French hesitated. He was sorely tempted to enter. He would be, of course, entirely in the wrong to do so. On the other hand, the circumstances simply asked for it.
The struggle was short-lived. With “Keep an eye out, will you,” to the sergeant, he slipped into the garden and crossed to the door of the hut. It was locked, but the lock looked old fashioned. He had a little tool on his ring and a moment later he inserted it in the keyhole and began twisting it round with skilful sensitive fingers.
Some slight feeling of sympathy for his hereditary enemies, the burglars and housebreakers of Britain, crept into his heart as he stood wrestling delicately with the lock. He was, he felt sure, safe. At twelve o’clock on a week day Capper would be in the throes of deeds, conveyances, torts (whatever they were) and suchlike mainstays of his profession, no doubt as regardless of the law in his own line, French thought viciously, as French himself was in his. And each evildoer doubtless justified his conscience in the same way: that the essential and admirable end justified the peccadillo in the means.
Suddenly his wandering thoughts returned to the job. There was a click as the bolt shot back. The door swung open. French entered the shed and closed the door behind him.
He had certainly struck oil. This was Capper’s workshop, and not too bad a one either. Along one side ran a carpenter’s bench, at the other were a lathe and a small universal slotting and planing machine. It was evident the man worked both in wood and metal. Like that of many amateurs, the shop was untidy. Tools and shavings covered the bench and the floor looked as if it had not been swept for weeks.
French did not know what exactly he hoped to find and therefore could only look about generally. Rapidly though systematically he began going over the bench and peering into the various drawers and cupboards. But nowhere could he find anything in the slightest degree suspicious.
At the end of half an hour he had been over everything. He was beginning to feel that his journey had been wasted. Also he saw that he must soon end his search, as Capper might come down to the hut at lunch-time.
As a last resort he got down on his knees and with his torch began turning over the debris on the floor. Here also he was systematic, beginning at one corner and working steadily towards that diagonally opposite.
Then unexpectedly he reaped his reward. Screened behind one of the metal standards of the lathe he found a scrap of bakelite.
It was a thin dark brown flake and very small, only about half an inch by a quarter, and was evidently broken off some article on which work had been in progress, as while three of its sides were rough fractures, the fourth showed tool marks. This worked side was cut to a radius of about half an inch. The surface was also convexly curved in both directions and was ribbed with narrow ridges and hollows.
French’s thrill returned more strongly than ever as he gazed at it. He would, he told himself, eat his hat if the fragment wasn’t part of a door handle! As if it were a cut diamond he put it in his wallet and turned back to his task.
Almost at once he found two more pieces. He was about to pick them up, then an idea occurred to him and he put them back. Now was the time for the search warrant. There must be something for him to find while acting under that, because he could only produce in court what he had obtained legally.
He let himself out, skilfully relocked the door, and satisfied that he was still unobserved, returned to the sergeant. A couple of hours later they were back at police headquarters in Birmington.
“I want you,” he said to Rankin, “to put another enquiry in train for me, and I hope you’ll be as successful as last time. Will you try and find out whether prior to Burnaby’s death Capper bought any brown bakelite door handles of this size and shape?” and he handed over a dimensioned sketch he had made of that on the “Riverview” gate.
Rankin stared. “Door handles?” he repeated. “That interests me, sir, quite a lot. You can’t be more explicit, I suppose?”
French felt he must take the man into his confidence. “It’s only a theory,” he told him. “There may be nothing in it, but I’d like to be sure,” and he went on to explain his idea.
Rankin was tremendously impressed. It appeared that he and his chief constable had considered delayed action appliances, but had rejected them because of the medical evidence. “If you can prove that, sir, you’ve as good as got the man.”
“I’m afraid,” French returned, “we’ve some way to go before that. However, it’s not so bad if we’re on the right road.”
French as a matter of fact was much more sanguine than his words admitted. Motive was already proved, and now it looked as if he was going to be able to prove opportunity also. Moreover, the proof he hoped to obtain would establish facts which could not be explained on any hypothesis other than that of Capper’s guilt, and would therefore lead to certain conviction.
Well content with his progress, French returned to his hotel for dinner.
Chapter XIX
Venom: From the River
That evening French settled down to get his new theory on paper, and to divide those points which he considered proven from those which still remained surmise. This, he felt sure, would not only be intrinsically valuable, but would indicate the steps next to be taken.
First, to summarise Capper’s general situation. The man no doubt wanted the £22,000 he knew was coming to him, but which delayed so exasperatingly in making its appearance. As Nature had failed in shuffling off the professor’s mortal coil, Art must come to her aid. Capper knew enough about his uncle’s researches to enable him to found on them his plan. The affair would look like an accident; all the same, in case of suspicion he, Capper, must have an alibi. Hence the delayed action apparatus. From the snake he would obtain venom with which to charge his trap, then drowning the creature where Burnaby might have thrown it.
