With Brand eliminated from the case, French’s thoughts turned back to his former suspects. There still remained this strange personality, Vincent, and of course suspicion still hung unsatisfactorily over Buller and Davenport. Granted that neither of the latter was the actual murderer, could they not have used Vincent as their agent? Could Barke’s elimination not have been effected by a conspiracy between the three?
From Wellesley’s statement French had already concluded that Barke—unless he had received some later communication—would not have crossed to France alone, and that as neither Buller nor Davenport went with him, his companion must have been Vincent. Now he began to wonder whether Barke would have gone with Vincent without having first seen Buller. Barke had been asked to lunch at the Holly to meet Buller, but Buller had not appeared. Barke had been told Buller was going to France with them. If only Vincent had turned up at Victoria, would Barke not become suspicious and insist on postponing the journey until he had made sure of Vincent’s bona fides?
With the possibility of such an obvious hitch to their schemes, would Buller not have taken steps to reassure Barke? If so, how better could this be done than by a personal interview?
Had Buller and Barke then met between 3.30 pm. on the Thursday when, according to Wellesley, Barke left his club, and 9.00 a.m. on the following morning at Victoria? It surely should not be hard to find out. Half an hour later French was once again seated with Miss Redpath in her room at the Crewe Gallery. Could she possibly help him on two points: first, had Mr Barke received any private message on the Thursday afternoon? And second, at what hour had he left the building?
Miss Redpath, rather to his surprise, was able to answer both questions. Barke had had no caller nor letter nor message after lunch that day, and he had left, ostensibly for home, at 5.30. She remembered this because it was Barke’s last day, and also because his slightly early departure had enabled her to catch the 6.02 train instead of her usual one at 6.17.
‘How did Mr Barke usually go home?’ French asked, hoping his luck would hold.
It did. Barke went home by bus from Piccadilly Circus to King’s Road, walking the few hundred yards from the nearest stop to his house. Miss Redpath had no reason to suppose he had departed from his custom on the evening in question.
French left the Gallery, noting the time. He paced at a moderate speed up Regent Street to Piccadilly Circus, took the first bus that came along, got down at a suitable stop in King’s Road, walked to Green House, and again looked at his watch. It had taken twenty-three minutes.
At Green House he had more difficulty. No one at first was able to help him. But he was persistent in suggesting clues, and at last Agatha Barke recalled that her husband had reached home on the evening in question a quarter of an hour earlier than usual. Generally he arrived at five minutes past six; this time it was about ten minutes before the hour. She remembered because she was ill and bored and was watching the clock till he should come; also, like Miss Redpath, because it was his last evening.
Both she and the maid were positive that he had had no callers or messages either that night or before he left next day. The maid had herself got a taxi at twenty minutes to nine in the morning and had seen him drive off—alone.
If all this testimony were correct, and there was no reason to doubt it, Buller had not communicated with Barke until he reached Victoria. Had he done so then?
French’s luck now seemed to have run out. He spent a long time at the station, armed with both Barke’s and Buller’s photographs, questioning everyone whom he thought might help him, but without success.
Deciding to try another line, he went to the Brooklyn Hotel and saw the head waiter.
‘I want to meet Sir Geoffrey Buller at breakfast one of these mornings,’ he explained. ‘Can you tell me what time he comes down?’
The head waiter referred him to an underling. This man said it was usually about nine o’clock.
‘Thank you,’ said French, slipping over a form. ‘Just one other question. Do you remember if Sir Geoffrey was specially early or late some days ago?’
But this was too much: the waiter couldn’t tell. Then he made a prodigious effort of memory. ‘He wasn’t in at all one morning about the time you mention,’ he declared, but when pressed further he could not remember the date.
The suggestion interested French. He went back to the entrance lounge and buttonholed one of the accounts clerks. ‘A little bit of confidential information,’ he begged, handing over his official card. ‘You have a note here of what meals your visitors take?’
‘Certainly,’ the young woman answered with a slight suggestion of humouring a halfwit. ‘We require the information to make up the accounts.’
It seemed an occasion for bluff. ‘I thought so,’ French went on. ‘It’s about Sir Geoffrey Buller. He told me that he paid a certain call one morning about three weeks ago, which necessitated his going out before breakfast. But he couldn’t remember which day it was. Can you tell me from his records?’
