Inspector French: Sir John Magill's Last Journey

by Freeman Wills Crofts

  French shook his head.

  ‘More like a burglar’s outfit, if you ask me,’ he answered. ‘But I’d like to think over it a bit before I make any suggestions. I’ve never come across anything like this before. What games that old man could have been up to at his time of life beats me.’

  French indeed did feel completely puzzled by this new development.

  ‘Curse the thing,’ he grumbled. ‘There’s no making head or tail of it.’ He moved uneasily, then went on with a change of manner. ‘So far as I can see, M’Clung, the one thing that comes out of it is what I said: that the whole trouble lies on the Irish side of the Channel. Why don’t you go and solve it instead of coming over here and worrying me?’

  M’Clung grinned.

  ‘Och, Mr French,’ he answered innocently. ‘Sure, we couldn’t do without your help anyway.’

  ‘Oh, you couldn’t, couldn’t you?’ French grunted suspiciously. ‘Well, if that’s so get along and tell me why you think your case lies over here.’

  M’Clung knocked the ashes out of his pipe and proceeded slowly to refill it. When he answered he spoke with evident seriousness.

  ‘Well, it’s what the superintendent thinks really, sir, though, mind you, I agree with him. He thinks the explanation must lie over here simply because there’s nothing on our side to account for it.’

  ‘In other words a confession of failure?’ French suggested.

  M’Clung shrugged.

  ‘The superintendent didn’t put it just that way,’ he explained. ‘He said that though we had nothing, you had that affair of Coates and the sleeping berths in the train.’

  ‘That’s a washout.’

  M’Clung looked startled.

  ‘Washout, sir?’ he repeated. ‘That’s bad. You mean there’s nothing on this side to account for it either?’

  ‘That’s exactly what I do mean,’ French growled. He glanced suspiciously at the other, then apparently satisfied, went on: ‘Well, I’ll tell you. This man “Coates” was really Joss, and he admitted giving the false name and volunteered all that about the communicating door as well as saying he’d drugged Sir John,’ and French described his interview in detail.

  M’Clung was manifestly disappointed.

  ‘The superintendent’ll be sorry to hear that, sir. He was counting a lot on that Coates business.’

  ‘As a matter of fact,’ French admitted, ‘so was I; it was the only tangible thing we had. However, it’s gone west and that’s all there’s to it.’

  Though French spoke despondently his manner belied his words to such an extent that M’Clung asked hopefully: ‘Have you anything in your mind, sir?’

  For a moment French did not reply. Then he rose, and going to the vertical file in the corner of his room, he took out the copy of the letter he had sent to Belfast on the previous evening.

  ‘That’s what I had in my mind yesterday midday,’ he said. ‘Since I heard Joss’s story I’m not so sure about it. Read it and we’ll discuss it.’

  M’Clung was eminently polite about the Breene theory, but he was clearly not impressed by it. ‘You know, sir,’ he said deferentially, ‘we went into that. Unless our people are pretty badly out, Breene was in the hotel all the time.’

  ‘Your people may be absolutely right,’ French admitted, ‘but in the light of this business about the engagement I suggest you go into it again and make quite sure.’

  M’Clung was agreeably reassuring as to that. Rainey, he was certain, would put the matter beyond the faintest shadow of doubt. They talked of Breene for some time, then the conversation swung back to Sir John.

  ‘I wonder,’ French said absently, as if following out a private train of thought. Then he became silent as he considered an idea which had suddenly flashed into his mind. ‘By Jove, yes, Sergeant! Sir John would hide himself all right! Look at it this way.’

  Keen interest once again showed in French’s manner. He laid down his pipe, sat forward in his chair, and began to tick off his points on his fingers.

  ‘Here’s a problem for you,’ he resumed. ‘Would a successful robbery not involve murder? In other words, could such a secret be stolen so long as Sir John remained alive?’

  ‘Was it protected?’ M’Clung questioned.

  ‘No, it wasn’t, but it doesn’t matter two hoots whether it was or not. Come now: use your grey cells, as that Belgian would say. Put yourself in Joss’s place and assume you’d got the plans. Could you have used them?’

