by E.
“There is,” he said, “only the railway left. He must have gone out by the railway.”
“He couldn’t!” Mackenzie’s voice rang out triumphantly again. “There wasn’t a train. The eleven thirty-five was the last train of the night, either up or down.”
Mackenzie regarded the jubilant inspector with drawn brows. “I did not say, Mackenzie, that he went on the railway. He didn’t, obviously. There is nothing I can see to prevent him walking along the line to the junction. I take it”—he developed an anxious lilt in his voice—“that there are late trains from the junction, later that is, than say, midnight?”
“Oh, yes, sir.” Mackenzie’s jubilation deflated like a pricked balloon. “But—”
“Wouldn’t it be a bit risky entering the station from the lines, Manson?” asked Colonel Mainforce.
“I did not say that he need have gone all the way to the junction along the lines, Mainforce.” He turned to Mackenzie. “Is there a bridge along the lines, giving easy and direct access to a roadway, Mackenzie?” he asked.
“Yes, sir. About half a mile or so along. It passes over a cross-roads.”
“Then that offers an interesting suggestion. He could walk the remaining distance to the junction, and I don’t suppose he would have much difficulty in avoiding being seen at that time of night, on the station. Possibly he did not buy a ticket and thus attract attention to himself in the vicinity of this area.”
“If I were you, Mackenzie, I should endeavour to find anyone who arrived at a station somewhere along one of the junction lines between twelve-fifteen and one-fifteen in the morning, and paid the fare from the junction, being unable to produce a ticket. At the same time, however, you might see if any of the staff at the junction can recall having seen a man arrive on the platform by unorthodox ways.”
He rose to go. “I think that is all Merry and I can do here,” he said to the Chief Constable. “If our delvings into Canley’s belongings which I still have in the laboratory can give Mackenzie any assistance, Mainforce, I’ll give you a ring.”
A totally unexpected development was waiting to greet the two scientists however, before they could resume their laboratory search into the belongings of Canley.
Doctor Manson had decided to deal next with the papers taken from Canley’s desk. “If anything can give us a line on the man and his murderer, I should say it will be the papers,” he had confided to Merry.
At that moment the telephone rang out a shrill call. The doctor lifted the receiver and answered.
“Manson here,” he said. The voice of the fingerprint chief, Inspector Baxter, replied.
“Been trying to get you all morning, Doctor,” he said. “I’ve news. Wilkins sent me up a card with the prints of the man Canley on them. That all right?”
“Quite all right, Baxter. What of them?”
“Well, sir, he’s known. But not as Canley. His real name is Sprogson. He’s been inside several times, the last being three years ago at Exeter. Shall I send you his dossier down?”
“Excellent, Baxter.”
Merry and he examined the dossier together. “Theft and burglary, eh?” said Merry. “Last time for a robbery at Paignton.” He gave the scientist a precis of the incident. “Seems he made friends with the butler at a big house in Shorton Woods—remember we stayed at a place in the woods for a fortnight once, Harry, when we had a golfing holiday at the Paignton Country Club? He got well in with the butler, and seemingly so well as to obtain the safe combination. The butler apparently was left in the house in charge of the jewellery while the family was away.”
“Funny arrangement wasn’t it, Jim.”
“I should think so—Let’s see what it says.” He read silently for a minute or so.
“Ah, well, that may explain it, Harry,” he explained. “Seems the room in which the safe was fixed was more or less a strong-room protected by steel shutters, and having an electric alarm direct to the police station a quarter of a mile away. Canley, or Sprogson, did not know about the alarm, and when he pulled open the safe door, without switching it off, the cops started out.”
“Where was the butler?”
“Dunno. Out on the razzle, perhaps. The family were away. Anyway, it seems that Sprogson shot out of a window, was seen by the police and chased. He knocked one of them out, but was finally caught. And he got three years.”
“What did he steal?”
