The Dartmoor Enigma (26 page)

“Yes, I told him he was dead, and then I saw in the papers that they'd sent Scotland Yard officers down, so I wrote and told him that he'd better stay where he was until the thing had blown over.”

Richardson turned to Sutcliffe. “Do you think we could have the use of Miss Willis's office for taking a formal statement? It may take an hour.”

“I think so, but I'll just make sure.”

While Sutcliffe was absent Richardson said, “I want you to tell us everything, Reddy. Don't get into your head that you may be harming Mr. Willis. It will be all the other way.”

“But if he's tried for murder?”

“He won't be tried for murder, or if he is he is certain to be acquitted. You can take that from me.

“O.K.!” called Sutcliffe from a distance.

“Now come along, Reddy, and we'll take down your statement.”

Richardson had now inspired Reddy with confidence. He gave his statement willingly and consecutively. In an hour it was done and the boy was free to go back to his work. Then Sutcliffe took his place in the little office. He had been bursting to ask Richardson a question.

“Where did you get all that information about Reddy's meeting with Frank Willis?”

“Out of my head and partly from you.”

“How do you mean, from me?”

“You told me that the letter containing information about the gold mine had been addressed to the care of Miss Willis, and that the sub-manager was on his way to England. That was as good as telling me that Frank Willis might have already turned up. Directly Reddy told me that he was employed in a shipping office I thought that I could risk saying that the two had met at the docks. Of course I was watching his face all the time to see how my picture was going. At the first hint of dissent I should have shifted my ground, but as you saw, the weather was set fair all the way.”

“I see, that's how you people get home. It was a fine effort. Now, what we have to settle is how we can get Frank Willis to come over. He is a cautious bird, except in the matter of wildcat investments.”

“There is one thing I set my face against, Mr. Sutcliffe, and that is using force. It would be quite easy for us to move the French police to put him on board a cross-channel boat without any warrant of extradition, but then he would come to us in the wrong frame of mind. What is wanted is to persuade him to come voluntarily in his own interests and to make a frank statement of everything that has occurred.”

“I see that as far as you are concerned, Mr. Richardson, but I suppose the case doesn't rest exclusively with you. The prosecution would come from a higher authority.”

“Yes, if it comes at all, but that higher authority could work only upon my reports and the statements of the various witnesses.”

“You think that they will decide not to take the case to court?”

“I do.”

“Then it seems to me that the best thing will be for me to go over to Paris and bring him back with me.”

“Very well, Mr. Sutcliffe, but you must be very careful to warn me by telegram about the boat you are both coming by; otherwise there may be trouble with our Port Officers. I will myself meet the boat and accompany you up to London.”

“H
AVE WE GOT
to hang about until Sutcliffe comes back?” asked Jago, on the journey back to town.

“While Sutcliffe is in Paris trying to persuade his prospective brother-in-law to come home and face the music, we'll slip down to Devonshire and take more detailed statements from Pengelly and Susie Duke about what they actually saw when the fight began. Then we have to take leave of our friend, Superintendent Carstairs, and see how he takes our latest discovery.”

Having dispatched a telegram asking for the car to meet them at Tavistock, they took the train. They had the carriage to themselves and the car met them on arrival.

“Has anything been happening while we've been away?” asked Richardson.

“Nothing, sir; everything's been very quiet.”

“Any reporters up here?”

“No, sir, even the papers have been leaving us alone. When you went back to London they thought you'd dropped the case.”

“And what about The Firs? Is it up for sale yet?”

“Yes, there's a notice-board up, and quite a lot of people have been over the house, most of them because they think that a murder was done in it.”

At the police station they found Superintendent Carstairs not very much concerned about the outcome of the inquiry.

“Well, Mr. Carstairs,” said Richardson when they were alone, “it's been a tough job, but at last I believe that we've got to the bottom of the mystery.”

“You have?”

“Yes.”

“And who do you think did the murder?”

“A man I have never told you about before—a man named Willis. He's been lying low in Paris all this time, waiting until the hue and cry died down. We've taken steps to have him brought over.”

“What was his motive?”

“He had been a solicitor and was going into partnership with Instone's employer. He made up his mind to stop Instone's car on its way from Duketon and have it out with him for embezzling the funds of the firm. He went a silly way to work. He hid himself in the heather until the car came in sight and then planted himself in the middle of the road to stop it. Whether Instone—or Dearborn as he called himself—recognized him or thought that he was a bandit, there is no means of knowing, but I think that he recognized him all right. He jumped out of the car with the starting-handle in his hand and went for Willis, who had nothing but a walking-stick to defend himself with. There was a set-to in the road and as we know, Willis broke his stick over Instone's head, and then made off down the back of South Hessary Tor and got bogged at the bottom.”

“Can you prove this?”

“Yes, I have witnesses covering every bit of the way, and the man will be brought back from Paris to-morrow or next day and I shall have his own statement as well.”

“So this is the last time I shall see you?”

“Not quite. In order to clinch matters I want to take a second statement from Pengelly and that young woman, Susan Duke, independently. They were eye-witnesses of the fight, you remember. Will you lend me your car once more to do this?”

“Of course. Do you think there'll be a prosecution?”

“No; I think the Director of Public Prosecutions will turn the case down. Still, it was as well to get it cleared up. Your Chief Constable will, of course, receive a copy of my report, and you will see it.”

They drove first to Rowe's Quarry and inquired whether Pengelly was still working there.

“Yes,” said the foreman; “we have him here as a blacksmith's striker. Do you want to see him?”

“We do, but we won't keep him long. He will only have a few questions to answer and to sign his name.”

Pengelly was called from the forge to the office. He greeted Richardson with an air of armed neutrality.

“Look here, Pengelly, I want you to cast your mind back to what you saw on the road from Duketon to Sandilands when the man they called Charles Dearborn was knocked out.”