  M’Clung remained silent, then he shook his head.

  ‘Very well,’ French resumed, ‘let us consider what Joss would expect would happen if Sir John remained alive. Sir John would reach Sandy Row, and because the address he had been given proved non-existent, he would realise something was wrong. He would search for his plans and find they were missing. What then would he do? He would go to the police, report his loss, describe his process and declare his suspicions of Coates. The police would get busy and find Joss. But they wouldn’t arrest him. And why? Because they would have no proof against him. The police and Sir John would be, so to speak, in a position of stalemate. They couldn’t move.’

  French paused and looked expectantly at the sergeant, who nodded emphatically.

  ‘Now,’ went on French, ‘Sir John would be in a position of stalemate, but there’s more in it than that. So Joss would be also. Joss couldn’t use his knowledge. Directly “Sillin” or anything like it appeared on the market the police would be on to it. They would find out the process and see that it was the same as Sir John’s and a short investigation would enable them to connect Joss with the manufacture. If he wasn’t personally concerned in it they’d be able to trace up a sale. Anyway they’d get him: As sure as that stuff came on the market Joss would go to jail. Now Joss must know all this, so he must see that his theft could be of no value to him.’

  Again French paused to receive the sergeant’s tribute.

  ‘What then,’ he went on, ‘would stand between Joss and his fortune? Just one thing—Sir John Magill’s life. If Sir John could be kept silent all would be well. It follows absolutely.’

  M’Clung in his delight lapsed into the vernacular.

  ‘Boys, Mr French, but that’s powerful!’ he declared. ‘I never heard the like of it!’

  ‘But do you agree with it?’ demanded French, who had not as yet fully grasped Ulster idiom.

  ‘I do so.’ M’Clung could be comfortably direct when he desired.

  ‘Good. Then if we’re right so far something else follows. I think we can say that an accomplice must have met Sir John in Sandy Row. If Joss knew just when the old man would make his discovery, he would be bound to guard against it. Someone would meet Sir John and see to it that he didn’t go to a police station.’

  M’Clung, with a suspicion of what was coming, agreed less warmly.

  ‘Very well,’ said French, ‘there’s the clue on your side and you’ve got to follow it up.’

  M’Clung’s enthusiasm evaporated instantaneously.

  ‘Would you not think, Mr French,’ he suggested craftily, ‘that they were all in it?’

  ‘All?’

  ‘Yes, the whole darned launch party.’

  This was no new idea to French. Again and again he had suspected it and again and again he had supposed he was mistaken. He really didn’t know. Of course—

  ‘And Malcolm too,’ went on M’Clung.

  French started. Was there any help here? What if Malcolm could have been that mysterious individual whose existence he had just postulated?

  ‘By Jove, M’Clung, if you people can prove that Malcolm was a partner with the others it’ll be the beginning of the end. What about Malcolm meeting his father in Sandy Row, eh?’

  M’Clung nodded profoundly.

  ‘That’s the style, sir. That’s what I was thinking myself. Malcolm. Or maybe Breene,’ he added tactfully. ‘Anyway we’ll make inquiries. We should find out easy enough.’

  For a solid couple of hours the two
men continued discussing the affair, but without reaching anything more illuminating. Finally it was agreed that the two lines they had considered were to be explored to the utmost of their capacity. M’Clung and the Belfast police were to assume that someone met Sir John in Sandy Row and were to concentrate on finding this person, whether it were Magill or Breene or someone hitherto unknown. French on his part was to assume that the whole four members of the launch party were involved and was to concentrate on the trip, trying to obtain further links between the travellers and the affairs of Sir John.

  While these decisions were taken, it was without enthusiasm on either side, each of the detectives believing that success, if attainable at all, lay in the line his companion was to work.

  ‘I’ll tell you what it is,’ French declared finally. ‘You and your Belfast superintendent are the darnedest pair of nuisances I’ve struck for many a long day. Come out and have a bit of lunch.’

