Inspector French and the Sea Mystery

by Freeman Wills Crofts

  ‘Who began this increased intimacy?’

  ‘Our intimacy was not increased. We saw more of each other—a very different thing. I began it; in this way. In London I heard some lectures on insect life. I was interested in the subject and I asked Colonel Domlio to let me see his collection. We began to talk about it, and it ended in my going out with him occasionally to look for specimens on the moor and also in my helping him to arrange them afterwards. That was the beginning and end of what you are pleased to call our “intimacy.”’

  The look of fright had left Mrs Berlyn’s eyes and she was speaking now with more of her usual assurance.

  ‘You sprained your ankle one day?’

  ‘I twisted it slightly. It was painful for a few hours, but not really much the worse.’

  ‘You fell?’

  ‘I did not fall. I should have done so, but Colonel Domlio sprang forward and caught me and helped me down on to the grass. In a few minutes I was better.’

  ‘Now, Mrs Berlyn,’ and French’s voice was very grave, ‘what you have to do is to convince me that that fall into Colonel Domlio’s arms really was an accident.’

  For a moment the lady looked at him uncomprehendingly, then she flushed angrily.

  ‘Oh,’ she cried with a gesture of disgust, ‘how dare you? This is insufferable! I shall not answer you. If you are coming here to insult me I shall apply for protection to your superiors at Scotland Yard.’

  ‘If I were you I should keep away from Scotland Yard as long as you can,’ French advised dryly. ‘In a case like this heroics will not help you any. Tell me, did you know there was a photographer watching the incident?’

  ‘No,’ she answered sullenly, while again her face showed fear.

  ‘You knew there wasn’t?’

  ‘I didn’t know anything about it.’

  ‘But you are not surprised to hear of the photographer?’

  ‘I am. At least, I should be if you assured me one was there.’

  ‘Did you know that the handwriting of Colonel Domlio’s letter has been identified?’

  Once again the colour ebbed away from her face.

  ‘What letter?’ she cried faintly. ‘I don’t know what letter you mean or what you are talking about. You have made me quite confused with your questions. I scarcely know what I am saying.’

  French felt that he had got the effect he wanted. He therefore reassured her by a few innocuous questions, then with a change of manner he apologised for having given unnecessary annoyance and took his leave.

  The taxi was standing far down the street with the bonnet open and the driver bending over the engine. French got in and with Carter sat watching the house.

  For half an hour they waited, then Mrs Berlyn appeared, and walking to King’s Road, turned in the direction of Sloan Square. Presently she hailed a taxi, causing French to congratulate himself on his prevision.

  Mrs Berlyn drove to Victoria, and hurriedly paying off their own man, the detectives followed her into the station. With a rapid look round she made her way to the telephone boxes and disappeared into one of them.

  ‘I’ll drop out here, Carter,’ French said. ‘You stick to the woman and as far as possible keep in touch with the Yard.’

  Approaching the boxes, French slipped into a convenient doorway and watched until Mrs Berlyn reappeared. As soon as she was out of sight he entered the box she had left.

  ‘Inspector from Scotland Yard speaking,’ he told the operator. ‘Keep the number of that last call. It’s wanted in connection with a murder case. I’ll get you the authority to divulge. Now, give me Scotland Yard, please.’

  He put through the request for the number, then returned to the Yard to wait for the reply. After a short delay he received both number and name: Thomas Ganope, Newsagent and Tobacconist, 27 Oakley Street, off Russell Street.

  In half an hour he reached the place. Ganope’s was a small untidy shop and Ganope a ruffianly looking man with purple cheeks and a cast in his left eye. He was the only occupant of the shop.

  ‘Can I use your telephone?’ French asked, laying a shilling on the counter.

  ‘Sure.’

  French rang up his wife to say that he had mislaid Mr Walker’s address and could she let him have it again, a code message designed for such occasions and to which no attention was paid, but which enabled him to use a telephone without arousing suspicion, as well as a writing pad, should such be available. For in this case his quick eye had seen such a pad on the instrument and from many a pad he had read the last message to be written from the impression left on the paper. On chance therefore he made a pretence of noting the mythical Mr Walker’s address, and removing the top sheet, put it in his pocket book. Then he turned to Mr Ganope.

