Читать книгу Inspector French: Sir John Magill’s Last Journey - Freeman Crofts Wills - Страница 10

French’s researches at Elland Gardens had occupied him during the whole of that Monday afternoon, the first of his new inquiry. It was not, therefore, till the following morning that he was able to call on Messrs Hepplewhite, Ingram & Ingram, Sir John Magill’s solicitors. From them, unfortunately, he learned little. Mr Ingram, senior, whom he interviewed, admitted that he had drawn up Sir John’s will, but on its completion he had sent it to Elland Gardens, in accordance with the old man’s request. For this reason he found himself unable to state its contents, though so far as his memory went its terms were as suggested by the inspector. This was the extreme limit to which Mr Ingram could be induced to go, and with this French had therefore to be content.

At his next visit, to the motor agency for which Victor Magill acted as representative, he drew almost as complete a blank. It was true that he did not expect to learn much. But as a matter of routine, it was necessary to see everyone who might in any way throw light on the case.

Messrs Hopwood & Merrythought were agents for a number of the most expensive makes of luxury cars on the market. Mr Hopwood, the senior partner, when assured of the gravity of the affair, proved willing to tell French all he knew about his travelling agent. But it did not amount to much. Victor Magill had joined the firm some five years previously and during this period had proved himself an excellent salesman. In private life he mixed with a smart crowd, belonging to at least three exclusive clubs. This gave him opportunities of doing unobtrusive business, which he utilised so tactfully that while selling an ever-increasing number of cars, he was accepted by his clients as their benefactor rather than as the unmitigated nuisance such salesmen so often are. He was paid a retaining fee of £500 a year, with a large commission on results. This commission had grown every year until in the previous year it had amounted to over £1500. From Victor’s mode of life Mr Hopwood imagined he must also have considerable private means.

As a result of French’s routine, but probing questions, Mr Hopwood admitted that at one time Victor had seemed very short of cash. For the most of half a year stringency had obtained and there had been hints of gambling and serious debt. Mr Hopwood had been a good deal worried about the affair, though he had not had sufficiently definite information to justify him in taking the matter up officially with Victor. Then suddenly, some four months previously, things had come right. Whether Victor had made a lucky venture with the Goddess of Chance or whether he had come in for a legacy, the senior partner did not know, but Victor was again evidently flush and the ugly rumours of debt died down.

With regard to Victor’s personality Mr Hopwood had little to say. In the senior partner’s view Victor was a thorough man of the world, suave, polished and excellent company in any society. He was at present on holidays, a yachting cruise up the west coast of Scotland, and was not expected back for another two or three weeks.

As French returned to the Yard he felt rather up against it. Had he been acting alone he would unhesitatingly have gone to Ireland. Not only did he believe that the solution of the mystery lay there, but he felt that he had done all that was necessary in London. He smoked a couple of pipes over it and then went in and put his views before Chief Inspector Mitchell.

The chief inspector heard him without comment.

‘If that’s your view,’ he said at last, ‘better go over and say so. See their superintendent and have a chat with him. And see here, French. Do anything you can for them. If they want you to stay and lend a hand, do so. Better ring them up now and go over tonight.’

From the tone of the Belfast superintendent rather than from his actual words, French sensed that he would be a welcome visitor. Evidently they were getting no further with the case, and equally evidently they were worried about it. French would have expected a resentment at his appearance in Ireland, but nothing of the sort was suggested by the superintendent’s reply. It was finally arranged that he should cross via Larne and Stranraer and that Sergeant M’Clung would meet him at the station in Belfast.

It did not seem possible that anything could have occurred during Sir John’s journey which might have borne on his subsequent fate. At the same time French determined to travel as the old gentleman had done and to keep a careful note of his surroundings so as to visualise the other’s experiences.

He began therefore by engaging a sleeping berth at Euston. On inquiry he was directed to a stationmaster’s office on No. 6 platform. There a clerk made the reservation, handing him a voucher. This voucher he presented at the booking office when taking his tickets, a first-class return for the journey and a single for the sleeping berth.

The train left at 7.40 p.m. from No. 12 platform. There he found that all arrangements had been made for his reception. His name was on the list on the window of the sleeping coach and the attendant was expecting him and showed him to his stateroom. Immediately after starting the man came to him for his tickets. He was most civil, making a point of addressing French by his name and fixing up when he should call him next morning.

