‘You’re positive of this, M’Atamney?’
‘I’m certain sure.’
‘Was he walking quickly?’
‘No, he wasn’t. He was walking as if he’d gone a long way an’ was queer an’ tired.’
‘Did you speak to him?’
‘No, I was that surprised I never said a word.’
‘Now, M’Atamney, here’s an important question. At what time did all this happen?’
‘Just half twelve. I know for I looked at my watch before I started so as I wouldn’t stay too long.’
‘Well,’ said Rainey, ‘you’ve done well to come to us and tell us this. We’re much obliged to you, I’m sure,’ and he went on with consummate skill to obtain further details which would enable corroborative inquiries to be made.
All the same, half an hour’s question and answer convinced all three police officers. There could be no doubt that at half past twelve on the fatal Friday morning Sir John Magill had walked through the station at Larne in the direction of the harbour.
‘By Jove, French!’ Rainey exclaimed when M’Atamney had taken his departure. ‘That’s a bit unexpected, isn’t it? If that tale is true it about clears Malcolm Magill. If Sir John hadn’t been drugged at 12.30, Malcolm’s out of it, illness or no illness.’
French gave a guarded assent. It certainly seemed likely that the old gentleman must have been alive up till at least five or six o’clock next morning, in which case Malcolm’s participation in the affair was undoubtedly nil.
Rainey felt absently in his pocket, withdrew his pipe and slowly began to fill it.
‘Darned nuisance, the whole business,’ he grumbled. ‘And it’s a case we particularly wanted to get squared up. Why our Minister of Home Affairs himself was on to the commissioner about it. Hang it all, French, we’ll have to start at the beginning again and do a deal better this time.’
French moved uneasily.
‘Is it possible, sir, that we’ve started wrong?’ he suggested deprecatingly. ‘We’ve so far been assuming Malcolm killed his father for the inheritance. Now that has broken down. But isn’t there another theory, enturely different, but quite likely?’
Rainey swung round and stared at French.
‘What’s this you’re going to spring on us now?’ he demanded. ‘Good Lord! If you’ve got an idea, for any sake trot it out.’
‘I mean that Sir John may have had something with him that night worth more than his fortune: the plans of his invention.’
‘Oh, that?’ said Rainey, twisting back to his former position. ‘I hadn’t forgotten it, but it didn’t seem to help. Just what is in your mind?’
‘Simply that Sir John was murdered for the plans.’
‘Of course; but how? Put up your theory.’
French was scarcely prepared for anything so definite, but he did his best.
‘I suggest, sir, that though Sir John was not brought to Ireland by physical force, he was tricked into coming. I suggest he was tricked into going up the Cave Hill with the idea of robbing him there, but that this scheme went adrift; perhaps because he had not brought the plans with him. I suggest that his going to Whitehead and ringing up Malcolm was a subterfuge to escape his enemies, but that they got wise to it and followed him. I suggest that at Whitehead he again escaped them—with the loss of his hat. But in doing so he missed Malcolm and when he passed the cleaner at Larne I suggest he was making his way to Lurigan as to a sanctuary. I suggest his enemies followed him and caught him up before he reached Lurigan, murdered him and buried him in the plantation in order to throw suspicion on Malcolm should the body ever be found.’
Rainey, who had got his pipe going, smoked steadily as he considered this.
‘’Pon my soul, French, that’s not so bad. There are a lot of holes in it of course, but it’s worth going into. And what’—he fixed French with an accusing forefinger—‘what’s the first thing that arises out of it?’
French grinned.
‘I think so,’ Rainey answered the grin. ‘An English crime, arranged in England, by an English gang! What did I tell you? You get away back to England, French, and solve this mystery and then come over and tell us about it. Come now, let’s get down to tacks. Who knew Sir John might have had the plans with him?’
French turned over the leaves of his notebook.
‘I’ve got that here, sir. There were the two Miss Magills, Victor and Breene. Possibly Myles and Nutting, the butler and chauffeur, might have heard something also. And any of these may have mentioned it to still other persons. Lastly, sir, the man Coates, who called on Sir John, may have been told of it.’
‘Agreed. And that, I take it, eliminates all but two—Breene and Coates?’
‘It eliminates the sisters and the other members of the household except Breene, for they were all in London on the night of the crime. But it doesn’t absolutely eliminate Victor. He says he was on this launch trip and I’m sure he was. But we haven’t proved it.’
‘Yes, you’re right there. But it can easily be proved. Breene’s case we’ve already gone into and we find he’s out of it. And that brings us to Coates. French, we’ll have to find Coates.’
‘Not so easy, sir. Your people have put in some time on that already.’
‘I know, and that very difficulty is the most suspicious thing about him. You’ll have to try in London. You might be able to trace him from the house.’
French agreed, but without enthusiasm. The task, he felt sure, would prove extraordinarily difficult, if not impossible.
Rainey moved as if anxious to bring the conference to an end.
