INSPECTOR Ross was a Sabbatarian to the extent of never doing any work on Sunday which he could possibly postpone to later in the week, but when he looked out next morning across the Crianlarich valley at the range of sunlit mountains showing up clear-cut as a cameo against a sky of lightest blue, for once he did not regret the chance which had decreed for him a motor journey through such a country on the day of rest.
He had once before visited Ballachulish, and had been greatly struck by the beauty of its surroundings. That had been by steamer from Fort William. Now, apart from the interest of his quest, he looked forward to seeing it again, and especially to approaching it through the historic Pass of Glencoe, of which he had often read, but which he had never had the opportunity to visit.
The car was waiting for him when he had finished breakfast, and soon he was being whirled westward through the broad valley in which Crianlarich is situated. At Tyndrum the road turned north, leading up speedily to the bare moorland. Ross took out the large-scale touring map he invariably carried, and followed the route as they ran through Bridge of Orchy, and began the long, slow climb up the sides of the Black Mount. Reaching the summit, he gazed with interest out over the vast panorama of Rannoch Moor, wild, melancholy, forbidding; the bare undulations broken by lochs which, even on that sunny morning, were dull with the dead colour of lead. At the Kingshouse Hotel the road turned west, until, crossing the last divide, they began zigzagging down into the dark and gloomy Pass of Glencoe. As they dropped deeper into the narrow defile, the stony wastes gave place to grass, trees appeared, and soon they passed the Obelisk, memorial of the massacre, and got their first glimpse of Loch Leven. Five minutes later they reached the shore of the estuary, and pulled up at the Ballachulish Hotel.
Ross remembered the place. Loch Leven, a long, narrow estuary, bit deeply into the country in an easterly direction. Near the mouth was Ballachulish, and there the shores drew together, forming a strait no wider than moderately-sized river. Along the southern edge was the road by which they had come, leading eastwards back to Glencoe, Kingshouse and Tyndrum, and westwards along the shore of Loch Linnhe to Oban. On the northern shore immediately opposite was North Ballachulish, and there a road started which led northwards to Fort William. There was no bridge at the place, and these roads were connected solely by a ferry, a motor pontoon which could carry a large-sized automobile. For embarkation purposes, there were two wharves down to which connecting roads led from the main roads on the north and south shores respectively. It was evidently from the southern wharf, that beside which the Inspector was standing, that the car had fallen.
The hotel was only a few yards from the wharf. Ross went in and leisurely ordered lunch and a room for the night. A passing reference to the accident produced the information that the car had been dragged ashore and was then in the hotel yard. With a natural curiosity, Ross went round to have a look at it.
It was a small two-seater of a popular though expensive make, and as Ross glanced at the tyres he was able to identify certain irregularities in the treads. There was no doubt it was the car of which he was in search.
The yard happening to be deserted, he took the opportunity to give the vehicle a rapid examination. But beyond the fact that it seemed none the worse for its adventures, he could learn nothing of interest.
He re-entered the hotel, lunched, and after smoking a pipe in the lounge, sauntered out ‘to take a turn before tea.’ But his aimless strolling brought him in due course to the local police station, and after a rapid glance round, he disappeared within. There he saw the sergeant in charge, introduced himself, and asked for details of the accident.
The sergeant stated he had been on the scene within half an hour of its occurrence, a boy from the hotel having ridden down to bring the news. It appeared that a valuable cow belonging to the hotel was sick, and the herd, this boy’s father, had gone late to the hotel out-buildings to see it. He was delayed longer than he had expected, and it was midnight before he was free. He had just stepped out of the cowshed into the hotel yard when he heard the sound of an approaching car. He had paid no special attention to it, but the thought had crossed his mind that if the traveller were coming to the hotel he would have some trouble in waking up the staff. The car had suddenly seemed to slow down as if for a corner, and then had got up speed again. Almost immediately after there had come a terrible cry, followed by a splash, and then silence. The herd had rushed down with his lantern to the shore, and there he had seen the windscreen of a motor-car sticking up above the surface, some twelve feet away from the ferry wharf. No one was in sight, and though he had shouted, there had been no response. His cottage was close by, and he had roused his son and sent him for the police. The tide, though nearly at low water, was still running strongly out to sea through the narrow channel.
