The sea mystery E-Book

Crofts, Freeman Wills

• Herausgeber: Librorium Editions
• Kategorie: Abenteuer, Thriller, Horror
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2024

Beschreibung

The Burry Inlet, on the south coast of Wales, looks its best from the sea. At least so thought Mr. Morgan as he sat in the sternsheets of his boat, a fishing-line between his fingers, while his son, Evan, pulled lazily over the still water.
In truth, the prospect on this pleasant autumn evening would have pleased a man less biased by pride of fatherland than Mr. Morgan. The Inlet at full tide forms a wide sheet of water, penetrating in an easterly direction some ten miles into the land, with the county of Carmarthen to the north and the Gower Peninsula to the south. The shores are flat, but rounded hills rise inland which merge to form an undulating horizon of high ground. Here and there along the coast are sand-dunes, whose grays and yellows show up in contrast to the greens of the grasslands and the woods beyond.
To the southeast, over by Salthouse Point and Penclawdd, Mr. Morgan could see every detail of house and sand-dune, tree and meadow, lit up with a shining radiance, but the northwest hills behind Burry Port were black and solid against the setting sun. Immediately north lay Llanelly, with its dingy colored buildings, its numberless chimneys, and the masts and funnels of the steamers in its harbor.

Leseprobe

The Sea Mystery

by

Freeman Wills Crofts

© 2024 Librorium Editions

ISBN : 9782385746476

Contents

I.

Mr. Morgan Meets Tragedy

II.

Inspector French Gets Busy

III.

Experimental Detection

IV.

A Change of Venue

V.

Messrs. Berlyn and Pyke

VI.

The Despatch Of The Crate

VII.

Dartmoor

VIII.

A Fresh Start

IX.

A Step Forward

X.

London’s Further Contribution

XI.

John Gurney, Night Watchman

XII.

The Duplicator

XIII.

The Accomplice?

XIV.

French Turns Fisherman

XV.

Blackmail

XVI.

Certainty At Last

XVII.

“Danger!”

XVIII.

On Hampstead Heath

XIX.

The Bitterness of Death

XX.

Conclusion

Chapter One: Mr. Morgan Meets Tragedy

The Burry Inlet, on the south coast of Wales, looks its best from the sea. At least so thought Mr. Morgan as he sat in the sternsheets of his boat, a fishing-line between his fingers, while his son, Evan, pulled lazily over the still water.

In truth, the prospect on this pleasant autumn evening would have pleased a man less biased by pride of fatherland than Mr. Morgan. The Inlet at full tide forms a wide sheet of water, penetrating in an easterly direction some ten miles into the land, with the county of Carmarthen to the north and the Gower Peninsula to the south. The shores are flat, but rounded hills rise inland which merge to form an undulating horizon of high ground. Here and there along the coast are sand-dunes, whose grays and yellows show up in contrast to the greens of the grasslands and the woods beyond.

To the southeast, over by Salthouse Point and Penclawdd, Mr. Morgan could see every detail of house and sand-dune, tree and meadow, lit up with a shining radiance, but the northwest hills behind Burry Port were black and solid against the setting sun. Immediately north lay Llanelly, with its dingy colored buildings, its numberless chimneys, and the masts and funnels of the steamers in its harbor.

It was a perfect evening in late September, the close of a perfect day. Not a cloud appeared in the sky and scarcely a ripple stirred the surface of the sea. The air was warm and balmy, and all nature seemed drowsing in languorous content. Save for the muffled noise of the Llanelly mills, borne over the water, and the slow, rhythmic creak of the oars, no sound disturbed the sleepy quiet.

Mr. Morgan was a small, clean-shaven man in a worn and baggy Norfolk suit which was the bane of Mrs. Morgan’s existence, but in which the soul of her lord and master delighted as an emblem of freedom from the servitude of the office. He leaned back in the sternsheets, gazing out dreamily on the broad sweep of the Inlet and the lengthening shadows ashore. At times his eyes and thoughts turned to his son, Evan, the fourteen-year-old boy who was rowing. A good boy, thought Mr. Morgan, and big for his age. Though he had been at school for nearly three years, he was still his father’s best pal. As Mr. Morgan thought of the relations between some of his friends and their sons, he felt a wave of profound thankfulness sweep over him.