  ‘Say,’ he said confidentially, ‘what would you charge for taking in telephone messages and sending them to an address? Private, you know.’

  Mr Ganope looked him over keenly with one of his shrewd little eyes.

  ‘A bob a message, if it’s near by.’

  ‘That’s a lot. Do you never do it for less?’

  Mr Ganope seemed disgusted.

  ‘If you can get anyone to do it for less you’d better go to them,’ he advised sourly.

  ‘I might manage the money if I was sure the thing would be done right,’ French went on. ‘How do you send out the messages? I mean, is your arrangement reliable? Do you do it yourself or have you a messenger?’

  ‘Wot do you tyke me for, mister? Do you think the shop would run itself while I was away? You don’t need to worry. You pay your bob and you’ll get your message all right.’

  ‘Not good enough for me. I want to know what kind of messenger you’d send before I trust my business to you.’

  ‘See ’ere,’ the man declared. ‘I’ve been doing this business for long enough to know all about ’ow it’s done. I’ve a good boy, if you must know. You give ’im a penny or two a time if you’re nervous, and you needn’t be afryde but you’ll get all there’s for you.’

  French laid five shillings on the counter.

  ‘Right,’ he said. ‘There’s for the first five messages. Send to Mr James Hurley, care of Mr William Wright, Tobacconist, corner of Bedford Place and Ivy Street.’

  ‘I know it,’ declared Ganope, pocketing the money.

  Mr William Wright was a distant connection of Mrs French’s and French knew that he would help him in the matter. He nodded to Ganope and walked across to Ivy Street.

  ‘Hallo, Joe! Some time since we’ve seen you here,’ was Mr Wright’s greeting. ‘Come in behind and let’s hear the news.’

  ‘I want you to do me a good turn, William,’ French answered. ‘There’s a boy I want to get hold of, and I’ve fixed it that he’ll come here asking for Mr Hurley. Will you put him on to me when he turns up? That’s all.’

  ‘Surely, Joe,’ and Mr Wright turned the conversation to more intimate matters.

  ‘Just let me use your ’phone,’ French asked presently. ‘Something I forgot.’

  ‘Surely, Joe.’

  Going into the little office at the back of the shop, French rang up Ganope.

  ‘Message for Hurley,’ he explained in falsetto tones. ‘Mr James Hurley.’

  ‘Right,’ came from the other end.

  ‘“Cargo will be in at ten-fifteen tomorrow.” That’s all. Repeat, please.’

  Mr Ganope repeated slowly, evidently as he wrote, and French settled down with his pipe to await the advent of the messenger.

  In less than half an hour a sharp, foxy-looking boy turned up and Mr Wright sent him into the sitting-room to French.

  ‘Hallo, sonny. You from Ganope’s?’

  ‘Huh-huh,’ said the boy. ‘Name of Hurley?’

  ‘That’s right. You have a message for me?’

  ‘Huh-huh.’ He slowly drew an envelope from his pocket, watching French expectantly.

  French produced sixpence.

  ‘There you are, sonny. Wait half a sec till I read this. There may be an a
nswer.’

  He tore open the envelope and glanced at its contents.

  ‘No, there’s nothing,’ he went on. ‘You’re kept busy, I’m sure?’

  ‘Huh-huh.’

  ‘And maybe you don’t get too much money for it, either?’

  The boy indicated that this was a true summary of his case.

  ‘Well, how would half a crown for a little job for me suit you?’

  The gleam in the boy’s eyes was sufficient answer.

  ‘It’s just a bit of information between you and me. No one else would know anything about it. It wouldn’t take you two minutes to give it to me. Are you on?’

  ‘Ain’t I, guv’nor. You just try me.’

  French took some money out of his pocket and slowly counted out two single shillings and a sixpence. These he laid on the table in a little pile.

  ‘Tell me, sonny,’ he said. ‘You had to take a message out this morning shortly after eleven?’

