This programme was carried out. French went out and rang at the office door, then ran round to the large gate, let himself in through the wicket, found the can of tea, opened it and counted ten, closed it, and relocked the wicket. Then he began to time. Three minutes passed before Gurney appeared.
So that was all right. Anyone who had access to the key in the office could have doctored the watchman’s food. Moreover, the fact that the Gurneys had breakfasted without ill effect on the remainder was not such a difficulty as French had at first supposed. The criminal might have doped the tea on his first visit and during his second poured away what was over and replaced it with fresh. In fact, if he were to preserve his secret, he must have done so. The discovery of the drugging would have started an inquiry which might have brought to light the whole plot.
Though French was enthusiastic about his discovery, he saw that it involved one disconcerting point. What about the theory of Berlyn’s guilt? The ring at the office door had come shortly before ten. But shortly before ten Berlyn was at Tavistock. Therefore, some other person was involved. Was this person the murderer and had he made away with Berlyn as well as Pyke? Or was he Berlyn’s accomplice? French inclined to the latter supposition. In considering the timing of the car he had seen that it could have been used to carry the body to the works, provided an accomplice was ready to drive it back to the moor without delay. On the whole, therefore, it looked as if the murder was the work of two persons, of whom Berlyn was one.
But whether principal or accomplice, it was at least certain that the man who had drugged Gurney’s food knew the works intimately and had access to the key in the office. Only a comparatively small number of persons could fill these requirements, and he should therefore be quickly found.
Well pleased with his day’s work, French returned to the hotel and spent the remainder of the evening in writing up his diary.
12
The Duplicator
The saying, ‘it never rains but it pours,’ is a popular expression of the unhappy fact that misfortunes never come singly. Fortunately for suffering humanity the phrase expresses only half the truth. Runs of good luck occur as well as runs of bad.
As French was smoking his after-breakfast pipe in the lounge next morning, it was borne in on him that he was at that time experiencing one of the most phenomenal runs of good luck that had ever fallen to his lot. Four days ago he had proved that the dead man was Pyke. Two days later he had learned how the breakdown of the car had been faked. Yesterday he had found the explanation of the watchman’s inaction, and today, just at that very moment, an idea had occurred to him which bade fair to solve the problem of the disposal of the duplicator! Unfortunately nothing could be done towards putting it to the test until the evening. He spent the day, therefore, in a long tramp on the moor; then about five o’clock walked for the second time to Gurney’s house.
‘I want to have another chat with you,’ he explained. ‘I haven’t time to wait now, but I shall come up to the works later in the evening. Listen out for my ring.’
He strolled back to the town, had a leisurely dinner, visited the local picture house, and killed time until after eleven. Then, when the little town was asleep, he went up to the works. Five minutes later he was seated with Gurney in the boiler house.
‘I have been thinking over this affair, Gurney,’ he began, ‘and I am more than ever certain that some terrible deeds were done here on that night when you were drugged. I want to have another look round. But you must not under any circumstances let it be known that I was here.’
‘That’s all right, guv’nor. I ain’t goin’ to say nothing.’
French nodded.
‘You told me that you had been a mechanic in the works before your rheumatism got bad. Have you worked at any of those duplicators like what was packed in the crate?’
‘I worked at all kinds of erecting works: duplicators an’ files an’ indexes an’ addressing machines, an’ all the rest o’ them. I knows them all.’
‘Good. Now I want you to come round to the store and show me the different parts of a duplicator.’
Gurney led the way from the boiler house.
‘Don’t switch on the light,’ French directed. ‘I don’t want the windows to show lit up. I have a torch.’
They passed through the packing shed and into the completed machine store adjoining. Here French called a halt.
‘Just let’s look at one of these duplicators again,’ he said. ‘Suppose you wanted to take one of them to pieces, let me see how you would set about it. Should I be correct in saying that if five or six of the larger pieces were got rid of, all the rest could be carried in a handbag?’
