Inspector French and the Cheyne Mystery

by Freeman Wills Crofts

  Cheyne made a gesture of despair.

  ‘Heavens above!’ he cried hoarsely. ‘What have they done to her?’

  ‘Drugged her,’ French answered succinctly. ‘But you should take courage from that, Mr Cheyne. It looks as if they didn’t mean to do her a personal injury. Yes, madam?’

  Before the invalid could speak Cheyne went on, a puzzled note in his voice.

  ‘But look here,’ he said slowly, ‘I don’t understand this. You say that the sick lady was wearing a fur coat?’

  ‘Yes, a musquash fur.’

  ‘But—’ He looked at French in perplexity. ‘Miss Merrill has a fur coat like that—I’ve seen it. But she wasn’t wearing it last night. Can it be someone else after all?’ His voice took on a dawning eagerness.

  French shook his head.

  ‘Don’t build too much on that, Mr Cheyne. They may have lent her a coat.’

  ‘Yes, but why should they? She had a coat last night, a perfectly warm coat of brown cloth. She wouldn’t want another.’

  ‘Perhaps her own got muddy when she fell. We’ll have to leave it at that for the moment. We’ll consider it later. Let’s get on now and hear what this lady can tell us. Yes, madam, if you please?’

  ‘I am afraid there is not much more to be told. All five got into the car and drove off.’

  ‘In which direction?’

  ‘Eastwards.’

  ‘That is to say, they have just left about half an hour. We were only fifteen minutes behind them, Mr Cheyne.’

  He got up to go, but the lady motioned him back to his seat.’

  ‘There is one other thing I have just remembered,’ she said. ‘It may or may not have something to do with the affair. Last night—it must have been about half-past eleven—I heard a motor in the street. It stopped for about ten minutes, though the engine ran all the time, then went off again. I didn’t look out, but now that I come to think about it it sounded as if it might be standing at No. 12. Of course you understand that is only a guess, but motor-cars are somewhat rare visitors to this street, and there may have been some connection.’

  ‘Extremely probable, I should think, madam,’ French commented. He rose. ‘Now we must be off to act on what you have told us. I needn’t say that you have placed us very greatly in your debt.’

  ‘It was but little I could do,’ the lady returned. ‘I do hope you may be able to help that poor girl. I should be so glad to hear that she is all right.’

  Cheyne was touched by this unexpected sympathy.

  ‘You may count on my letting you know, madam,’ he said, and then thinking of the terribly monotonous existence led by the poor soul, he went on warmly: ‘I should like, if I might, to call and tell you all about it, but if I am prevented I shall certainly write. May I know what name to address to?’

  ‘Mrs Sproule, 17 Colton Street. I should be glad to see you if you are in this district, but I couldn’t think of taking you out of your way.’

  A few moments later French had collected his three remaining men, and was being driven rapidly to the nearest telephone call office. There he rang up the Yard, repeated the descriptions of the car and of each of its occupants, and asked for the police force generally to be advised that they were wanted, particularly the men on duty at railway stations and wharfs, not only in London, but in the surrounding country.

  ‘Now we’ll have a shot at picking up the trail ourselves,’ he went on to Cheyne when he had sent his message. He re-entered the car, calling to the driver: ‘Get back and find the men on point duty round about Colton Street.’

  Of the four men they interviewed, three had not noticed the yellow car. The fourth, on a beat in the thoroughfare at the eastern end of Colton Street, had seen a car of the size and colour in question going eastwards at about the hour the party had left No. 12. There seeming nothing abnormal about the vehicle; he had not specially observed it nor noted the number, but he had looked at the driver, and the man he described resembled Blessington.

  ‘That’s probably it all right,’ French commented, ‘but it doesn’t help us a great deal. If they were going to any of the stations or steamers, or to practically anywhere in town, this is the way they would pass. Let us try a step further.’

  Keeping in the same general direction they searched for other men on point duty, but though after a great deal of running backwards and forwards, they found all in the immediate neighbourhood that the car would have been likely to pass, none of them had noticed it.

  ‘We’ve lost them, I’m afraid,’ French said at last. ‘We had better go back to the Yard. As soon as that description gets out we may have news at any minute.’

  Quarter of an hour later they passed once more through the corridors of the great building which housed the C.I.D., and reached French’s room. There sitting waiting for them was the melancholy private detective, Speedwell. He rose as they entered.

