by E.
“What would be his other name, Doctor?” asked Mackenzie, ingenuously.
“Don’t be a ruddy fool, Mackenzie.” The Chief Constable barked a rebuke. “If Doctor Manson knew his man he’d have pinched him by now. You don’t suppose the fellow has been round broadcasting his new name, do you?”
Doctor Manson smiled. “Well, Colonel,” he said. “We can go a little farther than a blank wall.”
“How far can you go?”
“Let us do a little recapitulating on the knowledge we have acquired of the man, and see where it gets us,” suggested Manson. “Firstly, then, he is a man of some 5 ft. 8 ins., strong, and used to lifting and carrying weights.”
“Why 5 ft. 8 ins., Doctor,” asked Mackenzie.
“Length of stride, Mackenzie,” retorted the doctor. “Canley, allowing for his longer stride—you remember the worn heels—would have a stride span of about 2 ft. 4 ins. The murderer, if he were 5 ft. 8 ins. would normally span about 3 ft. But we have to allow for a reduction in his stride on this night—”
“Why, Doctor?” The inquiry came from the Chief Constable.
“Because he was carrying a burden—Canley. The fact that the prints he made with Canley’s shoes were firm and unlaboured proves that he was not only a man of some strength, but was used to lifting and carrying a weight. The effect of that weight, however, would be to shorten his natural stride. I work it out, therefore, that Canley’s weight would reduce the unknown man’s stride to about that of Canley himself when alive—and that should be about 2 ft. 4 ins.
“Next, he would certainly have worn an overcoat when he came to the cottage. Nobody would be out on a night like that without some protection. In all probability there will still be a few fragments of the rug fluff on that coat. It is very hard stuff to get rid of, even by brushing, and he must have conveyed some of it from the overcoat of Canley, during the time that he was carrying him from the cottage to the railway line.”
“Um! Doubtful, I should think, Doctor. But anyway, we aren’t much nearer identifying him so far. There’s a lot of 5 ft. 8 in. men in the place; it’s more or less a normal height.”
“True, Mainforce, but we have not finished the recap, yet. Let’s take the third point. I think he will almost certainly have traces of oil in his right-hand jacket pocket.”
The doctor detailed the examination of the threads of cloth that had been caught in the welt of Canley’s shoe, and on the splinter of the table. “It was impregnated with oil,” he said, “and thus caused the film of iridescence on the polished tumbler, for which I almost blamed Mrs. Skelton’s use of paraffin.
“Now that cloth must have been in his jacket pocket. He would not be wearing his overcoat in the house during the time he was staying there; and he obviously brought the cloth for a specific purpose. He no doubt had worked out that things would have to be polished to remove the fingerprints that would be left about the place by he and Canley.”
“Um!” said the Chief Constable again. “We’ll give you that one, Doctor.”
“Kind of you, Mainforce. Then we will pass on to a point number four. He possesses a pair of boots which may be rubber-soled or may not be, but at any rate have rubber heels, not of the revolving kind. And the heel of one boot, probably the left one, is badly worn and is showing in the centre two fixing nails through the rubber. They made the parallel scratches on the polished floor of the cottage, you know.”
“Why the left boot?” asked Mackenzie.
“Because there were only one set of scratches, which suggests that considerable pressure was exerted by that foot to force the nails through the rubber, Mackenzie. Otherwise there would have been other scratches. Now, the scratches were just behind the chair in which I have assumed that Canley was sitting when he was struck down. Therefore, since in striking a heavy blow, the impetus would be gained by tensing the body on the left leg, the nails are probably showing through the rubber of the left boot. That clear?”
Inspector Mackenzie, after striving to get round the logical argument, and failing, grunted his satisfaction with the hypothesis.
Doctor Manson smiled. “Good,” he said. “Now we come to the last but one of the points. The man we want is working somewhere where building or repairing operations are in progress, such operations including bricklaying or plastering.”