‘That’s right, sir.’
‘Now show me the bins where these larger parts are stocked.’
They passed on to the part store and across it to a line of bins labelled ‘Duplicators.’ In the first bin were rows of leg castings. French ran his eye along them.
‘There must be fifty or sixty here,’ he said slowly. ‘Let’s see if that is a good guess.’
On every, bin was a stock card in a metal holder. French lifted down that in question. It was divided into three sets of columns, one set showing in-comes, the second out-goes, and the third existing stock. The date of each transmission was given, and for each entry the stock was adjusted.
‘Not such a bad guess,’ French remarked slowly as he scrutinised the entries. ‘There are just fifty-four.’
The card was large and was nearly full. French noticed that it went back for some weeks before the tragedy. He stood gazing at it in the light of his torch, while a feeling of bitter disappointment grew in his mind. Then suddenly he thought he saw what he was looking for, and whipping out a lens, he examined one of the entries more closely. ‘Got it, by Jove! I’ve actually got it,’ he thought delightedly. His luck had held.
One of the entries had been altered. A loop had been skilfully added to a six to make it an eight. The card showed that two castings had been taken out, which either had never been taken out at all or, more probably, which had been taken out and afterwards replaced.
Convinced that he had solved the last of his four test problems, French examined the cards of the other bins. In all of those referring to large parts he noticed the same peculiarity: the entries had been tampered with to show that one more duplicator had been sent out than really was the case. The cards for the small parts were unaltered, and French could understand the reason. It was easier to get rid of the parts themselves than to falsify their records. The fraud was necessary only in the case of objects too big and heavy to carry away.
French was highly pleased. His discovery was not only valuable in itself, but he had reached it in the way which most appealed to his vanity—from his own imagination. He had imagined that the fraud might have been worked in this way. He had tested it and found that it had been. Pure brains! Such things were soothing to his self-respect.
He stood considering the matter. The evidence was valuable, but it was far from permanent. A hint that suspicion was aroused, and it would be gone. The criminal, if he were still about, would see to it that innocuous copies of the cards were substituted for these dangerous ones. French felt he dare not run such a risk. Nor could he let Gurney suspect his discovery, lest unwittingly the old man might put the criminal on his guard. He therefore went on:
‘Now all I want is to make a sketch of each of these parts. The duplicator which went out in the crate may have been taken to pieces, and I want to be able to recognise them if they’re found. I suppose I could get a sheet or two of paper in the storeman’s desk?’
In one corner a small box with glass sides constituted an office for the storeman. French led the way thither. The door was closed but not locked. The desk, which he next tried, was fastened. But above it in a rack he saw what he was looking for, a pile of blank bin-cards. He turned back.
‘It doesn’t matter about the paper after all,’ he explained. ‘I see the desk is locked. I
can make my sketches in my note-book, though it’s not so convenient. But many a sketch I’ve made in it before.’
Chatting pleasantly, he returned to the bins and began slowly to sketch the leg casting. He was purposely extremely slow and detailed in the work, measuring every possible dimension and noting it on his sketch. Gurney, as he had hoped, began to get fidgety. French continued talking and sketching. Suddenly he looked up.
‘By the way,’ he said, as if a new idea had suddenly entered his mind, ‘there is no earthly need for me to keep you here while I am working. It will take me an hour or two to finish these sketches. If you want to do your rounds and to get your supper, go ahead. I’ll find you in the boiler house when I have done.’
Gurney seemed relieved. He explained that it really was time to make his rounds and that if French didn’t mind he would go and do so. French reassured him heartily, and he slowly disappeared.
No sooner had his shuffling footsteps died away than French became an extremely active man. Quickly slipping the four faked cards from their metal holders, he carried them to the office. Then taking four fresh cards from the rack, he began slowly and carefully to copy the others. He was not a skilful forger, but at the end of half an hour’s work he had produced four passable imitations. Two minutes later he breathed more freely. The copies were in the holders and the genuine cards in his pocket. Hurriedly he resumed his sketching.