Presently the boy stopped rowing.

“Say, dad, we’ve not had our usual luck to-day,” he remarked, glancing disgustedly at the two tiny mackerel which represented their afternoon’s sport.

Mr. Morgan roused himself.

“No, old man, those aren’t much to boast about. And I’m afraid we shall have to go in now. The tide’s beginning to run and I expect we could both do with a bit of supper. Let’s change places and you have a go at the lines while I pull in.”

To anyone attempting navigation in the Burry Inlet the tides are a factor of the first importance. With a rise and fall at top springs of something like twenty-five feet, the placid estuary of high water becomes a little later a place of fierce currents and swirling eddies. The Inlet is shallow also. At low tide by far the greater portion of its area is uncovered and this, by confining the rushing waters to narrow channels, still further increases their speed. As the tide falls the great Llanrhidian Sands appear, stretching out northward from the Gower Peninsula, while an estuary nearly four miles wide contracts to a river racing between mud banks five hundred yards apart.

Mr. Morgan took the oars, and heading the boat for the northern coast, began to pull slowly shoreward. He was the manager of a large tin-plate works at Burry Port and lived on the outskirts of the little town. Usually a hard worker, he had taken advantage of a slack afternoon to make a last fishing excursion with his son before the latter’s return to school. The two had left Burry Port on a flowing tide and had drifted up the inlet to above Llanelly. Now the tide was ebbing and they were being carried swiftly down again. Mr. Morgan reckoned that by the time they were opposite Burry Port they should be far enough inshore to make the harbor.

Gradually the long line of the Llanelly houses and chimneys slipped by. Evan had clambered aft and at intervals he felt with the hand of an expert the weighted lines which were trailing astern. He frowned as he glanced again at the two mackerel. He had had a good many fishing trips with his father during the holidays, and never before had they had such a miserable catch. How he wished he could have a couple of good bites before they had to give up!

The thought had scarcely passed through his mind when the line he was holding tightened suddenly and began to run out through his fingers. At the same moment the next line, which was made fast round the after thwart, also grew taut, strained for a second, then with a jerk slackened and lay dead. Evan leaped to his feet and screamed out in excitement:

“Hold, daddy, hold! Back water quick! I’ve got something big!”

The line continued to run out until Mr. Morgan, by rowing against the tide, brought the boat relatively to a standstill. Then the line stopped as if anchored to something below, twitching indeed from the current, but not giving the thrilling chucks and snatches for which the boy was hoping.

“Oh, blow!” he cried, disgustedly. “It’s not a fish. We’ve got a stone or some seaweed. See, this one caught it, too.”

He dropped the line he was holding and pulled in the other. Its hooks were missing.

“See,” he repeated. “What did I tell you? We shall probably lose the hooks of this one, too. It’s caught fast.”

“Steady, old man. Take the oars and let me feel it.”

Mr. Morgan moved into the stern and pulled the resisting line, but without effect.

“Rather curious this,” he said. “All this stretch is sand. I once saw it uncovered at very low springs. Keep rowing till I feel round the thing with the grappling and see if I can find out what it is.”

Evan passed the small three-pronged anchor aft and his father let it down beside the line. Soon it touched bottom.

“About three and a half fathoms—say twenty feet,” Mr. Morgan remarked. “Keep her steady while I feel about.”

He raised the grappling and, moving it a few inches to one side, lowered it again. Four times it went down to the same depth; on the fifth trial it stopped three feet short.

“By Jove!” he exclaimed, “there’s something there right enough.” He danced the grappling up and down. “And it’s certainly not seaweed. Treasure trove, Evan, eh?”

“Try round a bit and see how big it is,” Evan suggested, now thoroughly interested.

Mr. Morgan “tried round.” Had he been by himself he would have dismissed the incident with a muttered imprecation at the loss of his hooks. But for the sake of the boy he wished to make it as much of an adventure as possible.

“Curious,” he therefore commented again. “I’m afraid we shall not be able to save our hooks. But let’s take bearings so that we may be able to ask about it ashore.” He looked round. “See, there’s a good nor’west bearing. That signal post on the railway is just in line with the west gable of the large white house on the hill. See it? Now for a cross bearing. Suppose we take that tall mill chimney, the tallest of that bunch. It’s just in line with the pier-head beacon. What about those?”