  ‘Huh-huh.’

  ‘Where did you take it to?’

  ‘You won’t tell the old man?’

  ‘I’ll not, sonny. I give you my word.’

  ‘Name o’ Pyke, 17 Kepple Street.’

  In spite of his training as an officer of the Yard, French started. Pyke! He remained for a moment lost in thought. Pyke! Could this be the solution at last? Could Mrs Berlyn have transferred her somewhat facile affections to Jefferson Pyke? Could these two be guilty of the murder of both Stanley and Berlyn?

  Here was a promising idea! In the first place it was the solution to the dilemma which had so greatly puzzled him. The crime had been committed to enable the murderer to live with Phyllis in good social standing. Therefore, the murderer could not have disappeared. Therefore, it could not have been either Berlyn or Pyke. That had been French’s problem.

  But if Jefferson Pyke and Phyllis had been accomplices all these difficulties vanished. Berlyn and Pyke had disappeared because they were dead. The murderer had survived to enjoy the fruits of his crime. All the facts seemed to be met.

  In itself, also, this new theory was likely enough. Jefferson and Phyllis had been playmates and an old attachment might easily have flamed up anew on their meeting at Ashburton. If so, there was the motive for Berlyn’s murder. Stanley Pyke might also have been in the way. Possibly Phyllis was so far entangled with him that to break loose would have turned him into a dangerous enemy. Possibly the accomplices feared that he might guess their crime. Under the circumstances it was easy to see that their only safe scheme might well have been to remove both men.

  The details also worked in. Phyllis could have obtained the information about the works necessary for the disposal of the body. Jefferson was of the size and build of the man who had called for the lorry and crate at Swansea, and though his colouring was different, this could have been altered artificially. He could be biding his time until he was sure the affair had blown over to take Phyllis out to his estancia in the Argentine.

  Another point occurred to French. Alfred Beer had stated, no doubt in all good faith, that the conversation he had overheard in the Berlyn’s shrubbery was between Mrs Berlyn and Stanley Pyke, and French had naturally assumed that the ‘’e’ referred to was Berlyn. But were he and Beer correct? Might the scene not equally well have been between the lady and Jefferson and might ‘’e’ not have been Stanley? French decided to look up his notes of the matter at the earliest opportunity.

  He had little doubt that at long last he was on to the truth. Jubilantly he handed over the half-crown to Ganope’s boy and dismissed him with the assurance that he would never hear of the matter again.

  As to his next step there could be no question. He walked quickly to Kepple Street and asked if Mr Jefferson Pyke was at home.

  Pyke was out, but was expected shortly. Hugging himself for his luck, French said that if he might, he would like to wait for Mr Pyke. The landlady remembered his previous visit and made no difficulty about showing him up to her lodger’s sitting-room.

  Before the door closed behind her French saw that his lucky star was still in the ascendant. There, on the chimney-piece, stood a note addressed ‘Mr Jefferson Pyke’ in the same handwriting as that for ‘Mr James Hurley.’

  French carried an old razor-blade in his pocket and in less than a minute the envelope was open. The note read:

  ‘Danger. Meet me tonight at old time and place.’

  French swore softly in high delight. He had them now! Here was convincing proof of their guilt.

  But it was insufficient to bring into court. He must get something more definite. With skilful fingers he re-closed the envelope and put it back where he had found it. Then he settled down to wait for Pyke.

  In less than ten minutes the man appeared. French, smiling his pleasant smile, greeted him apologetically.

  ‘Sorry to trouble you again, Mr Pyke, but I want to ask you for a little further help in this Ashburton affair. I have made a discovery, but first I must ask you to keep what I have to say to yourself.’

  Pyke nodded.

  ‘Of course, Mr French. Sit down, won’t you, and tell me what I can do for you.’

  ‘All I want is a little information,’ French declared, taking the proffered chair. ‘I may tell you between ourselves that certain facts suggest that Colonel Domlio may have been involved. Can you tell me anything that might help me to a decision, anything that your cousin told you or that Mr Berlyn may have said in your presence?’

  Pyke shook his head.

