‘There’s just one thing that puts me against taking her, and that’s something that Mr Daw told me in the course of conversation. He said that on that night when Mr Berlyn met his death the car broke down, in fact that it was that breakdown which led indirectly to the accident. Well, I don’t want a car that breaks down. If she’s not realiable she’s no good to me.’
Mr Makepeace looked pained and flashed a rather indignant glance at the sergeant.
‘She did break down that night,’ he admitted reluctantly, ‘but there’s no machinery on earth that won’t sometimes go wrong. She failed from a most uncommon cause, and she might run for twenty years without the same thing happening to her again.’
‘I’m not doubting your word, Mr Makepeace, but I shall want that clearly demonstrated before I think of her. What was it that went wrong?’
‘Magneto trouble: armature burnt out.’
‘What caused it?’
‘It’s hard to say; there was no defect showing outwardly. Careless handling, most likely. Some darned mechanic might have jabbed a screwdriver into the wire and covered up the mark. I’ve known that happen.’
‘But it surely wouldn’t run if that had been done?’
‘Oh, yes, it might. If the insulation wasn’t completely cut through it would run for a time. But eventually the short, would develop, causing the engine to misfire, and that would get worse till it stopped altogether.’
‘That’s interesting. Then you think the fault would only develop if there had been some original injury?’
‘I don’t say that. I have known cases of short circuits occurring and you couldn’t tell what caused them.’
‘I suppose you could do that sort of thing purposely if you wanted to?’
‘Purposely?’ Mr Makepeace shot a keen glance at his questioner.
‘Yes. Suppose in this case someone wanted to play a practical joke on Mr Berlyn.’
Mr Makepeace shook his head with some scorn.
‘Not blooming likely,’ he declared. ‘A fine sort of joke that would be.’
‘I was asking purely from curiosity, but you surprise me all the same. I thought you could short circuit any electric machine?’
‘Don’t you believe it. You couldn’t do nothing to short an armature without the damage showing.’
‘Well, I’m not worrying whether you could or not. All I want is that it won’t fail again.’
‘You may go nap on that.’
‘All right,’ French smiled. ‘Did you rewind the armature yourselves?’
‘Neither unwound it or rewound it. That’s a job for the makers. We sent it to London. It’s an Ardlo magneto, and the Ardlo people have a factory in Bermondsey.’
‘That so? I suppose the short circuit was the only trouble? The engine hadn’t been hot or anything?’
‘The engine was as right as rain,’ Mr Makepeace asseverated with ill-repressed impatience.
‘I’m glad to know that. I asked because I’ve known trouble through shortage of water in the radiator. I suppose there was plenty that night?’
‘The radiator was full; my son noticed it particularly. You see, on account of the mascot sticking out behind, you have to take off the radiator cap before you can lift the bonnet. When he was taking off the cap he noticed the water.
French turned as if to close the discussion.
‘I don’t think I need worry about the chance of more trouble with it,’ he agreed. ‘Surely, Mr Makepeace, you have her clean enough now? I think we’ll get away.’
As they swung out along the Tavistock road French’s heart had fallen to the depths. If what this garage owner said were true, the Berlyn-Pyke affair was an accident and he, French, was on the wrong track. However, he had made his plans, and he would carry them out. Banishing his disappointment from his mind, he prepared to enjoy his trip.
The road led from the west end of the town through scenery which was more than enough to hold his attention. The country was charmingly wooded, but extraordinarily hilly: never had French seen such hills. No sooner had they climbed interminably out of one valley than they were over the divide and dropping down an equally break-neck precipice into the next. French was interested in the notices to motor drivers, adjuring them to put their cars into lowest gear before attempting to descend. Three of these well-wooded valleys they crossed—the last the famous meeting of the waters, Dartmeet—and each had its dangerously narrow bridge approached by sharp right-angled bends. The climb beyond Dartmeet took them up on to the open moor, wild, lonely, rolling in great sweeps of heather-clad country like the vast swelling waves of some mighty petrified ocean. Here and there these huge sweeps ran up into jagged rocky crests, as if the dancing foam of the caps had been arrested in mid air and turned into grim shapes of black stone. Once before French had been on Dartmoor, when he had gone down to Princetown to see one of the unfortunates in the great prison. But he had not then been out on the open moor, and he felt impressed by the wide spaces and the desolation.
The sergeant’s attention being fully occupied with his wheel, he proved himself a silent companion, and, beyond pointing out the various objects of interest, made no attempt at conversation. Mostly in silence they drove some eight or nine miles, and then suddenly the man pulled up.
‘This is the place, sir.’
It was the loneliest spot French had yet seen. On both sides stretched the moor, rolling away into the distance. To the north the ground rose gently; to the south it fell to the valley of a river before swelling up to a line of more distant highlands. Some three miles to the west lay the grey buildings of Princetown, the only human habitations visible, save for a few isolated cottages dotted about at wide intervals. The road was unfenced and ran in a snaky line across the greens and browns of the heather and rough grass. Here and there spots of brighter green showed, and to these the sergeant pointed.
