Death in the Tunnel

by Miles Burton

  “Even if he was, it isn’t much of a clue. You don’t suppose that Figgis is his real name, do you?”

  “Not for an instant. But doesn’t an actor associate himself in your mind with the idea of disguise? The passenger seen by Mrs. and Miss Clutsam in the five o’clock train was certainly disguised. Even you can’t really suppose that he was the individual whom we’ve agreed not to mention. Is it wildly improbable that this man, A, was really Figgis?”

  “I thought you had already made up your mind he was Yates,” Arnold replied sourly.

  “And why shouldn’t Yates and Figgis be one and the same?” Merrion retorted. “There is already a certain similarity between their descriptions. Yates, who visited the office of Wigland and Bunthorne on Thursday afternoon, and Figgis, who imposed upon the good nature of the garage manager on Wednesday evening, bear at least a family resemblance.

  “Working on that theory, we learn a little more about the technique of the crime. A, or Figgis, buys the lorry. Still as Figgis, he goes down to Plymouth on Wednesday evening and drives it away. We know now that he took the opportunity of contriving the sending of the telegram which drew Mrs. Dredger from her accustomed haunts. During the early hours of Thursday morning he reaches a previously appointed rendezvous and leaves the lorry there.

  “I suppose he then put in a few hours of well-earned sleep. His next appearance in the picture is about noon on Thursday, when, as Dredger—sorry, but the name slipped out unawares—he drives the small saloon car to the shaft and leaves it there. From the shaft he goes by bus to Blackdown station, and thence, we suppose, to London. He interviews Saxonby as Yates, a role needing no disguise. Finally, he travels in the five o’clock train in his disguise of the morning. All that is left for B is to collect the lorry from the rendezvous, drive it to the shaft, work the lights, and haul A out of the tunnel. His part is an easy one, compared with A’s. Now, what does this curiously uneven distribution of parts suggest to you?”

  “Why, that A was the principal and B merely an accomplice,” replied Arnold. “That’s obvious enough, surely?”

  “A was certainly the actual murderer. But it doesn’t follow that he was the organiser of the plot. I believe that he was allotted the greater part of the work for this reason. His movements were free from observation. B could not go about the country buying lorries, or leave cars by the wayside, without being asked awkward questions. And you’ll notice this. B took on the delicate operations at the shaft. Doesn’t that suggest that he was the person who had made the observations? If so, he lives near Blackdown. And again, if so, he probably provided the hiding-place for the lorry. And now, for heaven’s sake, let’s settle down and try to get a little sleep.”

  They relapsed into semi-slumber until their train drew into Paddington in the chill and unsympathetic dawn.

  XV

  Arnold was nothing if not methodical. His first action on reaching Scotland Yard was to make a summary of the description of the lorry, being careful to include the engine and chassis numbers, and all other relevant details. This he had manifolded and sent to all police stations within a wide radius of Blackdown, asking that a search should be made for a lorry answering to this description.

  He was not very sanguine of obtaining any news. The lorry, having played its part, had probably been abandoned or destroyed. Or during Thursday night it might have been driven away many hundred miles from the scene of the crime. Still, once before, he had found the burnt-out remains of a lorry a very valuable clue, and there was just a chance that luck might be once more on his side. But he was more than surprised when, on the day after the issue of the description, he received a message that a lorry answering to it was in a wayside garage on the main London–Salisbury road, not far from Whitchurch in Hampshire.

  He wasted no time in communicating with Merrion, but took the next train from Waterloo to Whitchurch. The garage, when he found it, turned out to be no more than a roadside filling-station, with a corrugated iron shed beside it. This modest establishment was owned by a middle-aged man of morose disposition, who appeared to augment his livelihood by keeping a number of bedraggled fowls. His name, it appeared, was Bleak.

  In reply to Arnold’s questions, he said that he had been in to Whitchurch that morning and had met the local policeman, who asked him if he had seen or heard anything of a stray breakdown lorry.

