Death in the Tunnel

by Miles Burton

  “The coach was running with the corridor on the left-hand side, facing in the direction in which the train was moving,” said the station-master. “This, then, was the front compartment in the coach. Sir Wilfred was in the corner seat, farthest from the corridor, with his back to the engine. None of the other five seats were occupied. The train runs fast from Cannon Street to here. After Sir Wilfred’s body had been removed, I cleared everybody else out of the coach, taking their names and addresses as I did so. There were twenty-four other passengers in it. I then locked the coach up securely, and had it shunted to where it stands now.”

  “Mr. Cutbush and I examined it at seven o’clock yesterday evening,” said Marden. “I had Dr. Frant’s report, and the first thing I looked for was a bullet-hole in the back of the seat. Well, look here!”

  He pointed out a small puncture in the upholstery, so small as to be hardly noticeable. “That’s just about the size of the holes in Sir Wilfred’s clothing,” he said. “They are all about a quarter of an inch, not more.”

  “What is there behind this upholstery, Mr. Cutbush?” Arnold asked.

  “A steel partition dividing this compartment from the lavatory,” the station-master replied.

  “Let’s have a look in the lavatory,” Arnold suggested. They examined the wall there, but there was no sign of a bullet-hole. “The steel partition stopped it, no doubt,” Arnold continued. “We shall have to strip the upholstery in the compartment if we’re to find it. Now what about the weapon it was fired from?”

  “We found that, too,” Marden replied. “If you’ll come back to the compartment, I’ll show you. I’ve put it back exactly where it was.”

  Arnold saw it for himself as soon as he examined the floor. It was lying under the seat which had been occupied by Sir Wilfred, only a few inches back from the front edge of the seat. Arnold picked it up and examined it. It was a miniature automatic pistol, of foreign make. The barrel was foul, and the magazine contained cartridges. On the butt was engraved a monogram which Arnold deciphered as “W.S.”

  “Had Sir Wilfred a firearms certificate in which this pistol was described?” Arnold asked.

  “No, he hadn’t,” Marden replied. “I thought of that at once. He had a certificate for a revolver and a rifle, but not for an automatic pistol.”

  “That’s queer,” said Arnold. “I don’t profess to be a firearms expert, but any one can see that this pistol is nearly brand new. Now, Sir Wilfred cannot have bought it in England without first obtaining a certificate. Was he in the habit of going abroad at all?”

  “I believe so,” Marden replied. “But you’d better ask Miss Saxonby.”

  In the rack above the seat occupied by Sir Wilfred was a small leather attaché-case. This also bore the initials W.S. Arnold tried the fastenings, but the case was locked. “Any other luggage?” he asked.

  “No, Sir Wilfred had only been up to London for the day,” replied the station-master. “He left here by the 9.50 yesterday morning, and was carrying that case then.”

  The only other objects in the compartment were two newspapers, the Evening Standard and the Evening News, both of the previous day’s date. They had both been opened.

  “One of them was lying on the seat next to Sir Wilfred,” said Mr. Cutbush. “The other was on the floor when I saw it, but the guard, William Turner, says that it was on Sir Wilfred’s knee, and that it fell off when he tried to rouse him. Inspector Marden asked me to arrange to have Turner here this morning. He ought to have arrived by now. You can see him in my office, if you like.”

  Since there was nothing more to be seen in the compartment, they locked it once more, and went to the station-master’s office. Mr. Cutbush ascertained that Turner had arrived, and sent for him. “Well, Turner, what can you tell us about this business?” Arnold asked.

  “I can’t tell you much, sir, and that’s a fact,” the guard replied. “The dead gentleman came up to me as I was standing on the platform at Cannon Street, about seven or eight minutes before the five o’clock was due to go out. I’d seen him before, travelling up and down, but I didn’t know then who he was. ‘Are you the guard of this train?’ he says. ‘Yes, sir, that’s right,’ says I. ‘Well, I want you to find me a first-class carriage to myself as far as Stourford,’ he says. And with that he slips a quid-note into my hand.”