‘Those are soft places,’ he said. ‘Over there towards the south is Fox Tor Mire, a biggish swamp, and there are others in the same direction. On the north side are small patches, but nothing like the others.’
‘In which direction did the men go?’
‘Northwards.’ The sergeant walked a few yards down the road, expounding as he did so. ‘The car was pulled in to the side of the road here. There is the patch of sandy soil that the footsteps crossed, and that is the direction they were going in.’
‘Which way was the car heading?’
‘Towards Ashburton.’
‘Were the lamps lighted?’
‘Yes, sir. Wing lamps, burning dimly, but good enough to show the car was there’
‘It was a dark night?’
‘Very dark for the time of year.’
French nodded.
‘Now when you came out here tell me what you did.’
‘I looked round, and when I couldn’t see anyone, I felt the radiator and opened the bonnet and looked at and felt the engine. Both were cold, but I couldn’t see anything wrong. Then I took the lamp off my bicycle and looked further around. I found the footsteps—if you’ve read the papers you’ll know about them—and I wondered where they could be heading to. I thought of Colonel Domlio’s and I went to the house and roused the colonel.’
‘Across the moor?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘But were you not afraid of the quagmires?’
‘No. It was then a clear night, and I had a good acetylene lamp. I thought maybe the gentlemen had met with an accident on the way and that I’d better go over the ground. I walked carefully and kept on hard earth all the way.’
‘Well, you aroused the colonel?’
‘Yes, sir, and a job I had to do it. But he could give me no help.’
‘Yes? And then?’
‘Colonel Domlio wanted to come out with me, but I said there was nothing he could do. I left Constable Hughes with the car and ran back into Ashburton to give the news. I told Mrs Berlyn, and then I got all my men out with lamps and we went back and began a detailed search of the ground.
We kept it up until the whole place had been gone over by daylight, but we found nothing.’
‘Now this Colonel Domlio. What kind of man is he?’
‘A rather peculiar man, if I may say so. He’s practically the owner of the Vida Company, now Mr Berlyn’s gone. He lives here alone, except for the servants. There’s a man and his wife indoors and a gardener and a chauffeur outside. He must have plenty of money, the colonel.’
‘There’s nothing out of the way in all that. Why did you call him peculiar?’
‘Well, just his living alone. He doesn’t have much to say to the neighbours by all accounts. Then he catches insects about the moor and sits up half the night writing about them. They say he’s writing a book.’
‘What age is he?’
‘About forty-five, I should say.’
‘Well, that’s all we can do here. Let’s get on to Tavistock.’
French enjoyed the remainder of the drive as much as any he had ever taken. He was immensely impressed by the mournful beauty of the scenery. They passed Two Bridges, presently striking off from the Plymouth road. On the left the great grey buildings of the prison appeared, with rugged North Hessary Tor just beyond and the farm staffed by the prisoners in the foreground. The road led on almost due west until; after passing the splendid outlook of Moorshop and descending more break-neck hills, they reached cultivated ground and Tavistock.
They had driven fast, and less the time they had stopped on the road, the run had taken just sixty-three minutes. The car had behaved excellently, and if French had really been contemplating its purchase he would have been well satisfied with the test.
‘I want to find out how long the radiator took to cool on that night,’ French said. ‘The point is to know whether the car could have done any further running after its trip from here to the place where it was abandoned. If it takes three hours or more to cool, it couldn’t; if less, it might.’
‘I follow, but I’m afraid that won’t be easy to find out.’
‘Why not?’
‘Well, it depends on the weather and specially the wind. I used to drive, and I know something about it. If there’s a wind blowing into the radiator it’ll cool about twice as quickly as if the same wind was blowing from behind the car.’
‘I can understand that,’ French admitted. ‘How was the wind that night?’
‘A very faint westerly breeze—scarcely noticeable.’
‘That would be behind the car. Then if we try it today in any pretty sheltered place we ought to get, roughly speaking, the same result? The temperature’s about the same today as it was that night, I should think?’
‘That’s so, sir, the weather conditions are as good for a test as you’ll get. But even so it will be only a rough guide.’
‘We’ll try it anyway. Park somewhere and we’ll go and have some lunch.’
They left the car in front of the fine old parish church while they lunched and explored the town. Then returning to the car, they sat down to wait. At intervals they felt the radiator until, just three and a half hours after their arrival, the last sensation of warmth vanished.
‘That’s three hours and thirty minutes,’ Daw declared, ‘but I don’t think you would be wise to take that too literally. If you say something between three and four hours you won’t be far wrong.’
‘I agree, sergeant. That’s all we want. Let’s get home.’
That evening French sat down to write up his notes and to consider the facts he had learned.
The more he thought over these facts, the more dissatisfied he grew. It certainly did not look as if his effort to connect the Berlyn-Pyke tragedy with the crate affair was going to be successful. And if it failed it left him where he had started. He had no alternative theory on which to work.
He recalled the four points by which he had hoped to test the matter. On each of these he had now obtained information, but in each case the information tended against the theory he wished to establish.