French’s work amounted to genius in the infinite pains he took with detail. In twenty minutes his sketches were complete and he effectually banished any suspicion which his actions might have aroused in Gurney’s mind by showing them to him when he rejoined him in the boiler house. Like an artist, he proceeded to establish the deception.
‘Copies of these sketches sent to the men who are searching for the duplicator will help them to recognise parts of it if it has been taken to pieces,’ he explained. ‘You see the idea?’
Gurney appreciated the point, and French, after again warning him to be circumspect, left the works.
The problem of what he should do next day was solved for French by the receipt of a letter by the early post. It was written on a half sheet of cheap notepaper in an uneducated hand and read:
‘Ashburton.
‘12th October.
‘DEAR SIR,—If you would come round some time that suits you I have something I could tell you that would maybe interest you. It’s better not wrote about.
‘LIZZIE JOHNSTON.’
French had received too many communications of the kind to be hopeful that this one would result in anything valuable. However, he thought he ought to see the ex-parlourmaid and once again he made his way to her cottage.
‘It’s my Alf,’ she explained. ‘Alf Beer, they call him. We’re being married as soon as he gets another job.’
‘He’s out of a job, then?’
‘Yes, he was in the sales department in the works; a packer, he was. He left there six months ago.’
‘How was that?’ French asked sympathetically.
‘He wasn’t well and he stayed home a few mornings and Mr Berlyn had him up in his office and spoke to him something wicked. Well, Alf wouldn’t take that, not from no man living, so he said what relieved his feelings and Mr Berlyn told him he could go.’
‘And has he been doing nothing since?’
‘Not steady, he hasn’t. Just jobbing, as you might say.’
‘Hard lines, that is. You say he had something to tell me?’
The girl nodded. ‘That’s right,’ was her reply.
‘What is it, do you know?’
‘He wouldn’t say. I told him you was in asking questions and he seemed sort of interested. “Wants to know about Berlyn and Pyke and Mrs Berlyn’s goings on with Pyke, does he,” he sez. “I thought someone would be wanting to know about that before long. Well, I can tell him something,” he sez.’
‘But he didn’t mention what it was?’
‘No. I asked him and he sez “Value for cash,” he sez. “He puts down the beans and I cough up the stuff. That’s fair, ain’t it,” he sez. “Don’t be a silly guff, Alf,” I sez. “He’s police and if he asks you questions, why you don’t half have to answer them.” “The devil I have,” he sez. “I ain’t done no crime and he hasn’t nothing on me. You tell him,” he sez, “tell him I know something that would be worth a quid or two to him.” And so I wrote you that note.’
‘Tell me why you thought I was police,’ French invited.
Miss Johnston laughed scornfully.
‘Well, ain’t you?’ she parried.
‘That’s hardly an answer to my question.’
‘Well, everybody knows what you’re after. They say you think Pyke was murdered on the moor and that Berlyn murdered him. Leastways, that’s what I’ve heard said.’
This was something more than a blow to French and his self esteem reeled under it. For the nth time he marvelled at the amazing knowledge of other people’s business to be found in country districts. The small country town, he thought, was the absolute limit! There he was, moving continually among the townspeople, none of whom gave the least sign of interest in his calling; yet evidently they had discussed him and his affairs to some purpose. The garrulous landlady, Mrs Billing, was no doubt responsible for the murder of Pyke becoming known, but the belief that he, French, suspected Berlyn of murdering him was really rather wonderful.
‘It seems to me,’ he said with a rather sickly smile, ‘that your townspeople are better detectives than ever came out of Scotland Yard. So your young man thinks I’m police and wants to turn an honest penny, does he? Where am I to find him?’
‘He’ll be at home. He’s living with his father at the head of East Street—a single red house on the left-hand side, just beyond the town.’