  “What, a pound note!” Arnold exclaimed. “Passengers don’t often give you pound notes to keep them carriages to themselves, do they?”

  Turner’s eyes twinkled. “Well, sir, that depends. I won’t say but that now and then a young couple that don’t want to be disturbed might slip a note into my hand. But they like coaches with no corridors, mostly. I don’t mind that a gentleman like Sir Wilfred has given me a quid before.

  “Well, I walks up the train with him, and looks into the first-class compartments. There was somebody in every one of them until we came to the last, the front one of the coach, if you understand me, sir. I put Sir Wilfred into that, and he took the seat farthest from the platform with his back to the engine. Then, since the corridor side of the coach was next to the platform, I locked the door between the compartment and the corridor. I didn’t worry about the other door of the compartment, since there was a blank wall that side of the line, and nobody couldn’t get in that side.”

  “So that, when the train started, the door of the compartment leading into the corridor was locked, and the door on the other side unlocked?”

  “That’s right, sir. And that’s how they were until just before we ran into Stourford. And then I went along to unlock the door, seeing that that was the side the gentleman would have to get out.”

  “Did you see Sir Wilfred during the journey from Cannon Street to Stourford?”

  “Yes, sir. I saw him while we was running through Blackdown Tunnel, after the check.”

  “After the check?” Arnold asked. “What do you mean by a check?”

  “Why, sir, the driver put on the brakes all of a sudden, and I went along the train to see if anything was wrong. And as I passed Sir Wilfred’s compartment, I saw him lying back in his corner, just as if he’d gone off to sleep. And he hadn’t moved when I saw him again here, poor gentleman.”

  “You didn’t open the door, but just looked through the window?”

  “That’s right, sir. I thought if I unlocked the door and pushed it back, I might wake him and he wouldn’t like it.”

  “What time was this?”

  “We ran through Blackdown Station at 5.29, sir. It would have been three or four minutes later that I passed Sir Wilfred’s compartment.”

  “Did the train actually stop in the tunnel?”

  “No, sir, but it slowed down to not more than a few miles an hour. The driver told me that he saw a red light ahead, and put on his brakes. Then, just before he got to it, it changed to green, and he went on. Some chap working on the line, he reckons. But I can’t make that out, for there was nothing about it in the notices.”

  The station-master put in a word of explanation. “Drivers are always warned of the sections where they may expect to find men working on the line,” he said.

  Arnold nodded. “You say, Turner, that Sir Wilfred had not moved between the time you saw him in the tunnel, and the time you went along to unlock the door. Are you sure of that?”

  “Well, sir, he was in exactly the same position the second time as he was the first. He may have moved in between whiles. That I can’t say.”

  “Are you perfectly certain that the door was still locked when you reached here?”

  “Perfectly, sir, for I had to use my key to unlock it.”

  “Was this the only door in the train which was locked?”

  “Well, no, sir, not exactly. There was a door at each end of the first-class coach, and these were locked. Passengers have been known to walk along from a third to a first after the train has started. So, unless th
ere is a restaurant car on the train, we always keep the doors in the corridor locked between the firsts and the thirds.”

  “And these doors were locked from the time the train left Cannon Street until it reached here?”

  “That’s right, sir. I unlocked them when I went along the train in the tunnel, and locked them again when I went back to my van. They weren’t unlocked again till I went through just before we got here.”

  Arnold had nothing more to ask the guard. He thanked Mr. Cutbush for his assistance, and left the railway station with Marden, carrying the articles found in the compartment. “I’d better have a look at the body, I suppose,” he said. “I suppose you’ve looked through his pockets? No letter, or anything like that?”

  “The body is in the mortuary, and so are his clothes and the things found in them. It’s only ten minutes walk from here. No, I found no letter. And yet it’s a pretty clear case of suicide. What the guard told us seems to settle that. Sir Wilfred was in a locked compartment by himself, all the time.”