First there was the breakdown of the car. Was that an accident or had it been pre-arranged?
Obviously if it had been an accident it could not have been part of the criminal’s plan. Therefore neither could the resulting disappearance of Berlyn and Pyke. Therefore the murderer must have been out after some other victim, whose disappearance he had masked so cleverly that it had not yet been discovered.
Now Makepeace had stated definitely that the breakdown could not have been faked. Of course it would be necessary to have this opinion confirmed by the makers of the magneto. But Makepeace had seemed so sure that French did not doubt his statement.
The second point concerned the movements of the car on the fatal night. French began by asking himself the question: Assuming the murdered man were Pyke, how had his body been taken to the works?
He could only see one way—in the car. Suppose the murder was committed on the way from Tavistock. What then? The murderer would drive to the works with the dead man in the car. This, French believed, would be possible without discovery owing to the distance the works lay from the town. He would then in some way square the night watchman, unpack the duplicator, put the body in its place, load the duplicator into the back of the car, drive off, somehow get rid of the duplicator, return to the road near Colonel Domlio’s house, make the two lines of footprints, and decamp.
At first sight this obvious explanation seemed encouraging to French. Then he wondered would there be time for all these operations?
Taking the results of the tests he had made and estimating times where he had no actual data, he set himself to produce a hypothetical time-table of the whole affair. It was a form of reconstruction which he had found valuable on many previous occasions. It read:
After leaving the works the murderer had to get rid of the duplicator. French could not estimate this item as he had no idea how the thing could have been done. But it had certainly taken half an hour. That would make it 1.40 a.m. At least another half hour would have been spent in returning to the site of the mock tragedy, bringing the time up to 2.10 a.m.
The engine and radiator had then gradually to cool, for there was no water on that part of the moor to cool them artificially. From his experiment French felt sure that this would have taken at least three hours. In other words there would have been traces of heat up till about five o’clock. And that at the very earliest possible.
But the sergeant found the car at 3.35 a.m, and it was then cold. It was therefore impossible that it could have been used to carry the victim to the works as French had assumed. And if it had not been so used how could the body have been transported? There was no way without introducing an accomplice and another car, which on the face of it seemed improbable.
It would, he saw, have been possible to have taken the body to the works in the car if the vehicle had immediately returned to the moor. But this not only postulated an accomplice, but overlooked the duplicator. If the car had been used to dispose of the duplicator it would have been warm when the sergeant found it.
The third point was the squaring of the night watchman. The more French thought over this, the more impossible it seemed. In an ordinary matter the man might easily have been corrupted, but unless he had some irresistible motive he would never have risked his neck by aiding and abetting a murder. And he could not have been deceived as to what was taking place. Even supposing that he had been at the time, next day’s discovery would have made clear what he had assisted in.
But even supposing he had been squared, it did not clear the matter up. In this case French did not believe he could have sustained his interrogation without giving himself away. He would have guessed what lay behind the questions and would have shown fear. No, French was satisfied the man had no suspicion of anything so grave as murder, and it seemed impossible that the body could have been put into the crate without making the terrible fact clear.
The fourth test seemed equally convincing. If the body had been put into the crate in the works, where was the duplicator? It could not
have been left in the works; the storekeeping methods would have revealed it long before this. Had it been taken out?
French could not imagine any way in which it could have been done. The duplicator was a big machine and heavy. It could not have been lifted by less than three or four people. Of course there was the differential pulley with its overhead rail, but even these would only have lifted it out of the crate on to a car or lorry. To have unloaded it secretly would involve the existence of a second differential in some place available only to the murderer, a far-fetched hypothesis, though no doubt possible.
But what finally convinced French was the consideration that if the murderer really had been able to dispose secretly of so bulky an object, he would surely have used this method to get rid of the body and thus have saved the whole complex business of the crate.
French felt deeply disappointed as he found himself forced to these conclusions. A promising theory had gone west, and he was left as far from a solution of his problem as when he took it up. Moreover, up to the present, at all events, the Yard had been unable to learn anything at the St Pancras or Euston Hotels of either ‘John F. Stewart’ or ‘James S. Stephenson.’ Evidently in this case as in most others there was no royal road to success. He must simply go on trying to amass information in the ordinary humdrum routine way, in the hope that sooner or later he might come on some fact which would throw the desired light on the affair.
Tired and not a little out of sorts, he turned in.
8
A Fresh Start
It is wonderful what an effect a good night’s sleep and a bright morning will have on the mind of a healthy man. French had gone to bed tired and worried about his case. He woke cheery and optimistic, philosophic as to his reverses, and hopeful for the future.
On such a morning indeed it was impossible that anyone could be despondent. Though October had begun, the sun shone with a thin brilliancy reminiscent of early summer. The air, floating up gently from the garden in the rear of the hotel, was surprisingly warm and aromatic for the time of year. Birds were singing in the trees and there was a faint hum of insects from below. As he looked out of his window French felt that life was good and that to squander it in sleep was little better than a sin.
Inspector French and the Sea Mystery Page 8