For a time French sat watching the lights flit by, then thinking he would be more comfortable in bed, he undressed, switched on his reading lamp and became immersed in a novel. At the end of a couple of hours this palled and he turned off the light and composed himself to sleep.

His efforts in this line were not particularly successful and he lay listening to the rythmic beat of the wheels on the rail-joints and dreamily wondering whether Malcolm Magill had really killed his father. There were few stops. At only one had he the curiosity to look out: it was Carlisle. Presently he heard Dumfries called and then he fell into a really deep sleep, from which he seemed instantly to be aroused by the attendant with a tea tray and the words, ‘’Alf an hour to Stranraer, sir.’

A gorgeous colour scheme in the eastern sky was ushering in the dawn as French stepped from the train at Stranraer Harbour. On the platform at the door of the sleeper was the ubiquitous attendant, who with a ‘Good morning, Mr French. Thank you, sir,’ saw him off the premises so far as his car was concerned. A few yards down the pier brought him to the steamer, at the gangway of which his ticket was checked. A short delay and there came the welcome sound of the breakfast bell, and when French came on deck again they were half-way down Loch Ryan.

In the early sunshine of that autumn morning the surroundings of the loch struck him as quite beautiful. The shores, particularly on the starboard side, rose gently into bare rounded hills, which grew wilder and rockier as they approached the open sea. Between were wooded valleys which French no sooner saw than he longed to explore. But it was the colouring that appealed most to him, the dark greens of grass and leaves, shaded here and there to greys and russets, the golden browns of heather and bracken, the darker tints of rock, turning almost to black at the base of the cliffs, the thin blue of the sky and the steel grey of the water, all these were presented with the soft rich tones of the western atmosphere. Then out into the open sea, with the sugar loaf of Ailsa Craig standing blue and sharp on the northern horizon and the Irish coast a faint line right ahead.

French enjoyed every minute of that crossing. The sea, he knew, could be as rough here as anywhere, but on this charming morning it was like the proverbial glass. For the hour or more of the passage he paced the deck, watching the Scotch coast fade and the Irish grow. And when at last they turned round the end of Islandmagee and entered Larne Lough, he saw that the Irish side was nearly, if not quite, as beautiful as the Scotch.

He took the broad gauge train on the left of the platform, and as he sat waiting for the mails to be transhipped, he could follow vividly Sir John Magill’s movements six days earlier. There was a traveller talking to the stationmaster, no doubt just as had Sir John, and there it chanced was the guard passing and looking at both. Presently this same guard collected French’s ticket, as doubtless he had collected Sir John’s. History indeed seemed to be repeating itself for his, French’s, benefit.

The run to Belfast occupied about half an hour. The line ran along the shores, first of Larne Lough, then of Belfast Lough. Just where they came down on the latter French noted the little town of Whitehead. Waiting for him on the platform at Belfast was Sergeant M’Clung.

‘How’re you, Mr French?’ he exclaimed, pronouncing the ‘How’re you?’ with the rhythm of ‘bowery.’ ‘You must have had a good crossing this morning.’

French described his journey, and as they passed to the entrance of the station M’Clung pointed out the hotel at which Sir John had called.

‘I’ve a car waiting,’ he explained. ‘We’ll go along to Chichester Street. The superintendent’s expecting you.’

Police headquarters was about a mile from the station and there in a comfortable little office sat Superintendent Rainey. He was a thickset man of medium height, with a rather stern face which, however, lit up and became attractive when he smiled. He did so as French was shown in.

‘Very good of you coming over, Inspector,’ he said pleasantly, rising and holding out his hand. ‘You had a good crossing, I expect?’

French wondered if this remark was made by every Belfast citizen to every traveller arriving in his city. He reassured the superintendent.

‘What about a spot of breakfast?’ went on Rainey. ‘That six o’clock affair on the boat’s all right, but it hardly runs you to lunch.’

French thought that in his case it might. But Rainey would not hear of proceeding to business until his visitor had had something to fortify his inner man, and French not caring for spirits, M’Clung was instructed to take him to an adjoining restaurant for coffee. There for a while the two men sat smoking, chatting principally of the beauty spots of Northern Ireland which M’Clung said French must see before he went back.

