French did not trouble to hide his eagerness as he took the papers. Very little more than a glance was necessary. Here in the manuscript were the same type defects as in the X.Y.Z. letter, the same worn letters, the same types out of adjustment. A short examination through a lens put the matter beyond doubt. This machine had been used for both. Though without a formal identification by Duncan there was as yet no legal proof, there could be no doubt on the main point. Victor unquestionably had typed the X.Y.Z. letter!
18
Campbeltown
As the two detectives regained the Great Western Road their minds were full of a happy satisfaction. M’Clung was conscious not only of a piece of work well done, a vital forward step taken in the case, but he was also pleasantly aware that the credit for this step was due to himself and his superintendent. The detective, force of Northern Ireland had abundantly vindicated itself, in fact it had shown the way to this experienced officer of the C.I.D. Altogether things were going well.
French was even more pleased. Not only was there this important success about the purchase of the typewriter, but there was the even more vital suggestion that the launch had put in to Lurigan on the night of the murder. If this latter could be proved it would be the beginning of the end.
With satisfaction he reconsidered the theory which this story of the launch had suggested to him. Sir John Magill, robbed of his plans, reaches Sandy Row in search of Coates’s friend and his linen-silk machinery.
There he is met by a confederate—possibly Malcolm or even Breene—who somehow induces him to lie low for the day on the Cave Hill and then in the evening to go to Whitehead. There possibly the same or another confederate meets him and in some other way—perhaps by promising negotiations for the return of the plans—persuades him to walk to Lurigan. At Lurigan the stage is set for the tragedy. He is captured and murdered by the gang, who bury his body on Malcolm’s ground. Supposing this were all true, would the gang, French wondered, have had time to murder him and bury the body?
It was part of the theory that the launch arrived at Lurigan at 2.30 a.m. Assuming it ran full speed to Campbeltown, at what hour must it have left Lurigan?
Maps again! The distance scaled 37 sea miles—say, a journey of 3¾ hours. To reach Campbeltown at 7.15, therefore, meant leaving Lurigan at 3.30. From 2.30 to 3.30 was an hour, surely time enough for the sinister work.
No snag here at all events. Then another point occurred to him.
He had already realised that the theft of the plans would have been valueless so long as Sir John lived; the moment ‘Sillin’ was put on the market, under whatever name, the theft would have been traced. The murder, therefore, must necessarily have been a part of the thieves’ programme. And now French saw why an interval was necessary between the theft and the murder. The gang required an opportunity to examine their booty so as to make sure it contained the genuine plans. Considering their extraordinary value it would have been a reasonable precaution for Sir John to have sent the real plans to Belfast in some other way while carrying a dummy set for the use of thieves. If the gang murdered the old man for a dummy set, goodbye to their chance of getting the genuine ones.
After dinner French settled down with M’Clung to discuss the case in the smoking room of the St Enoch Hotel. First French told of his discoveries at Kirkandrews Bay and in Cumberland. Then he turned to their more immediate achievement.
‘If we assume Victor typed that letter, as we must, can we not reach some further conclusion? The thing is bristling with clues. Is there nothing that we missed?’ M’Clung replied vaguely.
‘Let us think,’ French went on. ‘To have been delivered at the time it was, you tell me the letter must have been posted before about one-thirty on that Wednesday. If we admit your suggestion that Victor didn’t write it until after his visit to police headquarters—which I think exceedingly likely—we see that he could not have written it before one. He left the police station, if I remember rightly, about ten minutes to one. Therefore on the balance of probability it was written between one and one-thirty. Now, M’Clung, where must that have been done?’
‘An hotel, sir?’
‘That’s what I think. What was to prevent Victor calling at an hotel on his way from police headquarters, and in the secrecy of a bedroom typing the letter? It seems to me that the thing to find out now is—Did Victor go to an hotel at that hour on that day, and if so, what did he do there?’
‘That’s easy done,’ M’Clung pointed out. ‘A phone to Superintendent Rainey would get the information in an hour or two.’
‘I daresay,’ French admitted, ‘but I haven’t done yet. If we’re right so far a much more important thing follows. See what it is?’
M’Clung slowly shook his head.
‘He must have had something with him,’ French prompted.
M’Clung slapped his thigh.