  13

  London: Barrow: Newcastle

  Of all the jobs that fell to French, the investigation of the life, habits and human relationships of a given individual was that which he found most tedious. His anticipations, therefore, were not particularly happy as he settled down to learn what he could of Sir John Magill’s past, in the hope of getting some further connections between the old gentleman and the members of the cruise.

  For some days he worked away systematically, interviewing the dead man’s relatives and servants as well as such of his acquaintances as he could get in touch with, but without result. Then on the third morning a chance word gave him what he thought might constitute an additional link.

  He had called on a certain Mr Aloysius Hepworth, a wealthy old stockbroker, who had been one of Sir John’s cronies at the Blenheim Club. He had asked the old gentleman whether he knew of anything which might have been preying on Sir John’s mind. Mr Hepworth said that some four or five months previous to his death Sir John had seemed a good deal worried, and in confidence he had explained the cause. Neither Malcolm nor Victor were doing as the old gentleman would have wished. Both were in financial difficulties and both had applied to him for help. He feared that he would be called upon to spend a considerable sum for each if they were to be kept out of the bankruptcy court.

  At this French pricked up his ears.

  ‘Yes,’ he answered mendaciously, ‘we knew that Major Magill had been badly hit by the depression in the linen trade and we knew that Mr Victor Magill was also in a bad way. Sir John didn’t happen to mention the cause of Victor’s trouble?’

  Mr Hepworth shrugged.

  ‘The usual thing,’ he said contemptuously. ‘Horses. Hundreds on every big race. Owing money all over the place. A cool thousand to some blighter called Mallace and the Lord knows how much to others besides.’

  ‘And was Sir John going to meet it?’

  ‘He hadn’t made up his mind when I saw him. He didn’t want the family disgraced. He talked of debts of honour and all that. Bunkum, I call it.’

  ‘People feel strongly about that sort of thing all the same.’

  ‘Sir John did. But he’d helped Victor before and to do it again seemed like pouring good money after bad.’

  ‘The money wouldn’t have meant much to Sir John.’

  ‘That may be. But no one likes being bled.’

  French did not see how a temporary debt to Mallace could have affected the case. However the matter would have to be looked into. He had to interview Mallace in any case, and with this matter of the debt fresh in his mind, the present seemed as good a time as any.

  Maurice Mallace, he had learned from Victor, was an agent for the ‘Lowe’ oil engine. A short investigation with a technical directory informed him further that the makers of these engines were Messrs Potter & Lowe and that their offices were in Bedford Street off the Strand. Having telephoned an appointment with Mallace, French walked across.

  Mallace was a short, jolly-looking man of about forty, with a bright manner and a knowing eye. He led the way into a small private office.

  ‘I am investigating the death of Sir John Magill,’ French began, ‘and as you can readily understand, I am trying to find out whether the late gentleman had any special worries preying on his mind prior to his death. In fact, I am looking for a motive for suicide.’

  ‘But I thought a verdict of murder had been brought in?’ Mallace returned.

  ‘By the coroner’s jury, yes. But at the Yard we don’t pay much attention to coroner’s juries. The truth is that the circumstances of Sir John’s death are rather mysterious and we are really not yet in a position to say whether he committed suicide or whether he was murdered. I was hoping that you may be able to help me to a conclusion on the point.’

  Mallace’s features indicated a slight surprise. He glanced keenly at French, then laughed shortly.

  ‘I’m afraid you’ve come to the wrong shop,’ he declared. ‘Beyond the fact that he was the uncle of Victor Magill, who is a friend of mine, I know nothing whatever about the man.’

  ‘None the less I think you can help me,’ French persisted. ‘As you doubtless know, Sir John had a son as well as this nephew, Victor. According to my information both were involved financially and both were worrying Sir John for money. The son’s trouble arose through the depression in the Irish linen trade, Victor’s because he was supposed to be in debt—to you, amongst others, to the extent of a thousand pounds. It is confirmation or otherwise of this last matter that I want from you.’

  Mallace’s features now showed as much surprise as French imagined they could.