The sergeant, on realising what had taken place, had taken a boat and rowed down in the direction of the current, though owing to its speed he had not thought there was much hope of finding anything. He had cruised about for a couple of hours, and at last had come on a hat. It had been sold by a well-known Edinburgh firm, and bore the initials in gold letters, S. C.
Returning on the flood tide to the wharf, the sergeant had had a rope put round the rear axle of the car, and with the help of a number of sightseers whom the news of the accident had attracted to the spot, had pulled the vehicle past the wharf and ashore up the shelving beach. The licence showed that it belonged to a Mr Stewart Crawley, of Hill Farm, Elswick, near Newcastle. The clutch was found to be in, and the controls set for what on the level should be a reasonably rapid speed, say, twenty miles an hour. Nothing had been found to throw light on the disaster, the steering-gear being in perfect order, but in the pocket was a largescale motoring map of the district, with the name, Stewart Crawley, written in ink on the flyleaf.
‘An’ that map, sir, is what in my humble opeenion caused the accident,’ the sergeant concluded, as he took from a cupboard a water-stained and still damp road book. ‘See here.’
He turned over the sodden pages, until the district of Ballachulish was revealed. ‘See,’ he repeated, ‘see the way that ferry’s shown.’
The map was published by a celebrated firm of motor accessory suppliers, and showed good roads on through routes coloured red. At Ballachulish this red line was drawn without a break. The suggestion was certainly that of a bridge, and there was no correcting indication of a ferry.
‘See that, sir,’ the sergeant continued. ‘That map would ha’ misled anyone. It shows a bridge as clear as anything, and I’m thinking the driver took the road doon to the ferry wharf for the end o’ a bridge, and when he saw his mistake he couldna stop.’
Inspector Ross agreed outwardly with all that the sergeant had said, but he was in a thoughtful frame of mind as he walked back to the hotel and sat smoking in the lounge. Had it not been for the special information which he possessed, he would unhesitatingly have agreed that an unfortunate accident had taken place, possibly due to the driver’s having depended too much on the small details of his map. But knowing what he knew, could he accept that theory? The car he had expected to find deserted. It was true he had not expected to find a suggestion of the driver’s death. But was not that merely because the mysterious actor in the drama had devised an even better scheme than he, Ross, had thought of? To have arranged matters so that it would seem that Crawley had been killed accidentally was surely not far short of a stroke of genius.
The more Ross thought over the whole affair, the more probable it seemed that this was indeed the explanation. The episode of the hat confirmed it. It was too much to assume that S. C. should also be the initials of the murderer, and this granted, it followed that Crawley’s hat had been brought from the burning house with the express purpose of aiding the deception. The ownership of the hat could easily be settled. Crawley’s servants should be able to identify it were it their master’s, and Ross decided the application of this test must be an early part of his investigation.
But the point that rather bothered him was how the actual accident could have been arranged. Had the driver gone into the sea with the car? If so, had he escaped, or was his body now floating out in the waters of Loch Linnhe? Or had he been able to jump out before the car went in?
Inspector Ross pulled hard at his pipe as he turned over the details in his mind. He remembered that the herd had stated the car slackened speed, then increased it just before the splash. Had the driver leaped out during that slack?
Gradually a possible solution seemed to shape itself in his imagination. Suppose when approaching the place the driver had slackened speed, climbed out on the footboard, set the car straight for the wharf, put on full power, and jumped off. The car, even without a steadying hand on the wheel, would run straight enough in the short distance to drop off the wharf at the place intended. As it went over the man would have uttered his cry and then fled before anyone could arrive. Yes, it seemed possible. It was at least likely enough to form a provisional starting-point for investigation.
But suppose he had thus escaped. In what direction would he have headed?
Ross again took out his large-scale map and considered the possibilities. Escape could be made from Ballachulish in five ways: by road, railway, steamboat, row-boat, or across country.
It did not take Ross long to eliminate two of these methods. The quarry must have recognised the possibilities of suspicion being aroused, and he would never risk an open departure by rail or steamer. In the tourist season it would be a different matter, but now when strangers were few and far between, to attempt it would be courting disaster. Such was Ross’s opinion, at the same time he took a mental note to have the matter inquired into.
An escape by row-boat seemed almost equally unlikely. The boat could not be returned, and its removal would rouse the very suspicion it was desired to avoid. But here again a few inquiries by the sergeant would set the point at rest.