  ‘Colonel Domlio?’ he repeated, ‘Why, no. I never thought of such a thing and neither Stanley nor Berlyn ever said anything which might give colour to it.’

  French continued to question him long enough to convince him that this was really the business on which he had called. Then he tried to discount the effect which Mrs Berlyn’s note would have when at last the man had an opportunity to read it.

  ‘I’ve been to see Mrs Berlyn on this matter,’ he explained. ‘I’m afraid I was rather rude to her, but I just had to frighten her in order to satisfy myself as to whether or not she suspected the colonel. But, at least, I apologised afterwards. I think she forgave me.’

  ‘And did she suspect Domlio?’

  ‘No, I’m sure she did not. And that counts in the colonel’s favour, for she knew him pretty well. Aren’t you thankful you’re not a detective, Mr Pyke?’

  They chatted easily for some moments and then French, thinking that some information about the other’s former movements might be useful, turned the conversation to travel.

  ‘You had a pleasant trip to the south of France with your late cousin, I understand?’ he remarked. ‘I wonder if you’d tell me something about it? I’ve just done enough travelling myself to whet my appetite for more and the idea of the south of France absolutely fascinates me. What part did you go to?’

  ‘The Riviera and Provence,’ Pyke answered with a subtle change of manner. Up to the present he had been polite, now he was interested. ‘I can tell you, Inspector, that if you’re fond of travelling you should try those districts. You’d enjoy every moment of it.’

  ‘It’s not doubt of that which keeps me away. Money and time are my trouble. Did you get as far as Italy?’

  ‘Yes. I’ll tell you our itinerary if you care to hear it. We went round to Marseilles by long sea. A jolly sail, that. Then—’

  ‘Good weather?’ French interposed. He wanted plenty of detail so that he could check the statements up.

  ‘It was dirty when we left Birkenhead and choppy in the Irish Sea. But it quieted down as we got across the Bay, and from St Vincent to Gata the sea was like a mirror—an absolute flat calm without a ripple showing. Glorious! Then after Gata we ran into fog, which wasn’t so nice. But we got to Marseilles on time.’

  ‘Birkenhead? That’s the Bibby Line, isn’t it?’

  ‘Yes, we went on the Flintshire. Fine boat of 16,000 tons.’

  ‘I’ve heard those boats well spoken of. I envy you, Mr Pyke. Then, from Marseilles?’
<
br />   ‘From Marseilles we went straight through to San Remo. We spent three or four days there, then worked back to Grasse, that’s a small town where they make perfume, between Nice and Cannes, but a bit inland. I’m considering going into the flower trade and I wanted to see the gardens. A wonderful sight all that country must be with flowers in the season!’

  ‘I’ve read about it,’ French assured him. ‘It’s one of the places I’ve got on my list. Flowers and pretty girls, eh?’

  ‘That’s right. We had a dandy specimen to show us round the perfume factory.’

  ‘I guess I’ll see that factory,’ French declared. ‘Are there good hotels in a small place like that?’

  ‘We stayed at the Metropole and it was quite all right. Then we worked slowly up through Provence, staying a night in different towns; Marseilles, Nîmes, Arles, Avignon, and so on to Paris. I’ve got all mixed about the places, we saw so many. An interesting country that, Inspector! There are buildings standing there for sixteen hundred years and more. Wonderful! First chance you get you should go down and see for yourself. But don’t do it as we did.’

  ‘How do you mean?’

  ‘Don’t go from place to place, staying in each for a night. Stay at a centre; Avignon is a first-rate one, there are day char-a-banc trips that let you see all these places, and you don’t have the nuisance of packing and going to a fresh hotel every day.’

  ‘That’s a point, certainly. Thanks for the tip. Where do you recommend staying in Paris?’

  If Pyke recognised that French was merely pumping him he gave no sign, but replied readily:

  ‘We stayed at the Regina and found it quite good. But we just broke the journey for a night. Next day we came on here.’

  ‘To these rooms?’

  ‘No, I hadn’t taken them then. We stayed a night at the Houston. That’s the night I had such a joke on Stanley.’