So much of course was obvious and his action with the door handle was equally clear. First, he would have to buy a number of handles, as undoubtedly he would have to experiment before obtaining a satisfactory result. He would complete his apparatus, then consider how he might put it in place. His decayed tooth would give him the hint, and he would invent a night’s pain and a day’s engagements, so as to obtain an appointment with his dentist which would allow him to pass “Riverview” at a suitable hour. This must be a little before eight on a Wednesday evening, the hour that just before Burnaby left for Leet’s, and the evening that on which Mrs. Pertwee would be out and there would be no one to whom the old man could make incriminating remarks.
French now seemed to see Capper as on that Wednesday evening he carried out his evil purpose. According to his theory, Capper left the dentist’s about 6.45 with his lethal handle in the car, driving to Calshort Road and backing his car into the lane next Leet’s. Then with the handle he ran down to the river, and hurrying along its deserted bank, crossed the “Riverview” grounds to the gate. There he changed the handles, hiding the old one somewhere close by. Either at this time or on his second visit he dropped the snake, which he must have previously drowned, into the barrel. Hastening back to the car, he drove as quickly as he could to Bursham. There he took his car to the garage, as a check on the hour at which he reached home. Doubtless he had himself loosened the bolts of his carrier.
He knew that Marr would be called in and that owing to his relationship to Burnaby, Marr would ring him up if the old man died. Marr did so, and Capper took his car from the garage and drove back at his highest speed to the lane beside Leet’s. A few moments would suffice to remove the trick handle and replace the old one, and one other detail dealt with, he would run on to Marr’s and complete his alibi.
That detail was the disposal of the trick handle. Capper might of course have carried it away in his car, but French felt this was unlikely. He would be safer to get rid of it at once. How could he do so?
There was a very obvious and a very easy plan. As he ran back to the car alo
ng the bank, why not throw the handle into the river?
French was delighted with his theory. He felt sure it was what Capper had done. He would have bet long odds that on the bed of the Choole, somewhere between Burnaby’s and Leet’s, the trick handle was lying.
He wondered could he find it? If so, it would prove his theory and convict Capper.
By a curious coincidence it was only a few months since the search of a river bed—the Thames at Henley—had provided him with a clue which led to the clearing up of that unpleasant case of the death of Andrew Harrison. The use of a diver had proved extremely profitable. Could he hope for a similar piece of luck twice running?
He sat up till the small hours pondering the matter, and next morning he saw the Chief Constable, explained his theory, and recommended a search for the handle. At most, an area of only some hundred yards long by fifty or less wide would have to be covered, but probably this could be reduced to about ten yards square, as the handle more than likely lay in midstream opposite the “Riverview” gate. Capper’s urge would undoubtedly have been to get rid of it at the first possible moment.
The Chief Constable was almost as much impressed as had been Rankin. A little to French’s surprise he did not pooh-pooh the theory and try to suggest snags. Instead he was complimentary, saying he believed French had reached the truth. He was in favour of an immediate search.
“How do you propose to do it?” he asked, getting down to details. “Special drags?”
French didn’t think special drags would be successful. “There would be a danger,” he explained, “of pushing a small object like a door handle down into the mud. I don’t know that there’s mud there, of course, but I should imagine it because it’s a sluggish reach. No, sir, I suggest a diver.”
Mr. Stone made a grimace. “Pretty expensive, wouldn’t that be? What would it run to?”
French didn’t know, but he thought that considering the area to be covered, the cost would not be deadly. “You could get a man from Liverpool, I’m sure, and with luck he might do the whole thing in a day. You could get an approximate estimate, if you liked.”
For answer the Chief Constable picked up his telephone and asked for the Liverpool police headquarters. He soon obtained the name of a reputable firm and in another ten minutes was discussing the affair with its manager. Finally it was arranged that a squad should be sent to Birmington by the first train next morning.
“Meantime, Rankin,” went on Mr. Stone, “you see about the necessary barge and get it towed up to the place. And there are certain other things the diver will want,” and he went into technical details.
The scene next morning brought back vividly to French that other day at Henley when, just as now, he had waited with anxious expectation for the confirmation or refutation of his theories. This time even more hung on the result. Then the evidence that he hoped to find, and did eventually find, was not a major clue which in itself would solve his problem. But here he was looking for something which, if he found it, would practically end his case.
The men worked quickly and soon the diver was clothed, first in his multitudinous sweaters and then in his rubbered canvas outer dress. He sat, enclosed to the neck, as the other diver had sat, consuming a last cigarette before the helmet was lifted over his head. Then slowly he moved to the side of the barge, stepped down the rope ladder, and disappeared.
French stood looking on, with that strange feeling of familiarity with the whole scene which is so often experienced. The smooth reach of the river curved gently away in each direction, to the north till it slipped behind its protruding eastern bank, and to the south till it gathered itself and passed under the three grey stone arches of the Liverham Avenue bridge. On the west bank ran the old towpath, separated by a railing and gates from the various little estates. Opposite stretched the Municipal Park with its green sward and splendid oaks and elms. And in this charming setting floated the square-nosed barge with its rust-stained tarred sides, its boiler, donkey engine and derricks, and the balks of timber and other debris on its deck. Among the varied impedimenta two men slowly rotated the windlass-like air-pump, producing a soft clacking of valves. The air-pipe led over the side into the water, and a little further away, moving slowly here and there and disturbing the mirrored surface, a rush of bubbles marked the diver’s position.
