“Absolutely, sir. I have gone into it with the guard and attendants. No one could have been overlooked.”
“Very good. Taking first, then, those who were in the carriage, There were six compartments. In the first were the four men, and in the second Miss Blair-Booth. Are you satisfied these were innocent?”
“Perfectly, sir. The wedging of the doors eliminated them.”
“So I think. The third and fourth compartments were empty, but in the fifth there were two gentlemen. What about them?”
“Well, sir, you know who they were. Sir Gordon M’Clean, the great engineer, and Mr. Silas Hemphill, the professor of Aberdeen University. Both utterly beyond suspicion.”
“But, as you know, inspector, no one is beyond suspicion in a case of this kind.”
“I admit it, sir, and therefore I made careful inquiries about them. But I only confirmed my opinion.”
“From inquiries I also have made I feel sure you are right. That brings us to the last compartment, the ‘Ladies Only.’ What about those three ladies?”
“The same remarks apply. Their characters are also beyond suspicion, and, as well as that, the mother is elderly and timid, and couldn’t brazen out a lie. I question if the daughters could either. I made inquiries all the same, and found not the slightest ground for suspicion.”
“The corridors and lavatories were empty?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Then everyone found in the coach when the train stopped may be definitely eliminated?”
“Yes. It is quite impossible it could have been any that we have mentioned.”
“Then the murderer must have left the coach?”
“He must; and that’s where the difficulty comes in.”
“I know, but let us proceed. Our problem then really becomes—how did he leave the coach?”
“That’s so, sir, and I have never been against anything stiffer.”
The chief paused in thought, as he absently selected and lit another cigar. At last he continued:
“Well, at any rate, it is clear he did not go through the roof or the floor, or any part of the fixed framing or sides. Therefore he must have gone in the usual way—through a door. Of these, there is one at each end and six at each side. He therefore went through one of these fourteen doors. Are you agreed, inspector?”
“Certainly, sir.”
“Very good. Take the ends first. The vestibule doors were locked?”
“Yes, sir, at both ends of the coach. But I don’t count that much. An ordinary carriage key opened them and the murderer would have had one.”
“Quite. Now, just go over again our reasons for thinking he did not escape to the sleeper.”
“Before the train stopped, sir. Miss Bintley, one of the three in the ‘Ladies Only,’ was looking out into the corridor, and the two sleeper attendants were at the near end of their coach. After the train stopped, all three ladies were in the corridor, and one attendant was at the sleeper vestibule. All these persons swear most positively that no one but the guard passed between Preston and the searching of the carriage.”
“What about these attendants? Are they reliable?”
“Wilcox has seventeen years’ service, and Jeffries six, and both bear excellent characters. Both, naturally, came under suspicion of the murder, and I made the usual investigation. But there is not a scrap of evidence against them, and I am satisfied they are all right.”
“It certainly looks as if the murderer did not escape towards the sleeper.”
“I am positive of it. You see, sir, we have the testimony of two separate lots of witnesses, the ladies and the attendants. It is out of the question that these parties would agree to deceive the police. Conceivably one or other might, but not both.”
“Yes, that seems sound. What, then, about the other end—the third-class end?”
“At that end,” replied the inspector, “were Mr. and Mrs. Smith with their sick child. They were in the corridor close by the vestibule door, and no one could have passed without their knowledge. I had the child examined, and its illness was genuine. The parents are quiet persons, of exemplary character, and again quite beyond suspicion. When they said no one but the guard had passed I believed them. However, I was not satisfied with that, and I examined every person that travelled in the third-class coach, and established two things: first, that no one was in it at the time it was searched who had not travelled in it from Preston; and secondly, that no one except the Smiths had left any of the compartments during the run between Preston and the emergency stop. That proves beyond question that no one left the first-class coach for the third after the tragedy.”
“What about the guard himself?”
“The guard is also a man of good character, but he is out of it, because he was seen by several passengers as well as the Smiths running through the third-class after the brakes were applied.”
“It is clear, then, the murderer must have got out through one of the twelve side doors. Take those on the compartment side first. The first, second, fifth and sixth compartments were occupied, therefore he could not have passed through them. That leaves the third and fourth doors. Could he have left by either of these?”
The inspector shook his head.
“No, sir,” he answered, “that is equally out of the question. You will recollect that two of the four men in the end compartment were looking out along the train from a few seconds after the murder until the stop. It would not have been possible to open a door and climb out on to the footboard without being seen by them. Guard Jones also looked out at that side of the van and saw no one. After the stop these same two men, as well as others, were on the ground, and all agree that none of these doors were opened at any time.”
“H’m,” mused the chief, “that also seems conclusive, and it brings us definitely to the doors on the corridor side. As the guard arrived on the scene comparatively early, the murderer must have got out while the train was running at a fair speed. He must therefore have been clinging on to the outside of the coach while the guard was in the corridor working at the sliding doors. When the train stopped all attention was concentrated on the opposite, or compartment, side, and he could easily have dropped down and made off. What do you think of that theory, inspector?”
