If Sergeant M‘Clung was satisfied with the result of the inquest on Reginald Platt, it was far otherwise with Philip Jefferson.
Ever since Platt’s disappearance Jefferson had been worried. He had not known what to think. Accident had certainly seemed impossible, but so to Jefferson had suicide. Platt, he felt positive, was not the man to commit suicide. And the fact that everyone who had known him appeared to hold the same view, lent almost overwhelming weight to his own opinion. Jefferson had indeed slowly been coming round to the view that something more criminal had taken place. Platt, so he had imagined, had stolen the secret, and he had either been murdered for it, or had voluntarily disappeared with the intention of making what he could out of it for himself.
So strongly did Jefferson realise the possibility of this theft, that he had insisted on the inclusion of a clause in the agreement between his firm and the Hillsborough party, stating that should the process have been previously sold to some other firm, his would be clear of any further liability in the matter.
In the process there would have certainly been ample motive. The more he thought over the process, the more impressed with the possibilities Jefferson had become. It was a big thing: almost incredibly big! There was in it not a fortune, but a dozen fortunes! His only fear was that his firm might not be strong enough to handle it. They must get ahead as soon as possible with arrangements to sell under licence to firms in other countries. And as for the English trade, they would have to extend their premises. They would bring petrol into their depot at Avonmouth, there make it inert, and from there send it by rail and road tanks to the distributors.
Then he had wondered whether the better plan would not be to install the converting plant at the sources of supply? The lesser bulk would then be hauled to Britain, besides giving the tankers the benefit of the safer cargo. But this would mean a world wide organisation. Jefferson wondered whether they would not have to go into one of the big combines.
But all of these tremendous possibilities were dependent on Platt not having stolen the process. How he wished he knew!
And now the matter had been brought a stage further. Poor Platt was not himself going to get any profit out of the process. But was someone else? Platt had either acted correctly all through and Jefferson’s doubts of him were misplaced, or if he had really stolen the thing, someone else had discovered the theft and determined to reap the benefit. Again, how he wished he knew!
These thoughts had passed through his mind before and during the inquest, but now he banished them in order to carry out the immediate necessities. The funeral had to be arranged, and his sister-in-law’s wishes ascertained as to whether it should take place in Ireland or England. He sent off a long wire, then consulted the sergeant as to the local arrangements necessary.
In due course there was a reply from Mrs Jefferson. The sisters had decided the funeral should take place in Ireland, and they were coming over to attend it. Jefferson accordingly went ahead with the arrangements.
But that evening as he sat in a corner of the lounge of the Station Hotel in Belfast, his thoughts returned to the fate of Platt. Was it really suicide? Or was it murder? Was the process his firm’s property, or was some other firm even then working on it.
Presently he decided that so far as he was concerned the affair could not be left where it was. Too much hung on the issue. He must make a further effort to reach certainty.
But what he should do was not so clear. At last he determined to see M‘Clung once again, put his doubts before him, and ask whether the sergeant could suggest any suitable action.
Next morning he called at police headquarters and was at once shown into M‘Clung. The sergeant received him courteously, but without enthusiasm, and Jefferson soon found that unless he could make a strong case, he would get but little sympathy.
‘I don’t want to keep you,’ he said with guile. ‘You’re a busy man and you have no time to waste. But I’d like to put up these points to you and get your opinion. I don’t know how far you have already considered them.’
M‘Clung made a non-committal reply and looked bored.
‘First,’ went on Jefferson, ‘there is the deceased’s character. I knew him pretty well, and I simply cannot imagine his committing suicide,’ and Jefferson went on to put his arguments as strongly as he knew how. He dilated on the character of Platt, the improbability that the man would kill himself because of financial difficulties without at least finding out whether he, his uncle by marriage, would help him, his belief in the process and knowledge that it would bring him in money, his writing the two letters to say he was returning to Bristol, and the normality of his manner on the day of his death. ‘Then,’ he concluded, ‘there is my last point. A man asked for Platt after he had gone aboard the ship. Who was that man and what did he want? No one has yet answered those questions. Someone knew that Platt was crossing that night. Who? So far as we are aware, Platt was acquainted with no one in Ireland. Suppose I suggest that this unknown man murdered Platt, how are you going to disprove it?’
‘No motive,’ said M‘Clung laconically.
‘Ah,’ Jefferson returned, settling down as it were to a fresh attack, ‘but how do you know that? Suppose Platt had discovered the secret? Suppose this unknown knew of it. Suppose he wanted it for himself. There’s plenty of motive there.’
‘But that’s only guesswork, sir,’ M‘Clung pointed out. ‘You may suppose anything you like, but we can only act on evidence. You’re very anxious to prove it was not suicide. May I ask just why?’