“Nothing. But jewellery was missing from the safe. Sprogson said that he had a confederate, and gave his name as Jack Edwins. Police say they saw no signs of another person. However, as they all seemed to join in a tally-ho after Sprogson, perhaps the other chap laid low. Funnily enough, just over two years later the owner of the jewellery at Paignton received a large sum of money in notes from an anonymous person, with instructions that it was compensation.”
“Queer story,” commented the scientist. “Hardly compensation, since the owner of the jewellery would have received insurance. More like conscience money. Let’s get on with these papers, Jim.”
The suitcase of the late Mr. Canley was up-ended and its load of papers deposited in the centre of the table. The two men proceeded each to take a sheet in turn, and examine it with a scrutiny that was not only visual but mental. It was not so much the lines on the documents that the scientist concerned himself with as the reading between the lines. The bills, not in themselves objects of much seeming interest, were examined for any clue that the objects obtained might give.
It is the application of psychology to investigation. An account from a firm of ironmongers for a chisel, for instance, when taken in conjunction with the disappearance from a nailed box of a quantity of valuables might well lead an officer with an active mind to a supposedly blameless person who was, in fact, leading a double life.
But there seemed nothing of any particular interest in the bills which were the liability of the late Mr. Canley. A number of them concerned household purchases, such as groceries, etc., curtains and other necessaries inseparable from the possession of a home. There were a number of bills for spirits and cigarettes, and others for car hire, clothes, etc.
Photographs of women, and letters from women, closely perused, afforded no clue to any rival who might be expected to dispose of Canley for circumstances associated with the Eternal Triangle. There were several sheaves of paper scrawled over with contracted words and phrases, which Merry and the doctor took to be notes on the form of various horses, and the peculiarities of certain race-horses.
“Courses for luck, it looks to me,” said Merry, who had at one time flirted with the lucky omens of race-courses, owners and jockeys. “Yes,” he added, after a moment or two of further peering. “Here is a note that no horse of Richards has won a classic at Epsom. That’s wrong, anyway. It’s only the Derby that Richards has never won there.”
Pushed into one large envelope were a number of accounts which had the old familiar, to Merry, appearance of betting; they were, in fact, weekly accounts from a number of bookmakers. These were scanned closely. A rapid mental calculation caused the scientist to smile at his companion. “Well, Jim, he seems to have done better with his racing than you did,” he remarked cheerfully. “So far as I can see he made quite a good thing out of betting.”
“He was living on the bookies, that’s plain, if these are all the accounts and not part of them,” the deputy scientist agreed.
Doctor Manson picked up a book from the pile and opened it. “His bank pass book! Perhaps this will give us a better idea of how much he made from the gee-gees.”
He skimmed through the pages. The man seemed to have started his account in the Thames Pagnall bank with a matter of just over £400. There were a number of cheques drawn for amounts ranging from £5, £10 and larger sums. On the credit side of the book were payments-in of sums ranging in value from £10 to £60, and in one case to considerably over £100. In each of these cases payments were denoted as having been by cheque. The cash payments into the account seldom appeared higher
than £10, except in a couple of cases where they had reached the figure of £20 and £30.
It was while digesting these facts that Doctor Manson noticed that the payments-in were distinguished by a marked regularity. It seemed as though the man had some regular source of income which never failed to maintain its periodicity. Since Canley had no employment, so far as could be found, the doctor sought for the reason for the fixed credits to his account. After a short pondering an idea occurred to him. He checked off the dates of the payments with a calendar. The result was to show that the payments were usually made on a Tuesday. “They would be, I should say, his winnings,” suggested Merry. “Settling day for bookies is usually on a Saturday, and the money, posted off on Monday would be likely to reach Canley on Tuesday morning. He would naturally, as the payment was by cheque, pass it into the bank the same day, since he obviously wanted to be in credit.”
Check-up with some of the slips of the bookmakers’ accounts already examined, showed this to be the case; in a number of instances, the amounts on the accounts were the same as those in the credit side of the pass book.
