French was sorry that the ship was not the Ulster Sovereign, as on the vessel from which Platt had disappeared there was always the chance of picking up some useful information. This was the Ulster Monarch, a sister ship, identical in all respects save for the personnel of the crew. There was little that he could do on board. He did, however, walk round with Carter all the decks and areas to which passengers had access, only to be more than ever convinced that, whatever had happened to Platt, he hadn’t accidentally fallen overboard.
Luckily for them, the ship was not full, and they were able to obtain berths. French fell asleep at once, but he rose early and went on deck. He wanted to see the approach to Belfast Lough. Last time he had visited Northern Ireland it had been by the Stranraer route. This was quite different. They drew in from the south-west towards the coast of County Down near the Copeland Islands, on one of which is the Mew Lighthouse, controlling the southern entrance to the Lough.
At 5.30, when French looked out, the dawn was coming and the land well in sight. A low line of coast dotted with houses, grouped here and there into tiny towns. Then came the Islands, flattish and not very interesting, and after them the ship swung round to port and headed along the coast towards Grey Point. French engaged a sailor in a somewhat one-sided conversation, learning from him the names of the places they passed. That cluster of houses was Groomsport, and the large town a little farther on was Bangor. After Bangor the land rose slightly and became more broken and interesting, as well as being better wooded. There was Carnalea, and though French didn’t know it, he glanced at the house, some two or three miles away, in which at that moment Dot and Dash Whiteside were sleeping, and where old Mr Whiteside was lying wakeful, puzzling over the fate of Platt. Next to Carnalea was Helen’s Bay, and then they rounded Grey Point and headed straight for the city.
Turning to starboard, French was able to recognise several of the places he had passed through on his previous visit. That massive square tower belonged to Carrickfergus Castle, that high ground farther down the Lough was Whitehead, and farther along that precipitous cliff at the end of the land was the Gobbins. A bolder coast, that of Antrim, though bleaker and less well wooded.
At length they reached the head of the Lough, and passing between the Twin Islands—which are now not islands at all—entered the River Lagan. The speed was strictly limited to 5 knots, and they crawled slowly up into the heart of the city, past the shipyards and commercial basins. Trade seemed to have revived well here, and on the slips were the skeletons of great ships, cradled between towering gantries on the tops of which cranes pointed their jibs out over the work. Huge liners lay along the finishing wharfs in various later stages of development, some still red in their priming coats of paint and without funnels or masts, others nearing completion and decked in brilliant colours. One vast hull looked ready for sea, painted in dazzling white with blue linings, with a cruiser stern and tier after tier of portholes and decks. She was for tropical work, evidently, while her neighbour, in sombre black, was destined for more temperate zones. A short distance above the shipyards the Ulster Monarch came to a stop, swung round with her bow pointing seawards, and sidled gently alongside the wharf.
It was still only a few minutes past seven, and French and Carter, going ashore, found an hotel and had breakfast. Then about nine they went down to police headquarters in Chichester Street.
‘Chief Inspector French of Scotland Yard,’ French told the doorkeeper. ‘I think[fn1] Superintendent Rainey is expecting me.’
They had not to wait long. The messenger soon showed them into a small but comfortably furnished and well lit room. At a table desk sat a thick-set man of medium height, whose rather stern face lit up and became attractive as he smiled at French. He rose and advanced with outstretched hand.
‘I’m delighted to see you again, chief inspector,’ he said warmly, and he really did seem pleased. ‘And I’m delighted to be able to call you by that title, too. I can only say that it was long overdue.’ He turned to Carter and shook hands.
‘Extremely good of you, super. I’m glad to be in Belfast again. This is Sergeant Carter from our headquarters.’
‘Sit down, won’t you?’ Rainey indicated chairs and held out his cigarette case. ‘Let’s see—how long is it since you were here before? Six years, I think?’
French took a cigarette. ‘A little under six years, yes. I was just counting up on the way across. I’ve not forgotten our evening on the Cave Hill.’[fn2]
‘Lord, no! That was a wild night. I’ve never been out a worse. But we got our men.’ He turned to Carter. ‘You missed that, sergeant.’
‘I’ve heard about it, sir,’ Carter answered, greatly pleased at being included in so friendly a way in the conversation.