‘The typewriter!’ he exclaimed. ‘That’s a fact. And where did he put it?’
‘Right, M’Clung. That’s what I have been coming to. He must immediately get rid of such a dangerous piece of evidence. Where did he put it? Or in other words, can we find it?’
‘If we did, it would prove your whole theory,’ M’Clung declared with evident admiration.
‘Job for the Belfast force surely,’ French suggested blandly. ‘Do you think, M’Clung, if we wired to Superintendent Rainey asking him to find the typewriter that he would do it?’
M’Clung grinned, then scratched his head thoughtfully.
‘Where do you think we should look, sir?’ he asked innocently.
French took him seriously.
‘Well, where?’ he said. ‘You know the locality. Where would you have hidden it, M’Clung?’
M’Clung was of the opinion that there were plenty of places, but when pressed to name them he hesitated.
‘He could have thrown it off the Queen’s Bridge into the Lagan,’ he suggested at last. But French ridiculed the idea.
‘In broad daylight, with crowds on the bridge and boats on the river below? I don’t think, M’Clung. Try again.’
‘It could have been done at night.’
‘It could, but not by Victor. Remember he went down to Lurigan in the early afternoon.’
‘That’s a fact,’ M’Clung admitted.
Evidently it was not such an easy thing to get rid secretly of a typewriter. M’Clung put forward other suggestions, but all were ruled out after consideration. At last French made his contribution.
‘Well, I’ll tell you what I think,’ he declared. ‘Sir John had found a hiding place at Belfast already, up the Sheeps’ Path. Now that’s not a place that would occur to everyone and if Sir John chose it it might—might, I say—be because some previous happening had suggested it to him. Now is it too much to assume that this previous happening might have been known to Victor also—perhaps known to the whole family? Say some childish escapade known to them all. Of course all this is an absolute shot in the dark. But let us assume it for argument’s sake. If it’s true something may follow?’ French paused interrogatively.
‘I get you, sir.’ M’Clung now made no attempt to conceal his admiration. ‘Victor used the same place?’
‘May have used it,’ French amended.
‘It’s worth trying anyway, sir.’
Next morning French put through his call. Rainey was keenly interested and within a few minutes men had left headquarters to go the round of the hotels and to start a new search for buried treasure on the Cave Hill. French and M’Clung strolled out to get what amusement they could from the city’s somewhat drab life. But the streets were filled with a dank fog and they soon gave up their quest of entertainment and returned to the more comfortable boredom of the hotel.
Before long there was a telephone call. Victor Magill had engaged a room at the Grand Central Hotel on the day on which he had crossed from Scotland. After breakfast he had gone out, but the chambermaid remembered that he had returned about one and remained for some minutes in
his room. She had heard a clicking sound that might have been a typewriter. Victor had not been seen leaving his room, but his bill showed that he had lunched. After lunch he had cancelled the room, stating that he had met a friend who had asked him to stay at his house.
This information seemed to French to prove his theory, irrespective of whether or not the typewriter were found. But he was very keen that it should be found. He therefore wired a message of congratulation to Rainey, asking him at the same time to continue his efforts on the Cave Hill.
As the evening drew in he found himself at a loss as to what he himself should do. Should he go to Belfast and discuss the affair with Rainey or go to London to report in person to Mitchell, or again should he remain where he was in the hope that news would come from Ireland?
Finally he decided to remain in Glasgow for another twenty-four hours. By that time the more promising parts of the Cave Hill would have been searched and perhaps the machine would have been found.
Next day he realised with enthusiasm that his decision had been justified. As he and M’Clung were lunching gloomily in the dining room of the St Enoch Hotel he was again called to the telephone.
It was Superintendent Rainey and he had great news. There was a ring of quiet triumph in his voice as he told that the search on the Cave Hill had been successful. Lightly buried in another part of the very same clump of bushes in which the cloak and ladder had been found, was a Corona typewriter. Moreover it was the machine, that on which the X.Y.Z. letter had been typed. The truth of French’s theory had therefore been demonstrated and Rainey returned with interest the congratulations he had received from French on the previous day.
To say that French was overjoyed would be sadly to understate the situation. Quite apart from the very material progress in the case the discovery represented, it was one of those instances of the justification of an enlightened guess, which are so soothing to the self esteem of the person responsible. French felt that a more thoroughly satisfying demonstration of his own efficiency had seldom been vouchsafed.