‘Well there’s not much mystery about that. I’m not anxious to prove it was not suicide, I only want to be sure what it was. You can see why easily enough. If it was suicide the secret is safe. If it was murder it has probably been stolen and is in the possession of some other firm. A difference of perhaps millions sterling.’
M‘Clung shook his head. ‘That’s not right, sir. You’ve forgotten that Mr Platt was drowned. If what you’re suggesting was true he’d have been knocked over the head or something first, to keep him quiet. But he wasn’t. There weren’t any signs of injury on the body and there wasn’t any dope. No, sir, I can understand you would be anxious, but there isn’t any call for you to suspect murder.’
From this position M‘Clung wouldn’t move, and his manner showed he was getting tired of the subject. Jefferson could do nothing but retire, particularly as he had forgotten that point about there being no wound on the body. Indeed, as he considered it, he began to think that the police must be right after all. They ought to be, of course. They had experience in dealing with these cases, and he hadn’t. Yes, it was certainly pretty convincing.
All the same he was not convinced. Admittedly, M‘Clung might be correct in his views. But that wasn’t enough for Jefferson. He must be sure.
On that day he was at a loose end. All the arrangements about the funeral were made, but the funeral itself was not until the following morning, to give the ladies time to come across. He decided he would go down to Hillsborough and discuss the matter with the party there.
Accordingly he rang Jack Penrose up and asked him to arrange a meeting for three o’clock. He went to Hillsborough, lunched at the hotel, and at the hour in question knocked at the door of Ferris’s cottage.
Jack had made the necessary arrangements and the whole party except Mr Whiteside was there waiting. After a brief greeting Jefferson got to business. ‘This,’ he said, ‘is as much your concern as mine. If the secret has been stolen and sold, you’ll lose as much as I will. In fact you’ll lose more. You’ll lose everything: your work as well as the money you’ve put into it. I shall lose only what I had hoped to gain.’
Jack, who took upon himself the rôle of spokesman, fully agreed. ‘It’s not a new point you’re bring up, Mr Jefferson,’ he declared. ‘We’ve already discussed it pretty thoroughly. We think the whole question hinges on the one point: whether Platt had learnt the process or not. We don’t believe he had.’
‘But are you sure of that?’
‘We’ll hear what Ferris has to say.’
‘What we looked at was this,’ Ferris explained as Jefferson glanced at him. ‘There were the two things to learn. The first was the construction of our pole pieces. We kept them screened and I think you’ll agree the screens hid the things pretty well. Then there was the materials used. These and other essential details were on paper—they had to be—but the paper was locked up in that safe and I had the key.’
‘That is to say, that while you were here no one could have taken off those screens or opened the safe without your knowledge?’
‘We’re all agreed on that.’
‘Quite. But when you were not here?’
A long discussion ensued. Platt had never been left alone with the apparatus. He had been watched unobtrusively and those performing the task were sure that he could have made no secret investigation.
With regard to the safe, obviously he hadn’t broken it open. Therefore if he had obtained access to its contents, it must have been by a key. But he had not had any chance of getting a key. Ferris was positive he had not left his keys about, nor had Platt borrowed them on any pretext. Besides, Ferris added, there would have been no opportunity to open the safe. During Platt’s visits in the daytime someone was always about the cottage and at night Ferris slept in the building. ‘And I’m not by any means a sound sleeper,’ Ferris concluded.
It certainly did look convincing. Jefferson, his mind practically at rest, was about to leave. And then a chance remark of Pam’s brought all his doubts back. Pam happened to mention that they were surprised that Platt had spent so long over his investigations and that they had been expecting him to return on the Wednesday or Thursday evening instead of the Saturday.
This was a point which had not occurred to Jefferson, and he at once went into it with them. How had Platt spent his time? Were all these elaborate tests necessary? Instead of spending a day analysing the petrol which was to be used, couldn’t the man have gone out and bought a canful? Besides, that meeting on Saturday morning was surely unnecessary. Draft agreements had been prepared by both sides, and there was really nothing between them. Ten minutes talk would have settled everything, but Platt had spun out the discussion for a couple of hours.
Jefferson then asked for details of what had been done on each day. He questioned so searchingly that when it came to Saturday the party were hard put to it to keep secret the unfortunate incident which had happened on that morning. However, all concerned were determined that this should not become known. Platt, they explained, had reached the cottage about ten and had remained until nearly lunch time, talking principally about the agreement. Then he had gone to the hotel for lunch. About half-past two Ferris and M‘Morris had called for him in Ferris’s car, and the three of them had driven round the Mourne Mountains through Banbridge, Newry, Rostrevor, Newcastle and Ballynahinch, arriving back at the hotel about seven. Platt had invited the other two to stay for dinner, but as he had given them tea they had declined. Ferris and M‘Morris had mealed together in the cottage and about nine had returned to the hotel. There, after a chat and a drink, they had all left. As they did so, Platt remembered that Ferris had not given him an address he had promised him, that of a mutual acquaintance in London. They had, therefore, stopped at the cottage to get it. M‘Morris had left the others there, as it was the nearest point to his house that they touched. He had walked home and Ferris had driven Platt to the steamer, seeing him to the gangway.