‘What about my old friend Sergeant M‘Clung?’ went on French.
‘You’ll be seeing him directly. It was he who went down to Hillsborough on your case.’
‘Still sergeant?’
‘Senior sergeant now. Gone up a grade.’
‘I’m glad to hear it. He’s a good man.’
Superintendent Rainey admitted it with a subtle suggestion in his manner that a mere Englishman would naturally be impressed by the standard in Northern Ireland. Then the talk became general. They went over old ground in the Sir John Magill case, and French asked after some of the people he had then met. They touched on the depression and how Belfast and Northern Ireland as a whole had weathered it. Briefly they compared notes on recent police developments in the two countries, and then Rainey came to business.
‘You’ll probably wish to go down to Hillsborough, will you?’ he asked as he pressed a button on his desk.
‘Yes, I think I should, now I’ve come so far.’
‘Well, I’ve rung for M‘Clung. He’ll take you down.’
Before French could reply, the door opened and Sergeant M‘Clung entered. His strong rugged face lit up with a smile when he saw French. French turned to him with outstretched hand.
‘Well, sergeant, here I am to worry you again,’ he greeted him.
M‘Clung’s enormous paw closed like a vice on French’s. ‘You’re welcome back to Belfast, sir. Many a time I think of the job we had over that Magill case.’
The man was looking older. His powerful frame was still spare and he was obviously in excellent training, but his face was more lined and the hair on his temples had gone grey. “Probably he’s thinking the same about me,” French thought. “However, there’s plenty of life left in both of us still.”
‘Sit down, sergeant,’ Rainey invited, ‘and listen to what the chief inspector wants you to do.’ He looked at French.
‘I’m a bit in your hands,’ French returned. ‘The point is this: There’s a certain doubt as to what happened to this man Platt. Some of the facts point to suicide, but there are considerable difficulties in that theory. I’m afraid we have to admit the possibility both of murder and of deliberate disappearance.’
‘I think that’s quite clear,’ Rainey declared. ‘What about motive?’
‘If this petrol business is genuine, and if Platt had got hold of the process, the motive would be there all right. One of the things I want to try and find out is whether he did get hold of it.’
‘The parties at Hillsborough say not, sir,’ M‘Clung put in. ‘But you can see them for yourself.’
‘I should like to do so,’ French agreed. ‘Then there’s the question of the men who asked for Platt on board.’
Rainey looked up with an expression of interest. ‘I didn’t hear about that,’ he said.
French explained, and then it was Rainey’s turn to enlighten French. ‘Did you know that one of the members of the syndicate crossed in the boat with Platt—a man called Penrose? We got on to it through the passenger list.’
‘No, I hadn’t heard that. What does he say?’
‘He’s not home yet from London. I was going to suggest that we wire him to call at the Yard, and maybe you could see him on your return?’
‘I’ll do so,’ French agreed; and they entered into a detailed discussion of the affair. Finally it was arranged that French, Carter and M‘Clung should go down to Hillsborough and have an interview with the members of the syndicate.
The early promise of the day had been maintained. The sun was bright and the sky blue as M‘Clung drove his visitors out along the Lisburn Road. He had telegraphed to Ferris to collect the party at his cottage, but he was not sanguine as to the result. ‘Dear knows if he’ll get it in time,’ he explained. ‘Some of them’ll maybe be from home. If we’d ’a’ known to wire last night, we ’a’ had a better chance.’
‘Never mind,’ said French. ‘We’ll see some of them.’
They reached the cottage as Ferris arrived with M‘Morris, and while Ferris brought them in M‘Morris ran round for Pam.
M‘Clung began by introducing French and Carter. The others were obviously impressed, and said with one consent that they were glad the affair was being handled so energetically, and that they would be only too glad to help in every way they could. French thanked them in his easy, pleasant way. Then he got to work.
First he asked each one of the three for a detailed statement of his or her connection with the affair. Then inquiring about the other two members, he obtained Jack’s address in London and was informed that Mr Whiteside was at Carnalea, where he could be interviewed at any time.
He then had a look round the cottage, with the object, as it were, of providing illustration of what he had heard. He was shown the inert petrol and the apparatus for producing it, and though an actual experiment was not performed, the process was broadly and non-technically described. Its enormous value if genuine became obvious to him, and he was convinced that it provided a completely adequate motive for any crime.