The clerk nodded. ‘Easily,’ she answered. ‘Though Sir Geoffrey is on a weekly rate we note meals and extras just the same.’ As she spoke she ran her finger down a sheet. ‘Here it is. It was on Friday 15 March.’
So far, so good! French now turned to the head porter, jingling money in his pocket the while. He had been discussing some matters with Sir Geoffrey Buller and he was trying to fix the hours at which Sir Geoffrey left for and returned from an engagement on Friday morning, 15 March. Could the porter by any chance help him?
At first French was met by a blank negative, but his persistent suggestions met once again with perhaps more than their reward. His success was due to a page. ‘Wasn’t that the day the phone message came for Sir Geoffrey?’ he asked his superior. ‘You remember I couldn’t find him and you booked the message to give him when he came in.’
The porter remembered the incident, but neither the day nor the time at which it had occurred. All he could tell was that the message had been handed to Sir Geoffrey the moment he came in, and that he had gone immediately to the telephone.
‘What was the message?’ asked French.
‘Simply for him to ring up a certain number directly he came in.’
‘No record of the number?’
It appeared that the porter had noted it in his book, from which he had filled the memorandum form for Buller. Some few seconds search produced it: Paddington 0743.
‘Fine,’ said French. ‘Thank you very much.’ The money passed. One more inquiry and he felt he would have his information. He went into a street call box and dialled Paddington 0743. In a few minutes a voice said: ‘Jones & Henderson speaking.’
‘Sorry,’ returned French promptly. ‘Wrong number,’ and rang off.
Looking up the directory he found that Jones & Henderson were garage proprietors in George Street, north of Marble Arch. This was close by and in a few minutes French reached the place and asked for the manager.
‘A little bit of confidential information, please,’ he asked again as he handed over his official card: it was a useful gambit. ‘It’s not connected with you or anyone in the garage,’ and he explained what he wanted.
At first the manager couldn’t remember the circumstances, but by dint of consulting his clerks and looking up records he was able to give French the information. Sir Geoffrey had left his Rolls Royce with the firm to be sold and it happened that on that Friday morning an offer for it had been made. It was to discuss this that they had rung him up.
The settling of the time at which Sir Geoffrey’s reply had been received proved less easy, though eventually French’s suggestive questions brought it out. The boy who took the message had done so just as he was preparing to go for an early lunch, and it had delayed him. That had been at 12.20.
‘Thank you, that’s very satisfactory,’ said French. ‘Tell me, does Sir Geoffrey garage all his cars here?’
‘There are two here: the Rolls and an Austin 10. I think he has only those two.’
‘Either of them out on that Friday?” This meant another search of records, but it was presently established that neither had been.
Sir Geoffrey then had been out on some business from before 9.00 till 12.20 on the fateful day. Where, French wondered, had he gone and what had he done?
For dealing with cases of insufficient evidence there was a well established procedure: to imagine all the things which might have happened and to investigate these one after another till the right one was found.
Adopting this plan, the first thing that French thought of was that Buller might have travelled with the artist as far as Folkestone.
This at all events could be tested easily. French turned into a hotel and looked up Bradshaw. It did not give the time at which the 9.00 am. boat train reached Boulogne, but the steamer left at 10.55, so that the train must have been in several minutes earlier. Then as to up trains. One left Folkestone Central at 11.10, which the baronet could easily have caught. It arrived at Charing Cross at 12.30. From Charing Cross to the Fifth Avenue by taxi would have taken, say, fifteen minutes. The message could scarcely have been sent before 12.50. Could the garage office boy have received Buller’s telephone message at 12.50 instead of 12.20?
Not if his statement as to his movements were correct. At first French was afraid he would have to check it item by item. Then he thought of a quicker way.
Going again to Victoria he saw the head booking clerk. No tickets for Folkestone had been issued by the train in question; all were for places beyond Boulogne.
So that was that. French’s first guess had been wrong. What else might Buller have done? Gone to his club or his lawyers or the Crewe Gallery or to see Mrs Stanton? No. A series of telephone inquiries proved that he had done none of these things.
What then? At first French could make no more suggestions.