Satisfied that nothing further in the way of assistance was likely to come from the book, Doctor Manson put it aside, and turned his attention to another book. This revealed itself as containing personal accounts. It detailed payments made to Mrs. Skelton for her household work and expenses, purchases of various commodities, of food and clothing and personal requirements. It showed also monies paid out in cash; they appeared to be betting transactions on the course, as distinct from the bookmakers’ accounts.
It was when he came to study the receipt side of the book that the doctor suddenly developed a keener interest in the figures. For the first time, he noticed, sums were entered as obviously paid in notes. He drew the attention of Merry to the circumstance.
“Probably, the result of the ready money betting on the course, Harry,” suggested Merry. “He would pick it up at the end of each race, you know.”
Comparison with the days on which the cash payments were made, however, showed that the dates were separated, and at varied intervals.
Reference to the pass book did not reveal that any cheque paid to ‘self’ by which the personal account could have been augmented, had been cashed. “Then where was the money coming from?” asked the scientist, ungrammatically.
He proceeded to tabulate the figures. The result showed the receipt of £20 on 8th February, and a further £20 on 22nd February, £50 on 19th April, another £50 on 4th May, and a further £50 on 14th June. The next date was 18th July, when the figure was £42. On 30th August, the amount had been £65. In all just under £500 had been paid in notes at comparatively regular intervals.
Consulting the calendar again, the doctor noted that the dates in each case were at the week-end, instead of at the beginning of the week. “They are not, therefore, bookmakers’ payments,” he commented, “ready money betting or not.”
Reference to the racing calendar revealed that, in any case, on three of the dates there had not been any racing in the vicinity of Thames Pagnall or London.
‘Queer,’ said Doctor Manson to himself. ‘Now, where did he get the money?’
Laying the account book on one side for the moment, he took up a third book. This proved to be a personal notebook. Quick glancing through the pages revealed it to consist chiefly of bets placed, and the result of them. There were, in addition, notes of various purchases, and money paid out to the charwoman, and for rent.
Checking these with the bank pass book, Doctor Manson found that the betting transactions corresponded roughly with the paying-in to the bank. In fact, there seemed not much advantage in pursuing his calculations. He persevered, however, more by force of habit than in expectation of discovering anything that might be hidden: and presently his patience was rewarded.
For the week starting 21st April, he found, on totting up, that the weekly summary was much in excess of money shown in the bank statement as paid in by cheques. There was a similar discrepancy in the summary of the week of 26th May.
Unable to account for these, the doctor decided to take each individual betting transaction during the week. There were, roughly, twenty bets; and the result, and the profit and loss, were indicated. Against each bet were written initials signifying, the scientist hazarded, the firm with whom the bets had been placed. The initials ‘D.R.’ appeared on several occasions. Reference to the pass book for that week showed that a cheque credit from Douglas Rowe. Rowe, the doctor knew, was a bookmaker of repute. Checking on the other entries he identified all the initials except one: on Saturday, 20th April, was the single item ‘£50,’ and against it were the initials ‘J.E.’
What, the doctor asked himself, could have become of the £50 difference between the notebook and the bank pass book of that week? He decided to follow up the individual items of the remainder of the book. Calling to Merry, he indicated the curious discrepancy, and the two began their task of researching.
Quite soon again, in the week 24th May, appeared the same initials ‘J.E.’ and the figure shown made the surplus as compared with the bank pass book a matter of £40 on 1st September, and the figure went as high as £65.
The two men pondered over the figures; and then, suddenly Doctor Manson realized how the accounts could be squared. If the amounts credited as ‘notes’ in the pass book on the preceding Saturday were added to each of the weeks’ credit, the amounts tallied.
