Читать книгу The Groote Park Murder - Freeman Crofts Wills - Страница 11

NEXT morning Inspector Vandam began his investigation into the movements of Swayne on the night of the murder, by a visit to his landlady, whose address he had obtained from Mr Hurst on the occasion of his visit to the Mees Street store.

Sydenham Avenue was in a much better district than Rotterdam Road, where Smith had lodged, and No. 18 proved to be a boarding-house of superior type to the average. The landlady, tall and stately as a stage duchess, received him in an office at the back of the lounge, and answered his questions with cold, though polite, efficiency.

Mr Swayne had lived in her establishment, she told him, for three years, during which time she had found him all that a gentleman should be. About a month previously he had informed her that he was going for a holiday to England, explaining that while he was anxious to retain his room, which was particularly comfortable, he did not want to pay for it while away, and asking her if she could let it for the three months. Anxious to oblige him, she had consented to do so if possible, and had succeeded in hearing of an engineer who wished for a few weeks’ accommodation while studying conditions in some of the neighbouring mines. This man agreed to take Swayne’s room for the three months, provided he could get it by a certain day. As the date was only four days before Swayne’s departure, the latter had given it up, and, there being no other vacant room in the boarding-house, he had gone for the period in question to the Bellevue Hotel. About his actual departure from Middeldorp, or his movements on the last day of his stay, the landlady could therefore tell nothing.

Nor did she know anything of Smith nor of the relations between him and Swayne. She had contented herself with her business of running the house, and was not cognisant of the private affairs of her guests.

Before leaving, Vandam asked the landlady if she could show him a photograph of Swayne. It happened that she was able to do so, and while commenting on it, Vandam took a mental note of the photographer’s address.

On leaving Sydenham Avenue he went to the studio. There he was able to buy a copy of the portrait, which by another lucky chance was adorning one of the show frames in the window. At the same time he purchased three or four similar sized photographs of men as like Swayne as he could find.

His next business was at the Bellevue Hotel, and returning to the centre of the town, he reached the great building and asked for the manager.

‘Mr Royle is in Capetown,’ he was told, ‘but Mr Buchan, his assistant, is here, if he would do.’

Mr Buchan proved to be an efficient-looking young man with red hair and a Scotch accent. He listened courteously as Vandam explained his business.

‘I don’t want it to go further, Mr Buchan, but as a matter of fact our Chief has got a bee in his bonnet about Mr Smith’s death. He believes it was suicide. Personally I don’t, but orders are orders, and I’ve got to try and settle the point. Now Smith is believed to have seen a Mr Swayne earlier that same day. You knew Mr Swayne? He is in the Hope Bros. firm, and left a few days ago for a holiday in England.’

‘I knew him, yes,’ Buchan answered. ‘He stayed here for two or three days before leaving South Africa, though I had met him before that. We do a good deal of business with Hope Bros., and I’ve come across most of their staff. Mr Crawley, the manager, I know intimately.’

‘Quite. Well, as I say, it is believed that Smith and this Mr Swayne met some time during the day Mr Swayne left. We want to settle this point, because if they did meet Mr Swayne should be able to give us some valuable information as to Mr Smith’s state of mind and so on. But we don’t want to make a fuss and wireless the boat if there’s nothing in it. So I’m to find out first if they did meet. Can you help me in that, do you think.’

Buchan shook his head.

‘Why, no, I’m afraid not. I didn’t see Swayne that evening at all.’

‘Some of your people might know. If you’d be so kind as to put me in touch, say, with your reception clerk, I could make a few inquiries.’

‘With pleasure. Will you come this way?’

A young man was working in the reception office. Mr Buchan called him over.

‘Ah, Bragg,’ he explained. ‘This gentleman, Mr Vandam, is making some private inquiries about Mr Swayne, who stayed here recently. You remember him, no doubt?’ Mr Buchan turned to Vandam. ‘Mr Bragg will do all he can for you, and if you want me I shall be in my office.’

‘Mr Swayne left by the south express that same Wednesday night,’ the young man said promptly when Vandam had explained his errand. ‘It leaves the station here at 3.45 a.m. It’s the through train from the north.’

‘Did you see him before he left?’