A recourse to the open country was no more promising. Ballachulish lay in the centre of a wild, mountainous district, trackless to all but natives. Immediately behind the hotel was a range of more than 3000 feet in height, which rose precipitously from the shores both of Loch Leven and Loch Linnhe. In the dark of a winter’s night the place would be impossible.
At first sight an escape by road had seemed the obvious thing, and now Ross felt more than ever certain that this method had been adopted. Besides being the safest plan, it was the only one which could have been entered upon immediately on getting rid of the car and before an alarm could be raised. Assuming, therefore, that he was right so far, the next question became: by which road had the fugitive gone?
There were three: that by which Ross himself had come, leading to Kingshouse and Tyndrum; its continuation in the opposite direction to Oban; and that from the other side of the loch to Fort William.
The advantage of taking the train from a town was obvious, and at Fort William a stranger might pass through the station without attracting attention, but the difficulty was the ferry. There was no way in which the quarry could have crossed without taking a boat, and without being observed by those whom the supposed accident had aroused. He would therefore have had to walk up to the head of the loch and cross the Levin at Kinlochmore. This would have meant seven miles along a rough footpath to Kinlochmore, where the road was not yet made, and twenty-one more miles of road to Fort William; total, thirty miles.
Inspector Ross said, ‘H’m,’ dubiously, and turned his attention to the Kingshouse direction. This, he soon saw, was, if anything, even less likely. Here there was a good road all the way, but the objective was bad. The first collection of more than half a dozen houses was Tyndrum, and Tyndrum and Crianlarich were too near the scene of operations to be exactly healthy. Besides, from Ballachulish to Tyndrum was thirty-one and a half miles. Ross said, ‘H’m’ again, and looked at the Oban road.
This, he saw at once, was more promising. Oban was the largest town in the district, and a stranger would be much less likely to be noticed there than even at Fort William. The fugitive would try, he felt sure, to head to Oban.
And there was nothing to prevent him that Ross could see. There was a good road all the way, running through sparsely populated country; indeed, but for Connel Ferry, there was no village of any size all the way. The distance was considerable, of course, about thirty miles, like the other two routes, but thirty miles was well within the power of a resolute man spurred on by the fear of the scaffold, supplied, doubtless, with a flask and sandwiches, and walking in the sharp, invigorating air of a frosty night.
The more he thought over the matter, the more Inspector Ross felt assured that the fugitive had walked to Oban. He therefore decided that in the morning he would himself follow in that direction. At the same time he would telephone the police on the other two roads to make inquiries, and arrange for the Ballachulish men to investigate the possibilities of the local stations and piers, as well as the disappearance of a rowing boat.
Accordingly, after dinner, he slipped out and went down once more to the police station. There, after warning the sergeant of the extreme secrecy of his business, he took him into his confidence and gave him his instructions.
‘But remember, Sergeant,’ he concluded, ‘it is absolutely necessary that the public think an accident has happened. You will report so to headquarters (I will keep you clear afterwards), and without advertising it, let it be known locally that that is your opinion. Indeed I think you had better get some drags and drag the loch about the wharf for the body. As a matter of fact, you may find it. All that I have told you is only guesswork on my part.’ He paused, then went on, ‘There is another thing. Who does the local news for the papers?’ The sergeant told him. ‘Then see him, and make sure a proper report of the affair is sent in. Let him understand that you are satisfied it was an accident, and explain that business of the map and that you are dragging for the body. See? Got the idea?’
He returned to the hotel, and ringing up the police first at Fort William and then at Tyndrum, gave them their instructions. Then engaging a car for the next morning, he turned in.
He was early astir on the following day, and by eight o’clock was out on the Oban road. The sun, hidden by the mountain behind the hotel, was lighting up with a thin, yellow radiance the northern and western shores of the lochs. It was a fine autumn day, but the air was sharp and biting, and Ross felt his moustache grow stiffer as the vapour from his breath froze upon it. But the motion was exhilarating and the scenery charming. Had the Inspector not had the weight of his investigation on his mind, he would have looked upon the trip as a delightful holiday.