“Eh! That’s getting a bit nearer, Doctor,” the Chief Constable said. “Where does that bit come from?”
Doctor Manson explained the analysis of the piece of caked dirt picked up in the cottage. “The fact that there is no clay in the neighbourhood of the cottage, or in Thames Pagnall itself, would suggest, would it not, that the soil was brought in by the visitor? Now there is a considerable amount of lime in the clay. Does that suggest to you, as it does to me, that there is a patch of mortar outside the premises on which the man is working? It is, I agree, more or less pure theory, but I think it bears water.”
“And the last point, Doctor?” asked Colonel Mainforce.
“Ah, the last point!” Doctor Manson chuckled audibly, and provocatively. “The last point is really important. It is the man’s name—”
“Good God, Doctor!” The Chief Constable glared. “Do you mean to say that you’ve been giving us all this theory stuff, and all the time you’ve known who the fellow is?” he snorted.
“Not quite that, Colonel. We know only part of the name. The Christian name seems still to be Jack. But the surname, which was Edwins, now begins with the letter ‘P’. Jack P— is the man we are after.”
The doctor produced from a pocket the account book left behind by Canley, and demonstrated how he had worked out the connection between the amounts from J.E. and J.P. “It is pretty certain that the two are one and the same, and that the change to J.P. came unconsciously,” he said.
“So there you are,” ended the doctor. “That’s the entire story.”
The Chief Constable and the inspector digested the doctor’s recital, and chewed the cud of his investigations. It was the inspector who first broached any comment on them.
“I reckon there’s an awful lot of people whose names begin with the letter P, Doctor,” he said. “And we’ve no idea where to start looking.”
“That’s true, Mackenzie,” Colonel Mainforce pronounced his agreement. “God knows where the fellow is now, Doctor. Might be in Scotland. He’d be a fool if he stayed anywhere round here after doing in Canley. If he followed the path you have trod out for him after he left Canley on the lines, he’d probably take a train for as far away as he could get.”
“Would he?” asked Doctor Manson; and looked at the Chief Constable with intriguing interest. “Would he, do you think? Why?”
“Well, dammit, Manson, wouldn’t you get going?”
Doctor Manson ignored the personal chunk of the question.
“Then perhaps you will tell me, Colonel, why the silly ass went to all the trouble of devising this most detailed and timed plot to kill Canley. Tell me why,” he repeated.
“Why?” Colonel Mainforce stared at the scientist in bewilderment. “Why?” he repeated, parrot-like. “Because he was being blackmailed, of course. Blast it, Doctor, you’ve spent nearly an hour telling us yourself.”
“I have done nothing of the kind, Mainforce. I have told you in the first place, how the murder was committed. I have told you who the man is, and what he is like in appearance, how far apart his legs stride, and what he was wearing. But I have not told you why he plotted this murder. You ought to have been able to realize that for yourself. And so ought Mackenzie.”
“You’d better not waste any more time, Doctor,” put in Sir Edward Allen, after a glance at the audience, who seemed from their expression to be reaching a point at which the mental aberration of the scientist was in a state of grave doubt. “They think we’re potty.”
“Let’s hear it, Doctor,” agreed the Colonel. “I can’t make head or tail of you or Sir Edward, but I’ll put my shirt on you just the same.”
“Very well, th
en, Colonel,” began Manson. “It is really quite simple as you will agree when you’ve worked it out. Now, the first time that our man got entangled up with Canley was in Devonshire—at the burglary. What did he do? He did just as you are suggesting he has done on this occasion—he scooted right out of the district, and he was never traced. Now, in some way, most unfortunate for him, he ran into Canley, or Canley ran into him, and he was at once recognized. The blackmail then started.
“But why did it start? And, more important still, why did it go on? That is the answer to your riddle. And I can see no logical flaw in the reasoning of my rejoinder to it.”
“And the rejoinder is—what?” asked Colonel Mainforce.