“We went into that pretty thoroughly, sir. It was first objected that the blinds of the first and second compartments were raised too soon to give him time to get out without being seen. But I found this was not valid. At least fifteen seconds must have elapsed before Miss Blair-Booth and the men in the end compartment raised their blinds, and that would easily have allowed him to lower the window, open the door, pass out, raise the window, shut the door, and crouch down on the footboard out of sight. I estimate also that nearly thirty seconds passed before Guard Jones looked out of the van at that side. As far as time goes he could have done what you suggest. But another thing shows he didn’t. It appears that when Jones ran through the third-class coach, while the train was stopping, Mr. Smith, the man with the sick child, wondering what was wrong, attempted to follow him into the first-class. But the door slammed after the guard before the other could reach it, and, of course, the spring lock held it fast. Mr. Smith therefore lowered the end corridor window and looked out ahead, and he states positively no one was on the footboard of the first-class. To see how far Mr. Smith could be sure of this, on a dark night we ran the same carriage, lighted in the same way, over the same part of the line, and we found a figure crouching on the footboard was clearly visible from the window. It showed a dark mass against the lighted side of the cutting. When we remember that Mr. Smith was specially looking out for something abnormal, I think we may accept his evidence.”
“You are right. It is convincing. And, of course, it is supported by the guard’s own testimony. He also saw no one when he looked out of his van.”
“That is so, sir. And we found a crouching figure was visible from the van also, owing to the same cause—the lighted bank.”
“And the murderer could not have got out while the guard was passing through the third-class?”
“No, because the corridor blinds were raised before the guard looked out.”
The chief frowned.
“It is certainly puzzling,” he mused. There was silence for some moments, and then he spoke again.
“Could the murderer, immediately after firing the shots, have concealed himself in a lavatory and then, during the excitement of the stop, have slipped out unperceived through one of these corridor doors and, dropping on the line, moved quietly away?”
“No, sir, we went into that also. If he had hidden in a lavatory he could not have got out again. If he had gone towards the third-class the Smiths would have seen him, and the first-class corridor was under observation during the entire time from the arrival of the guard till the search. We have proved the ladies entered the corridor immediately the guard passed their compartment, and two of the four men in the end smoker were watching through their door till considerably after the ladies had come out.”
Again silence reigned while the chief smoked thoughtfully.
“The coroner had some theory, you say?” he said at last.
“Yes, sir. He suggested the murderer might have, immediately after firing, got out by one of the doors on the corridor side—probably the end one—and from there climbed on the outside of the coach to some place from which he could not be seen from a window, dropping to the ground when the train stopped. He suggested the roof, the buffers, or the lower step. This seemed likely at first sight, and I tried therefore the experiment. But it was no good. The roof was out of the question. It was one of those high curved roofs—not a flat clerestory—and there was no handhold at the edge above the doors. The buffers were equally inaccessible. From die handle and guard of the end door to that above the buffer on the corner of the coach was seven feet two inches. That is to say, a man could not reach from one to the other, and there was nothing he could hold on to while passing along the step. The lower step was not possible either. In the first place it was divided—there was only a short step beneath each door—not a continuous board like the upper one—so that no one could pass along the lower while holding on to the upper, and secondly, I couldn’t imagine anyone climbing down there, and knowing that the first platform they came to would sweep him off.”
“That is to say, inspector, you have proved the murderer was in the coach at the time of the crime, that he was not in it when it was searched, and that he did not leave it in the interval. I don’t know if that that is a very creditable conclusion.”
“I know, sir. I regret it extremely, but that’s the difficulty I have been up against from the start.”
The chief laid his hand on his subordinate’s shoulder.
“It won’t do,” he said kindly. “It really won’t do. You try again. Smoke over it, and I’ll do the same, and come in and see me again to-morrow.”
But the conversation had really summed up the case justly. My Lady Nicotine brought no inspiration, and, as time passed without bringing to light any further facts, interest gradually waned till at last the affair took its place among the long list of unexplained crimes in the annals of New Scotland Yard.
And now I come to the singular coincidence referred to earlier whereby I, an obscure medical practitioner, came to learn the solution of this extraordinary mystery. With the case itself I had no connection, the details just given being taken from the official reports made at the time, to which I was allowed access in return for the information I brought. The affair happened in this way.
One evening just four weeks ago, as I lit my pipe after a long and tiring day, I received an urgent summons to the principal inn of the little village near which I practised. A motorcyclist had collided with a car at a cross-roads and had been picked up terribly injured. I saw almost at a glance that nothing could be done for him, in fact, his life was a matter of a few hours. He asked coolly how it was with him, and, in accordance with my custom in such cases, I told him, inquiring was there anyone he would like sent for. He looked me straight in the eyes and replied:
“Doctor, I want to make a statement. If I tell it you will you keep it to yourself while I live and then inform the proper authorities and the public?”
“Why, yes,” I answered; “but shall I not send for some of your friends or a clergyman?”
“No,” he said, “I have no friends, and I have no use for parsons. You look a white man; I would rather tell you.”
