Inspector French: Sir John Magill's Last Journey

by Freeman Wills Crofts

  ‘It must be annoying,’ Victor agreed. ‘What you tell us is certainly very extraordinary, but I don’t see why it is so immensely important. You’ve got your information. Of course it would be interesting to know where it came from, but why does it really matter?’

  This was what French wanted

  ‘Why,’ he said, ‘don’t you see? The object of the letter was clear; at least both Rainey and myself thought so. It was not written by a disinterested passer-by whose sole concern was to aid justice. No, sir.’ French brought his finger down on the table with meticulous accuracy. ‘That letter was written by the murderer. And why? That surely will be clear to you, Mr Magill. The murderer wanted the body to be found there on Major Magill’s ground, so that suspicion against the major might be clinched. You remember suspicion was already aroused by the finding of the hat. Well, the murderer wanted it clinched. And why again? Obviously because if the major was found guilty he himself would be safe.’

  Victor had another troublesome fit of coughing, while Teer took a gulp of hot coffee. This view, put forward so resolutely, clearly disquieted them. They expressed a suitable interest and then Victor turned to the crucial point.

  ‘I follow you,’ he admitted. ‘But of course it’s only a question of time. You’ll get the writer all right.’

  Here again was just what French had been angling for.

  ‘There’s no of course about it,’ he declared. ‘There’s no clue to the man.’ He paused, then as a sort of afterthought added: ‘That is, except one. But it won’t help us to find the man. It’ll convict him if we find him, and we must find him first by other means.’

  As French had hoped, Victor pricked up his ears at this. But it was with an air of elaborate unconcern that he answered. ‘That sounds a trifle involved,’ he remarked, carefully knocking the ash off his cigarette. ‘And what, if it’s not a secret, is the clue?’

  ‘It’s not a secret to you or Mr Teer,’ French returned, ‘but don’t let it go any further. The man made a blunder; a bad one for him but a good one for us. He used an old typewriter.’

  Victor looked anxious, but puzzled.

  ‘It was a Number Three Corona,’ went on French, ‘and the type was worn. The script is therefore quite individual; there is only one machine in the world that could have typed it. Now look at it this way. We can scarcely believe that the writer would have been so mad as to use his own machine, therefore he’d buy one for the occasion and destroy it when used. If we had it, an advertisement in some of the trade journals would soon find the shop where it was sold. From the shop we’d soon get the description of the man who bought it. We’d also get the address of the man who had sold it to the shop. This last would certainly have something typed on it, which would enable us to prove it was the right machine. That’s all straightforward; it’s the sort of thing we’re doing every day. If therefore we had the machine we’d not be long till we’d found X.Y.Z., and if we had X.Y.Z. it wouldn’t be long till he’s hung.’

  There was now no question of Victor’s emotion. Though he was evidently trying desperately to hide it, actual panic showed in his eyes. Teer, though he covered it better, was obviously also frightened. French was well satisfied. So far he had played his cards well. It was now, he assured himself joyously, up to Victor to do the rest.

  During the remainder of the conversation French was careful to show just the same amount of interest in the subject as he had up to then. He felt that neither man must be allowed to imagine the climax of the interview had been reached and passed. So they discussed L’Affaire Magill until the waiter’s uneasy hoverings became too pronounced to be further ignored.

  It was characteristic of French, that at Plymouth he really did take a train for Princetown and visit the great convict prison. He saw that if he did not do so and if by some unlikely chance Victor or Teer discovered the fact, his entire scheme would fall through. What was worth doing …

  He was careful also to let the two men know his movements. His business at the prison, he explained, would occupy him four or five hours. He feared that he would therefore be unable to catch the 6.20 p.m. from Millbay, but he hoped to travel by the sleeping car express, leaving at 12.15 a.m. Perhaps he might meet Victor or Teer on the way home?

  Victor and Teer were sorry that as they were going into Cornwall he would not have that pleasure. He therefore shook hands cordially and wished his enemies bon voyage.

  At the prison French got busy. First he rang up Chief-Inspector Mitchell at the Yard, explained his plan and asked that Joss and Mallace should be shadowed and that the Great Western trains should be watched for Victor’s and Teer’s return to London. If any member of the quartet was seen to start for Ireland the shadowing might be dropped, but the news was to be wired to Superintendent Rainey.