In the leisurely, holiday-like way he had adopted, French crossed the town and half an hour later had introduced himself to Mr Alfred Beer. Lizzie’s Alf was a stalwart young man with a heavy face and a sullen, discontented expression. French, sizing him up rapidly, decided that the suave method would scarcely meet the case.
‘You are Alfred Beer, engaged to Lizzie Johnston, the former servant at Mr Berlyn’s?’ he began.
‘That’s right, mister.’
‘I am a police officer investigating the deaths of Mr Berlyn and Mr Pyke. You have some information for me?’
‘I don’t altogether know that,’ Beer answered slowly. ‘Just wot did you want to know?’
‘What you have to tell me,’ French said sharply. ‘You told Miss Johnston you had some information and I’ve come up to hear it.’
The man looked at him calculatingly.
‘Wot do you think it might be worth to you?’ he queried.
‘Not a brass farthing. You should know that witnesses are not paid for their evidence. Don’t you misunderstand the situation, Beer, or you’ll find things mighty unpleasant. Come along, now. Out with it.’
‘How can I tell you if you won’t say wot you want?’
‘I wouldn’t talk to you any more, Beer, only I think you don’t understand where you are,’ French answered quietly. ‘This is a murder case. Mr Pyke has been murdered. If you know anything that might help the police to discover the murderer and you don’t tell it, you become an accessory after the fact. Do you realise that you’d get a good spell of years for that?’
Beer gave an uncouth shrug and turned back to his digging.
‘I don’t know nothing about no murder,’ he declared contemptuously. ‘I was just pulling Lizzie’s leg.’
‘You’ve done it now,’ French said, producing his card. ‘There’s my authority as a police officer. You’ve wasted my time and kept me back from my work. That’s obstruction and you’ll get six months for it. Come along to the station. And unless you want a couple of years you’ll come quietly.’
This was not what the man expected.
‘Wot’s that?’ he stammered. ‘You ain’t going to arrest me? I ain’t done nothin’ against the law, I ain’t.’
‘You’ll soon find out about that. Look sharp, now. I can’t spend the day here waiting for you.’
‘Aw!’ The man shifted nervously. ‘See, mister, I ain’t done no harm, I ain’t. I don’t know nothing about no murder. I don’t, honest.’
French was a trifle uneasy at the turn the interview had taken. Statements obtained by threats are not admitted as evidence and he felt he had been sailing rather near the wind. However, he had to get the information and he did not see what other way was open to him. At least, what he had done was better than to offer the man money.
‘I don’t want to be hard on you,’ he went on, in more conciliatory tones. ‘If you tell your story without any more humbugging I’ll let the rest go. But, I warn you, you needn’t start inventing any yarn. What you say will be gone into, and heaven help you if it’s not true.’
‘I’ll take my davy it’s true, mister, but it ain’t about no murder.’
‘Well, get along sharp and let’s hear it.’
‘It was one night about six months ago,’ said Beer, now speaking almost eagerly. ‘Me and Lizzie were walking out at that time. Well, that night we’d fixed up for to go for a walk, and then at the last minute she couldn’t get away. Mrs Berlyn was goin’ out or somethin’ and she couldn’t get off. We’d ’ad it fixed up that when that ’appened Lizzie would come down to the shrubbery after the rest ’ad gone to bed. Well, I wanted to see ’er that night for to fix up some little business between ourselves, so I went up to the ’ouse and gave the sign—three taps with a tree branch at ’er window. You understand?’
French nodded.
‘Well, I went back into the shrubbery for to wait for her. It was dark, but a quiet night. An’ then I ’eard voices an’ steps comin’ along the path. So I got behind a bush so as they’d not see me. There was a man and a woman, an’ when they came close I knew them by their voices. It was Pyke and Mrs Berlyn. I stayed still an’ they passed me close.’
‘Go ahead. Did you hear what they said, or what are you getting at?’
Inspector French and the Sea Mystery Page 13