  “Well, I said to him, that’s a queer thing. I’ve one standing in my shed now. Not that you might call it a stray, for I’m expecting the chap as left it to come back and fetch it, any day.”

  “Who left it, and when?” Arnold asked.

  “Nicely spoken chap, he was,” Bleak replied. “Told me his name was Figgis and that he kept a garage at Blackdown. He’d been on the road for twenty-four hours and more and was fair fagged out. And so was the lorry, by all accounts. Anyway she wouldn’t go any further, so he left her here. Said he was coming back in a day or two, but I haven’t seen nothing of him since. Hasn’t got that new carburettor from the makers yet, I reckon. Terrible time some of them keep you waiting for spare parts. Never seem to think that a man’s got his living to earn.”

  All this was somewhat obscure to Arnold. “When did this man Figgis leave the lorry with you?” he asked.

  “One evening last week, it was. Wednesday? No, it wasn’t Wednesday, for that was the day my daughter was over to see me from Andover. Thursday, it must have been. Yes, Thursday it was, for it was the evening of the whist drive and dance at the Women’s Institute. The missus had gone, but naturally I had to stop away. Somebody’s got to be on hand to look after the petrol pumps.”

  “Yes, yes,” said Arnold impatiently. “On Thursday evening, was it? What time?”

  “Round about quarter to nine. I was sitting inside having a bite of supper when I heard a lorry pull up outside. The chap blew his horn, so I went out, thinking as how he’d be wanting a fill of petrol. And then I saw that it was one of them breakdown lorries. There was only one chap with it, and he got down from his seat and asked me where the nearest railway station was, and I told him Whitchurch, a couple of miles away. Then he asked what time the last train up to London was, and I told him nine forty-six. The chap looked at his watch and said that he reckoned he could do it comfortably.

  “Then he told me who he was, and gave me his card. He said he had bought the lorry in Plymouth and had started to drive it back to his place on Wednesday evening. He hadn’t got very far before his carburettor began to give trouble, and at last he had to stop for the night. In the morning he had taken it down and done the best he could with it, but he couldn’t get it right, and he’d had trouble with it off and on all day. And now, he said, the blessed thing had packed up altogether, and he wouldn’t trust it to go another dozen yards.”

  “Did he tell you where he had stopped the previous night?” Arnold asked.

  “No, and I didn’t ask him. It wasn’t none of my business. He said that he had to be at his place first thing next morning, as he had a very important deal on hand. He’d have to leave the lorry and go on by train. He asked me if I had anywhere that he could put it, and I said there was room in my shed where I keeps the car that I use for hire-work. So he managed to get his lorry going again, and a terrible noise she made, spluttering and backfiring. But he managed to drive her into the shed, where she is now.”

  “Which direction had he come from?”

  “Why, from Salisbury way, to be sure, seeing that he was coming from Plymouth. The other way runs through to Basingstoke and London. He had a pair of them red trade numbers on the car, and he took those off, saying that he’d want them. And then he said that the only thing to do was to send to the makers for a new carburettor and that as soon as he’d got it he’d come back and fix it and drive the lorry away. And then he went off carrying the number plates, to walk to Whitchurch and catch his train. And that’s the last I’ve seen of him.”

  “What did he look l
ike?”

  “He seemed a decent young chap. Bit of a toff in his way, had a posh suit on, and that. Clean-shaven, he was, and nicely spoken, too. But you could tell that he’d a bit of trouble with the lorry for his face and hands was all black and dirty.”

  Arnold inspected the lorry and satisfied himself that it corresponded in every way with the description given to him in Plymouth. Then he investigated the interior of the body. He was rewarded by the discovery of a quantity of flexible cord, similar to the fragments which he and Merrion had found in Blackdown Tunnel. There was also a miscellaneous collection of electrical fittings, including a couple of switches.

  Having warned Bleak that, if anybody came to fetch the lorry, he was not to let them have it but to communicate with the police at once, Arnold returned to Scotland Yard.