  Next French rang up Rainey. To him he merely explained that things were going well, that he was crossing to Belfast on the following day and would arrive at 9.35 in the evening, and that on arrival he would like an interview.

  On reaching Plymouth on his return journey, French called to see his old friend, the local superintendent. It was not so long since they had met in connection with the search for Mrs Berlyn’s bicycle, the discovery of which had formed so useful a clue in the Berlyn-Pyke case. From him he heard of a couple more old friends. Maxwell Cheyne and his pretty wife were still living at Dartmouth, and there was now a diminutive Maxwell, of whom the young man was even more proud than of his bestsellers.

  Promptly at 7.10 next morning the night mail pulled into Paddington. French, hurrying to the Yard, did what he seldom found necessary; he adopted a disguise. A few tiny lines on his face and he added twenty years to his age. A well-fitting wig and his dark locks became white. Clerical garb, tortoiseshell-rimmed spectacles, a stoop and a hesitating manner completed the transformation. When he had finished he was satisfied that it would take a sharper-eyed man than Victor to penetrate his disguise.

  He had just time to catch the 8.30 a.m. from Euston. With great care he lived up to his rôle of an elderly clergyman. In the matter of a disguise, risks could not be taken. To hide one’s identity ineffectively was worse than not hiding it at all.

  In spite of his eager, though repressed excitement, French enjoyed his journey. At two o’clock they reached Holyhead and transferred to the Scotia. From the deck he watched the rugged Welsh coast retreat, and the gently-rounded, well-wooded Irish country grow. Shortly after five he landed at Dun Laoghaire and a few minutes later the train ran into Amiens Street Station in Dublin.

  There was a short wait for the Great Northern train and French employed the time by a drive through some of the principal streets. He had not been over since the troubles and he was impressed by the air of smartness and prosperity which the city wore. It seemed cleaner than before and the new buildings made O’Connell Street a really imposing thoroughfare.

  A quick run brought him to the Northern capital. At police headquarters he found Rainey and M’Clung waiting for him.

  ‘Hullo, your reverence?’ said the former, after a keen look at the clerical collar and the white hair. ‘Quite venerable, isn’t he, M’Clung? What’s usually known as a whited sepulchre. Well, you’re bringing it off.’

  ‘How do you mean, sir?’

  ‘How do I mean? Why, what I say. You’ve got things moving anyway. That is, if you’re at the bottom of it, as I presume you are.’

  French looked his question.

  ‘Just had a wire from the Yard,’ Rainey explained. ‘There’s to be a gathering of the clans. Victor Magill and Teer left London this evening at 5.55 en route for Liverpool, Teer travelling first-class and Victor third. Joss left a quarter of an hour later, in the Ulster Express for Heysham, and Mallace is in the 7.40 for Stranraer. Are you responsible?’

  ‘I hope so,’ said French, rubbing his hands in high delight. ‘I pitched my yarn to Victor hoping to bring him across, but I never expected an exodus. Were you able, sir, to give the news to Malcolm?’

  ‘Yes, I
met him—also by accident—and told the tale. He showed no special reaction. Interested of course, but nothing more.’

  ‘I’ll be surprised if he knows anything about the affair. However with luck we’ll soon know.’

  ‘I hope so. Now, French, M’Clung and I are both anxious to hear your adventures, so suppose you start in and let’s have the tale.’

  French, accepting a cigar, at once told his story. Evidently the bait had been swallowed, but he was surprised at his large catch.

  ‘What on earth those other three men are coming over for beats me,’ he ended up, glancing questioningly at the others.

  Rainey had been listening with close attention.

  ‘I don’t think that’s so difficult,’ he declared. ‘It’s the honour among thieves which doesn’t exist. These precious beauties don’t trust one another. They suspect a trap, and one isn’t going into it without the others. They’re going to see also that no one’s going to get off by turning king’s evidence at the others’ expense.’

  ‘It might be,’ French admitted. ‘But if they suspect a trap do you think they’d come over at all?’