‘Well, we can’t go on talking about it for the rest of our lives. Let’s make a programme. We over here will push on with all the local inquiries. We’ll try to establish in even more detail the movements of everyone connected with the affair. We’ll try to trace Coates. We’ll try to check the hour at which M’Atamney saw Sir John and learn the truth of Malcolm’s bilious attack. We’ll try to find the author of the X.Y.Z. letter. We’ll try every mortal thing we can think of. In the meantime you go back and set to work at the London end. Try to trace Coates; try to find out if others knew of the invention; check up Victor’s movements and make sure he is out of it. And while we’re working one or other of us may get a brain wave. That O.K.?’
French, who felt that under any circumstances the criminal had done enough on Irish soil to enable the truth to be learned in Ireland, demurred at first. But he had to admit that the superintendent’s division of labour was reasonable, and after some further discussion, the plan was agreed to. Eventually it was arranged that French should cross that evening and that M’Clung should accompany him, remaining to assist for a few days.
9
Stranraer
At 7.30 next morning the two travellers arrived at Euston. M’Clung went to an hotel for breakfast while French hurried home for a glimpse of Mrs French. A couple of hours later they met at the Yard.
After an interview with Chief-Inspector Mitchell, to whom French described his adventures in Ireland, a start was made on the new programme. French and M’Clung set off for Elland Gardens. Myles opened the door.
‘Good morning, Myles,’ French said genially. ‘You’re the very man I was looking for. This is my colleague, Detective-Sergeant M’Clung.’
‘Will you come in, gentlemen?’
Myles showed them into a small room and waited expectantly.
French began by redeeming his promise to tell the old man what had taken place in the affair since his last visit. He gave away nothing which could not have been learned from the papers, but he made a friend. Myles expressed his appreciation in no uncertain manner.
‘I’d like to see the man hang who lifted up his hand against the master,’ he added picturesquely.
‘Well, you may help towards it,’ French returned. He leant forward and spoke impressively. ‘What I want, Myles, is this: the address of that man Coates who called on Sir John before he went to Ireland.’
‘I know,’ said French kindly. ‘I’m not blaming you for there was nothing to call your attention to it. But you may be able to get it for us all the same. You said that Coates called twice?’
Myles, whose manner had suddenly become eager, agreed.
‘And on each occasion he left a card?’
‘Yes, sir. He handed me the cards at the door. I put him into the waiting room and took the cards up to Sir John.’
‘And what became of them?’
Myles did not know. Sir John might have put them into a drawer of his desk or into his pocket or the wastepaper basket or the fire. There was no means of finding out.
‘They weren’t in his pockets, because they were searched in Larne. And they’re not in his desk because I looked through that when I was here before. Now what about the wastepaper basket? I presume that its contents are burnt periodically, but there is no chance that something may have escaped?’
Myles was sorry, but there wasn’t the slightest. He himself invariably emptied the basket into the slow combustion stove by which the water was heated and he was certain that he had overlooked nothing.
‘There must be some receptacle for cards,’ French persisted.
It appeared that there was, a drawer in the hall table. Cards that were not required for their addresses or other purposes were thrown into the drawer and burnt at intervals.
‘Let’s see it,’ French demanded, and they trooped down.
But though they went through some hundreds of cards, those of Coates were not among them.
‘I’ll try the desk again,’ French declared. ‘By the way, what about Sir John’s other suits? Have you been through the pockets of them?’
Myles had not thought of that and a couple of minutes later they were in the deceased gentleman’s dressing room. Myles handed down suit after suit to French, who went through the pockets exhaustively. Four suits had thus been examined, when French gave a cry of triumph.
‘More than we could hoped for!’ he exclaimed delightedly, holding up a bit of pasteboard. ‘Some luck that, eh, M’Clung? Read that.’
The card was of small size, a social rather than a business one. It bore the name: ‘Mr Arthur Coates, 7 Talbot Terrace, Sandy Row, Belfast.’
‘Know the place?’
M’Clung looked perplexed.
‘I do not, Mr French. Talbot Terrace? Never heard of it. But I don’t know that district extra well.’
‘Your people will soon find it. I say, M’Clung, that’s a great lift to us. Let’s get the information across to Belfast. May I use your telephone, Myles?’
French was in high delight as they left the house.
‘A wonderful bit of luck, M’Clung,’ he declared enthusiastically. ‘Extraordinary! When we get hold of Coates our job will be half done.’
M’Clung was less exuberent. He seemed to have something on his mind and presently it came out.
‘There’s another thing I was thinking, Mr French,’ he remarked, ‘and that is that we never found out who engaged the old man’s berth that night. No one in the house did it, and it’s not the sort of thing he’d likely do for himself.’
French stopped and favoured his companion with a slow stare.
‘Upon my word, M’Clung, that’s an idea! It’s long odds but there’s something in it. We’ll go right along to Euston now.’
Half an hour later they walked into the stationmaster’s office on No. 6 platform. French produced his official card.
‘I want,’ he said, ‘to see the gentleman who deals with berth reservations to Ireland via Larne and Stranraer,’ and when a clerk, languidly curious, had come forward:
‘On the train leaving Euston on Wednesday, the second instant, a berth was reserved in the first sleeper for Sir John Magill. I want to find out, if possible, when that berth was reserved and by whom.’
The clerk’s interest suddenly became real.