‘You came over at the right time, Inspector,’ Rainey began when they were once more seated in his office. ‘I have a visitor coming in whom you’ll be interested to meet: Victor Magill.’

‘Victor Magill?’ French repeated with a smile. ‘It’s well I hadn’t made my report. I’d have told you he was cruising somewhere up the west coast of Scotland.’

‘You would have been right in a way,’ Rainey admitted. ‘When you got your information he was there. His launch touched at Oban and there he got wires which Major Magill and the sisters had sent. He had just time to catch a train to Glasgow and get the Belfast boat. He got in this morning and went up to see the major at the mill. It was from there he ’phoned me he was coming down. I told him to call at twelve so that we could have our discussion before he came. And now, Inspector, I hope you’ve some good news for us?’

‘Not very much, I’m afraid,’ French answered, and he launched into a detailed account of his activities in London. The two Belfast men listened attentively and when he had finished Rainey summarised the position.

‘That is to say, Inspector, you have learnt that Malcolm Magill was in low water and that he stood to gain a large sum at his father’s death. Secondly, you have not been able to find anyone else with an adequate motive. Victor Magill and the daughters were legatees also, but as far as you know to nothing like a sufficient extent to account for murder. In any case these legacies supply no real motive at all, as all three were well enough off. All three besides have alibis. On our present information, therefore, these three may be at least temporarily eliminated. There are no other suspects.’

‘That’s right, sir.’

‘On the grounds of motive, therefore, Malcolm Magill is so far our only suspect. And when we look into the circumstances of the actual disappearance we again find him our only suspect. On the other hand all we know of the history and character of Malcolm Magill is in his favour. That’s about it, I take it?’

‘That’s about it,’ French repeated, while M’Clung nodded appreciatively. ‘All the same, Superintendent, I shouldn’t put too much dependence on a man’s previous character in a case of this kind. I’ve seen too many cases of the most unlikely people going wrong, and I’m sure so have you.’

‘I agree and I don’t attach too much weight to it. All the same it counts. Now Inspector the only other point you learned was that someone named Coates, with a Belfast address, who was otherwise unknown to his household, had recently called on Sir John?’

French agreed.

‘Now I’ll tell you what we’ve done. We’ve gone over for the second time the whole story as M’Clung told it to you. We’ve learnt nothing to add to it but we’ve got a fairly complete corroboration as to its truth. First, with regard to Sir John himself. We find that he was practically under observation during his whole journey right from London up to the point at which he left the taxi in Sandy Row. You learn that he drove from his house to Euston and started in a sleeping berth on the 7.40 p.m. to Stranraer. We checked his arrival at Stranraer and his going on board the boat: we found the man who carried his luggage. At Larne he was seen leaving the boat and entering the train. Again at Belfast he was in sight of one or more people from the moment he left the train until he reached Sandy Row. So far as Sir John is concerned the story is absolutely confirmed.’

‘Jolly good to get all that independent evidence,’ French commented tactfully.

‘Principally a series of lucky flukes,’ Rainey corrected. ‘Now with regard to Major Malcolm Magill. Here also we’ve got practically complete confirmation as to his movements. M’Clung didn’t tell you that?’

‘Gilmore hadn’t finished, sir, when I left,’ the sergeant pointed out.

‘Neither he had,’ Rainey admitted. ‘Well, I’ll tell you now. Malcolm Magill’s statement was, if you remember, that he got a telephone from his father asking him to come to Whitehead to pick him up and that he, Sir John, would walk out along the Larne road to meet him. That call came, according to Malcolm, at a minute or two before nine. We have checked it up both at Whitehead Station, where it was made and, at the exchanges, and it was actually put through at 8.53.’

‘Good enough,’ said French.

‘Good enough, yes,’ Rainey repeated. ‘The major went at once and got the car. He estimates that he left his house, Lurigan, at about five minutes past nine, and this is confirmed both by his wife and the housemaid. Under the circumstances it was natural for Mrs Magill to look at the clock, and the housemaid states she heard the car leaving, about five minutes after the clock had struck. So that also is good enough.’

French again signified his agreement.