“That if Edwins was being blackmailed by Canley, why did he not emulate his action of the earlier day? Why did he not say, ‘this is not good enough. I am not going to pay this chap my hard-earned money. I’m getting out’. Why, in short, did he not vamoose the ranch?”
“Perhaps he did not want to give up his job,” hazarded the Colonel.
“Wasn’t much good keeping the job if he was going to pay about ten pounds a week to the blackmailer, was it. Because that seems to work out as the amount he was paying. Surely he could have gone somewhere else where he would again be lost to Canley, and where he could get a job that would allow him to keep his earnings. Instead, he stays and works out a most complicated method of getting rid of Canley by the most hazardous means of wilful murder, in the hope that the crime would be thought an accident, and never traced to him. Again I ask you why?”
Doctor Manson sat back and waited for the answer from his hearers. None was forthcoming. Colonel Mainforce looked the bewilderment he felt at the trend of the conversation.
“Well, why?” he asked, after a pause. “You’ve something in that head of yours, Manson, but damned if I can see what it is.”
The doctor lit a cigarette before replying. He lit it slowly and deliberately, playing with his audience—a little trick of which he was inordinately fond. Then:
“Well, Mainforce, and you, Mackenzie, I will put forward the supposition which has occurred to me, and which I think will prove to be correct in the more essential details. Suppose then, that this Jack Edwins, or Jack P— is not in a job at all. Suppose he could not run away from his blackmailer without utterly ruining himself.” Manson paused. The Chief Constable looked his mystification. “If he wasn’t in a—” he began.
“Supposing that he is in his own business. A prosperous business,” the doctor checked his sentence. “Then his only means of getting rid of Canley would be to get rid of him in the physical sense. And knowing that, he plotted the murder to look like an accident. Would not that explain all the answers we want?”
“Jiminy Cricket,” said the Colonel. “Of Course!” He eyed the doctor thoughtfully. “And I dare say you have some idea of the business and where it is,” he decided.
“Of where it is—no, Colonel. I have not the least idea except that it is somewhere within easy reach of this place. Of the business—yes, I have a pretty shrewd idea. Work it out for yourselves. What manner of man is it that uses mutton-cloth to wipe away oil, and carries a piece of it around with him in his pockets?”
“Are you trying to pinch my chauffeur, Doctor,” asked the Chief Constable, jestingly. “I won’t have him arrested. Best one I’ve ever had.”
“A motor mechanic,” said Inspector Mackenzie, suddenly. He thought again. “And in business for himself,” he added, musingly. “You mean that he’s got a garage, Doctor?”
“I mean just that, Mackenzie. It’s taken a long time to make you see it. But you have it at last. Our J.P. is a garage proprietor in some part of this area where there is clay, and where building extensions or repairs of some kind are being undertaken. Search for that and you’ll find him.”
“Sounds like Middlesex,” said the Chief Constable. “That’s the place where we mostly find clay.”
“Which reminds me,” suddenly thought the scientist. “Did you ever trace anyone who did not pay their fares at the booking office at the junction, Mackenzie?” he asked.
“Don’t know about the junction, Doctor,” was the reply. “But down the line on trains passing through the junction, four people paid excess at the barriers. There was one at Alton, another at Claygate, a third at London Road, and a fourth at Staines.”
“On what trains?”
“Trains which passed through the junction after midnight, Doctor.”
“Which of those places is in Middlesex?”
“Only Staines.”
“The ticket collector know the person at all?”
“No, Doctor. We asked that, but he said he could not recall the man. He did not, of course, pay any particular attention to him. Just took his money and gave him the official receipt.” Doctor Manson considered the position. “Then, I think we will try Staines,” he said.
The four men piled themselves into Doctor Manson’s car, and set out on the quest. The Doctor drove the car into Hampton Court, and turned left at the bridge, that gem of an erection with the most beautiful lines in the south of England save, perhaps the new Waterloo bridge.