‘That was the old gentleman who disappeared, wasn’t it?’ he answered. ‘It’s lucky I saw about the disappearance in the papers or I shouldn’t have been able to give you any information.’
He explained that under ordinary circumstances it would have been impossible for him to answer French’s question. He had a record of the reservations, but not of how they were applied for. In this case, when he had read about Sir John, he had looked up his notes and had then been able to remember the application.
‘Here it is,’ he said, when French had praised him judiciously. He brought over a book containing the lists of the berth-holders. ‘See, “Wednesday, 2nd October. No. 6—Sir John Magill.”’
‘That’s the man,’ French agreed. ‘Now can you tell me whether he made the reservation himself or if not, who did?’
‘Yes, I can tell you. It was made by a Mr Coates. You see, here it is. “No. 5—Mr Coates.” He came here and made the reservation in person. I remember him quite well.’ The detectives allowed themselves to exchange glances.
‘What was he like?’
‘A tall, broad shouldered man with red hair of a very bright shade. A rather remarkable-looking man.’ Myles’s very phrase!
‘Then you’d know him if you saw him again?’
The clerk was comfortably reassuring.
‘Mr Coates gave no address?’
‘No, we don’t require that; only the name.’
‘And he reserved both for himself and Sir John?’
‘Yes, he said he and his friend, Sir John Magill, were travelling together and would like a pair of communicating berths. There is a door between Nos. 5 and 6, so I gave him those.’
French felt instinctively that this was a suggestive fact, though he could not see exactly where it tended. But it made him even keener on following up the clue
‘There was no other conversation?’ he queried.
It appeared that there was. Coates had stated that he lived some miles down the line and that he was anxious to please his little son by exchanging a flashlight signal with him as the train passed. He therefore would prefer a sleeper in which berths were on the right side of the coach, as he could open his berth window easier than that in the corridor. The clerk had replied that he had no plan of the coaches and could not therefore tell on which side the berths would be. To this Coates had replied that the thing didn’t really matter and the interview had terminated. The reservation had been made two or three days before the date of the journey and the clerk had not seen Coates again.
‘I’m afraid,’ said French, ‘I’ll have to follow up the journey in detail. What would you advise? Could I see the car attendant?’
‘Oh, yes,’ the clerk returned, ‘but I can’t give you the necessary information here. You should see the stationmaster next door and he will get the returns looked up and find out who was on duty that night and where you can see him. If you come this way I’ll arrange it for you.’
They went into an adjoining office where one of the stationmaster’s assistants promised immediate research.
‘All the same it will take a little time to look up,’ the assistant explained. ‘Will you come in and wait or will you call back?’
‘Wait,’ said French promptly.
They were not however kept very long.
‘You’re in luck,’ the official told them presently. ‘Instead of your attendant being in Stranraer or Aberdeen or Holyhead or off the map altogether, he’s here in town. He’s on the 7.40 to Stranraer tonight.’
‘Fine,’ French exclaimed. ‘How can we see him?’
‘The man’s name is Henry Pugg and his address is 78 Linfield Street, that’s close by, down by the departure side of the station. Would you like me to send someone with you?’
‘Detection,’ French declared, as having declined the offer, he and M’Clung turned out of the station in search of Linfield Street, ‘is a great job when things go a
s they are now. It doesn’t often happen though, does it?’
‘It does not, Mr French, and that’s a fact,’ M’Clung agreed wholeheartedly. ‘It’s mostly going to places and getting no kind of an answer at all.’
They discussed the cussedness of their craft till they reached the residence of Mr Henry Pugg. The door was opened by Mrs Pugg. She was sorry, but her husband was in bed. He was on night duty, the gentlemen would understand …
French explained that he was from Scotland Yard.
‘I’d hate to disturb your husband,’ he declared, ‘but my business is really important. I’m afraid I’ll have to ask him to see me.’
The name of the great Yard had a magical effect, for she answered quickly, ‘Certainly, sir. I’ll call him. Won’t you come in?’
In a few minutes Pugg entered the room.
‘Yes, sir? Sorry to keep you waiting, sir.’
‘Sorry to disturb you, Mr Pugg,’ French returned on the same lofty plane. ‘I’ll tell you what I want. Do you remember a gentleman travelling with you from Euston to Stranraer on the night of Wednesday, the second instant? His name was Sir John Magill.’
Interest flashed in the man’s eyes.
‘That’s the gent wot afterwards disappeared, isn’t it?’ he asked.
‘That’s right.’
‘Yes, sir, I remember ’im well. I saw about the disappearance in the paper and I remembered ’im well. A small old gentleman with white ’air?’
‘That’s right,’ said French again. ‘He was in berth No. 6.’
‘Excuse me till I get my book.’ He vanished and returned with a black-covered notebook. ‘Yes, sir, that’s right; No. 6.’
‘And in No. 5 was a Mr Coates?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Numbers 5 and 6 communicate, don’t they?’
‘Yes, sir. There’s a door between them, but they’re usually used as separate berths.’
‘By the door being kept locked?’
‘That’s right, sir.’
‘Now can you remember on this particular night was the communicating door open or locked?’
Inspector French: Sir John Magill's Last Journey Page 10