  That evening he met Merrion and retailed to him his latest adventure. “And now that we’ve found the lorry, it doesn’t lead us much farther,” he concluded rather ruefully.

  “Figgis didn’t intend to leave any unnecessary clues,” Merrion replied. “He’s a pretty cunning devil, I’ll say that for him. You notice how skilfully he blends the true and the false. He made no secret of where the lorry came from, since that was bound to be ascertained, sooner or later. But, of course, his yarn of having been on the road ever since he started from Plymouth was nonsense. It satisfied your friend Bleak, I have no doubt, but it doesn’t satisfy us.

  “We can very easily form a theory to explain what really happened. The problem was, how to dispose of the lorry once it had served its purpose. No doubt Figgis had noticed Bleak’s place as he drove past during Wednesday night and decided that it would serve his purpose, being on the road, or one of the roads, from Plymouth to Blackdown. Speaking without the map, I should say that the distance from Blackdown to Whitchurch was between sixty and seventy miles.

  “The business at the ventilating shaft was over, shall we say, by a quarter to six on Thursday evening. The car, which the lorry had ostensibly come to remove, was probably towed a short distance for appearances’ sake. Then A and B changed places. B, who had driven the lorry from its temporary hiding-place to the shaft, took over the car and drove off to some destination unknown. A started in the lorry for Bleak’s place, with something under three hours in which to cover the distance, which was plenty of time. Of course, he knew when the last train left Whitchurch, and was careful to arrive in time to catch it. And equally, of course, he made a detour so as to arrive at Bleak’s place with his bonnet facing towards London. And you see now how useful he found those trade number plates. If Bleak had noticed and remembered the number, which was highly unlikely, they could only be traced back to Plymouth, and so would substantiate his story. He’s a clever crook, there’s no getting away from that.”

  “Too darn clever by half,” Arnold grumbled. “The only thing for it that I can see is to circulate the best description I can, and hope for the best.”

  Merrion shook his head. “That would be very little use, I’m afraid. How do we know that the people in Wigland and Bunthorne’s office, or the manager of the Celtic Garage, or Bleak, saw the real man? Their descriptions all seem to agree, certainly. But how do we know that they do not refer to another of A’s disguises? Perhaps this pleasant-spoken, clean-shaven, smartly-dressed young man was created for the purpose and will never appear again.”

  Arnold grunted. “Hardly an optimist, are you?” he said. “Well, then, there’s another way of trying to trace him. You said yourself that these chaps showed such an intimate knowledge of Sir Wilfred’s habits that one of them must have been a member of his family or of his personal staff. I’m going to question each of them as to their movements on the Wednesday and Thursday.”

  “And I’m inclined to think that won’t get you any further. I quite agree that one of them, A or B, must have been intimately connected with A or B. The other may have been a complete stranger. And I think it was A who was the stranger, acting under B’s instructions.

  “We know that B must have driven the lorry from its hiding-place to the shaft. We are agreed, I think, that the distance between these two points was inconsiderable. Since A drove the lorry to Bleak’s, B must have taken charge of the car. What did he do with it? In all probability he took it to the spot which had served as the hiding-place of the lorry. All he had to do, then, was to cover this short distance twice. He was probably absent from his usual haunts for a couple of hours at most. And almost anybody can do that, without other people being a penny the wiser.”

  “Confound you!” Arnold exclaimed. “You throw cold water upon every suggestion I make. Suppose you try to be helpful for a change?”

  “I’m only discouraging because I feel pretty sure that ordinary methods won’t do in this case. We’ve got a pair of remarkably clever scoundrels to deal with, and they’ve left no loose threads behind them for us to catch hold of. But let’s see if we can’t worry out something about this hiding-place we’ve spoken of. We know, or rather, we have deduced, this much about it. It is within a radius of a dozen miles or so of the ventilating shaft, and it was capable of concealing a vehicle as conspicuous as a breakdown lorry for a whole day. I don’t think, then, that it is likely to have been some secluded spot by the roadside, for instance. Or that it was in the open at all, for that matter. The risk of the lorry being seen, and questions asked, would have been too great. You see the point, don’t you?”