‘Not immediately before. I saw him in the afternoon about five. He went out of the hotel about five, and he made some remark to me as he passed the office window. I didn’t see him after that, but he must have come in some time later, for he sent a waiter down from his room at about half-past ten for his bill. I sent the bill up and the money came back.’

‘Could he have passed in without your seeing him?’

‘Oh, yes, he might have done so when I was writing or at the back of the office.’

‘You weren’t here when he was leaving for the train?’

No, I closed up about eleven and went to bed.’

‘When you saw him at five can you tell me how he was dressed?’

‘A grey flannel suit and a grey Homburg hat. He always wore grey flannel.’

Vandam produced his sheaf of photographs.

‘By the way, is Mr Swayne among these?’

Bragg seemed surprised as he took the cards.

‘That’s the man,’ he said, immediately picking out Swayne’s portrait. ‘Do you not know him?’

‘Never saw him in my life,’ Vandam declared. ‘I think, Mr Bragg, that’s all I want from you. I’m very greatly obliged, I’m sure. Now could I see that waiter who came down with the bill?’

The clerk gave a rapid order on his desk telephone, and presently an elderly, reliable looking man entered. He stated that he recalled the events of the Wednesday night clearly, and answered all Vandam’s questions without hesitation.

He had been on late duty, it seemed, that evening, and about half-past ten the bell rang from No. 78, Mr Swayne’s room. Jackson, the waiter, had immediately answered the bell, and had found Swayne in his room, packing a suitcase. He had evidently just come in, for he was still wearing his grey Homburg hat.

‘Oh,’ he said, ‘waiter, I wish you’d get me my bill.’ Jackson was moving off when Swayne called him back. ‘By the way, what time do you make it?’ They compared watches and agreed that it was exactly twenty-eight minutes past ten. ‘I have to catch the early morning train, and I forgot to check my watch,’ Swayne explained, continuing, ‘I wish you’d see that the night porter understands about getting me up in the morning, and that a taxi is arranged for. I told him, but I’d like to make sure it’s all right.’ Jackson then went for the bill. It amounted to four pounds sixteen, and Swayne gave him a five-pound note, telling him to keep the change. Jackson took the money to the office, got the bill receipted, and returned with it to the bedroom. Having assured Swayne that the arrangements for the morning were in order, he left the receipted bill and withdrew, and that was the last he had seen of the visitor.

Vandam slipped a couple of shillings into the man’s hand, thanked him, and turned to the clerk.

‘Now, if I might see that night porter, Mr Bragg,’ he suggested.

‘Send Hitchcock here, will you,’ Bragg called after the retreating waiter, and presently a second man appeared, this time small, dark and alert looking, not, indeed, unlike Vandam himself.

He had been, he stated, on duty as porter on the previous Wednesday night. He had wakened Mr Swayne and seen him start for the Capetown train.

‘Just tell me all you know about his going,’ Vandam asked.

‘I came on duty at ten, sir,’ the man answered, ‘and, as usual, I looked at the board to see if there were any early calls. I saw No. 78 was to get knocked at 3.00. “Him for the south train?” I asked my mate, the porter that I was relieving. “Sure,” he says. “Is he having a taxi?” I asked, and Morton, that’s my mate, said, “Yes,” that he had fixed it up. Then at three o’clock I knocked him and brought him up a cup of tea. “Come up for my stuff in twenty minutes,” he says. I did so, and carried his baggage down to the taxi. He left the hotel about five-and-twenty minutes past three.’

‘Did he speak to you when he was going out?’

‘He just said, “Well, goodbye, porter. Thanks for your help,” and he gave me a tip.’

‘Did you notice anything peculiar about his manner?’

The porter seemed somewhat surprised at the trend of the questions, but he answered unhesitatingly:

‘No, sir, I can’t say I did.’

‘Now, porter,’ Vandam went on, ‘remember we’re talking confidentially and don’t jump to conclusions from what I’m asking you. Would it have been possible for Mr Swayne to have left the hotel between 10.30 and 3.25 that night without having been seen?’

Both Bragg and the porter stared, and the latter shook his head.

‘It couldn’t have been done,’ he said decisively. ‘Not anyway at all. No one could have got in or out without my knowing.’

‘Just explain why, will you?’