  ‘Afternoon, Mr French. Afternoon, Mr Cheyne,’ he said ingratiatingly, rubbing his hands together. ‘I got your message, Mr French, and I thought I’d better call round. Of course I’ll tell you anything I can to help.’

  French beamed on him.

  ‘Now that was good of you, Speedwell; very good. I’ll not forget it. Did Simmons tell you what had happened?’

  ‘Not in detail—only that Blessington, Sime and the Dangles were wanted.’

  ‘Well, Mr Cheyne here and Miss Merrill were out there last night,’ he shook his head reproachfully at Cheyne while a twinkle showed in his eyes, ‘and your friends got hold of Miss Merrill and we can’t find her. Mr Cheyne they enticed into the house with a fair story. They led him to believe that Miss Merrill would be in her studio when he got back to town and gave him her purse, which they said she had dropped. It contained a time bomb, and only the merest chance saved Mr Cheyne from being blown to bits. There are charges against the quartet of attempted murder of Mr Cheyne, and of abduction of Miss Merrill. Can you help us at all?’

  Speedwell shook his head.

  ‘I doubt it, Mr French, I doubt it, sir. I found out a little, not very much. But all the information I have is at your disposal.’

  Cheyne stared at him.

  ‘But how can that be?’ he exclaimed. ‘You were in their confidence—to some extent at all events. Surely you got some hint of what they were after?’

  Speedwell made a deferential movement, and his smile became still more oily and ingratiating.

  ‘Now, Mr Cheyne, sir, you mustn’t think too much of that. That was what we might call in the way of business.’ He glanced sideways at Cheyne from his little foxy close-set eyes. ‘You can’t complain, sir, but what I answered your questions, and you’ll admit you got value for your money.’

  ‘I don’t understand you,’ Cheyne returned sharply. ‘Do you mean that that tale you told me was a lie, and that you weren’t employed by these people to find the man who burgled their house.’

  Speedwell rubbed his hands together more vigorously.

  ‘A little business expedient, sir, merely an ordinary little business expedient. It would be a foolish man who would not display his wares to the best advantage. I’m sure, sir, you’ll agree with that.’

  Cheyne looked at him fixedly for a moment.

  ‘You infernal rogue!’ he burst out hotly. ‘Then your tale to me was a tissue of lies, and on the strength of it you cheated me out of my money! Now you’ll hand that £150 back! Do you hear that?’

  Speedwell’s smile became the essence of craftiness.

  ‘Not so fast, sir, not so fast,’ he purred. ‘There’s no need to use unpleasant language. You asked for a thing and agreed to pay a certain price. You got what you asked for, and you paid the price you agreed. There was no cheating there.’

  Cheyne was about to retort, but French, suave and courteous, broke in:

  ‘Well, we can talk of that afterwards. I think, Mr Cheyne, that Mr Speedwell has made us a satisfactory offer. He says he will tell us everything he knows. For my part I am obliged to him for that,
as he is not bound to say anything at all. I think you will agree that we ought to thank him for the position he is taking up, and to hear what he has to say. Now, Speedwell, if you are ready. Take a cigar first, and make yourself comfortable.’

  ‘Thank you, Mr French. I am always glad, as you know, sir, to assist the Yard or the police. I haven’t much to tell you, but here is the whole of it.’

  He lit his cigar, settled himself in his chair, and began to speak.

  14

  The Clue of the Clay-Marked Shoe

  ‘You know, Mr French,’ said Speedwell, ‘about my being called in by the manager of the Edgecombe in Plymouth when Mr Cheyne was drugged? Mr Cheyne has told you about that, sir?’ French nodded and the other went on: ‘Then I need only tell you what Mr Cheyne presumably does not know. I may just explain before beginning that I came into contact with Mr Jesse, the manager, over some diamonds which were lost by a visitor to the hotel and which I had the good fortune to recover.