At Kentallon, the first station on the single line of railway which ran parallel to the road, he explained to the stationmaster that he was Inspector Ross of the Detective Service, and that he was after an absconding bank manager who had been traced to Fort William and there lost sight of. A row-boat, it seemed, had disappeared from the town two nights previously, and it was thought that the fugitive might have landed near Kentallon and taken the train to Oban. Could the stationmaster tell him if a stranger had left by the early train on the previous Saturday morning, or indeed by any train on that day? There were, of course, no trains on Sunday?
The stationmaster, visibly thrilled, was all eagerness to help, and his reply was given with an assurance which left no doubt of its truth in the Inspector’s mind. There were no trains on Sunday, moreover he was positive that no one had boarded any of those on Saturday who was not personally known to himself. To make the matter even more certain, he looked up the total number of tickets which had been sold on the previous day—they numbered seven—and after a little thought he was able to recall the seven persons who had used them.
Ross parted from him with polite thanks, and at each of the other little stations he came to told the same story and asked the same questions. So he worked on through Duror and Appin and round Loch Creran, until he crossed the toll-bridge over the entrance to Loch Etive and stopped at Connel Ferry.
Inquiries from the toll-keeper produced no result, but Ross was not disappointed, as he felt sure that, had the unknown crossed, he would have somehow managed it without being seen. He therefore pushed on to the station.
Here the Ballachulish line branches off from the Oban-Crianlarich-Edinburgh line, and Ross realised that his quarry might have taken a train from this station instead of walking the extra six miles to Oban. It was, of course, a smaller place, and therefore more dangerous, but, on the other hand, a man who had walked twenty-four miles might be disposed to take some extra risk to avoid another six.
Here also Ross saw the stationmaster and told his story, but this time without getting a satisfactory reply. The official had seen no tired-looking man board the 8.40 a.m. from Oban, nor any such descend from the Ballachulish connection. But there was an earlier up-train than that with which the first from Ballachulish connected. The 5.30 a.m. from Oban passed his station at 5.46, though the stationmaster had not been on duty at that hour. If the Inspector wished to inquire about that train he must take the head porter into his confidence, as he had then been in charge.
The head porter heard Ross’s story with an unmoved expression, and replied stolidly that he hadn’t taken notice of anyone of the kind. To the further inquiry as to whether any other of the men were about who might have seen a stranger, the man shook his head gloomily, but as Ross was turning away he called him back.
‘Bide a wee,’ he invited. ‘This man, he would be comin’ frae the Ballachulish Road?’
The Inspector agreed.
‘An’ gangin’, maybe, ’til Oban?’
‘Quite likely.’
For a moment there seemed almost the suspicion of a wink in the head porter’s wooden countenance, then he turned slowly and hailed a man in blue dungarees, who leisurely detached himself from a group of loungers and came forward.
‘Here, Sandy,’ the head porter adjured him, ‘the boss here,’ with a sidelong nod of the head towards Ross, ‘will let you see the colour o’ his siller for that tale o’ yours aboot the man you lifted Saturday morn.’
Ross was alive to the hint. He took half a crown from his pocket.
‘That’s right,’ he agreed. ‘I’m connected with the police, but I’m willing to pay well enough for information for all that. That’s yours for the yarn, and if it’s any good to me there’ll be that amount more to follow.’
Thus encouraged, the man in dungarees, prompted at intervals by the railwayman, told his story.
It appeared that shortly before seven on the morning in question, the man, who was a van driver employed in the principal shop in the little town, was loading up the Ford lorry of the establishment with some goods which he was about to take into Oban. The vehicle was standing in front of the shop, which was situated on the road which led to the toll-bridge on the way to North Connel and Ballachulish. Just as he was about to start his engine, he noticed a man approaching from the direction of the bridge. His face was white and drawn and he was limping painfully. He beckoned to the porter, and the latter waited ’til he came up. ‘Are you going into Oban?’ the stranger asked, and when the other admitted it, he offered him five shillings for a lift. He explained that he was on a walking tour and had just started from Ledaig, where he had slept the night with a friend, but that he had slipped on a piece of ice and fallen, hurting his foot. He climbed on the Ford and they ran into Oban. He asked to be put down at the intersection of George and Stafford Streets, opposite the North Pier. He paid the five shillings, thanked the driver for the lift, and limped off in the direction of the pier, and that was all the driver knew.
‘What was the man like?’ Ross asked.
‘Gey an’ big. Tall an’ strongly built, wi’ fat cheeks an’ a moustache.’