“Fine, I think. What can the thing be, dad?”

“I don’t know. Perhaps something drifted in from a wreck. We’ll ask Coastguard Manners. Now I’ll pull in the grappling, and then the line, and if the hooks go I can’t help it.”

The little anchor had been lying on the bottom while they talked. Mr. Morgan now seized the rope and began to pull. But he had not drawn in more than two feet when it tightened and remained immovable.

“By Jove! The grappling’s caught now!” he exclaimed. “A nuisance, that. We don’t want to lose our grappling.”

“Let’s pull up. Perhaps it will come clear.”

Evan put down the oars and joined his father in the stern. Both pulled steadily with all their strength. For a time nothing happened, then suddenly the rope began to yield. It did not come away clear, but gave slowly as if the object to which it was attached was lifting also.

“By Jove!” Mr. Morgan exclaimed again. “We shall get our hooks, after all! The whole thing’s coming up.”

Slowly the rope came in foot after foot. The object, whatever it was, was heavy, and it was all they could do to raise it. Mr. Morgan pulled in sudden heaves, while Evan took a turn with the line round a thwart, so as to hold the weight while his father rested.

At last the end of the rope was reached and the shank of the grappling appeared. Then dimly beneath the surface Mr. Morgan was able to see the object hooked. It was a large wooden packing case or crate.

Round the sides were cross-pieces, holding the sheeting boards in place. Two of the sharp flukes of the grappling had caught beneath one of these, and of course, the greater the pull on them, the more firmly they became fixed.

To raise the crate while submerged and displacing its own volume of water had been just possible. To lift it aboard was out of the question. For a time the two considered the problem of getting it ashore, then Mr. Morgan said:

“I’ll tell you what we’ll do. We’ll make the rope fast and row in with the crate hanging to our stern. Then we’ll beach it on the lifeboat slip, and when the tide falls it will be left high and dry. We can examine it then and get our hooks.”

Evan approving of the plan, they proceeded to carry it out. They made the rope fast round the after thwart, then taking the oars, pulled slowly inshore. As they drew nearer, the current lessened, until off Burry Port they were almost in still water. Slowly they glided past a line of sandhills which presently gave place first to houses and works and then to a great deposit of copper slag like a stream of lava which had overflowed into the sea. Finally rounding the east mole, they entered Burry Port harbour.

Having manœuvred the boat over the lifeboat slip, they cast off the rope, and the crate settled down in five feet of water. Then with a bight of the rope they made the boat fast.

“Now for that supper,” Mr. Morgan suggested. “By the time we’ve had it our treasure trove will be high and dry and we can come down and see what it is.”

An hour later father and son were retracing their steps to the harbour. Mr. Morgan looked businesslike with a hammer, a cold chisel, and a large electric torch. It was still a lovely evening, but in a few minutes it would be dark.

As Mr. Morgan had foretold, the crate was high and dry, and they examined it with interest in the light of the torch. It was a strongly made wooden box about three feet by two by two. All round at top and bottom were strengthening cross-pieces, and it was beneath the upper of these that the two flukes of the grappling had caught.

“Well and truly hooked,” Mr. Morgan remarked. “We must have drifted across the thing, and when we pulled up the grappling it slid up the side till it caught the cross-piece. It’s a good job for us, for now we shall get our grappling and our hooks as well.”

Evan fidgetted impatiently.

“Don’t mind about them, dad; we can unfasten them later. Open the box. I want to see what’s in it.”

Mr. Morgan put his cold chisel to the joint of the lid and began to hammer.

“Strictly speaking, we shouldn’t do this,” he declared as he worked. “We should have handed the thing over to Manners. It’s a job for the coast-guards. However, here goes!”

The crate was strongly made, and though Mr. Morgan was a good amateur carpenter, it took him several minutes to open it. But at last one of the top boards was prized up. Instantly both became conscious of a heavy, nauseating smell.

“A case of South American meat or something gone west,” Mr. Morgan commented. “I don’t know that I’m so keen on going on with this job. Perhaps we can see what it is without opening it up further.”

Holding his breath, he put his eye to the slit and shone in a beam from the electric torch. Then with a sharp intaking of the breath he rose.

“It’s a disgusting smell,” he said in rather shaky tones. “Let’s go round and ask Manners to finish the job.”

