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The stationmaster hurried off, and Ashe turned to carry out his orders. Ten minutes later the special pulled out, having on board the stationmaster, Ashe, Sergeant Clarke of the City Police, as well as Dr Bakker, a police surgeon, and two constables. It stopped a few yards short of the mouth of the tunnel, and the men, clambering down from the van, went forward on foot. Even the hardened nerves of the police were not proof against the horrible sight which met their eyes on reaching the body, and all six men stood for some moments, shocked into silence. Then, with a muttered oath, Sergeant Clarke took charge.
‘We’ll not touch anything for a minute until we have a look round,’ he said, and, suiting the action to the word, he began to take stock of his surroundings.
The dead man was lying parallel to the rails in the offset, or flat track at the side of the line. He was dressed in a suit of light brown tweed, with brown tie and soft collar. On his feet were tan shoes, and his soft brown felt hat, cut nearly in two, lay between the rails some yards nearer to the station. The gleam of a gold watch chain showed beneath his partly open coat.
The manner of the happening was writ only too clearly on the ground. The first mark, some thirty yards farther into the tunnel, was a small stain of blood on the rail, and from there to where the body lay, the traces of the disaster were sadly apparent. Save as to the man’s identity, there was no mystery here. Each one of the little group standing round could reconstruct for himself how the tragedy had occurred.
Sergeant Clarke, having observed these details, turned slowly to his companions.
‘Who found the body?’ he asked, producing a well-thumbed notebook.
Both Ashe and the driver claiming the distinction, Clarke took statements from each.
‘It’s clear from the marks,’ he went on, ‘that the man was killed by an incoming train?’ The stationmaster at whom he glanced, nodded decisively. ‘Now, what trains pass through during the night?’
‘Down trains?’ the stationmaster answered. ‘There are four. First there’s a local passenger from Harrisonville; gets here at 8.50 in the evening. The next is the mail, the through express for the north. It passes here at 11.10 p.m. Then there’s a goods gets in about midnight, and another goods about 2.30 a.m. These are not very regular, but we can get you the time they arrived last night.’
The sergeant nodded as he laboriously noted these details.
‘What about the engines of those trains?’ he asked. ‘No marks found on any of them?’
‘None reported so far. All the engines come off here—this is a locomotive depot, you understand—and they’re all examined by the shed staff before stabling. But we can have them looked over again if you think necessary.’
‘It might be as well.’ The sergeant wrote for some seconds, then resumed with a slightly consequential air: ‘Now tell me, who would be the last person to walk along the line, I mean the last person before this’—he looked at his notes—‘this Signalman Ashe?’
‘I could hardly answer that question offhand,’ the stationmaster said slowly. ‘The last I know of would be the permanent way men leaving work about six last night. But some of the station staff or the locomotive men might have been by later.’ He turned to the signalman. ‘What about you, Ashe? Don’t you come to work by the railway?’
‘Sometimes,’ the man admitted, ‘but there weren’t no body here when I passed last night.’ The sergeant fixed him with a cold eye.
‘What time was that?’ he demanded.
‘About 8.48. My shift doesn’t begin ’til 10.00 p.m., but last night I came in earlier because I wanted to make a call up town first. But I know the time it was because No. 43—that’s the passenger from Harrisonville he was speaking of’—Ashe jerked his head towards the stationmaster—‘she passed me just a few yards on the other side of the tunnel. If she had put this man down I should have seen him.’
‘But it was dark at that time.’
‘Ay, it was dark, but it weren’t here for all that.’ Ashe expectorated skilfully. ‘Why, if it had been, I’d have fallen over it, for I was walking down the offset.’
Again Clarke wrote laboriously.
‘Well, Stationmaster,’ he said at length, ‘I think we’ll get the body moved, and then I should like to have those engines looked at again. I suppose, Doctor, there’s nothing you can do here?’
Dr Bakker having signified his approval, the remains were lifted on to a stretcher and placed on the floor of the van, the melancholy little party climbed on board, and the train set back to Middeldorp station. There the body was carried to a disused office, where it would remain until arrangements could be made to remove it to the morgue. The railwaymen were dismissed, and Dr Bakker and the sergeant set themselves to make the necessary examination.
The clothes were soon stripped off, and Clarke took them to the table in an adjoining room, while his colleague busied himself with the remains. First the sergeant emptied the pockets, making a list of the articles found. With one exception, these were of the kind usually carried by a well-to-do man of the middle class. There was a gold watch and chain, a knife, a bunch of keys, a half-filled cigarette case, some fifteen shillings in loose money, a pocketbook and three folded papers. But in addition to these, there was an object which at once excited the sergeant’s curiosity—a small automatic pistol, quite clean and apparently new. Clarke drew out the magazine and found it full of shells. There was no trace in the barrel of a shot having been fired.