  “Yes,” said Arnold, with a faint suspicion of doubt in his tone. “But, do you know, I’m never quite easy in my mind about locked doors, especially when they are railway carriage doors. You know what a simple thing the key of these locks is. Merely a tapered piece of steel, of square cross section. You put it in a square hole, turn it, and the door is unlocked. Anybody could make a key like that. All they would want is a piece of metal rod and a file. Besides, the outer door of the compartment, the one opposite the corridor, I mean, was not locked.”

  Marden smiled. “You’re not suggesting that somebody climbed along the footboard and got in that way, are you?” he asked.

  “I’m not suggesting anything. But, before we can dismiss this affair as a case of suicide, we’ve got to think out all the possibilities. I must say I would like to know more about that slowing down of the train in the tunnel. I am rather struck by a coincidence in time. You tell me that Dr. Frant examined the body about twenty minutes past six yesterday evening, and gave as his opinion that Sir Wilfred had been dead hardly an hour. That’s a very vague expression, but I know that doctors can’t be exactly accurate in these matters. Let’s accept it for what it is worth. According to Turner, the train passed through Blackdown station at 5.29, and entered the tunnel a minute or two later. Doesn’t that suggest that Sir Wilfred’s death may have taken place in the tunnel, just before Turner saw him?”

  “I think it does. But anybody who meant to shoot himself in a train would probably do it in a tunnel. I often go backwards and forwards to London, and I know Blackdown Tunnel pretty well. If the train is going at any speed, there is such a roar that you can’t hear yourself shout. Certainly nobody in the next compartment could possibly hear the faint crack those little automatics make.”

  “There’s something in that,” Arnold agreed. “And then, of course, there is the fact that he wanted a carriage to himself, and tipped the guard pretty heavily to secure it. By the way, is there any local gossip which might suggest a reason for suicide?”

  “None that I know of. Sir Wilfred was very generally respected, and was supposed to be a man of very considerable means. Here we are at the mortuary.”

  They went in, and Arnold inspected the face of the dead man. He appeared to be between sixty and seventy, clean-shaven, and with thin grey hair. The features were strong and well-chiselled, and even in death there was a firmness of expression which gave the key to Sir Wilfred’s character. A man of strong will and intellectual power, Arnold felt sure. Would such a man commit suicide? Not in a fit of sudden depression, certainly. But if a motive existed, which after due and prolonged consideration seemed to him adequate, he would do so without fear or hesitation.

  Arnold turned from the body to the clothes, which he examined carefully. There was nothing remarkable about them, being just what a man in Sir Wilfred’s position might be expected to wear. On a table beside the clothes lay the contents of the pockets. There were as follows: a bunch of keys, with a silver chain and loop; a small quantity of change, silver and copper; a gold hunter watch with a fine gold chain, and a spectacle case containing a pair of tortoiseshell-rimmed spectacles.

  “He was wearing his glasses when he was found,” said Marden, as Arnold came to this item. “I found the case in his pocket, and put them into it for safety.”

  Arnold nodded, and continued his inventory. A gold cigar-case, engraved with the initials W.S., and containing three cigars of an expensive brand. A gold match-box, containing half a dozen Swan vestas. And finally a leather wallet, with gold mounted corners.

  Arnold opened this and ran through its contents. These were not numerous. A few visiting cards, with the address of Mavis Court. A book of postage stamps, of which two or three had been torn out. Three five-pound notes, seven one-pound notes, and two ten-shilling notes.

  “Well, if he didn’t kill himself, the motive for shooting him wasn’t robbery,” said Arnold. “But there’s one thing you missed in turning out his pockets, Mr. Marden.”

  “What’s that?” inquired Marden suspiciously.

  “Why, his railway ticket. Unless you’ve given it up to the company?”

  Marden shook his head. “I haven’t seen it,” he replied.

  Arnold searched the pockets for himself. They were empty, and there was no sign of a ticket. “That’s queer,” he said. “Perhaps in that attaché-case of his. I expect one of these keys will open it.”