‘The major states that he drove at a fair speed until he was within a couple of miles of Whitehead, the extreme point to which he thought his father might have walked. Then he slowed down to ten or fifteen miles an hour, keeping a sharp lookout for foot passengers. He met no one and therefore went on into the town to make inquiries. He found that the post office was closed and he was directed to the station where there was a booth on the up platform. He saw the stationmaster, who told him about the elderly gentleman who had come off the Belfast train at 8.47 and who had made a call from the booth. That, the major states, was about 9.45, and this hour is confirmed both by the stationmaster and by an estimate of the time it ought to have taken Malcolm to come from Lurigan. So that was that.’

Superintendent Rainey glanced at French as if to invoke his commendation. French hastened to bestow it.

‘Major Magill imagined his father must have got a lift to Larne and he started home again. But he states he was unhappy about the whole affair, and when he had gone seven or eight miles it suddenly occurred to him that he might have missed the old man through the latter making a call in Whitehead. He therefore turned round and went back again. There were two families in Whitehead with whom the Magills were on fairly intimate terms and he drove first to one and then to the other. But neither knew anything of Sir John, and though they telephoned to other possible houses, no one had seen the old man. The major states that some considerable time was occupied with this telephoning, so that it was almost eleven when he left Whitehead. This again is not only confirmed by an estimate of the time these movements should have taken, but also by the exchange and the local residents. At the last house the daughter declared that she looked at the clock as the car started and that it was exactly ten-fifty-five.

‘The major states that he drove slowly back looking out again for foot passengers, and that again he saw no one. This time, however, he drove home, arriving about eleven-thirty, which once again checks in with distance and probable speed. When he had garaged the car and had a whisky and soda he rang up his friends in Whitehead to report progress, as they had asked him to do. This call has also been traced and it was put through at exactly eleven-forty-three. Incidentally the hour of his arrival home is confirmed both by Mrs Magill, who had waited up to meet Sir John, and by the servants, who slept over the garage and heard the car being put in.’

French made a gesture of astonishment.

‘I don’t think, sir,’ he declared, ‘I ever heard such complete confirmation of any story. Major Magill’s movements have been confirmed as absolutely as Sir John’s.’

M’Clung looked delighted by what he evidently took to be a compliment to the Belfast force. But Rainey shrugged.

‘More lucky flukes,’ he declared. ‘Next with regard to the secretary. Breene’s story seems also to have been true. He certainly travelled over by Liverpool on that night and went down to his brother’s at Comber. He left Comber, so his sister thinks, about half past nine, and as the only suitable train leaves at exactly 9.30, I think we may take it that he travelled by it as he says. That train arrives at 9.50 and he reached the Grand Central Hotel, ten minutes away, at 10.30. About half an hour of this time is therefore unaccounted for. He says he took a walk through the streets, and as that would have been an eminently likely thing for him to have done, I think we may accept that also. The staff at the hotel absolutely confirm his further statement. He arrived about 10.30, asked for Sir John and said he would be in the lounge if wanted. We have seen his bill and found waiters who served him at lunch, tea and dinner that day and at breakfast the next morning. We have also seen the chambermaid who called him.

‘Nothing there, sir,’ said French.

‘No,’ agreed Rainey, ‘there’s nothing there. But, French, I’m far from satisfied about Malcolm Magill. Things are very black against him.’

Of this French was by no means convinced.

‘I don’t know, sir,’ he answered. ‘Looks to me mighty like an alibi.’

‘You think so,’ said Rainey, thoughtfully lighting a cigarette. ‘I’m not so sure. Assuming Sir John has been murdered—for remember we don’t even know that yet—why could Malcolm not have done it?’

‘Well, there’s all this that you’ve been telling me. Besides that there’s the disposal of the body. I don’t see how he could have disposed of the body. Suppose he met Sir John, murdered him, staged the struggle and hid the hat. What would be do with the body? He couldn’t leave it on the road. He couldn’t take it in the car to those people in Whitehead, any of whom might have offered to accompany him on his search. Nor could he hide it, at least not without leaving some trace of beaten-down grass or something of that sort, and no trace was found.’

Rainey moved uneasily.

‘But hang it all, French, Sir John has disappeared. Malcolm Magill had the motive and the opportunity and so far as we know no one else had either. These difficulties that you raise …’ He held up his hand as French would have spoken. ‘Let’s go back to fundamentals. If he didn’t murder Sir John, where is Sir John? What’s happened to him?’

French shook his head.