  ‘The first point that struck me about Mr Cheyne’s little affair was, How did the unknown man know Mr Cheyne was going to lunch at that hotel on that day? I found out from Mr Cheyne that he hadn’t mentioned his visit to Plymouth to anyone outside of his own household, and I found out from Mrs and Miss Cheyne that they hadn’t either. But Miss Cheyne said it had been discussed at lunch, and that gave me the tip. If these statements were all O.K. it followed that the leakage must have been through the servants and I had a chat with both, just to see what they were like. The two were quite different. The cook was good-humoured and stupid and easy-going, and wouldn’t have the sense to run a conspiracy with anyone, but the parlour-maid was an able young woman as well up as any I’ve met. So it looked as if it must be her.

  ‘Then I thought over the burglary, and it seemed to me that the burglars must have got inside help, and if so, there again Susan was the girl. Of course there was the tying up, but that would be the natural way to work a blind. I noticed that the cook’s wrists were swollen, but Susan’s weren’t marked at all, so I questioned the cook, and I got a bit of information out of her that pretty well proved the thing. She said she heard the burglars ring and heard Susan go to the door. But she said it was three or four minutes before Susan screamed. Now if Susan’s story was true she would have screamed far sooner than that, for, according to her, the men had only asked could they write a letter when they seized her. So that again looked like Susan. You follow me, sir?’

  Again French nodded, while Cheyne broke in: ‘You never told me anything of that.’

  Speedwell smiled once more his crafty smile.

  ‘Well, no, Mr Cheyne, I didn’t mention it certainly. It was only a theory, you understand. I thought I’d wait till I was sure.

  ‘Well, gentlemen, there it was. Someone wanted some paper that Mr Cheyne had—it was almost certainly a paper, as they searched his pocket-book—and Susan was involved. I hung about Warren Lodge, and all the time I was watching Susan. I found she wrote frequent letters and always posted them herself: so that was suspicious too. Then one day when she was out I slipped up to her room and searched around. I found a writing-case in her box of much too good a kind for a servant, and a blotting-paper pad with a lot of ink marks. When I put the pad before a mirror I made out an address written several times: “Mr J. Dangle, Laurel Lodge, Hopefield Avenue, Hendon.” So that was that.’

  Speedwell paused and glanced at his auditors in turn, but neither replying, he resumed:

  ‘I generally try to make a friend when I’m on a case: they’re often useful if you want some special information. So I chummed up with the housemaid at Mrs Hazelton’s—friends of Mr Cheyne’s—live quite close by. I told this girl I was on the burglary job, and that there would be big money in it if the thieves were caught, and that if she helped me she should get her share. I told her I had my suspicions of Susan, said I was going to London, and asked her would she watch Susan and keep me advised of how things went on. She said yes, and I gave her a couple of pounds on account, just to keep her eager, while I came back to town to look after Dangle.’

  In spite of the keen interest with which he was listening to these revelations, Cheyne felt himself seething with indignant anger. How he had been hoodwinked by this sneaking scoundrel, with his mean ingratiating smile and his assumption of melancholy! He could have kicked himself as he remembered how he had tried to cheer and encourage the mock pessimist. He wondered which was the more hateful, the man’s deceit or the cynical way he was now telling of it. But, apparently unconscious of the antagonism which he had aroused, Speedwell calmly and, Cheyne thought disgustedly, a trifle proudly, continued his narrative.

  ‘I soon found that James Dangle lived at Laurel Lodge. He was alone except for a daily char, but up till a short while earlier his sister had kept house for him. When I learnt that his sister had left Laurel Lodge on the same day that Susan took up her place at Warren Lodge, I soon guessed who Susan really was.

  ‘I thought that when these two would go to so much trouble, the thing they were after must be pretty well worth while, and I thought it might pay me if I could find out what it was. So I shadowed Dangle, and learnt a good deal about him. I learnt that he was constantly meeting two other men, so I shadowed them and learnt they were Blessington and Sime. Blessington I guessed first time I saw him was the man who had drugged you, Mr Cheyne, for he exactly covered your and the manager’s descriptions. It seemed clear then that these three and Susan Dangle—if her real name was Susan—were in the conspiracy to get whatever you had.’

  ‘But what I would like to have explained,’ Cheyne burst in, ‘was why you didn’t tell me what you had discovered. You were paid to do it. What did you think you were taking that hotel manager’s money for?’

  Speedwell made a gesture of deferential disagreement.

  ‘I scarcely think that you can find fault with me there, Mr Cheyne,’ he answered with his ingratiating smile. ‘I was investigating: I had not reached the end of my investigation. As you will see, sir, my investigation took a somewhat unexpected turn—a very unexpected turn, I might almost say, which left me in a bit of doubt as to how to act. But you’ll hear.’