Following this line of investigation the two men now realized that the surplus figure occurred, roughly, one week in each month, They were congratulating themselves on this discovery when, towards the end of the month of August, there came a complication. The initials ‘J.E.’ suddenly ceased, and in their place appeared a new set of initials. They were ‘J.P.’ and they appeared after varying amounts from £20 to £50. Strangely enough, these, added to the cheques shown in the bank pass book, corresponded in the same way that the earlier figures had done. The ‘J.P.’ amounts remained in operation up to the end of October, and the accounts as shown in the bank pass book were accurate, and had no surplus.
“It gets curiouser and more curious,” said Merry. “Who and what are ‘J.E.’ and ‘J.P.’? And for what were the regular payments?”
“It would appear to be a fixed income, judging by the regularity with which the payments were made,” said Doctor Manson. “Yet there is nothing in his papers to show that he has any income from investments. There is no person or organization fitting the initials either of J.E. or J.P. And there is not, either, any business in which he seems to have been engaged other than that of racing. I wonder—”
He picked up the receiver of the ringing telephone, and called a reply.
“Prints here, Doctor—Baxter speaking. That glass and whisky bottle which Wilkins sent up to us. The prints are Canley’s, as I think you know. But they are not natural prints—”
“What do you mean by that, Baxter?” asked Manson.
“I mean, Doctor, that they have been rolled, in other words the prints have been made by somebody pressing them round the bottle and the glass.”
“Well, I guessed that, Baxter. It could not be otherwise if my reading of the cottage interior was correct. I did not send them up to you. But probably Wilkins, who did not know the full circumstances, wanted to check up on the prints for me. Anyway, you say they are definitely Canley’s, which supports me very well.”
“Yes, Doctor, natural or not they are certainly Sprogson’s.”
“Sprogson’s—Oh, yes, of course,” said Manson half to himself, as he replaced the receiver. “Sprogson’s—”
He stopped at an exclamation from Merry.
“What is it, Jim?” he asked.
“Why, Sprogson, Harry. I had forgotten that Canley was an alias. Now, where’s that dossier of Sprogson?” He scouted among the papers on the scientist’s desk, and uncovered it. Turning over the pages he read rapidly through them.
“I think that’s it, Harry,” he announced. “When Sprog
son was on trial for the Paignton affair, he said, you remember, that there was another man with him, and gave his name as Edwins. Edwins got away with the jewels, according to Sprogson—or Canley, as we know him. Sprogson got penal servitude, and the man Edwins went free. Now, Edwin’s Christian name was Jack—and Jack Edwins makes the initials J.E.”
Doctor Manson stared at his deputy. “That, undoubtedly, is the answer, Jim,” he agreed. He paused for a moment and then added. “And that, undoubtedly, also supplies the motive for pushing off Canley, or Sprogson.”
He dialled a house number on the telephone. “Records?” he asked. “Manson here. Have we anything of a man named Jack, or John Edwins? I’ll hold on.”
The reply came in a couple of minutes’ time.
“No, Doctor, we’ve no record of a Jack Edwins ourselves. Only thing we have is a notice from the Devonshire police that a man named Jack Edwins was wanted some years ago for burglary at Paignton. Is that the man you have in mind—? Well, he was never caught, and has never been heard of under that name.”
“What about a Jack P—something?” asked the doctor.
Another couple of minutes brought a reply. “We’ve quite a few Ps, Doctor. There is a Jack Pelman, he’s a sneak thief. Then there is Jack Peters, the ‘con’ man. Jack Porkman, pickpocket, Jack Proffers, but he’s been inside this past eighteen months.”
“All these pretty well known to us?” asked Doctor Manson.
“Yes, Doctor. All old hands,” was the reply.
“Then I’m afraid they won’t do, Records. Many thanks.” He replaced the receiver.
“There is no doubt, Jim, that the motive was blackmail. And that the sums shown as received by Canley were the results of that blackmail. It seems obvious that Canley had recognized his erstwhile comrade of Paignton, and at once levied recompense for the years he served in gaol, while Edwins had the jewels they had both been after at Paignton. And Edwins paid up.”