In answer to a further question all concerned said that, so far as they knew, Platt had received no letters or telegrams or other messages during his stay.
All this was satisfactory so far as it went, and yet Jefferson remained vaguely suspicious. But he saw that nothing more was to be learnt from the party who, indeed, he suspected were becoming as bored with him as had M‘Clung.
He went back to the hotel and ordered tea, and while waiting for it got once again into conversation with the manager. He explained his relationship to Platt, and said he was trying to find out about his last days, as his wife would be interested in such details. On this pretext he inquired about letters or other messages for Platt and went into his movements in and out of the hotel, so as to check up what Ferris and the others had told him.
Almost at once he learnt a fact which gave him a thrill of interest. Platt had not been at the hotel for lunch on the Saturday. He had gone out that morning shortly after breakfast and had returned just before half-past two. Asked if he would have lunch, he said no, that he had already had it. He drove out then with Ferris and M‘Morris and returned for dinner about seven. About nine the two gentlemen had returned, and after half an hour or so all three had left.
This accurately corroborated Ferris’s story, except on the single point that, according to Ferris, Platt had left the cottage between twelve and one to go to the hotel for lunch, while actually he had gone somewhere else. Was there anything of significance in this?
It was obvious that none of the party knew the fact. Why should Platt have made a secret of it?
After tea Jefferson lit a pipe and gave himself up to thought. Ferris had said he did not think Platt knew anyone in Hillsborough, and the others had agreed. It was therefore improbable that Platt had lunched in Hillsborough. Where else could he have had it?
Jefferson sent for a timetable. It was unlikely that the man had gone to Belfast: it was too far away. Only the two small adjoining towns seemed possible, Lisburn and Dromore. Ballynahinch was not far away, but the bus service would not have suited. It looked as if Platt had lunched in either Lisburn or Dromore.
If so, why? There was nothing to be had in either town that he could not have got equally well in Hillsborough, that was, of things that he was likely to want. It looked as if it must have been something secret, something which must be kept from the party. What could it have been?
Then another point struck Jefferson. This lunch hour on Saturday was the only period in Platt’s last couple of days in Ireland when he was free from observation—at least during daylight hours. On Friday he was working at the cottage from nine in the morning till they started for the Whitesides at two o’clock. He had brought lunch from the hotel and he ate it with Ferris and M‘Morris. On their return from Carnalea they had dined with the Penroses, and then Ferris and M‘Morris had run Platt to the hotel, where they had stayed with him for a final drink. On Saturday he was with Ferris during the whole of the day except during lunch and dinner. Dinner he had had at the hotel, so that only this lunch period was left.
Jefferson continued wondering where Platt had spent it. There must have been something underhand about his movements, else why should he have lied about them to Ferris?
More uneasy than ever, Jefferson decided to try a plan which he had read of detectives adopting in similar cases. Could he make a reconstruction of Platt’s possible movements?
Suppose the man had stolen the process, what would he do with it? Obviously, sell it to some other firm. He couldn’t do anything with it himself. But when could he carry out such a sale? It would have to be at once, as, if he waited, he might not have another opportunity till it was too late. It would have been suspicious not to have turned up at the office on the Monday morning, and on the following weekend he might, for all he knew to the contrary, have been back in Ireland with him, Jefferson. Therefore, if he were to sell it, it could best have been done on the Sunday he reached England. But that would mean sending a message to his prospective purchaser. Could Platt have gone to Lisburn or Dromore on Saturday to send a message?
Still another point flashed into Jefferson’s mind. French had told him in Bristol—and indeed he had learned it himself from Platt’s landlady—that Platt had said in his postcard that he would be back late on Sunday evening. Now Jefferson knew that the Sunday morning train from Liverpool with which the Belfast boat connected, arrived in Bristol about 4.0 p.m. Was this not suggestive? Did it not mean that Platt did not intend to go to Bristol direct, but meant to pay a call somewhere on his way?
For some time Jefferson continued thinking, then at last he came to a decision. Taking the next bus to Belfast, he hurried down Chichester Street to police headquarters. By a stroke of luck Sergeant M‘Clung had not gone home.
‘I’m sorry to trouble you again,’ Jefferson apologised, ‘but I won’t keep you a minute. I want to ask a favour.’