“Let me look in, dad.”

“Right, old man. But come round with me first to see Manners.”

With some difficulty Mr. Morgan drew his son away. He was feeling sick and shaken. For beneath that well-fitting lid and sticking up out of the water which still remained in the crate was a gruesome and terrible object—the bent head and crouching body of a man dressed in underclothes only and in an advanced state of decomposition!

It was all Mr. Morgan could do to crush down the horror which possessed him and to pretend to the boy that nothing was amiss. Evan must not be allowed to see that ghastly sight! It would haunt his young mind for weeks. Mr. Morgan led the way round the harbour, across the dock gates and towards the road leading to the town.

“But aren’t we going to Manners?” Evan queried, hanging back.

“Not to-night, if you don’t mind, old chap. That smell has made me rather sick. We can go down in the morning. The tide should be right after breakfast.”

Evan demurred, suggesting that he alone should interview the coastguard. But he was what Mr. Morgan called “biddable,” and when his father showed that he was in earnest he allowed the subject to drop.

In due course they reached home. Discreet suggestion having resulted in Evan’s settling down with his meccano, Mr. Morgan felt himself at liberty. He explained casually that he wanted to drop into the club for an hour and left the house. In ten minutes he was at the police station.

“I’ve made a discovery this evening, Sergeant, which I’m afraid points to something pretty seriously wrong,” he explained, and he told the officer in charge about the hooking of the crate. “I didn’t want my son to see the body—he’s rather young for that sort of thing—so we went home without my saying anything about it. But I’ve come back now to report to you. I suppose you, and not Manners, will deal with it?”

Sergeant Nield bore a good reputation in Burry Port as an efficient and obliging officer, as well as a man of some reading and culture. He listened to Mr. Morgan’s recital with close attention and quietly took charge.

“Manners would deal with it at first, Mr. Morgan,” he answered, “but he would hand it over to us when he saw what the object was. I think we’ll call for him on the way down, and that will put the thing in order. Can you come down now, sir?”

“Certainly. That’s what I intended.”

“Then we’ll get away at once. Just let me get my bicycle lamp.” He turned to a constable. “Williames, you and Smith get another light and take the handcart down to the lifeboat slip. Watson, take charge in my absence. Now, Mr. Morgan, if you are ready.”

It was quite dark as the two men turned towards the harbour. Later there would be a quarter-moon, but it had not yet risen. The night was calm and fine, but a little sharpness was creeping into the air. Except for the occasional rush of a motor passing on the road and sounds of shunting from the docks, everything was very still.

“Just where did you say you found the crate, Mr. Morgan?” the sergeant asked.

“Off Llanelly; off the sea end of the breakwater and on the far side of the channel.”

“The Gower side? Far from the channel?”

“The Gower side, yes. But not far from the channel. I should say just on the very edge.”

“You didn’t mark the place?”

“Not with a buoy. I hadn’t one, and if I had I should not have thought it worth while. But I took bearings. I could find the place within a few feet.”

“I suppose you’ve no idea as to how the crate might have got there?”

“Not the slightest. I have been wondering that ever since I learned what was in it. What do you think?”

“I don’t know, sir, unless it has been dropped off a steamer or been washed into the Inlet from some wreck. We’ll get it to the station and examine it, and maybe we shall find where it came from. If you wait here a second I’ll get hold of Manners.”

They had reached the coastguard’s house and the sergeant ran up to the door. In a few seconds he returned with a stout, elderly man who gave Mr. Morgan a civil good evening.

“It’s your job, of course, Tom,” the sergeant was saying, “but it’ll be ours so soon that we may as well go down together. Perhaps, sir, you’ll tell Manners about how you found the crate and brought it in?”

By the time Mr. Morgan had finished his story for the second time they had reached the boat slip. The sergeant and Manners peeped into the crate in turn.

“Yes, sir, it’s just what you said,” the former remarked. “It’s a man, by the look of him, and he’s been dead some time. I think we’ll have the whole affair up to the station before we open any more of it. What do you say, Tom?”

“Right you are, Sergeant, I’ll go with you. I shall ’ave to put in a report about the thing, but I can get my information at the station as well as ’ere. You’ll be coming along, Mr. Morgan?”

“If you please, sir,” the sergeant interjected. “I have to get a statement from you, too.”