But, interesting as was this find, it offered no aid to identification, and Clarke turned with some eagerness to the pocketbook and papers.
The latter turned out to be letters. Two were addressed to Mr Albert Smith, c/o Messrs. Hope Bros., 120-130 Mees Street, Middeldorp, and the third to the same gentleman at 25 Rotterdam Road. Sergeant Clarke knew Hope Bros. establishment, a large provision store in the centre of the town, and he assumed that Mr Smith must have been an employee, the Rotterdam Road address being his residence. If so, his problem, or part of it at all events, seemed to be solved.
As a matter of routine he glanced through the letters. The two addressed to the store were about provision business matters, the other was a memorandum containing a number of figures apparently relating to betting transactions.
Though Sergeant Clarke was satisfied he already had sufficient information to lead to the deceased’s identification, he went on in his stolid, routine way to complete his inquiry. Laying aside the letters, he picked up the pocketbook. It was marked with the same name, Albert Smith, and contained a roll of notes value six pounds, some of Messrs. Hope Bros. trade cards with ‘Mr A. Smith’ in small type on the lower left-hand corner, and a few miscellaneous papers, none of which seemed of interest.
The contents of the pockets done with, he turned his attention to the clothes themselves, noting the manufacturers or sellers of the various articles. None of the garments were marked except the coat, which bore a tab inside the breast pocket with the tailor’s printed address, and the name ‘A. Smith’ and a date of some six months earlier, written in ink.
His immediate investigation finished, Sergeant Clarke returned to Dr Bakker in the other room.
‘Man’s name is Albert Smith, sir,’ he said. ‘Seems to have worked in Hope Bros. store in Mees Street. Have you nearly done, sir?’
Dr Bakker, who was writing, threw down his pen.
‘Just finished, Sergeant.’
He collected some sheets of paper and passed them to the other. ‘This will be all you want, I fancy.’
‘Thank you, sir. You’ve lost no time.’
‘No, I want to get away as soon as possible.’
‘Well, just a moment, please, until I look over this.’
The manuscript was in the official form and read:
‘11th November.
‘To the Chief Constable of Middeldorp.
‘SIR,—I beg to report that this morning at 6.25 a.m. I was called by Sergeant Clarke to examine a body which had just been found on the railway near the north end of the Dartie Avenue Tunnel. I find as follows:
‘The body is that of a man of about thirty-five, 6 feet 0 inches in height, broad and strongly built, and with considerable muscular development. (Here followed some measurements and technical details.) As far as discernable without an autopsy, the man was in perfect health. The cause of death was shock produced by the following injuries: (Here followed a list.) All of these are consistent with the theory that he was struck by the cowcatcher of a railway engine in rapid motion.
‘I am of the opinion the man had been dead from eight to ten hours when found.
‘I am, etc.,
‘PIETER BAKKER.’
‘Thank you, Doctor, there’s not much doubt about that part of it.’ Clarke put the sheets carefully away in his pocket. ‘But I should like to know what took the man there. It’s a rum time for anyone to be walking along the line. Looks a bit like suicide to me. What do you say, sir?’
‘Not improbable.’ The doctor rose and took his hat. ‘But you’ll easily find out. You will let me know about the inquest?’
‘Of course, sir. As soon as it’s arranged.’
The stationmaster had evidently been watching the door, for hardly had Dr Bakker passed out of earshot when he appeared, eager for information.
‘Well, Sergeant,’ he queried, ‘have you been able to identify him yet?’
‘I have, Stationmaster,’ the officer replied, a trifle pompously. ‘His name is Albert Smith, and he was connected with Hope Bros. store in Mees Street.’
The stationmaster whistled.
‘Mr Smith of Hope Bros.!’ he repeated. ‘You don’t say! Why, I knew him well. He was often down here about accounts for carriage and claims. A fine upstanding man he was too, and always very civil spoken. This is a terrible business, Sergeant.’
The sergeant nodded, a trifle impatiently. But the stationmaster was curious, and went on:
‘I’ve been thinking it over, Sergeant, and the thing I should like to know is,’ he lowered his voice impressively, ‘what was he doing there?’
‘Well,’ said Clarke, ‘what would you say yourself?’
The stationmaster shook his head.
‘I don’t like it,’ he declared. ‘I don’t like it at all. That there piece of line doesn’t lead to anywhere Mr Smith should want to go to—not at that time of night anyhow. It looks bad. It looks to me’—again he sank his voice—‘like suicide.’
‘Like enough,’ Clarke admitted coldly. ‘Look here, I want to go right on down to Mees Street. The body can wait here, I take it? One of my men will be in charge.’
‘Oh, certainly.’ The stationmaster became cool also. ‘That room is not wanted at present.’
‘What about those engines?’ went on Clarke. ‘Have you been able to find marks on any of them?’