  “Yes, I see the point, all right,” Arnold replied. “But I haven’t the foggiest notion of what you’re driving at.”

  “You’ll understand in a moment. The next point in the argument is this. If the lorry was not left out in the open it must have been hidden somewhere safely under cover. In other words, it was put into a building of some kind, a shed or garage. Certainly not a public garage, or you would have heard of it by now. Besides, the risk of recognition would have been too great. Then a private building of some kind, to which only the conspirators had access. Does that suggest anything to you?”

  “Only that since we don’t know who the conspirators are, we can’t tell what buildings they had access to.”

  “To what, as a rule, do people have sole access? Their own property. We are agreed that one of these two was intimate with Saxonby, and I have told you why I believe that this was B. Now, suppose that B lived somewhere near Blackdown? I’ve already explained why one of the conspirators most likely does so. Wouldn’t his private garage be an ideal spot in which to hide the lorry? And B would have been operating from his house and usual haunts.

  “Now, perhaps, you see the chance of a clue. You know where Mrs. Wardour and her husband live. But do you know where the other people who may be supposed to have been intimate with Saxonby live? You don’t, because you have never thought it worth while to ask. But if I were you, my next step would be to make a list of addresses.”

  Arnold made no reply to this. But evidently he was revolving in his mind what Merrion had said. “Look here!” he exclaimed suddenly. “You said just now that A may have been a total stranger to Sir Wilfred. Yet A is the man who gave his name as Yates, and was admitted to Sir Wilfred’s presence without question. How do you account for that?”

  “Easily enough,” Merrion replied. “Saxonby may have been expecting a messenger from a friend of his. He knew that the messenger would give the name of Yates, and he also knew the time that he would call. Consequently when the messenger arrived and was announced to him, he gave orders that he was to be sent up at once. It seems to me quite natural.”

  “Then it’s the only natural thing I’ve come across in this case so far,” Arnold growled. “Well, it’s time I was getting along. I’ll think over your suggestion of inquiring where all these people live. Good-night.”

  His departure left Merrion to his own thoughts. Arnold’s last question had perplexed him more than he had cared to admit. The theory that Yates had been a messenger from a friend had occurred to him on th
e spur of the moment. But, on reflection, this theory seemed to raise two perplexing questions. Who was this friend, and why had he not been heard of since Saxonby’s death? Merrion was still convinced that Yates had brought Saxonby something of value. If as the messenger of a friend of his, why had that friend not made some statement, since the valuable object had disappeared? That was the first question. The second concerned the name given by the messenger. Was it merely a coincidence that this was the same as that of Saxonby’s lawyer?

  Dimly a suspicion began to form in Merrion’s mind. It was ridiculous, of course. Sir Wilfred Saxonby had been a man of stainless reputation. A magistrate, against whom the only criticism that could be levelled was a certain severity of judgment. Chairman of Wigland and Bunthorne, an old-established firm with an established and honoured position in the City. During the whole course of the investigation no hint had been made in any way derogatory to Saxonby’s character. And yet…

  Without a shred of justification, Merrion’s imagination persisted in its obstinate and contrary course. What if there had been a reverse to this picture of spotless respectability? What if Saxonby, unknown to his family, unknown to his staff, had indulged in some shady but doubtless profitable transaction, or series of transactions? If so, the visit of Yates, and its attendant circumstances, would become more explicable.

  Merrion did not worry himself about the possible nature of these imaginary transactions. He assumed for the moment that they had existed. Obviously, Saxonby could not have appeared in them personally. He would have been compelled to employ a confidential agent. Yates had been that agent. The interview between them had been arranged for the purpose of giving the profits of the transaction to his principal. These profits, not necessarily in the form of money, formed the mysterious object X, of which Merrion had all along suspected the existence.