‘I realise that all right, sir,’ he admitted, ‘but you’ve just pointed out yourself that the murder theory is still only an assumption. What if Sir John disappeared voluntarily?’

Rainey made a gesture of agreement.

‘That’s quite true, French. Better still, it leads us to something we do know, and that is that we’re theorising too soon. I’ve something more to tell you—two things in fact.

‘The first is a small matter. Among our other lines of inquiry we made a house-to-house visitation in Sandy Row and the adjoining streets in the hope of finding someone who expected or actually met Sir John. That, I regret to say, brought us nothing.

‘The second is that we issued a description of Sir John and circulated it to the police throughout the whole of Northern Ireland. And to this we got a reply which I confess surprised me.’

Rainey paused to emphasise his climax. French was impressed by all he had heard. If there was any more efficient way of handling a case than that these men had adopted, he felt he would like to know of it.

‘Sir John had been seen once again after he left Sandy Row,’ went on Rainey. ‘You noticed that big hill with the flat top and the precipitous front to the north of the city as you came in?’

‘I was admiring it, sir,’ French declared. ‘It reminded me of pictures I had seen of Table Mountain.’

‘I never saw Table Mountain,’ said Rainey, ‘and whether it’s like it or not I don’t know. It’s called the Cave Hill and it’s about twelve hundred feet high, with a splendid view from the top. Along its lower slopes runs the main road to Antrim, and from this Antrim Road a steep path leads to the top, the Sheeps’ Path. Now half an hour after Sir John Magill reached Sandy Row, a constable saw him get out of a tram at the foot of this path, and after looking round in a surreptitious sort of way, hurry up it. The path disappears immediately into trees, so that the constable lost sight of him at once. Of course he was some distance away, but he is positive he made no mistake about it’s being Sir John.’

‘By Jove, sir, very strange that! Have you any idea what he might have gone up there for?’

‘Well, a possible suggestion is that it was to meet someone about his invention. But there doesn’t seem to be any reason for such a theatrical kind of secrecy.’

‘That path doesn’t lead near any houses?’ French asked.

‘It leads up through the grounds of Belfast Castle. But there are many private houses along the inland side of the Antrim road and no doubt you could get to these from the path. You could go along parallel to the road on the side of the hill and drop down at the back of any of the houses. But why?’

‘Somebody in one of those houses working at the same idea?’

The superintendent glanced at Sergeant M’Clung.

‘That’s what M’Clung suggested,’ he answered, ‘and we have made a list of the occupiers of the houses for investigation. But I’m not hopeful of it myself.’

‘Have you any other theory, sir?’

Rainey shook his head.

‘I confess I haven’t. Sometimes I wonder if the old man hadn’t gone dotty, but there’s little to support that.’

‘Mightn’t he have just been out for a walk?’

‘We considered that also,’ the superintendent admitted, ‘but I think it’s unlikely. Sir John was too old and didn’t seem keen on that sort of thing. Then there was his secretive manner when he disappeared up the path. No, it’s certainly a puzzle—unless the constable made a mistake after all.’

Rainey paused and there was silence for some moments. Presently he went on.

‘Now there are one or two inquiries suggested by your statement, Inspector. M’Clung, you get away to M’Millan & Maxwell’s and ask them if they know anything of a Coates who might have called on Sir John, or who is interested in inventions or silk or linen. At the same time I’ll get a systematic search made among all of the name in the city. With any luck we should get something there.’

French agreed that both these avenues should be explored. Once again he felt impressed by the efficiency with which the case was being handled. These North of Ireland men had nothing to learn from London. He had to admit that even he himself could not have done much more in the time.

In half an hour M’Clung re-entered. A glance at his face gave his news.

‘No good, sir,’ he reported. ‘I saw M’Millan himself. They don’t know anybody called Coates that would suit.’

‘Had they been working on this silk-linen invention?’

‘Never even heard of it, sir.’

‘I thought that would be the way,’ Rainey declared, ‘so I’m hardly disappointed. Better luck next time, Sergeant.’

Before either man could reply a knock came to the door.

‘Gentleman to see you, sir,’ a constable said, handing Rainey a card.

‘“Mr Victor Magill.” Yes, this is the time I asked him to call. We’d better see him, Inspector.’

He glanced at French, and the latter having signified his agreement, he told the constable to send Mr Magill in.