WHEN Sergeant Blair stepped out of the Hopes’ car at Crianlarich he was still feeling a good deal shaken from his adventure in the burning house, but he realised that his big chance had come, and that if he were to profit by it he must not give way to physical weakness. He therefore hurried to the hotel and drank a single whisky to steady his nerves, before calling up the Chief Constable of his county.
After a short consultation that official decided that expert assistance must be obtained from the detective headquarters in Edinburgh, and half an hour later he rang up the sergeant to say that he had arranged that Detective Inspector Ross would be sent to take over the case. By a stroke of good fortune, it happened that a train conveying through sleeping cars from King’s Cross to Fort William ran on Saturday mornings, and Ross would take advantage of this train, leaving Edinburgh at 4.45 a.m., and reaching Crianlarich at 7.48.
While waiting for a reply from the Chief Constable, Blair had carefully read the letter from Sandy Buchan to Crawley. That it was a forgery seemed obvious to him, for he knew that Colonel Grahame had left the country, and he did not believe that any caretaker had been left in charge of the house. The fire being the one and only topic of conversation, he had an obvious opening for discreet inquiries, and he speedily satisfied himself that not only had the bungalow been empty for the past fortnight, but that there had never been anyone in it with a name remotely resembling Buchan.
He went back to the house on receiving the Chief Constable’s message. In the amazing way in which crowds materialise from nowhere, there was now a mob of black figures moving round the burning building. Since he had left the fire had made rapid headway. The whole house was now a glowing mass, and as he came up the last portion of the roof collapsed into the inferno below with a vast outburst of flame and sparks. Towards the rear, where the conflagration at first was fiercest, it was now dying down, the walls with their empty windows standing black and gaunt against the smouldering debris within.
There was nothing to be done, and Blair stood discussing the affair with those whom the spectacle had attracted to the spot. He explained casually that he and his men had happened to be in the locality and had seen the glare. Hurrying up, they had found that the flames had taken too great a hold to save the house, and they had broken in with the object of trying to get out some of the furniture. The smoke, however, had been too dense to allow of this. He agreed warmly with the sentiment expressed by all, that it was fortunate that no one had been in the building, and was as mystified as the rest as to how, under the circumstance, the fire could have originated. Sergeant Blair, in fact, was something of an artist, and none of those with whom he spoke that night had the slightest suspicion that the man’s brain was seething with the consciousness of the tragedy which had been enacted in their midst.
Slowly the night dragged on. By two o’clock the flames had died down and the spectators had disappeared. Blair had borrowed a bicycle, and believing that his presence was no longer required on the scene, he left his two men to keep watch ’til morning, and rode back to Tyndrum. He wanted to be at his best to meet Inspector Ross, and he felt that a few hours sleep would be his most effective preparation.
At 7.48 a.m. he was back in Crianlarich at the West Highland Station. Inspector Ross proved to be a tall, stoutly built man, blue-eyed, fair haired, and of the traditionally Norse type. Blair had never met him before, but he knew his reputation as one of the most trusted officers of the Scottish service, and he hugged himself on his luck in thus coming into personal touch with so influential a member of his profession.
‘I don’t want to be seen talking to you, Sergeant,’ was the detective’s somewhat uncompromising greeting. ‘I don’t want anyone to suspect my business. I’ll go to the hotel for breakfast, and give out that I’m from the Insurance Company. We’ll meet at the place in an hour.’
Blair, grasping the situation, made no reply, but continued walking down the train looking into the carriage windows as if expecting a traveller. Then, apparently satisfied his friend had not arrived, he slowly left the station and returned to the house. An hour later he was joined by Ross.
‘Now give me an idea of this business.’
Sergeant Blair had foreseen the demand, and he had spent some time in rehearsing to story. He was therefore able to put the facts succinctly before the other. Ross nodded approvingly, glanced rapidly over the decoy letter, put it away in his pocket-book, and went on:
‘The first thing is a search round the house. I suppose you have made one already?’
‘Ay, sir, but I didna find anything.’
‘We’ll look again.’
But the new inspection, meticulously thorough though it was, revealed nothing helpful, and Blair, who had been on tenterhooks during the process, breathed freely again.