‘Why, because they couldn’t,’ retorted the porter, who was getting a trifle nettled by the interrogation. ‘The side doors were all locked at dark, and from I came on duty at ten until the front door was locked at 11.30 I was there in the box the whole time, and nobody could have passed in or out without my seeing them. And from 11.30 no one could have got the door open without me. I saw Mr Swayne coming in. He came in about half-past ten, but he didn’t go out again, not until he left at 3.25 to catch his train.’

‘If you’re really keen on that point,’ interjected Bragg, who was evidently growing more and more interested, ‘it happens you can get some other evidence. Our electrician was working in 70 corridor on that night—that is just outside Mr Swayne’s rooms. Some of the bells had gone wrong, and it’s not convenient to have the boards up in the daytime. He could tell you if anyone came out of 78 during the night.’

‘Thanks, I should like to see him,’ Vandam agreed, then turned back to the porter. ‘By the way, can you tell me who drove the taxi that night?’

‘Jan Voogdt. He drives for Gresham Bros. of ’sGravenhagen Street.’

The porter was dismissed in his turn, and the electrician entered. Him Vandam approached rather differently, asking him to give a list of all the people whom he could remember having passed through the corridor on that Wednesday night. The man would have made an ideal witness, being evidently very observant and having all his facts clear and sharp-edged. He had begun work shortly after eleven, and from that until the night porter arrived at 3.00 no one entered or left No. 78. He described accurately the porter’s visit with the tea, his exit in a couple of minutes empty-handed, Swayne’s departure some twenty minutes later, and the carrying down of the luggage.

As far as it went, this was conclusive, but it didn’t satisfy Vandam. Under Bragg’s guidance he interviewed a number of other servants, chambermaids, lift boys, shoeblacks, all of whom confirmed as far as they were able what he had already heard, and all of whom picked out Swayne’s photograph from among the others. Then he asked to see No. 78, made certain that no one could have left through the windows—they were thirty feet up and overlooked the main street—went into the question of fire escapes, and at last finally and completely satisfied himself that Swayne had been in the building between half-past ten on the Wednesday night and twenty-five minutes past three on the Thursday morning.

‘Now for Gresham Bros., the car owners,’ thought Vandam as, after making the polite clerk a friend for life by promising to explain the business later and telling him how much he had helped him, he left the Bellevue and turned eastwards towards ’sGravenhagen Street.

Here, after some trouble, he found Jan Voogdt. The driver remembered the occasion in question. He had driven the fare he had picked up at the Bellevue at 3.25 to the railway station. A porter had there taken charge of the traveller’s luggage. He knew the porter and remembered his name. He was a coloured man called Christmas White.

Vandam, methodical and painstaking as ever, went on to the station and looked up White. Like the taxi man, the latter also remembered the midnight passenger. He had arrived in Jan Voogdt’s taxi, and he, White, had put his luggage into a sleeping berth on the train. The traveller had had his ticket and the berth was reserved for him.

To make assurance doubly sure, Vandam visited the booking clerk. Here he learned that Swayne, whose appearance the clerk knew, had taken his ticket and engaged his berth on the Monday previous.

Vandam was satisfied. Swayne had certainly left by the train in question. He was doubtless going for the Warwick Castle, due out at 7.00 p.m. on the Saturday evening. It would be well, however, to make sure of this, in case his subsequent investigation satisfied him of the man’s guilt. He therefore despatched a code wire to the Capetown police, asking them to ascertain the point.

As Vandam walked slowly back to headquarters, he ran over in his mind what he had learned up to the present. Swayne had been staying for some days at the Bellevue Hotel. He had left the building about five o’clock on the fatal Wednesday evening, and had not been seen again until 10.30. Then he had come in, paid his bill, and remained in his room until it was time to leave to catch the south-bound train. He had travelled by that train, and had presumably embarked on the steamer for England.

Smith had left his room about ten minutes past eight that night. The questions, therefore, which still remained to be settled were, first, where was Swayne between 8.10 and 10.30, and second, where was Smith during the same period? In other words, could the murder have taken place between those hours?

Vandam recollected that the medical evidence was not inconsistent with such a supposition. Dr Bakker had examined the body between seven and eight on the Thursday morning, and had given it as his opinion that death had taken place about ten hours previously. The Inspector was aware that such testimony was not conclusive, but so far as it went, it supported the idea.