Victor Magill then, was the author of the X.Y.Z. letter. Victor therefore knew the true facts of Sir John’s death and burial, and Victor was out to get his share of the spoils. Victor, there could no longer be any doubt, was party to the murder.
So, unquestionably, were Joss, Teer and Mallace. So possibly was Malcolm. So possibly was Breene. While the greater part of this awful tragedy was still shrouded in mystery, it was at least becoming clear that in some way the unhappy Sir John had been inveigled to Lurigan in the small hours of that fatal morning and had there been brutally done to death.
Was there no way, French asked himself, in which he could arrive at the truth? His optimism slowly evaporated as he came to grips with the many difficulties still left unsolved. Then he suddenly remembered a remark of M’Clung’s and stopped short.
‘Look here,’ he said, ‘that’s all I want. Get away and see your sister or your young lady or whoever it is that you want to see. Only call at the hotel before your train. If there’s anything I’ll leave a message.’
In a dream French settled down once again to his struggle with the problem. What was wrong with him? He had got plenty of clues and why couldn’t he use them? He must do better! His whole career was at stake. He must get somewhere with this wretched business!
Setting his teeth he determined to sit down and for the nth time think the whole thing out from the beginning. He swore great oaths that nothing would induce him to move until he had reached some conclusion.
He made his way to the smoking room, which at that hour was deserted, and sitting down in the most comfortable chair, got his pipe going satisfactorily. Then he gave himself up once again to collating and marshalling his facts.
For upwards of two hours he sat pondering over what he knew, trying to imagine what he didn’t know, seeing if he could not find the missing link, which would cause his isolated facts to drop into place, and form one connected whole.
In vain he twisted and turned, and sucked vigorously at his pipe, in vain he consumed cups of strong coffee, in vain he cursed as each avenue he tried brought him up against still another blind wall. And then—
French’s heart seemed to miss a beat and he sat for a moment breathlessly. His pipe slipped from his half-opened mouth and dropping to the floor, ejected a little heap of red-hot ash on to the carpet. But French saw neither it nor anything else. He was gripped by a sudden new idea, which like a blinding flash of lightning in the murky blackness of a hurricane, had illuminated the whole of his thoughts.
He got up, automatically picked up the pipe and tramped the red ashes into blackness, and with growing excitement began to pace the room. Yes! Tremulously he began to admit to himself that he had got it! Yes, at last it worked in! The visits of ‘Coates’ to Sir John, the plans of the linen-silk machinery, the journey to Ireland, the movements of the launch and of its four passengers, the velvet coat and its accompanying symbolic ladder. As he ran over the details in his mind he saw that at last they fitted! Now he knew why Teer had called at Tarn Bay and just what had taken place on the Cave Hill. He saw in his mind’s eye the strange happening on the road where the bloodstained hat was found, he realised the true inwardness of what Cleaner M’Atamney had seen at Larne and visualised the hideous consummation at Lurigan. At last he understood Malcolm’s part in all these manifestations. In short—oh, could it be?—at last he had solved his problem!
He moved impatiently. Drat that fellow M’Clung! Would he never come? French wanted someone to share his triumph.
But M’Clung was away visiting his friends and French had perforce to keep his transports to himself. He fell to pacing the smoking room, continuing to turn the affair over in his mind.
Yes, it was great! His solution was great and the problem that he had solved was great. Gosh, but the facts would make a stir when they became known! One of his most spectacular triumphs! Once again his thoughts turned hesitatingly to a chief inspectorship. The last time there had been a vacancy he had been passed over. Now he was older and promotion was more probable. It was true that there was no immediate vacancy, but you never knew … Old Rolleston’s heart was none too good …
‘Turned wet, sir,’ said a voice and M’Clung, bearing evidences of weather, entered the room. French glared at him.
‘M’Clung, you black-faced son of a gun,’ he roared, and then in answer to the sergeant’s look of surprise, he chuckled. ‘Ah, something’s happened since you’ve been out,’ he declared. ‘Something big! Something huge, immense, prodigious! I’ve got it!’
‘Got it?’ M’Clung repeated dully. ‘I don’t just—Got what, sir?’