“Of course I’ll go,” Mr. Morgan assured them. “I’ll see the thing through now.”

The constables having arrived with the handcart, it was wheeled down the slip and all five men got round the crate and with some difficulty lifted it on.

“By Jove!” Mr. Morgan exclaimed. “That’s some weight. Surely there must be something more than a body in it?”

“It’s certainly heavy, but it’s a very solid crate. We shall see when we get it to the station.”

With a good deal of pushing and shoving the handcart was got up the slip, and the little party moved off along the mole and across the sidings to the town. On reaching the police station the crate was wheeled into a small courtyard in the rear, and Nield invited the others into his office.

“On second thoughts, Mr. Morgan,” he explained, “I’ll not unpack the crate until I have reported to the superintendent and got hold of a doctor. Meantime, sir, I’d be glad to get your statement in writing.”

For the third time Mr. Morgan told his story. The sergeant took it down, read over what he had written, and got the other to sign it.

“That will do, sir, for to-night. You will, of course, be required at the inquest to-morrow or next day.”

“I’ll be there, all right.”

“Then about your son, sir? Has he anything to say that might be of use?”

Mr. Morgan looked distressed.

“Nothing, Sergeant, more than I can tell you myself. I hope you won’t have to call the boy. He’s going back to school to-morrow.”

“That’s all right; he’ll not be wanted. And now, sir, I shouldn’t say more about the affair than you can help. Just keep the discovery of the body quiet and content yourself with the story of finding the crate.”

Mr. Morgan promised and the sergeant wished him good night.

His visitor gone, Sergeant Nield handed a carbon of the statement to Manners, promising to let him know how the affair progressed. The coastguard being got rid of in his turn, Nield telephoned the news to Superintendent Griffiths at Llanelly. The superintendent was suitably impressed and in his turn rang up Major Lloyd, the chief constable at Llandilo. Finally the latter gave instructions for Nield to arrange a meeting at the police station for nine o’clock on the following morning. Both the superintendent and the chief constable would motor over, and the local police doctor was to be in attendance. The body would then be removed from the crate and the necessary examination made. Meanwhile nothing was to be touched.

Glad to be relieved from the sole responsibility, the sergeant made his arrangements and at the hour named a little group entered the courtyard of the police station. In addition to the chief constable and superintendent, the sergeant and two of the latter’s men, there were present two doctors—Dr. Crowth, the local police surgeon, and Dr. Wilbraham, a friend of Major Lloyd’s, whom the latter had brought with him.

After some preliminary remarks the terrible business of getting the remains from the crate was undertaken. Such work would have been distressing at all times, but in the present case two facts made it almost unbearable. In the first place, the man had been dead for a considerable time, estimated by the doctors as from five to six weeks, and in the second his face had been appallingly maltreated. Indeed, it might be said to be nonexistent, so brutally had it been battered in. All the features were destroyed and only an awful pulp remained.

However, the work had to be done, and presently the body was lying on a table which had been placed for the purpose in an outhouse. It was dressed in underclothes only—shirt, vest, drawers and socks. The suit, collar, tie, and shoes had been removed. An examination showed that none of the garments bore initials.

Nor were there any helpful marks on the crate. There were tacks where a label had been attached, but the label had been torn off. A round steel bar of three or four stone weight had also been put in, evidently to ensure the crate sinking.

The most careful examination revealed no clue to the man’s identity. Who he was and why he had been murdered were as insoluble problems as how the crate came to be where it was found.

For over an hour the little party discussed the matter, and then the chief constable came to a decision.

“I don’t believe it’s a local case,” he announced. “That crate must in some way have come from a ship. I don’t see how it could have been got there from the shore. And if it’s not a local case, I think we’ll consider it not our business. We’ll call in Scotland Yard. Let them have the trouble of it. I’ll ring up the Home Office now and we’ll have a man here this evening. To-morrow will be time enough for the inquest, and the C. I. D. man will be here and can ask what questions he likes.”

Thus it came to pass that Inspector Joseph French on that same afternoon travelled westwards by the 1.55 P.M. luncheon car express from Paddington.

Chapter Two: Inspector French Gets Busy

Dusk was already falling when a short, rather stout man with keen blue eyes from which a twinkle never seemed far removed, alighted from the London train at Burry Port and made his way to Sergeant Nield, who was standing near the exit, scrutinising the departing travellers.