‘Now tell me,’ he said, ‘did Mr Platt know the details of the process? I mean, sufficiently for him to have had a plant made for producing the stuff?’
Ferris shook his head. ‘He did not,’ he answered emphatically. ‘He saw our results, but he didn’t see the way they were brought about. Sure that was what we’re wanting to sell, and if we’d have given him the information he wouldn’t have bought it.’
‘Quite. I follow that. You didn’t explain the details, but could he not have found them out for himself?’
‘He could not—not that I can see, anyway.’
French changed his position as if, defeated, he was withdrawing and returning by another route to the attack.
‘Now, don’t think I am suggesting anything against Mr Platt. It’s simply that we have to consider all the possibilities. Could he,’ he lowered his voice and moved his head forward, ‘have stolen it?’
Ferris in his turn moved uneasily. ‘I know what you’re after well enough,’ he admitted; ‘but I don’t believe you’re right. I don’t believe he could have got hold of it. Could he, Mac?’
M‘Morris shook his head. ‘Not at all. He was smart, but he wasn’t smart enough for that.’
‘Probably you’re right,’ French said smoothly. ‘At the same time, you might please let me know the circumstances. Was this process written down?’
‘It was and it wasn’t,’ Ferris answered. ‘There wasn’t any complete account of it that a man could make the apparatus from. But there were formulæ that had to be put on paper. The composition of parts of the converters, for instance. Unless these were correct, the thing wouldn’t work. And they couldn’t be left to memory.’
‘Suppose,’ went on French, ‘Mr Platt had in some way obtained those sheets. With his chemical knowledge, coupled to what he had seen at your demonstration, could he have reconstructed the process?’
Ferris hesitated and looked for inspiration at M‘Morris. ‘I believe he might,’ he said at length. ‘But he couldn’t have got them.’
‘Where did you keep your notes, Mr Ferris?’
‘In there.’ Ferris pointed across the room to a small safe on which was stacked some chemical apparatus. They were seated in what had been the kitchen, the demonstration room being full of apparatus. ‘We had to have some place to keep our stuff. I picked that up second hand in Belfast.’
‘No copies of your notes outside?’
‘One set at the bank only.’
‘Did you take out either set while Mr Platt was here?’
‘I did not. They’d only be wanted if you were constructing the apparatus in the new.’
‘Your keys? Could Platt have got his hands on them for a moment?’
‘He could not. I never left them in his way.’
‘Any duplicates?’
‘One, but it’s in the bank.’
French paused to consider his next line of questions, and Ferris went on: ‘There’s another thing against what you’re trying to prove, chief inspector,’ he declared. ‘It wouldn’t matter about the keys, because Platt wouldn’t have had any opportunity to get at the safe. He was never left alone here. I’m sure of that, because if he’d had a chance he could have taken off the screens covering the pole pieces, and someone was always here to see that he didn’t. So he couldn’t have got at the safe either.’
‘At night?’
‘No, nor at night. First, he hadn’t any key to the cottage, and next, I sleep upstairs. If he had tried to break in I would have heard him.’
‘Are you a heavy sleeper?’
‘I am not. I’m easy enough wakened.’
Again French thought for a moment, and again he presently started on another line.
‘Now, who knew about this affair besides yourselves?’
‘How do you mean, knew about it?’ Ferris returned. ‘If you mean the process, there was no one. If you mean knew we were working at something, everyone in the district knew. To satisfy curiosity we let on that we were working at a new motor to burn paraffin.’
‘No one knew the process, except you three, Mr Whiteside and Mr Penrose?’
Ferris smiled crookedly across at Pam. ‘No one, only Mac and me. What do you say, Pam? Would you say you and Jack knew it?’
Pam looked at French and shook her head. ‘Mr Ferris is right,’ she declared. ‘Only he and Mr M‘Morris knew it really—I mean in detail. I’ve never seen those shields off, and I’ve never seen the sheets of formulæ you spoke of.’
French nodded. ‘I follow. Now, I wonder can any of you help me here? Two men asked on the steamer for Platt. Both were tall, but one was dark and one was fair. Who could they have been?’
Pam and Ferris exchanged glances. ‘One of them might have been Mr Penrose,’ said Pam. ‘He crossed by the same boat, and he’s tall and fair. But, of course, I don’t know that it was he.’
