But he would not relax his watch on Mrs Berlyn and Pyke. Pyke he would himself shadow next day, so that if he communicated with Berlyn he, French, would learn the latter’s whereabouts.

  He turned into the nearest telephone booth, and ringing up the Yard, arranged for reliefs for himself and Sergeant Carter. Then, Sergeant Deane having taken over the watch in Kepple Street, he went home.

  Next morning he called at the Yard for Carter and about nine o’clock the two men reached Kepple Street.

  ‘That’ll do, Deane. You may get away,’ French greeted the night man. ‘Nothing stirred, I suppose?’

  ‘Nothing, sir. No one in or out the whole night.’

  ‘Now, Carter,’ French went on, ‘it’s your show mostly today. Pyke knows me and I’ll have to keep in the background. You stay about here and I’ll get a taxi and wait round the corner. If I see your signal I’ll come along.’

  Time soon began to drag for the watchers. Evidently their man was in no hurry. Ten o’clock came, then eleven, then eleven-thirty, and still he made no sign. French began to grow seriously uneasy.

  At last he could stand it no longer. He got out of his taxi and strolled up to Carter.

  ‘Go up to the door and ask for him, Carter. If he sees you, say I sent you to ask if he would call round at the Yard any time this afternoon.’

  Taking his subordinate’s place, he watched him walk up to the door and knock. In a moment the door was opened and Carter disappeared.

  For several minutes he remained inside, while French, growing more and more anxious every second, remained pacing impatiently up and down. Then Carter reappeared, and without any attempt at secrecy, beckoned to French.

  ‘What is it?’ the latter whispered sharply as he joined the sergeant on the door-step. ‘Anything wrong?’

  ‘I’m afraid so, sir. We can’t make him hear.’

  French swore. A wave of misgiving swept over him. Why, in heaven’s name, hadn’t he arrested the man last night when he had the chance? He pushed into the house, to meet an anxious landlady in the hall.

  ‘I am Inspector French of Scotland Yard,’ he explained quickly. ‘Where is Mr Pyke?’

  ‘Lawks!’ said the landlady, recognising her former visitor. ‘Are you police? And I thinking you were a friend of Mr Pyke’s all the time.’

  ‘Yes, madam, I am a police officer and I want to see Mr Pyke at once. Where is he?’

  The anxious look returned to the woman’s face.

  ‘He’s in his room,’ she explained. ‘But he’s not had his breakfast and he won’t answer my knocking. He said last night that he had a chill and that he wouldn’t get up this morning and for me not to disturb him. But that’s no reason why he shouldn’t answer a knock.’

  ‘Which is his room?’ said French grimly. This would be a lesson to him to avoid his confounded trick of waiting till he was sure. If this man had slipped through his hands any chance of that chief inspectorship was gone—if his job itself remained.

  They went to a first-floor ro
om at the back of the house and French knocked peremptorily. There was no reply.

  ‘Down with the door, Carter. Put your shoulder to it with me.’

  Despite the protests of the landlady, both men threw themselves on the door. With a tearing sound the screws of the keeper drew out and the door swung open.

  The room was empty.

  It was a large room, comfortably furnished as a bed-sitting-room. It was not disarranged in any way, but the lower sash of the window was fully up. French hurriedly crossed to it and looked out. It gave on the yard and about four feet below the sill was the roof of a small shed. This shed ran along the side of the yard at right angles to the main house, its further gable being against the wall between the yard and the lane which passed at the back of the houses. The roof of the shed formed a direct passage from the room to the lane.

  Though French had no doubt that Pyke had escaped by this route, he dropped out of the window and crawled over the roof tiles, searching for traces. These he speedily discovered. Someone had passed a short time previously.

  His chagrin was too deep for words. Even the lurid phrase, with which in times of stress he was wont to relieve his feelings, now proved utterly inadequate. He was aghast at the extent to which he had been hoodwinked.

  For it was now evident that Pyke had known he had been shadowed to Hampstead Heath and that the whole conversation there had been designed to put him, French, off the track. Pyke was a cleverer man than he had thought. It seemed scarcely possible that the interview had been pre-arranged, and yet French could not imagine its being an improvisation. The whole thing was very puzzling.

  However, at least one thing was clear. Jefferson Pyke and Mrs Berlyn were the criminals for whom he was seeking. And he was on a hot scent. He would get Mrs Berlyn at once and Pyke with very little delay. The man had less than twelve hours’ start. He turned to Carter.

  ‘Wait here for me, Carter,’ he directed. ‘Have a look round and learn anything you can, but without disturbing things. I shall be back presently.’