‘Seems to have been a pretty near thing for this Crawley?’ Ross muttered.
‘If it hadna been for the lassie, sir, he would be a corp noo. Anither five minutes an’ we couldna ha’ got him oot.’
‘It was a clever scoundrel that fixed the thing up. You were right, Sergeant, to keep the thing quiet and to warn the Hopes to do the same. I’ll remember it in your favour. Are those men of yours reliable?’
The sergeant glowed with delight as he murmured his thanks and expressed his confidence in the constables’ discretion.
‘Very well. Come down now to the road and we’ll have a look for traces of Crawley’s car.’
‘Ay, there’s wheel marks down by the gate.’
A few yards on the Crianlarich side of the entrance to the drive impressions in the soft ground at the side of the road showed that a small car had been driven in near the fence from a southerly direction and out again in a northerly. There was not much to learn from the traces, but such as there was Ross noted. The gauge of the wheels, the length of the wheelbase, and the width and make of the tyres were all discernable at the point where the vehicle had stood, and all pointed to a small car of the runabout or two-seater type. The non-skid ribbing on the tyres was also clearly marked, and Ross discovered signs of wear on some of the ribs which, he hoped, would enable him to identify the machine should he be lucky enough to find it. Having made dimensional sketches of the defective ribs, he turned to Blair.
‘Who can have taken the thing?’ he muttered. ‘Did Crawley bring a driver with him, and if so, where has he gone?’
He paused in thought. Then quickly the solution occurred to him, and he burst out:
‘But of course it would be taken! That would be part of the scheme. The man or men we want went off in that car. We can see that they had to. They daren’t leave it here. No one was supposed to know that Crawley had come, and it would give the show away at once. Incidentally it gave a fine means of escape.’
Inspector Ross stood whistling a little tune as he considered how he should carry on the inquiry. The main facts of the attempted murder seemed clear enough. Someone, desiring Crawley’s death, had forged a letter luring him under cover of darkness to this lonely house where he could be done away with by an unexpected blow. This person—or persons—had then set fire to the house, unquestionably with the object of getting rid of the body and destroying all incriminating evidence.
It had been part of the plan to make Crawley come by himself in his car, and this, Ross could see, had obvious advantages. For one thing, it enabled Crawley to start off without letting his destination be known. Again, his actual journey would be more secret and, in the event of suspicion being aroused, much harder to trace. There was also the point he had already thought of, the excellent way of escape the car offered to the murderer.
Ross went a step further. Supposing he were right so far and that the assassin had indeed taken the car, what would he do with it? Though he could use it during the night, he could hardly risk being seen in it. As soon as Crawley’s disappearance became known, a description of the vehicle he had left in would be circulated, and all the police in the country would be on the look out for it. No, Ross thought, the car would have to be got rid of before daylight, and if so, there lay his first clue.
Lighting his pipe, he puffed slowly as he followed out his argument. There was still more in this matter of the car. Would its desertion at some carefully selected spot not also be part of the scheme? Would the finding of the vehicle at some point far removed from Crianlarich not indicate to the unsuspecting that Crawley had himself gone there? It would certainly tend to draw attention away from Crianlarich, and to prevent a connection being suspected between Crawley’s disappearance and the fire.
Inspector Ross felt that these ideas worked into a connected scheme sufficiently well to justify him in following them up. He turned to his companion.
‘Look here, Sergeant,’ he said, ‘I want you to make discreet inquiries about the neighbourhood. Find out if a small car was seen last night, and, if so, where it was going. Make inquiries about strangers, or any other inquiries you think might help. But all quietly, you understand. Don’t give away what you’re after.’
The sergeant, delighted at the chance of showing his metal, hurried off towards Crianlarich, Ross following more slowly. From the hotel he telephoned to Edinburgh, asking that the police be advised to look out for a car of the kind in question, particularly if such had been deserted during the night. Then, finding he had just time to catch a train for Callander, he went to the station and got on board.
He lunched on arrival, then calling at the police station, learned that Dr McLeod had been called in by the Hopes. An hour later he was seated in the doctor’s consulting room, explaining his business to that somewhat dour though efficient-looking practitioner.