That evening, when he had finished his day’s work and was sitting smoking in his most comfortable armchair, Vandam’s thoughts returned to the case. What, he wondered, had taken place in that terrible shed in the Groote Park? What was the sequence of events which had led up to the tragedy? Was Swayne really the murderer? Had his quarrel with Smith been about the pretty barmaid, Jane Louden? Though at the moment he could not reply to these questions, he swore to himself that it would not be long before he learned their answers.

Presently he began to consider details. How had the victim been lured to his doom? By an anonymous letter? Or by one forged in Miss Louden’s handwriting? Vandam’s experience suggested something of the kind.

He tried to picture the happening at the shed, Smith’s arrival, his feeling his way in through the enshrouding darkness of the night, perhaps his whispered ‘Are you there?’ the dull thud of the sandbag on the unsuspecting head, the collapse of that powerful frame into a shapeless heap …

Vandam, reconstructing the scene, saw suddenly the significance of the sweeping of the floor and of the newspapers. Smith could not be allowed to fall on the earthy floor. Still less could Swayne roll the body over as he searched the pockets for the document which in all probability had been used to lure the victim to his doom. Why not? Simply because the clothes would be stained by earth, stained a different colour from the railway ballast, and would therefore afford a clue to the sharp-eyed detective who would be called in if any suspicion about the ‘accident’ arose. To lay newspapers on the floor would be an obvious precaution. But newspapers, covering an area on which was spread little heaps of earth and small stones, would tear when pressure came on them. Therefore the heaps of earth and the stones must be removed. The floor must be swept. And when the work of the newspapers was done, when the clothes had been searched and the document removed, and the body dragged down to where the accident was to be staged, these marks left in the shed must be removed. The papers must vanish. And how could this be done more efficiently than by burning? Vandam saw that Swayne would have to burn them. And he would have to throw back the earth over the floor so as to remove the signs of the sweeping.

Smoking feverishly, Vandam believed he could picture the whole scene: Swayne crouching, sandbag in hand and with murder in his heart, behind the door of the shed; Smith, possibly suspecting a trap, but still forced to go on, groping his way cautiously to the place; his sudden instinctive realisation of danger; the dull thud of the sandbag; the limp form falling; the dragging of it in so that the door might be shut and a light used; the search for a possible incriminating document; the extinction of the light, and the terrible, staggering journey with the corpse from that awful shed, across the wall and down on to the railway below. Vandam seemed to see it all; the dragging of the body into the tunnel; the leaving it across the rails; the return to the shed; the burning of the papers and the scattering of the earth; the stealthy crossing of the railway; the hiding of the sandbag cover and the hammer. The hammer! Vandam was brought up sharp in his imaginings. The hammer did not fit in. What had the hammer been used for?

Here was a problem on which at first light seemed unattainable. The Inspector rose to his feet and began silently pacing the room. For twenty minutes he strode up and down, his head bent forward, his lips moving as he put his thoughts into words, and then at last the sought for idea flashed into his mind. Was the hammer not a precautionary measure? Had it not been brought to the site, and used, because there was an element of doubt about the efficacy of the sandbag? A sandbag left no marks. How was Swayne, a layman without medical knowledge, in the imperfect light of the shed and in his hurry and excitement, to be quite sure that the sandbag had done its work? He must run no risk of his victim being merely stunned. He must be certain that there would be no revival in that body before the train came.

The more Vandam thought over it, the better his theory seemed to work in. He now saw why the sandbag had been used in the first instance. There must be no blood in the shed. And blood must not stain the murderer’s clothes as he dragged the body to the railway. But the railway once reached, he could complete his ghastly work. Blood on the line did not matter; it would be expected.

As Vandam thought over his theory, he felt distinctly pleased with himself. Starting from nothing, he had evolved a complete conception of what might have occurred, from the original motive almost down to the last detail. Of such an achievement he might be justly proud.

But he was under no illusions on the matter. He fully recognised that his idea was a mere guess, and he quite saw that some new fact might upset the whole of it and leave him as far from a solution as ever. However, his theory was at least something to go on, and he decided that his next step must be to test it. On the following day he would continue the tracing of Swayne’s movements on the fatal Wednesday night between the hours of 8.10 and 11.