‘I thought one might turn out to be Mr Penrose,’ French admitted. ‘Now, what about the other, the dark one?’
Ferris shook his head. ‘I don’t know who that could have been. No idea at all.’ French glanced at the others, who also shook their heads.
‘You don’t know if Platt made any friends while he was over?’
‘Not that I know of.’ Ferris looked at the other two, who once again shook their heads. ‘Of course,’ he went on, ‘he may have met someone that we wouldn’t know anything about. Maybe at the hotel, or maybe when he went out walking. He wasn’t in our company all the time.’
‘Which hotel are you speaking of?’
‘The hotel here in Hillsborough. Platt stayed there during his visit.’
French looked at M‘Clung. ‘We might call there presently, sergeant, and make some inquiries,’ he said, and M‘Clung nodded his agreement.
For some little time French sat with the trio, discussing various other aspects of the case. Then, taking a polite leave, the three police officers went on to the hotel.
They had a chat with the proprietor, but without learning anything valuable. Platt had stayed there from the Tuesday night till the Saturday evening. He had been pleasant enough in his manner, and had passed the time of day with any of the other guests he came across. But, as far as the proprietor knew, he had not made a friend of any of them.
French was a little worried as they drove back to Belfast. So far his visit had not been an outstanding success. In fact, he had learnt very little that he didn’t know before he came. He had met the people concerned and seen the location in question and got the facts more clearly in his mind, but he had obtained nothing which pointed towards a solution of the problem.
He wondered whether he should remain in Northern Ireland for a day or two longer in the hope of picking up some fresh information. On the whole, he thought he had better not. In the first place, he didn’t exactly see where he should look for it, and secondly, he was here, as it were, on sufferance: he could not take on himself inquiries which normally would be made by the local force.
He called, therefore, at Chichester Street for a final conference with Rainey, and it was presently decided that while he, French, was trying to get news of Platt having left the steamer at Liverpool, Rainey should have inquiries made as to the identity of the tall dark questioner on the Ulster Sovereign.
The wind had risen during the afternoon, and when French’s boat got out of the shelter of Belfast Lough it began to roll. He wasn’t ill, but he couldn’t sleep, so to pass the time he set himself to clarify and register in his mind the impressions he had formed during his visit.
Pam he took first. A nice girl, he thought. Decent and straight and dependable, he felt sure. Good looking, too, in a mild sort of way. But not remarkable. Would make a good wife for someone, but wouldn’t set the Lagan on fire.
And yet there was one thing that he had noticed with surprise: The girl was uneasy—very uneasy indeed. She had something on her mind, and from her manner French could not but think it was connected with his visit. She gave him the impression of knowing something which she wanted to keep from him, and which she was afraid he would find out. It was a state of mind which French was well accustomed to meet, and he recognised the symptoms. Yet he was a pretty good judge of character, and he found it hard to believe that this knowledge should be of a guilty kind.
Ferris, he had seen at once, was a sharp one. The man’s little twinkling eyes were brimming over with intelligence. Ferris, he thought, might be too sharp to be entirely wholesome. Ferris he could imagine working a very pretty fraud if he thought it would pay him to do so. No, French felt he wouldn’t trust Ferris further than he could see him.
And yet the man had been straightforward enough in his statement. He had told a simple and convincing story, and he had told it simply and convincingly. There was no reason whatever to suspect that it was not the exact truth. French believed it was the exact truth. At the same time, Ferris was the kind of man who was always worth while watching.
M‘Morris, he felt, was a more ordinary individual. Not so clever as Ferris, not so kindly and decent as Pam. Unlikely to do anything very good—or very bad, either. If he did anything out of the ordinary, it would probably be under the influence of some stronger personality. M‘Morris, he thought, might be dismissed from serious consideration.
Then there was Jack Penrose. Well, he would see him in London. But this sort of speculation was not going to help him in his case. French turned to his next stop. He would intensify the search for Platt, and if after a reasonable time he heard nothing of him, he would accept what would then have become the obvious solution and conclude that the man had committed suicide.
Having reached this decision, French found himself growing sleepy, and presently he was no longer conscious of the straining of the Ulster Monarch as she rolled her way across the uneasy waters of the Irish Sea.