‘The man is still alive,’ he was told, ‘at least, he was an hour ago when I saw him. He has had a bad blow on the back of the head. The skull is not fractured, but there is undoubtedly concussion—serious, I’m afraid. But there is certainly hope.’
‘He is unconscious?’
‘Oh, yes.’
‘I suppose, Doctor, such injuries could not be self-inflicted?’
‘Quite impossible.’ Dr McLeod shook his head decidedly.
‘Nor could they result from an accident? I mean, could Crawley have broken into the house, set fire to it accidentally, and in his excitement have tripped over something and struck his head as he fell?’
‘Out of the question, I should say. The injury is to the top of the head. The skin is but slightly broken, though the blow was undoubtedly severe. The man has been struck, if you ask my opinion, by someone behind him, with a blunt weapon—possibly a sandbag.’
‘I may take it then it is attempted murder?’
‘In my opinion, there is not the slightest doubt of it.’
Inspector Ross rose.
‘Thank you, Doctor. You won’t mind my impressing on you the need for secrecy? We want the murderer to think his scheme has succeeded. The injured man must absolutely disappear. You follow me?’
‘Quite,’ the doctor answered as they shook hands.
‘Now for that girl that carried out the rescue,’ thought Ross as he walked in the direction of Mr Hope’s villa. Marion was lying down, but she got up eagerly when she heard who had called. She was pale, and dark rings below her eyes indicated a night of stress.
‘I trust you have good news about your patient, Miss Hope?’ Ross began when he had introduced himself. ‘I have just seen Dr McLeod and he was encouraging.’
A rush of tears came to the girl’s eyes, but she smiled wanly.
‘Oh, was he?’ she cried. ‘I couldn’t get him to express an opinion. He tells me the skull is not fractured but he fears concussion.’
‘But concussion is not necessarily fatal,’ Ross went on reassuringly. ‘As Mr Crawley has lived so long, I should say he’s pretty certain to pull through. Cases of this kind are very much a matter of nursing, and he’s all right in that respect. And now, Miss Hope, I want your help. As you must know, a deliberate attempt has been made to murder Mr Crawley. I have been instructed to find the criminals. As a beginning, I want to know all that you can tell me about Mr Crawley. Please take your time and let me have everything in detail.’
‘I will do my best, Mr Inspector. As you may imagine, I am as anxious as you that such fiends should be brought to justice. I suppose you know,’ a faint colour mounted her pale cheeks, ‘that Mr Crawley and I are engaged to be married?’
‘I didn’t know,’ Ross returned. ‘In fact, I know nothing about the affair at all. So please begin at the beginning.’
She did her best, and by dint of discreet questionings he gradually learned the whole story. Then, with further polite references to Crawley, he rose to take his leave.
As he strolled about, waiting for his return train to Crianlarich, Ross pondered over the history he had listened to, and tried to get its salient features clear in his mind. On the face of things, it seemed not unlikely that these two tragedies were connected, that this attempt on Crawley’s life had its roots in that murder of Smith in far off Middeldorp. He thought it would be worth while obtaining from the South African police fuller details of that first crime than Miss Hope had been able to give him. He would have to cable them in any case to learn if Buchan had left the country, and he might ask for a copy of the evidence to be sent.
But whether or not the tragedies were actually connected, it was at least certain that the writer of the decoy letter was fully aware of what had taken place in South Africa. The amount of knowledge that this person possessed impressed Ross. He took a fresh page of his notebook and jotted down the points as they occurred to him.
In the first place, it was clear that the writer knew Buchan intimately, and possessed specimens of his handwriting. Equally intimately he knew Crawley, the details of his life in Middeldorp, and the whole story of the Smith murder. He was aware also of Crawley’s history since he had returned to England, that he had taken the Hill Farm, that he had a small car, and even that he drove it himself. Finally, he knew of Colonel Grahame and of the house on the Crianlarich Road.
Surely, thought Ross, there couldn’t be many persons possessed of all this knowledge, and, if so, it materially narrowed the field of his inquiry. All the same there was no one in Miss Hope’s story who completely filled the bill. Buchan might, and if Buchan had left South Africa it would undoubtedly be necessary to find him and trace his movements on the night of the murder. His very next business must be to cable to the South African police to settle this point.
