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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 under clothes 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 tonight, 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 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. ‘Williams, 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 worthwhile. 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 boatslip. 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 at 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 get 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 tonight. You will, of course, be required at the inquest tomorrow 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 tomorrow.’
‘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 goodnight.
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 non-existent, 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 stones 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. Tomorrow 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.
2 (#ucefb7d63-1314-5ef6-90f9-fd25a2e68d8d)
Inspector French Gets Busy (#ucefb7d63-1314-5ef6-90f9-fd25a2e68d8d)
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 an 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 tomorrow. 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, Dr Crowth, and a friend of the chief constable’s, Dr 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 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 note-book. 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 water-tight. 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 tonight. 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 able neither 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 goodnight 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 off-hand in his greeting, and plunged at once into his subject.
‘Yes,’ he said in answer to French’s question, ‘we held a post-mortem, Dr 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.’