M‘Clung was polite. Anything that he could do to help Mr Jefferson would assuredly be done. What did he require?
‘I want you, if you will,’ Jefferson said earnestly, ‘to find out from the postal people at Lisburn and Dromore whether Platt sent any message between one and two o’clock on the Saturday of his death. I imagine it would be a telegram, but it might have been a phone call.’
M‘Clung was clearly interested. ‘Is this a secret?’ he asked. ‘Or would you tell me what’s in your mind?’
‘Of course I’ll tell you, sergeant. I’ve found out that Platt disappeared between those hours, though he told Ferris he was lunching at the Hillsborough hotel. The timetable tells me he could only have gone to one or other of those towns. I wondered if it could have been to send a message.’
He could see that M‘Clung was impressed, though he made no comment except to say that he would try to obtain the information. Thanking him, Jefferson took his departure.
Next day he met his wife and sister-in-law and all three attended the funeral. The good spell of weather had come to an end and the morning was wet and gloomy. The funeral was a dismal affair, made even more heartrending by Mrs Platt’s face of stony despair. Jefferson was glad when shortly after midday they got back to the Station Hotel. There he found a message from M‘Clung, asking him to call at his convenience, and after lunch he did so.
‘I’ve got some information for you, Mr Jefferson,’ M‘Clung greeted him. ‘Would you recognise that hand?’
He laid a telegraph form on the desk. Jefferson examined it with bulging eyes.
It was in Platt’s handwriting and it had been handed in at the Lisburn post office at 1.11 p.m. on the Saturday in question. It was addressed to Mitchell, Willington, Coxon Road, Surbiton, and read: ‘Got the goods. With you Sunday after lunch. Will hand over on conditions named.’ It was signed Platt, and the address given on the back for official purposes, was another in Surbiton.
Jefferson stared at the sergeant. ‘Got the goods!’ What did that mean? What could it mean—except one thing? ‘Good heavens, sergeant,’ he said and his voice was hoarse, ‘what meaning do you take out of that?’
For a moment M‘Clung did not reply. Then he said slowly: ‘I have more to tell you, Mr Jefferson. When I got that early this morning I rang up Scotland Yard to ask them to find out who Mitchell was. Their reply just came in about ten minutes ago. Mitchell is the head of Mitchell Lovibound & Company of New Kent Road, London. Does that convey anything to you, sir?’
Jefferson gasped. Mitchell Lovibound! Yes, it conveyed something to him all right. This was his own firm’s keenest rival! At one time they had worked in co-operation, but an unfortunate dispute about an Admiralty contract had occurred, and since then they had been in opposition. After his own, Mitchell Lovibound was just the firm to handle the inert petrol business.
With sinking heart Jefferson realised the truth. Platt had stolen the secret. He had negotiated with Mitchell for its sale. He had been going to Mitchell on Sunday to hand it over. Platt had been a crook and a thief. His wife’s nephew!
But it was not on this aspect of the question that Jefferson’s thought’s lingered. If Platt had stolen the secret—and that ‘Got the goods’ made this certain—he hadn’t delivered it. Platt hadn’t lived to profit by his crime. Probably it was because of his crime that he had died.
But did this not make the whole affair still more inexplicable? If Platt were murdered for the secret, as it now seemed probable, who knew that he had it? The tall dark man who asked for him on board? If so, who was this man and how did he know? And if this man did know, and if he murdered Platt for the secret, how did he do it? How could he have overcome Platt sufficiently to get the papers from him without leaving some marks of violence on the body? How could he have prevented Platt from crying out when he was thrown into the sea?
Jefferson was completely puzzled. He put his speculations and doubts to M‘Clung, and found that at last the sergeant was interested. At last the man believed in the possibility of foul play and showed an eagerness to go further into the matter. He even complimented Jefferson on his achievement in deducing the message.
‘I only thought there was a chance of it,’ Jefferson pointed out deprecatingly.
‘That’s right enough, sir,’ M‘Clung returned, ‘but it’s the sort of thing that gets you there in our job.’
‘Then what do you suggest should be our next step?’ went on Jefferson.
M‘Clung did not seem to appreciate the ‘our’ as he might. ‘I doubt there’s not much more you can do personally,’ he declared judicially. ‘You’ve done your share anyway. It’s a job for the professionals now, sir. You leave it to us and I promise you it’ll be gone into down to the very bone. And I wouldn’t be saying anything about what you think to those people down at Hillsborough. We’ll see to that.’
With this Jefferson had to be content. He extracted a promise that he would be kept advised of progress, and then M‘Clung took a leave of him in which respect was a much more noticeable ingredient than formerly. In due course Jefferson returned to England with his womenfolk, settling down once again into the routine of his business.