He took the decoy letter from his pocket and examined it thoughtfully. The postmark showed that it had been posted in Glasgow on the previous Wednesday morning, but though he re-read it with care, he could not find any further clue.
If for the moment he assumed Buchan innocent, was there anyone else upon whom suspicion might reasonably fall?
His thoughts at once turned to Swayne. Swayne knew Crawley intimately, as also Middeldorp and the life that had gone on there. He had known Smith, and must be familiar with the details of the murder trial. Even if he had left South Africa when the latter took place, it was inconceivable that, being so closely connected with the actors in the sordid drama, he would not at least have had local papers sent him. He had also known Buchan; these men had all seemed to be in pretty much the same set.
The farm Crawley had taken lay near Swayne’s domain, and it was therefore not unlikely that the latter had learned the identity of his new neighbour, as well as the facts that he had a car and could drive it himself. There was, of course, no proof of this, but a few inquiries would settle the matter. Still less was there reason to believe that Swayne had known Colonel Grahame and his lonely bungalow, but here again discreet questions would produce the information. Swayne, Ross felt, was undoubtedly a person to be kept in view.
If Buchan and Swayne were both innocent, Ross felt that so far he was up against it. There was no one else whom he had reason to suspect.
Still pondering over the problem, he took the train to Crianlarich and returned to the hotel, intending to call up headquarters and get his cable about Buchan and the Crawley case despatched. There a note was handed to him, which proved to be from Sergeant Blair. It read:
‘SIR,—In accordance with your instructions, I made inquiries in the neighbourhood. I am informed that a stranger left the Edinburgh train which reached Crianlarich at 7.58 last night. His description is tall, stout, with round cheeks, a dark moustache, and glasses, and dressed in a khaki waterproof and soft hat. He left the station immediately, and I have not yet been able to trace him farther.
‘I should have told you that last night as we were going out to the house in Mr Hope’s car, just beyond the West Highland Station we were nearly run into by a small two-seater coming down the hill. There was only the driver in it, and I was thinking that maybe it was the car you wanted. I made inquiries at Tyndrum, and a car of same description was seen at about 10.00 p.m. heading towards Bridge of Orchy. It was specially noticed because that is a deserted road at night at this time of year.
‘Yours obediently,
‘JOHN BLAIR.’
‘Bully for you, Sergeant,’ Ross muttered as he went to the telephone and put through his call. Headquarters, it appeared, were also anxious to speak to him, and he listened with growing satisfaction as he heard the subject.
‘We think we’ve found your car,’ the distant voice explained. ‘Last night about midnight a car was heard approaching the hotel at South Ballachulish, then a cry and a splash. Search was made, and it was found that a small two-seater had run off the ferry wharf into the sea. The driver appears to have been drowned. You had better go and find out if it’s the one you’re looking for.’
Inspector Ross swore a fierce oath. If headquarters were correct and the would-be murderer of Stewart Crawley were dead, his case had collapsed; a case, as he had fully realised, that had bade fair to be a cause célèbre, perhaps the most famous that had taken place for many a long year. He felt himself badly used, cheated of his just due, duped.
Had the message not stated that the driver had been drowned, he would have felt no doubt that the lost car was that in which he was interested. Tyndrum and Bridge of Orchy were on the direct road from Crianlarich to Ballachulish. The time of the accident also worked in. The run should have taken a couple of hours, and apparently just this time had elapsed between the criminal’s departure from the burning house and the disaster at the ferry.
But the death of the driver was not in the picture, as Ross saw it. If this had actually taken place, there was here a very remarkable coincidence, a dramatic stroke of poetic justice such as seldom obtained in real life. Of course it was by no means impossible. A man who had been through the experiences which that traveller had undergone, might be excused if he made an error of judgment in his driving.
But there was no doubt as to Ross’s own procedure. He must go at once to Ballachulish, make sure if the wrecked car was that which had stood outside Colonel Grahame’s shooting-lodge, and try to find the body of its occupant.
He looked at his watch. It was just half-past eight, too late to do anything that night. He therefore ordered a car for the next morning, and, turning in early, did his best to make up for his loss of sleep on the previous night.