‘Got It!’ French yelled. ‘It! It! It! The whole blessed thing! I’ve got the solution! Now do you understand?’
M’Clung gaped.
‘Boys o’ boys!’ he murmured weakly, then subsided into a chair and begged for details.
‘Details?’ French shouted, striding vigorously up and down. ‘I’ll not tell you a blessed thing! Just think for yourself! You know the whole confounded business. You know as much as I do and you’ve everything you want to give you the answer.’ He halted and spoke with immense impressiveness. ‘You’ve—got—every—darned—fact—you need—to give you—the solution! Sit down and for once in a way use that fat head of yours and you’ll get it. Meantime go to the telephone and reserve a couple of berths in tonight’s London train. I’ll want you up with me to see the end.’
Great business! The end of the case, and the end brought about by him, Joseph French, and not by these darned Irish! Well, it was just another triumph to add to the long list that had gone before.
And then suddenly French stopped as if he had been shot, while an expression of blank dismay formed on his usually not too expressive features. For a few seconds he remained motionless, and then in low tones of extreme and contentrated bitterness a stream of oaths began to pour from his lips.
It was not often that French’s self-control gave wa
y, but the truth was that he had just seen a snag of such devastating proportions that it completely swept away the whole of the magnificent theory of which he had been so proud. The reaction from triumph to despair was too acute.
‘Beg pardon, sir?’ M’Clung’s voice broke in on the blasphemous monologue.
‘Here,’ said French gruffly, ‘did you get those blasted reservations? Well, you can cancel them again. We’re not going to town tonight.’
M’Clung opened his mouth to reply, then catching sight of French’s expression, he closed it quickly and vanished.
‘Reservations cancelled, sir,’ he reported a few minutes later. He sat down without further remark, and taking out his notebook, busied himself with its contents. French glared at him. Then he spoke.
‘A snag, M’Clung; my fault, not yours. I overlooked it and it’s upset my theory. But it’ll come right. It must.’ He paused as the other nodded thoughtfully, then beginning once more to pace the room, he went on:
‘An object lesson, M’Clung. Don’t count your chickens! Nothing’s certain till you’ve got it in your hand, and not always then. I have a gorgeous theory: it explains everything, clears up all our puzzles and leaves the whole affair complete. It’s so good that I can’t doubt its absolute truth. But here’s the snag. It requires all four men to take an active part in it, Mallace, Joss, Teer and Victor. And there’s Victor’s bad leg! I was so pleased I got temporary swelled head and overlooked Victor’s bad leg.’
M’Clung twisted his head and half-closed his eyes and looked sly.
‘If that’s all it is, Mr French, you know very well that bad legs can be faked. Sure we were doubting that bad leg anyway.’
‘Not since we got the doctor’s report, I wasn’t. Let’s turn the blessed thing up.’ He rummaged in his bag. ‘Here’s what the sergeant says: “I then called on Dr MacGregor and questioned him. He stated as follows: ‘About nine o’clock on the morning of Friday, 4th October, a man called at my surgery. He gave the name of Teer and stated that he was one of a party of four who were on a motor launch tour. He stated that one of his companions, a Mr Magill, had had a fall and hurt his knee. He asked me to go aboard the launch and have a look at it. As soon as I had finished my breakfast I went down to the harbour. The launch Sea Hawk was moored alongside the wharf and I went on board. Magill was in his bunk. I examined him and found a contusion on the inside of the left knee at the head of the tibia. The joint was swollen and inflamed and must have been painful. In my opinion Magill could not have walked, or at best could only have hobbled with the aid of a stick, but I believed that in three or four days he should be able to do so. The injury was absolutely genuine and could not by any possibility have been faked. I asked Magill how it had occurred, and he replied that owing to the launch giving a sudden lurch he had fallen while carrying some cocoa up the companion steps, striking his knee on the sharp edge of a step. That was early on the morning of the previous day. In my opinion the injury might have been incurred at the time and in the manner stated. I attended to the knee and then left.’ The sergeant goes on: “Dr MacGregor is reputed to be a very skilful and reliable doctor and bears a high character in Campbeltown.” ‘There you are, M’Clung. Unless this doctor is a much bigger fool than the sergeant believes, there’s our snag.’
Inspector French: Sir John Magill's Last Journey Page 21