  His guess was correct, and the attaché-case was soon opened. It contained nothing but a few printed papers, reports and statements of accounts, all headed “Wigland and Bunthorne, Ltd., 5 Shrubb Court, London, E.C.3.” Glancing at them, Arnold noticed that Sir Wilfred Saxonby, Bart., J.P., was described as the chairman of the firm. Another name caught his eye. Richard K. Saxonby, Esq., Managing Director. “Is that Sir Wilfred’s son?” he asked.

  “I believe so,” Marden replied. “I couldn’t be sure.”

  Arnold put the papers back in the case, and locked it again. “There’s no ticket there,” he said. “Now, what can he have done with it? It isn’t by any chance in his hat, is it?”

  Search of the hat, a nearly new bowler, failed to reveal the ticket, and Arnold frowned. “He must have had a ticket,” he said. “They wouldn’t have let him past the barrier at Cannon Street without one. It’s not here, and he can’t have dropped it in the compartment, or we should have found it just now. What’s become of it?”

  Marden shrugged his shoulders. Clearly he thought that this man from Scotland Yard was attaching undue importance to trifles. Sir Wilfred had shot himself, any fool could see that. What on earth did his ticket matter? He was beyond prosecution for travelling without one. But Marden did not give expression to these thoughts. “He may have dropped it on the platform at Cannon Street,” he replied. “It hardly matters, does it?”

  “Details like that have a way of mattering,” Arnold replied. “However, we can leave the ticket for the moment. I’d like a word with Dr. Frant, before we go out to Mavis Court.”

  Marden led him to the doctor’s house. They found him at home, and quite ready to give information. “Self-inflicted?” he said, in reply to Arnold’s question. “Yes, certainly the wound could have been self-inflicted. You found the pistol, did you? H’m. I rather thought you would. A small automatic? Just so, just so. The pistol must have been held horizontally, pointing at the region of the heart, with the muzzle not more than a few inches away. Death, I imagine, was practically instantaneous.”

  “If Sir Wilfred had held the pistol, would he not have retained it in his grasp after death?” Arnold asked.

  “Not necessarily,” Dr. Frant replied. “The effect of the bullet entering the heart would very likely be muscular reaction, causing the pistol to be thrown, as it were, from the hand.”

  “We found the pistol just under the opposite seat of the compartment,” said Arnold.

  “Very much
what might be expected. A very slight twitch of the muscles would be sufficient to project the pistol that distance.”

  Arnold and Marden took leave of the doctor and went to lunch. The meal over, they took a car and drove to Mavis Court.

  III

  Mavis Court was a beautiful Georgian house, surrounded by an extensive park. Arnold was immediately conscious of an atmosphere of wealth and luxury, which was intensified when they were shown into the drawing-room. And here, in a very few moments, Miss Olivia Saxonby joined them.

  Arnold put her down at about forty, and immediately noticed the likeness between her and the dead man. She had the same clear-cut features, the same firmness of mouth and chin. But, whereas these had seemed suitable to Sir Wilfred, the effect in his niece was to make her expression hard and unsympathetic. “Please sit down,” she said coldly. “You have come about the death of my uncle, I suppose?”

  “I regret that is the purpose of our visit,” Arnold replied. “You are Sir Wilfred’s niece, I understand. He has a son, has he not?”

  “Yes, Dick, who is in America just now. I sent him a cable last night, and have a reply that he is returning immediately.”

  “Had Sir Wilfred any other children?”

  “Yes, a daughter, Irene. She married Major Wardour some years ago; they, too, are abroad, motoring in the south of France. I have wired to their last address, and so far have had no reply.”

  “Was Sir Wilfred in the habit of going abroad frequently?”

  “Not of recent years. He went to Belgium for a week or two last autumn, in connection with his business. Since then he has not spent a night away from here.”

  “Was he in the habit of going up to London regularly?”

  “He went up every Thursday, as a regular thing. Most weeks he went up on some other day as well, usually Tuesday or Wednesday. This week, for instance, he went up on Tuesday.”