  ‘Bound to. That’s where I congratulate you upon your scheme. You’ve shown that we know so much that it’s absolutely vital to them to get that machine away.’

  French deprecatingly admitted that this had been his aim.

  ‘By the way,’ he added, ‘were you able to bury another Corona at the place?’

  ‘Yes, that’s been done. They’ll not suspect anything till we close in. Now, French, what we’ve got to do is to make sure they don’t still diddle us. They’re a brainy crowd, and we mustn’t make the mistake of underestimating them. First of all, they must be shadowed?’

  ‘Of course, sir, and not only Victor’s crowd, but Malcolm as well.’

  ‘I agree, and I’ll see to it. Have you any other ideas as to what we should do?’

  French was full of ideas and the meeting resolved itself into a committee of ways and means.

  22

  The Cave Hill

  When French reached the Chichester Street headquarters next morning, news had already come in. Victor, Teer and Joss had arrived, and all had left the city by early trains. Victor had taken the 8.25 a.m. by the Great Northern, booking to Londonderry. Teer had also booked to Londonderry, though travelling by the 9.30 a.m. on the Northern Counties line, while Joss had gone to Newcastle by the County Down train leaving at 7.30 a.m.

  This information had scarcely been assimilated when a further report came in. Mallace had arrived by the Stranraer boat train, had driven across town and had taken the 10.15 a.m. train for Newry.

  ‘They’re killing time till tonight,’ Rainey suggested shrewdly. ‘They don’t want to leave tracks in Belfast, so they’re going to spend the day travelling elsewhere. Curse it, the glass is dropping and it’s blowing up for a storm. It’ll be a dirty night.’

  Both these prophecies seemed to French likely enough of fulfilment. He remained at headquarters, smoking impatiently and reading the reports as they came in. As the day wore slowly on Rainey’s perspicacity became demonstrated. On reaching Londonderry, Victor and Teer had strolled about the city, lunching in different hotels and taking the 3.40 and the 4.00 o’clock trains to Belfast by their respective lines. Joss, at Newcastle, had climbed Slieve Donard, the highest and most easterly peak of the Mourne mountains, and was returning to Belfast by the 4.25 p.m. train, while Mallace had killed time in Newry and Warrenpoint, and was now coming back by the 4.27 train to Belfast. All these trains reached the city before seven o’clock.

  ‘I bet you,’ said Rainey, when this last item came in from Newry. ‘I bet you they’re going to act at once. You see, the Cave Hill would be as deserted at seven or eight o’clock as in the middle of the night. Besides in weather like this there’d be no one out of doors who could help it. They’ll act at once and make their getaway by the boats at nine and nine-fifteen. We’d better get busy.’

  He began telephoning, with the result that eight men came into the office. To them he gave his instructions.

  ‘Grey and M’Keown, get away to the Northern Counties Station and meet the 3.40 from Derry. Teer’ll be on it. Take over his shadowing from Reid. Victor Magill is coming up from Derry by the G.N. mail. You, M’Clatchie and Brown, take him over. Joss left Newcastle at 4.15. Walker and M’Candless go and get on to him at the County Down. Ferguson and M’Nulty relieve the men who are on to Major Magill. He is still at the Shankill Road mill. Get along now, all of you. Shadow your men till they get the typewriter and be ready to close in and lift them when I give the signal. If you get no signal shadow them till they leave the country. Keep in touch with headquarters as far as possible and if you let either see you or give you the slip you needn’t come back here.’ He turned to French. ‘You and M’Clung and I will watch for Mallace coming in from Newry. He hasn’t seen M’Clung or me and you can keep in the background.’ Rainey slipped a revolver out of a drawer. ‘Have one?’ he offered. ‘These men will be ugly customers. That’s all, I think. If you’re ready, we’ll get along.’

  The train was due at 6.15 and they had just time to meet it. The weather had fulfilled all Rainey’s evil prophecies, and now the rain was falling heavily on the glistening pavements while a squally wind howled and eddied round the corners of the buildings. The shops and offices were just disgorging their staffs and the streets were full of hurrying figures trying to balance dripping umbrellas and to keep dainty shoes out of pools. Trams packed to the steps clattered past while buses and cars sent the water flying in sheets from their spinning wheels.