‘What colour?’ Ross demanded eagerly.
‘Dark.’
‘And his dress?’
‘A licht broon waterproof coat an’ a grey felt hat an’ broon shoes.’
Ross was extraordinarily pleased. There was no mistaking that description. The man who had driven to Oban in the early hours of Saturday was the man who had alighted at Crianlarich from the Edinburgh train on the previous evening. And there could be no doubt as to his movements in the interval. He had gone out to Colonel Grahame’s house, sandbagged Crawley, dragged him within and set fire to the building, then taken his car and staged the accident at Ballachulish.
‘He’s made an oversight,’ the Inspector thought delightedly; ‘forgotten to soap his socks, and his twenty-four mile walk has started a blister. All the easier for me.’
He rejoiced the hearts of the two men with five shillings apiece, then re-entering his car, drove on towards Oban. What, he wondered, would his quarry have done on reaching the town? He would get there about 7.20 a.m. and his train—if he went by train—would not leave until 8.40. How would he spend that hour and twenty minutes?
It seemed to him that the circumstances indicated a hotel for a wash and breakfast, and a chemist’s for a box of ointment.
He dismounted at the corner of George and Stafford Streets, and paid off his car. Then looking idly about, he took stock of his surroundings. The hotel, he thought, would probably be the first call, as at 7.20 hotels would be open, but not chemists. The man had walked towards the pier, but this, Ross imagined, might only have been a blind, and he prospected equally carefully in the other direction.
Down all the four streets he could see hotels, but as no one of them seemed to be more promising than its neighbours, he began systematically to work through them. He drew blank at the first six, but at the seventh he had a stroke of luck. A lame man had come in about 7.20 on the Saturday morning, apologising for calling so early, and saying he wanted some breakfast before catching the 8.40. He looked pale and tired, and it was evident his foot was giving him a good deal of pain. He had had a wash and breakfast, and had left about 8.00 a.m., saying he had to make another call before reaching the station.
A waiter and a maidservant had each seen the man at close quarters, and described him in terms similar to those of the Crianlarich sergeant and the Connel Ferry lorry driver, both saying they would recognise him if they met him again.
As Ross came out he noticed a chemist’s at the opposite side of the street. Here the recital of his story brought an instant response. The man had called and had his foot bathed and bound up. There was a painful blister on the heel, caused, in the chemist’s opinion, by taking too long a tramp when out of condition.
As Ross walked to the station he was well pleased with his progress. His case, he believed, could not be far from completion, for it was incredible that a man whose description he now had so completely, particularly who was lame, and who had little more than forty-eight hours’ start, could long remain undiscovered.
At the station he made systematic inquiries, with equally satisfactory results. The quarry had been seen entering one of the Edinburgh through carriages on the 8.40 a.m. train. Ross immediately rang up headquarters, described his man, and asked for the Edinburgh force to be put on the job.
As he went back into the town for some lunch he bought a Scotsman. His Ballachulish friends had done their business well. There was a paragraph headed, ‘Tragic Affair at Ballachulish,’ which read:
‘An unusual accident occurred at Ballachulish about midnight on Friday, whereby Mr Stewart Crawley, of Hill Farm, Elswick, near Newcastle, lost his life. It appears the deceased gentleman was motoring alone in his two-seater from Glasgow to Fort William by the Crianlarich-Glencoe route. At Ballachulish the road is intersected by the narrow opening into Loch Leven, the crossing being effected by a motor ferry. It is presumed that the unfortunate gentleman imagined there was a bridge, for he drove his car down the road to the ferry wharf, off which, before he could retrieve his mistake, it plunged into the estuary. A herd who was engaged in the hotel yard adjoining heard the car pass at a fair speed, then a cry, followed immediately by a splash. No trace of the body has been found, though Mr Crawley’s hat was picked up nearly a mile out to sea, where it had been carried by the strong tide. The police are dragging the loch in the vicinity of the wharf.’
‘Nothing could be better,’ Ross muttered. ‘That Sergeant has done well.’
He left Oban by the next train, and on reaching Edinburgh went straight to headquarters. There he found that a number of men had been put on the case, and intimation of the fugitive’s arrest was momentarily expected. But so far nothing had been heard of him, and Ross went home feeling sure that before morning the man would be in his hands.