“My name is French,” the stranger announced—“Inspector French of the C. I. D. I think you are expecting me?”

“That’s right, sir. We had a phone from headquarters that you were coming on this train. We’ve been having trouble, as you’ve heard.”

“I don’t often take a trip like this without finding trouble at the end of it. We’re like yourself, Sergeant—we have to go out to look for it. But we don’t often have to look for it in such fine country as this. I’ve enjoyed my journey.”

“The country’s right enough if you’re fond of coal,” Nield rejoined, with some bitterness. “But now; Mr. French, what would you like to do? I expect you’d rather get fixed up at a hotel and have some dinner before anything else? I think the Bush Arms is the most comfortable.”

“I had tea a little while ago. If it’s the same to you, Sergeant, I’d rather see what I can before the light goes. I’ll give my bag to the porter and he can fix me up a room. Then I hope you’ll come back and dine with me and we can have a talk over our common trouble.”

The sergeant accepted with alacrity. He had felt somewhat aggrieved at the calling in of a stranger from London, believing it to be a reflection on his own ability to handle the case. But this cheery, good-humoured-looking man was very different from the type of person he was expecting. This inspector did not at all appear to have come down to put the local men in their places and show them what fools they were. Rather he seemed to consider Nield an honoured colleague in a difficult job.

But though the sergeant did not know it, this was French’s way. He was an enthusiastic believer in the theory that with ninety-nine persons out of a hundred you can lead better than you can drive. He therefore made it an essential of his method to be pleasant and friendly to those with whom he came in contact, and many a time he had found that it had brought the very hint that he required from persons who at first had given him only glum looks and tight lips.

“I should like to see the body and the crate and if possible have a walk round the place,” French went on. “Then I shall understand more clearly what you have to tell me. Is the inquest over?”

“No. It is fixed for eleven o’clock to-morrow. The chief constable thought you would like to be present.”

“Very kind of him. I should. I gathered that the man had been dead for some time?”

“Between five and six weeks, the doctors said. Two doctors saw the body—our local man, Doctor Crowth, and a friend of the chief constable’s, Doctor Wilbraham. They were agreed about the time.”

“Did they say the cause of death?”

“No, they didn’t, but there can’t be much doubt about that. The whole face and head is battered in. It’s not a nice sight, I can tell you.”

“I don’t expect so. Your report said that the crate was found by a fisherman?”

“An amateur fisherman, yes,” and Nield repeated Mr. Morgan’s story.

“That’s just the lucky way things happen, isn’t it?” French exclaimed. “A man commits a crime and he takes all kinds of precautions to hide it, and then some utterly unexpected coincidence happens—who could have foreseen a fisherman hooking the crate—and he is down and out. Lucky for us, and for society, too. But I’ve seen it again and again. I’ve seen things happen that a writer couldn’t put into a book, because nobody would believe them possible, and I’m sure so have you. There’s nothing in this world stranger than the truth.”

The sergeant agreed, but without enthusiasm. In his experience it was the ordinary and obvious thing that happened. He didn’t believe in coincidences. After all, it wasn’t such a coincidence that a fisherman who lowered a line on the site of the crate should catch his hooks in it. The crate was in the area over which this man fished. There was nothing wonderful about it.

But a further discussion of the point was prevented by their arrival at the police station. They passed to the outhouse containing the body and French forthwith began his examination.

The remains were those of a man of slightly over medium height, of fairly strong build, and who had seemingly been in good health before death. The face had been terribly mishandled. It was battered in until the features were entirely obliterated. The ears, even, were torn and bruised and shapeless. The skull was evidently broken at the forehead, so, as the sergeant had said, there was here an injury amply sufficient to account for death. It was evident also that a post-mortem had been made. Altogether French had seldom seen so horrible a spectacle.

But his professional instincts were gratified by a discovery which he hoped might assist in the identification of the remains. On the back of the left arm near the shoulder was a small birthmark of a distinctive triangular shape. Of this he made a dimensioned sketch, having first carefully examined it and assured himself it was genuine.

But beyond these general observations he did not spend much time over the body. Having noted that the fingers were too much decomposed to enable prints to be taken, he turned his attention to the clothes, believing that all the further available information as to the remains would be contained in the medical report.