  ‘A dirty night for us, but a good one for our friends,’ said Rainey as their car ran into the cab rank between the main arrival platforms at the Great Northern station. ‘We’ll stay in the car and as soon as you pick up Mallace you can get in. M’Clung will take over and keep him in view.’

  French was still the elderly, amiable clergyman and he fell to pacing the platform, peering benevolently at those waiting for the train. He was intensely excited as to their quest. Its success or failure would be his own. To take these four—or five—as it were in the act would clear up his case and clear it up with immense credit to himself. Though there could be no doubt as to its correctness! The very presence of the quartet was a guarantee of success. A little care now and all would be well.

  At 6.20, five minutes late, the train drew slowly in. For a moment French felt at an unwonted loss as he gazed at the throng of descending travellers. Then with a throb of relief he saw Mallace. The man had followed French’s own example and adopted a disguise. He also had become a clergyman and wore a dark overcoat showing the clerical collar, glasses and a soft round clerical hat. Behind the glasses French felt sure there was a pair of exceedingly keen and watchful eyes. After the first glance he was careful to turn his back till the other had passed. Then indicating the man to M’Clung with an almost invisible gesture, he moved over to the car while the sergeant took up the chase.

  Mallace boarded a tram outside the station and M’Clung, dropping behind, was picked up by the car. They kept the tram in view and at Castle Junction, the City Centre, watched the quarry alight and walk to the tramway halt at the beginning of Royal Avenue. This was the point at which trams bound for the Antrim Road started, and French and Rainey exchanged satisfied glances. Once again M’Clung slipped out of the car, and mingling with the crowds waiting for trams, kept Mallace in view.

  To their delight the man took an ‘Antrim Road—Gray’s Lane’ car. This was eminently satisfactory. Just a few yards beyond Gray’s Lane was the end of the Sheeps’ Path. M’Clung according to instructions boarded the car, going inside as Mallace mounted to the top. If Mallace alighted before reaching Gray’s Lane, M’Clung was to shadow him wherever he went. If not, he, M’Clung, was to get out at the stop before the lane, walking after Mallace to the path and following him up. In the meantime Rainey and French were to drive on, and leaving the car, secrete themselves in the bushes alongside the Sh
eeps’ Path.

  This programme was duly carried out. Just before reaching the path Rainey parked the car, then watching till the road was deserted, the two men walked to the path and turned up. Away from the street lamps it was pitchy dark. There was no moon and the thick pall of clouds cut off all light from the stars. It had become a wild night. Though sheltered to some extent by the trees, the wind was even here powerful and flung the rain against them in almost solid sheets. With difficulty they pushed on, feeling their way by the dripping bushes, stumbling blindly over the rough stones of the path and slipping in the muddy earth at its sides. Some noise they could not avoid making, but they were not afraid of being overheard. The hiss of the rain and the roar of the wind swallowed up every other sound.

  To avoid losing him in the dark Rainey was holding on to French’s wrist. He drew him close.

  ‘We’ll turn aside here,’ he said aloud, pushing between the bushes which lined the path.

  They bent down behind the shrubs and remained motionless. They expected to have to wait about ten minutes, reckoning the difference in speed between the car and the tram. But the ten minutes passed and still they heard nothing but the noise of the storm. Crouching there in the wet and dark and with their minds on the stretch, time seemed at a standstill. Another five minutes dragged slowly by and then another. Rainey stood up suddenly.

  ‘Curse it, we’ve missed him,’ he said sharply. ‘Come, French, we may go back.’

  As Rainey moved, French’s hand closed on his arm. Both men stood tense, looking down.

  Below them on the path was a glimmer of light. Slowly it approached, dancing like an up-to-date will-o’-the-wisp, faintly illuminating a tiny circle as it moved.

  Standing rigid as pillars of stone, French and Rainey watched the flickering light draw abreast and then pass slowly on. They could hear nothing, nothing but the howling of the storm, and the solid hiss of the rain. They could see nothing, nothing but the faint splash of light on the muddy path and the scarcely visible sparkle of the drops falling through the illuminated cone. There was something eerie in the ghostly movement of that dim radiance, as if a disembodied spirit were hovering past on the road to Valhalla.