A quick run of a few minutes brought them to the police station at Staines. From the inspector there, the Doctor obtained a list of garages in the neighbourhood.
Through the Borough of Staines the car passed along the route which long years before the Barons of England must have taken on their horses, when they went to the meadows of Runnymede, there to wrest from the King the freedom of a people. Mackenzie, fortunately, knew the district pretty well, and the list of garages were taken in their order of route. In front of each the car was halted, and the scientist passed a critical eye over the set-out and attendants. Once he got out of the car and walked into the building, ostensibly to make some inquiry. But he returned after a minute or so, and taking his place at the wheel again, resumed the search.
It was an hour before the garages of the town had all been eliminated. The Chief Constable looked bored.
“Well, Doctor, that is the last of them,” he announced. “Where do we go from here?”
“Not one looked anything like the place I visualize,” retorted the doctor. “I think that it must be in a more open country.”
“In that case we’d better try the outside,” suggested Sir Edward. “If we turn left at the top of the street here, we can get on the second-class main road, get into the country and return via the By-pass road. How far out do you reckon we should go, Harry?”
Doctor Manson thought the problem out. “No farther than makes Staines railway station the nearest station,” he suggested.
“Then we’ll say a couple of miles,” decided Mackenzie.
The secondary main road was negotiated as far as the next village, with occasional stops by Doctor Manson to regard with close attention the wayside garages and service stations along it. At the village the car was swung in a half-circle, and travelling through a narrow lane struck the By-pass road.
They were half-way back to Staines when Doctor Manson, who had been driving with one eye on the road and the other on the buildings and erections at the side of it, suddenly pulled up sharply at a garage which lay some 500 feet back from the metalled road. The garage was a neat and attractively painted green and white structure, and bore the name ‘The Green Service Station’ across it.
It had obviously been quite recently renovated, for the paint looked new, and a low wall of red bricks had been built between the property and a side road on the left.
Doctor Manson nudged the Chief Constable. “This, I think, is the place, Colonel,” he said. He pointed to the space between the wall and the cemented run-in. A dump of mortar stood there, and marks showed how it had been trod into the ground between there and the garage workshop.
As the car drove in, a man came forward, wiping his hands on a piece of mutton-cloth.
“Get the car filled up,” whispered Manson to the Chief Constable, and left the driving seat. He walked to the doo
r of the garage, and glanced inside the office. Opposite the door, on the wall, was a framed certificate of a motoring trade organization. Written in the space reserved for the name of the holder were the words ‘Jack Porter’.
‘J.P.’ said the doctor, to himself, quietly, and returned to the car. He paid for the petrol, climbed back into the driving seat and left the garage.
A hundred yards or so down the road he drew into the kerb, and stopped. He turned to his colleagues.
“The name of the man, Colonel,” he said, “is Jack Porter. I have no doubt that he is the man we want. He has the right height, the right appearance, and there is the mud and the mortar, and he is in Staines, whence came a man after midnight that night with no ticket from the junction.”
“Looks like it, Doctor, I agree. What are we going to do?” asked the Chief Constable.
“You can’t do anything, my lad,” was the retort. “He is not in your area. And however much I believe my theory, it has still to be proved, you know.”
He thought for a moment or two, and then propounded a way out. “I suggest that we go back into Staines, and you, Inspector, see the Staines inspector. Tell him that you suspect the man Porter of a serious crime in your area, but have not yet obtained all the evidence you want. Make him realize that the evidence can be got only if the man’s premises are examined, and that you do not want to alarm him by searching while he is there.”
“Then tell him that the man is suspected to be Jack Edwins wanted for burglary at Paignton and for whom a warrant is still in existence. The Staines man can then take him into custody on that warrant, and hold him for you on the more serious charge.”
“When you have him safe, Colonel Mainforce and I will join you at the garage. Let the Staines man take him to the station.”
It was half an hour later that the inspector drew in the garage runway. Porter came forward to service them.
“Are you Jack Porter?” asked the Staines inspector.