  ‘Bless my soul!’ he exclaimed. ‘I never heard anything like that. So that’s the way rumours get about, is it? I’d be interested to know where you heard that?’

  ‘Then it’s not true?’ French asked.

  ‘True? Of course it’s not true. A thousand pounds! I only wish it were. No, but I’ll tell you what’s true, Inspector. Victor and I were betting together—horses. Victor lost—but only a hundred. One hundred; not ten. We were very good friends and I did not press him about it, but he seemed anxious to square it off and he did so.’

  ‘He paid?’

  ‘Every penny.’

  ‘And when was that?’

  ‘Let’s see.’ Mallace hesitated. ‘Between three and four months ago, I should say. I can turn up the exact date if you like.’

  ‘You don’t happen to know where he got the money?’

  ‘From Sir John, at least so he told me. I said when he gave it to me, “Look here, old chap,” I said, “don’t you worry about this if it’s not convenient. I’m not in any hurry.” “Oh,” he said, “that’s all right. I pitched a tale to my respected uncle and he turned up trumps as I knew he would.” He spoke very appreciatively of Sir John. All the same, Inspector, Victor’s no charity. He’s far better off than I am.’

  ‘There was some story that he owed a lot beside his debt to you?’

  ‘I believe he did owe a little I don’t know how much, but I understood there were a few small sums. He said that Sir John had cleared the whole business off. But if you want to know about it, why don’t you ask Victor? He’ll probably tell you everything, though he may wonder what business of yours it is.’

  French laughed.

  ‘Quite right, Mr Mallace,’ he said good-humouredly. ‘And if I asked you about your launch trip to Scotland you’d probably wonder the same. But I really am interested in that trip,’ and he told his yarn of his own efforts in that direction. Mallace thawed immediately. Motor launching was evidently a pursuit which lay close to his heart.

  ‘Yes,’ he said, ‘we had a jolly fine time. We had a comfortable boat and good weather, the two things that make the difference. Of course the launch was both old and slow: she would only do about nine knots, though we rarely ran her above seven to keep down noise and vibration. But she was broad in the beam and steady and dry, a thorough good sea boat. One man could run her, in fact I ran her myself from off the Isle of Man to Portpatrick, for Victor damaged
his leg after we left Barrow and took to his bunk, while Joss and Teer, our other two men, didn’t come aboard till Portpatrick.’

  ‘Joss and Teer,’ said French. ‘Were those not two more of the men to whom Victor owed money?’

  Mallace looked at him curiously.

  ‘I couldn’t tell you,’ he answered, ‘but I should say it wasn’t at all unlikely. We four were together a good deal, and Victor probably gambled with them as well as with me.’

  On the pretext of wanting a launch for the trip he hoped to carry out in the following summer, French obtained the name of the firm in Barrow from whom Mallace had hired his. Then he stood up to go.

  ‘There is one thing you shouldn’t do that we did, Inspector,’ Mallace said as he walked with French to the door, ‘and that is, don’t travel at night. We did that because I was combining business with pleasure. We have a number of agencies for the Lowe engines in Western Scotland, and I called at these as we passed. We left most of our ports in the small hours, got to the next place in the forenoon and I did my business while my friends played around. It suited everybody except that some of us came off rather short of sleep. Well, good day, Inspector. I hope you’ll get all you want.’

  Had French spoken his thoughts as he walked back to the Yard, his language would have been more than unparliamentary. Curse this darned case! Was he never going to get any information without having it contradicted in the next breath? Had Victor owed Mallace a thousand pounds, or had he not? Had he paid his debt, whatever it was, or had he not? Was he badly off or well off? In short, had he a motive for assisting to steal the plans, perhaps not recognising the terrible end of such a scheme.

  From his own observation French would have said that Victor had plenty of money, at least in the restricted sense in which the term is used by ordinary middle-class people. Certainly he had shown no evidences of financial stringency, and it was impossible to imagine him in such desperate straits as to be driven to crime.

  However the matter must be put beyond doubt and the first thing was to confirm that gift from Sir John some three or four months previously. It was too late to visit the old man’s bank that night, but early next morning French called and asked for the manager.