“I've told you that already.”

“I know you did, but a good deal depends now upon the question who started the fight. Try to live the scene over again, if you know what I mean.”

“Well, as I told you before, we were two hundred yards away, but I don't think I missed much, because you see I was waiting for Mr. Dearborn too. That other man—a gentleman he looked by his clothes—held out his arms like a railway signal; the car pulled up and the next thing I saw was Mr. Dearborn flourishing the starting-handle and making straight for the other man as if he meant to hit him. I think that he did hit him once, but I couldn't swear to it. Then the other man gave him one over the head with his walking-stick and Dearborn dropped like a stone.”

Sergeant Jago had been rapidly reducing the statement into writing. He read it over and Richardson handed his pen to Pengelly and asked him to sign it.

Pengelly shook his head. “How do I know what use would be made of it if I put my name to it? I've a good job now and I don't want to lose it.”

“You won't lose it,” Richardson assured him. “All we want is to get at the truth. I haven't let you down yet and I'm not going to begin now. You are much more likely to keep your job by telling the truth, whereas if you decline to sign your statement it might go against you with the company.”

“Very well, then; I'll sign.”

“Now to Moorstead,” said Richardson to the driver. “We have to take a statement from that girl in Sun Lane.”

“Then I'll drop you at the top of the lane as I did last time?”

“Yes.”

The girl was at home; she showed no sign of embarrassment when Richardson got her to sit down and began to read her signed statement to her.

“You have nothing to add to this statement?” he asked when he had read it to the end.

“Nothing at all.”

“You said in your statement: ‘Mr. Dearborn jumped out of his car with the starting-handle in his hand and there was a bit of a set-to between them.' If you were near enough to see the starting-handle you were near enough to see who struck the first blow.”

“Why, of course I did. Mr. Dearborn went for the man with the starting-handle and struck a blow at his head, and the man warded it off with his stick and then hit back. But it all happened so quick that I couldn't see how many blows were struck.”

“Do you mind signing that in addition to your statement?”

“Certainly I'll sign it; it's nothing but the truth.”

Jago had added the words to the earlier statement and had dated them. He pointed to the place for the signature. The girl wrote her name.

“We have nothing left to do now but say good-bye to Superintendent Carstairs and get back to the Yard as quickly as we can,” said Richardson, as the car gathered speed on its return journey. “I hope to find a telegram from Paris when we get back.”

They found Superintendent Carstairs in his office. “Well,” he asked, “did you get all you wanted?”

“Yes, Mr. Carstairs; and now all I have to do is to say good-bye to you and to thank you for all that you have done for us. I shall call particular attention to this in my report.”

They shook hands.

“How are you going?” asked Carstairs.

“We thought of going by train to North Road.”

“Nothing of the kind. You'll take the car, either to Tavistock or to North Road station, whichever you like. You can catch the express at Tavistock if you start right away.”

They did their sleeping in the train and went home to wash and have breakfast.

When they reached the Yard they found a telegram from Paris awaiting them. “We arrive Victoria 3.21 to-morrow.”

“Quick work,” said Richardson. “It means that I must get down to Dover by midday.” He glanced at the timetable. “I can just do it if I start at once. I must be there to meet them, otherwise they will be held up by the Port Officer of the Special Branch. You, meanwhile, can get on with the report.”

At Dover Richardson had no difficulty after he had made it clear to the Special Branch sergeant that he would take charge of the prisoner as soon as he landed.

“You'll explain matters to the Superintendent, Mr. Richardson? You see, I shall be departing from the terms of this circular.”

“Yes, that'll be all right. I shall have the circular cancelled, of course.”

“Do you know the man by sight?” asked the sergeant.

“No, but I know the man who is accompanying him.”

“Very well, then, step this way, and we'll get first to the gangway. I see that the boat is signalled; she's on time.”

The deck was crowded as the vessel pulled into the quay. It was impossible to distinguish faces in such a crowd, but as the passengers struggled towards the gangway with their hand luggage it became easy to recognize individuals. It was on the gangway that Richardson first saw the man he had been hunting all these weary days. Preceded by Sutcliffe, a tallish, slender man, burnt by the sun to a deep brown which contrasted oddly with his fair hair, was shouldering his way with two suit-cases to the quay. In his well-cut features he reminded Richardson of the brother and sister at Bromley. The Special Branch officer stepped forward to receive him, for he had already recognized him from the description. Sutcliffe waved a hand to Richardson; in a moment the four men were together. Sutcliffe effected the introduction.

“This is Mr. Frank Willis, secretary to that company I told you of; and this gentleman,” he said, turning to Willis, “is the Chief Inspector from the Yard who is interested in you.”

“I see. His interest in me consists in arresting me, not as they do it on the American films with a six-shooter pointed at my stomach, but in the gentlemanly English fashion which is not even marred by the click of the handcuffs.”

Richardson laughed pleasantly. “You are not even under arrest, sir. You are only coming to Scotland Yard with me to make a statement. As to what will happen after you have made it, that will depend principally on you.”

“Do you run to a restaurant at the Yard, by any chance? That crossing has made me devilish hungry.”

“There is a staff restaurant,” said Richardson, “but for anyone accustomed to French cooking these last few days, I can't recommend it. We could lunch on the train.”

“No,” said Sutcliffe; “I hate a restaurant car. We want to be quiet.”

“Well,” said Richardson, “we will lunch together wherever you like as soon as we reach town.”

“Then I hope that you will be my guest,” said Willis. “No, you mustn't decline; it's well understood that at the end of the meal you slip the handcuffs on me, if you want, without any feeling about the claims of hospitality or nonsense of that kind. Where shall we go? There used to be a decent little restaurant near the Army and Navy Stores; what about trying that?”