Minutely he examined the underclothes, noting their size and quality and pattern, searching for laundry marks or initials or for mendings or darns. But except that the toe of the left sock had been darned with wool of too light a shade, there was nothing to distinguish the garments from others of the same kind. Though he did not expect to get help from the clothes, French in his systematic way entered a detailed description of them in his notebook. Then he turned to the crate.

It measured two feet three inches by two feet four and was three feet long. Made of spruce an inch thick, it was strongly put together and clamped with iron corner pieces. The boards were tongued and grooved, and French thought that under ordinary conditions it should be watertight. He examined its whole surface, but here again he had no luck. Though there were a few bloodstains inside, no label or brand or identifying mark showed anywhere. Moreover, there was nothing in its shape or size to call for comment. The murderer might have obtained it from a hundred sources and French did not see any way in which it could be traced.

That it had been labelled at one time was evident. The heads of eight tacks formed a parallelogram which clearly represented the position of a card. It also appeared to have borne attachments of some heavier type, as there were seven nail holes of about an eighth of an inch in diameter at each of two opposite corners. Whatever these fittings were, they had been removed and the nails withdrawn.

“How long would you say this had been in the water?” French asked, running his fingers over the sodden wood.

“I asked Manners, our coastguard, that question,” the sergeant answered. “He said not very long. You see, there are no shells nor seaweed attaching to it. He thought about the time the doctors mentioned, say between five and six weeks.”

The bar was a bit of old two-inch shafting, some fourteen inches long, and was much rusted from its immersion. It had evidently been put in as a weight to ensure the sinking of the crate. Unfortunately, it offered no better clue to the sender than the crate itself.

French added these points to his notes and again addressed the sergeant.

“Have you a good photographer in the town?”

“Why, yes, pretty good.”

“Then I wish you’d send for him. I want some photographs of the body and they had better be done first thing in the morning.”

When the photographer had arrived and had received his instructions French went on: “That, Sergeant, seems to be all we can do now. It’s too dark to walk round to-night. Suppose we get along to the hotel and see about that dinner?”

During a leisurely meal in the private room French had engaged they conversed on general topics, but later over a couple of cigars they resumed their discussion of the tragedy. The sergeant repeated in detail all that he knew of the matter, but he was neither able to suggest clues upon which to work, nor yet to form a theory as to what had really happened.

“It’s only just nine o’clock,” French said when the subject showed signs of exhaustion. “I think I’ll go round and have a word with this Mr. Morgan, and then perhaps we could see the doctor—Crowth, you said his name was? Will you come along?”

Mr. Morgan, evidently thrilled by his visitor’s identity, repeated his story still another time. French had brought from London a large-scale ordnance map of the district, and on it he got Mr. Morgan to mark the bearings he had taken and so located the place the crate had lain. This was all the fresh information French could obtain, and soon he and Nield wished the manager good night and went on to the doctor’s.

Dr. Crowth was a bluff, middle-aged man with a hearty manner and a kindly expression. He was offhand in his greeting and plunged at once into his subject.

“Yes,” he said in answer to French’s question, “we held a post-mortem, Doctor Wilbraham and I, and we found the cause of death. Those injuries to the face and forehead were all inflicted after death. They were sufficient to cause death, but they did not do so. The cause of death was a heavy blow on the back of the head with some soft, yielding instrument. The skull was fractured, but the skin, though contused, was unbroken. Something like a sandbag was probably used. The man was struck first and killed, and then his features were destroyed with some heavy implement such as a hammer.”

“That’s suggestive, isn’t it?” French commented.

“You mean that the features were obliterated after death to conceal the man’s identity?”

“No, I didn’t mean that, though of course it is true. What I meant was that the man was murdered in some place where blood would have been noticed, had it fallen. He was killed, not with a sharp-edged instrument, though one was available, but with a blunt one, lest bleeding should have ensued. Then when death had occurred the sharp-edged instrument was used and the face disfigured. I am right about the bleeding, am I not?”

“Oh, yes. A dead body does not bleed, or at least not much. But I do not say that you could inflict all those injuries without leaving some bloodstains.”

“No doubt, but still I think my deduction holds. There were traces of blood in the crate, but only slight. What age was the man, do you think, Doctor?”