  Inspector French had been sitting quite still at his desk, but now he stretched out his hand, took a cigar from the box, and as he lit it, murmured: ‘Go on, Speedwell. Sounds like a novel. I’m enjoying it. Aren’t you, Mr Cheyne?’

  Cheyne made non-committal noises, and Speedwell, looking pleased, continued:

  ‘One evening, nearly two months ago, I got back late from another job and I found a wire waiting for me. It was from Mrs Hazelton’s housemaid and it said: “Maxwell Cheyne disappeared and Susan left Warren Lodge for London.” I thought to myself: “Bully for you, Jane,” and then I thought: “Susan will be returning to Brother James. I’ll go out to Hopefield Avenue and see if I can pick anything up.” So I went out. It was about half-past ten when I arrived. I found the front of the house in darkness, but an upper window at the back was lighted up. There was a lane along behind the houses, you understand, Mr French, and a bit of garden between them and the lane. The gate into the garden was open, and I slipped in and began to tiptoe towards the house. Then I heard soft steps coming in after me, and I turned aside and hid behind a large shrub to see what would happen. And then I saw something that interested me very much. A man came in very quietly and I saw in the faint moonlight that he was carrying a ladder.’ There was an exclamation from Cheyne. ‘He put the ladder to the lighted window and climbed up, and then I saw who it was. I needn’t tell you, Mr Cheyne, I was surprised to see you, and I waited behind the bush for what would happen. I saw and heard the whole thing: the party coming down to supper, your getting in, Sime coming out and seeing the ladder, the alarm, your coming out, and them getting you on the head in the garden. You’ll perhaps think, Mr Cheyne, that I should have come out and lent you a hand, but after all, sir, I don’t know that you could claim that you had the right of it altogether, and besides, it all happened so quickly I had no
chance to interfere. Well, anyhow they knocked you out and then they searched you and took a folded paper from your pocket. “Thank goodness, we’ve got the tracing at all events,” Dangle said, speaking very softly, “but now we’re in the soup and no mistake. What are we going to do with the confounded fool’s body?” They examined the ladder and saw from the contractor’s name that it had been brought from the new house, then they whispered together and I couldn’t hear what was said, but at last Sime said: “Right, we’ll fix it so that it will look as if he fell off the ladder.” Then the three men picked you up, Mr Cheyne, and carried you out down the lane. Susan stood in the garden waiting, and I had to sit tight behind the bush. In about ten minutes the men came back and then Sime took the ladder and carried it away down the lane. The others whispered together and then Dangle said something to Susan, ending up: “It’s in the second left-hand drawer.” She went indoors, but came out again in a moment with a powerful electric torch. Blessington and Dangle then searched for traces of your little affair, Mr Cheyne. They found the marks of the ladder butts in the soft grass and smoothed them out, and they looked everywhere, I suppose, for footprints or something that you might have dropped when you fell. Then Sime came back and they all went in and shut the door.’

  Cheyne snorted angrily.

  ‘It didn’t occur to you, I suppose, to make any effort to help me or even find out if I was alive or dead? You weren’t going to have any trouble, even if you did become an accessory after the fact?’

  ‘I’m coming to that, Mr Cheyne. All in good time, sir.’ Speedwell rubbed his hands unctuously. ‘You will understand that as long as the garden was occupied I couldn’t come out from behind the bush. But directly the coast was clear I got out of the garden and turned along the lane where they had carried you. I wondered where they could have hidden you, and I started searching. I remembered what Sime had said about the ladder, so I went to the half-built house and had a look round, but I couldn’t find you in it. Then I saw you lying back of the road fence, but just at that minute I heard footsteps, and I stopped behind a pile of bricks till the party would pass. But you called out and the lady stopped, and once again I couldn’t interfere. I heard the arrangements about the taxi, and when the lady went away to get it I slipped out and hid where I could see it. In that way I got its number. Next day I saw the driver and got out of him where he had taken you, and I kept my eye on you and when you got better, trailed you to Miss Merrill’s. From other people living in the flats I found out about her.’ After a pause he concluded: ‘And I think, gentlemen, that’s about all I have to tell you.’