Time passed slowly for French, as it always did when he was anxious. He had marked out with guide ropes the area into which he thought an object thrown from the gate of “Riverview” would fall, and the diver was slowly working backwards and forwards across this. Not till it was completely covered would he move further down stream.
By now a little knot of people had gathered along the east bank in the park. French had put out a story that the work was being done by the Corporation, who wished to find a submerged drainage sluice, but he was not surprised to hear the tale was rejected of the populace. Then when Rankin was recognised the truth was out, and the crowd increased in number and curiosity.
Suddenly French saw the diver’s hand waving some object above the water, which was there only some seven feet deep. French couldn’t see what it was, except that obviously it was not a door handle. But when at last it was handed to him, he breathed a sigh of intense relief. Though the find might not convince a jury, it satisfied him beyond possibility of doubt.
It was a small screwdriver, of the size which would fit the screw in the waist of a door handle, and to it was attached a tiny electric torch, arranged to light up the work in hand. It was like one of those pencils for writers or inventors whose fertile brains produce ideas which must be recorded during the dark watches of the night.
Half an hour later the trail of bubbles moved to the rope ladder, and presently the globular helmet appeared like the head of some uncouth marine monster, blowing spray as if from its mouth as it emerged. The diver reached the deck and then held out a small object to French.
It was a brown bakelite door handle.
French took it with a feeling of overwhelming satisfaction. Once again his judgment had been vindicated! He had guessed from that mere newspaper story that Burnaby’s death was no accident, and in spite of the opinions of the local experts, he had trusted his own belief, he had staked his reputation on his view, and—he had won! Moreover, he had upheld the prestige of the Yard, and had shown once more that it was the final court of appeal in the police service.
He carried the handle gingerly, not knowing in what terrible way it might reward a careless grasp. Without changing his hold, he took it to Blaney-Heaton and gently deposited it on the scientist’s desk.
“Hullo, Chief Inspector,” he was greeted. “What have you got there?”
“That’s what I want you to tell me, sir,” French returned cheerily, his smile indicating triumph in spite of rigorous self-repression.
“You seem very pleased about it at all events,” Blaney-Heaton commented, as he stretched out his hand to pick up the strange object.
“Careful, sir!” French warned him. “If you touch it carelessly, it may bite you.”
The professor halted and looked searchingly at French. “Good heavens!” he said quietly. Then he crossed the room, and returning with a chemical clamp, fixed it on the waist of the handle and held it up.
“You’re right,” he went on grimly, pointing to two small holes some half an inch apart, with about half an inch from them a narrow slot of about the same length. “See, here are the venom fangs, and here,” indicating the slot, “are the teeth of the lower jaw.”
French beamed. “I thought so, sir,” he admitted.
“I wonder how they work?” Blaney-Heaton slowly turned the handle over. “Ah, here you are.” He pointed to a circular slot about an inch in diameter. “That disc I’m certain acts as a press. When you push it in by grasping the handle, you release some mechanism which shoots out the fangs. What do you think?”
This, it appeare
d, was precisely French’s idea. “Will you open it,” he went on, “so that we may see the mechanism?”
“Ah,” returned the professor, “I’m afraid you’ve got me there. It seems very firmly made, and I fear I should only break it if I tried.”
“Then would you advise me to send it to the Yard?”
Blaney-Heaton considered. “I suggest trying it on Major Meake,” he said at last. “He’s an officer in the garrison here and a very good fellow. I understand he specialises in opening live bombs, so this should be in his line.”
“He sounds the very man, sir.”
“Right, I’ll get hold of him. I’ll tell him to be careful and I’ll let you know what he says.”
French would have preferred to have himself taken the handle to Major Meake, but he thought it better to let Blaney-Heaton arrange the matter. After all, he would not have to wait long for the result.
Nor had he. A couple of hours later the professor rang up for him.
“This is a very ingenious little contraption,” said Meake, when the necessary introductions had been made. “The professor has told me the circumstances and it’s your snake all right.”
Though French hadn’t doubted it, this confirmation was welcome. After all, his own ideas were not evidence, but Major Meake could be taken into court to repeat his testimony. “Show me, sir,” French asked.
“This disc,” the major demonstrated, pointing to the surface enclosed by the circular slot, “is really the head of a press or push. Grasping the handle automatically pushes it in. I have called it the trigger. See?”
French nodded.
“Now that releases a little trip on a shaft, and the shaft, driven by a powerful spring, makes a turn, one turn through a complete circle. The arrangement is like one of those rotating camera shutters.”
Again French nodded.
Antidote to Venom Page 22