‘I was coming to that.’ Importance crept once more into the stationmaster’s manner. ‘I had a further search made, with satisfactory results. Traces of blood were found on the cowcatcher of No. 1317. She worked in the mail, that’s the one that arrived at 11.10 p.m. So it was then it happened.’
This agreed with the medical evidence, Clarke thought, as he drew out his book and made the usual note. Having made a further entry to the effect that the stationmaster estimated the speed of this train at about thirty-five miles an hour when passing through the tunnel, Clarke asked for the use of the telephone, and reported his discoveries to headquarters. Then he left for the Mees Street store, while, started by the stationmaster, the news of Albert Smith’s tragic end spread like wildfire.
Messrs. Hope Bros. establishment was a large building occupying a whole block at an important street crossing. It seemed to exude prosperity, as the aroma of freshly ground coffee exuded from its open doors. Elaborately carved ashlar masonry clothed it without, and within it was a maze of marble, oxidised silver and plate glass. Passing through one of its many pairs of swing doors, Clarke addressed himself to an attendant.
‘Is your manager in yet? I should like to see him, please.’
‘I think Mr Crawley is in,’ the young man returned. ‘Anyway, he won’t be long. Will you come this way?’
Mr Crawley, it appeared, was not available, but his assistant, Mr Hurst, would see the visitor if he would come to the manager’s office. He proved to be a thin-faced, aquiline-featured young man, with an alert, eager manner.
‘Good morning, Sergeant,’ he said, his keen eyes glancing comprehensively over the other. ‘Sit down, won’t you. And what can I do for you?’
‘I’m afraid, sir,’ Clarke answered as he took the chair indicated, ‘that I am bringing you bad news. You had a Mr Albert Smith in your service?’
‘Yes, what of him?’
‘Was he a tall man of about thirty-five, broad and strongly built, and wearing brown tweed clothes?’
‘That’s the man.’
‘He has met with an accident. I’m sorry to tell you he is dead.’
The assistant manager stared.
‘Dead!’ he repeated blankly, a look of amazement passing over his face. ‘Why, I was talking to him only last night! I can hardly believe it. When did it occur, and how?’
‘He was run over on the railway in the tunnel under Dartie Avenue about eleven o’clock last night.’
‘Good heavens!’
There was no mistaking the concern in the assistant manager’s voice, and he listened with deep interest while Clarke told him the details he had learned.
‘Poor fellow!’ he observed, when the recital was ended. ‘That was cruelly hard luck. I am sorry for your news, Sergeant.’
‘No doubt, sir.’ Clarke paused, then went on, ‘I wanted to ask you if you could tell me anything of his family. I gathered he lived in Rotterdam Road? Is he married, do you know?’
‘No, he had rooms there. I never heard him mention his family. I’m afraid I can’t help you about that, and I don’t know anyone else who could.’
‘Is that so, sir? He wasn’t a native then?’
‘No. He came to us’—Mr Hurst took a card from an index in a drawer of the desk—‘almost exactly six years ago. He gave his age then as twenty-six, which would make him thirty-two now. He called here looking for clerical work, and as we were short of a clerk at the time, Mr Crawley gave him a start. He did fairly well, and gradually advanced until he was second in his department. He was a very clever chap, ingenious and, indeed, I might say, brilliant. But, unfortunately, he was lazy, or rather he would only work at what interested him for the moment. He did well enough to hold a second’s job, but he was too erratic to get charge.’
‘What about his habits? Did he drink or gamble?’
Mr Hurst hesitated slightly.
‘I have heard rumours that he gambled, but I don’t know anything personally. I can’t say I ever saw him seriously the worse for drink.’
‘I suppose you know nothing about his history before he joined you?’
‘Nothing. I formed the opinion that he was English, and had come out with some stain on his reputation, but of that I am not certain. Anyway, we didn’t mind if he had had a break in the Old Country, so long as he made good with us.’
‘I think, sir, you said you saw Mr Smith last night. At what hour?’
‘Just before quitting time. About half past five.’
‘And he seemed in his usual health and spirits.’
‘Absolutely.’
Sergeant Clarke had begun to ask another question when the telephone on the manager’s desk rang sharply. Hurst answered.
‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Yes, the assistant manager speaking. Yes, he’s here now. I’ll ask him to speak.’ He turned to his visitor. ‘Police headquarters wants to speak to you.’
Clarke took the receiver.
‘That you, Clarke?’ came in a voice he recognised as that of his immediate superior, Inspector Vandam. ‘What are you doing?’
The sergeant told him.
‘Well,’ went on the voice, ‘you might drop it and return here at once. I want to see you.’
‘I’m wanted back at headquarters, sir,’ Clarke explained as he replaced the receiver. ‘I have to thank you for your information.’
‘If you want anything more from me, come back.’
‘I will.’