“Impossible to say exactly, but probably middle-aged: thirty-five to fifty-five.”

“Any physical peculiarities?”

“I had better show you my report. It will give you all I know. In fact, you can keep this copy.”

French ran his eyes over the document, noting the points which might be valuable. The body was that of a middle-aged man five feet ten inches high, fairly broad and well built, and weighing thirteen stone. The injuries to the head and face were such that recognition from the features would be impossible. There was only one physical peculiarity which might assist identification—a small triangular birthmark on the back of the left arm.

The report then gave technical details of the injuries and the condition the body was in when found, with the conclusion that death had probably occurred some thirty-five to forty days earlier. French smiled ruefully when he had finished reading.

“There’s not overmuch to go on, is there?” he remarked. “I suppose nothing further is likely to come out at the inquest?”

“Unless some one that we don’t know of comes forward with information, nothing,” the sergeant answered. “We have made all the enquiries that we could think of.”

“As far as I am concerned,” Dr. Crowth declared, “I don’t see that you have anything to go on at all. I shouldn’t care for your job, Inspector. How on earth will you start trying to clear up this puzzle? To me it seems absolutely insoluble.”

“Cases do seem so at first,” French returned, “but it’s wonderful how light gradually comes. It is almost impossible to commit a murder without leaving a clue, and if you think it over long enough you usually get it. But this, I admit, is a pretty tough proposition.”

“Have you ever heard of anything like it before?”

“So far it rather reminds me of a case investigated several years ago by my old friend Inspector Burnley—he’s retired now. A cask was sent from France to London which was found to contain the body of a young married French woman, and it turned out that her unfaithful husband had murdered her. He had in his study at the time a cask in which a group of statuary which he had just purchased had arrived, and he disposed of the body by packing it in the cask and sending it to England. It might well be that the same thing had happened in this case: that the murderer had purchased something which had arrived in this crate and that he had used the latter to get rid of the body. And as you can see, Doctor, that at once suggests a line of enquiry. What firm uses crates of this kind to despatch their goods and to whom were such crates sent recently? This is the sort of enquiry which gets us our results.”

“That is very interesting. All the same, I’m glad it’s your job and not mine. I remember reading of that case you mention. The papers were absolutely full of it at the time. I thought it an extraordinary affair, almost like a novel.”

“No doubt, but there is this difference between a novel and real life. In a novel the episodes are selected and the reader is told those which are interesting and which get results. In real life we try perhaps ten or twenty lines which lead nowhere before we strike the lucky one. And in each line we make perhaps hundreds of enquiries, whereas the novel describes one. It’s like any other job, you get results by pegging away. But it is interesting on the whole, and it has its compensations. Well, Doctor, I mustn’t keep you talking all night. I shall see you at the inquest to-morrow?”

French’s gloomy prognostications were justified next day when the proceedings in the little courthouse came to an end. Nothing that was not already known came out and the coroner adjourned the enquiry for three weeks to enable the police to conclude their investigations.

What those investigations were to consist of was the problem which confronted French when after lunch he sat down in the deserted smoking room of the little hotel to think matters out.

In the first place, there was the body. What lines of enquiry did the body suggest?

One obviously. Some five or six weeks ago a fairly tall, well-built man of middle age had disappeared. He might merely have vanished without explanation, or more probably, circumstances had been arranged to account for his absence. In the first case, information should be easily obtainable. But the second alternative was a different proposition. If the disappearance had been cleverly screened it might prove exceedingly difficult to locate. At all events, enquiries on the matter must represent the first step.

It was clearly impossible to trace any of the clothes, with the possible exception of the sock. But even from the sock French did not think he would learn anything. It was of a standard pattern and the darning of socks with wool of not quite the right shade was too common to be remembered. At the same time he noted it as a possible line of research.

Next he turned his attention to the crate, and at once two points struck him.

Could he trace the firm who had made the crate? Of this he was doubtful; it was not sufficiently distinctive. There must be thousands of similar packing cases in existence, and to check up all of them would be out of the question. Besides, it might not have been supplied by a firm. The murderer might have had it specially made or even have made it himself. Here again, however, French could but try.

The second point was: How had the crate got to the bottom of the Burry Inlet? This was a question that he must solve, and he turned all his energies towards it.