I bowed and fixed him up as comfortably as possible, and he began, speaking slowly in a voice hardly above a whisper.
“I shall be brief for I feel my time is short. You remember some few years ago a Mr. Horatio Llewelyn and his wife were murdered in a train on the North-Western some fifty miles south of Carlisle?”
I dimly remembered the case.
“‘The sleeping-car express mystery,’ the papers called it?” I asked.
“That’s it,” he replied. “They never solved the mystery and they never got the murderer. But he’s going to pay now. I am he.”
I was horrified at the cool, deliberate way he spoke. Then I remembered that he was fighting death to make his confession and that, whatever my feelings, it was my business to hear and record it while yet there was time. I therefore sat down and said as gently as I could:
“Whatever you tell me I shall note carefully, and at the proper time shall inform the police.”
His eyes, which had watched me anxiously, showed relief.
“Thank you. I shall hurry. My name is Hubert Black, and I live at 24, Westbury Gardens, Hove. Until ten years and two months ago I lived at Bradford, and there I made the acquaintance of what I thought was the best and most wonderful girl on God’s earth—Miss Gladys Wentworth. I was poor, but she was well off. I was diffident about approaching her, but she encouraged me till at last I took my courage in both hands and proposed. She agreed to marry me, but made it a condition our engagement was to be kept secret for a few days. I was so mad about her I would have agreed to anything she wanted, so I said nothing, though I could hardly behave like a sane man from joy.
“Some time before this I had come across Llewelyn, and he had been very friendly, and had seemed to like my company. One day we met Gladys, and I introduced him. I did not know till later that he had followed up the acquaintanceship.
“A week after my acceptance there was a big dance at Halifax. I was to have met Gladys there, but at the last moment I had a wire that my mother was seriously ill, and I had to go. On my return I got a cool little note from Gladys saying she was sorry, but our engagement had been a mistake, and I must consider it at an end. I made a few inquiries, and then I learnt what had been done. Give me some stuff, doctor; I’m going down.”
I poured out some brandy and held it to his lips.
“That’s better,” he said, continuing with gasps and many pauses: “Llewelyn, I found out, had been struck by Gladys for some time. He knew I was friends with her, and so he made up to me. He wanted the introduction I was fool enough to give him, as well as the chances of meeting her he would get with me. Then he met her when he knew I was at my work, and made hay while the sun shone. Gladys spottedwhat he was after, but she didn’t know if he was serious. Then I proposed, and she thought she would hold me for fear the bigger fish would get off. Llewelyn was wealthy, you understand. She waited till the ball, then she hooked him, and I went overboard. Nice, wasn’t it?”
I did not reply, and the man went on:
“Well, after that I just went mad. I lost my head and went to Llewelyn, but he laughed in my face. I felt I wanted to knock his head off, but the butler happened by, so I couldn’t go on and finish him then. I needn’t try to describe the hell I went through—I couldn’t, anyway. But I was blind mad, and lived only for revenge. And then I got it. I followed them till I got a chance, and then I killed them. I shot them in that train. I shot her first and then, as he woke and sprang up, I got him too.”
The man paused.
“Tell me the details,” I asked; and after a time he went on in a weaker voice:
“I had worked out a plan to get them in a train, and had followed them all through their honeymoon, but I never got a chance till then. This time the circumstances fell out to suit. I was behind him at Euston and heard him book to Carlisle, so I booked to Glasgow. I got into the next compartment. There was a talkative man there, and I tried to make a sort of alibi for myself by letting him think I would get out at Crewe. I did get out, but I got in again, and travelled on in the same compartment with the blinds down. No one knew I was there. I waited till we got to the top of Shap, for I thought I could get away easier in a thinly populated country. Then, when the time came, I fixed the compartment doors with wedges, and shot them both. I left the train and got clear of the railway, crossing the country till I came on a road. I hid during the day and walked at night till after dark on the second evening I came to Carlisle. From there I went by rail quite openly. I was never suspected.”
He paused, exhausted, while the Dread Visitor hovered closer.
“Tell me,” I said, “just a word. How did you get out of the train?”
He smiled faintly.
“Some more of your stuff,” he whispered; and when I had given him a second dose of brandy he went on feebly and with long pauses which I am not attempting to reproduce:
“I had worked the thing out beforehand. I thought if I could get out on the buffers while the train was running and before the alarm was raised, I should be safe. No one looking out of the windows could see me, and when the train stopped, as I knew it soon would, I could drop down and make off. The difficulty was to get from the corridor to the buffers. I did it like this:
“I had brought about sixteen feet of fine, brown silk cord, and the same length of thin silk rope. When I got out at Crewe I moved to the corner of the coach and stood close to it by way of getting shelter to light a cigarette. Without anyone seeing what I was up to I slipped the end of the cord through the bracket handle above the buffers. Then I strolled to the nearest door, paying out the cord, but holding on to its two ends. I pretended to fumble at the door as if it was stiff to open, but all the time I was passing the cord through the handle-guard, and knotting the ends together.
The Best Crime Stories Ever Told Page 11