Then he wondered could the man have taken some excursion by road, some secret journey for which his own car could not be used? It seemed a long shot and yet what other possibilities were there? French decided to see if it led anywhere.
Next morning he began by sending some men to all the large garages—large because in them transactions cause less comment—in the Marble Arch and Victoria areas, to inquire about all cars on hire during the critical hours. If this inquiry failed, he would try further afield.
It succeeded beyond his hopes. Within an hour a man rang up, calling French to the Plutarch Garage in Vauxhall Bridge Road. There he learned that a black Colorado saloon No. ARK0040 had been hired on the Thursday afternoon for a couple of days, and had actually been out on the road between the hours named. The assistant who dealt with the matter moreover had picked out Sir Geoffrey’s photograph as that of his client, though the latter had given his name as Morton.
Delighted with his good luck, French obtained details. It appeared that Sir Geoffrey had asked for a car with a large boot, as he was bringing a party of actor friends to town to do a charity sketch, and they had a lot of luggage. They had supplied him with the Colorado, which had the largest luggage space of any car in the place. He had refused to take a chauffeur, saying there would only be room for his friends if he drove himself. He had therefore made a substantial deposit, which was returned to him when he gave up the car. He had not taken the car with him on the Thursday, but had called for it at 8.30 on Friday morning and returned it about 12 noon on the same day.
‘I thought you said he had it for a couple of days?’ French pointed out.
‘So he had. When he left it in he said he would require it again that night, as he wanted to take his friends down to the country after their show. He called for it about 11.30.’
‘And when did he bring it back the second time?’
‘About 8.30 next morning, Saturday.’
‘That the last run he had?’
‘Yes, he only took it out twice.’
‘I follow. Did you note the mileage down on each trip?’
The assistant nodded. ‘As a matter of fact we did, though only by mistake, and if it’s important, it was a lucky mistake for you. As a rule we only note the mileage at the beginning and end of a hiring, but this time our foreman thought the car was finished with when it came in about midday on Friday and he read the mileage.’
‘Lucky for me, as you say,’ French agreed. ‘What were the figures?’
Again books were looked up. ‘The first time the car was out, between 8.30 and 12.00 noon on the Friday, it had done fifty-eight miles. The second time, between 11.30 on Friday night and 8.30 on Saturday morning it had done fifty-three. Total 111 miles.’
Full of renewed rigour and satisfaction, French took his next step. He issued a general call to all police stations within a radius of twenty-nine miles from Victoria, asking had a black Colorado, No. ARK0040, been seen between the hours of 9.00 a.m. and 12.00 noon on the Friday morning, or at any time on the Friday night, and giving a description of Sir Geoffrey as the probable driver.
A few hours later there were two replies. The first was from Croydon. The book of a car-park attendant showed that the car had been there on the date in question, and the position of the block among those used that day suggested that the ticket had been issued during the middle of the morning. The park was close to the airport, though not that commonly used by cars attending the planes.
The second reply was from a constable who had been on patrol duty during Friday night. At about 4.00 a.m. he was passing down a narrow road on Ockley Common when he saw the car. It was drawn into the trees near a small lake, a well-known beauty spot. Its lights were off, which however was correct, as it was clear of the road. He looked into it—the night was not very dark—and saw a man asleep in the back seat. This man answered to the given description. There had been nothing to interest him in the matter, and as soon as he had noted the number and satisfied himself that everything was in order, he passed on. When he returned just before eight, the car had gone.
All this was puzzling though obviously significant, and French retired to his room to consider it.
Of the Ockley Common report he could make nothing whatever. Why Sir Geoffrey should hire a car and drive at night into the country, park in a wood and go to sleep there, when he was paying for a good bed in an hotel, he could not imagine. It was true of course that Ockley Common was close to Forde Manor, but French could see no significance in the fact.
The Croydon story seemed more promising. The obvious suggestion was that someone had gone somewhere by plane. On that morning Buller had returned to London and Barke had gone by rail and steamer to Paris, while Davenport was with his painting friends in the atelier. Apparently, therefore, the air-minded traveller could only have been Vincent.
French dimly began to visualize Buller meeting Barke and Vincent at Victoria, making some excuse to Barke why he and Vincent could not accompany him to Paris, and perhaps fixing up the appointment for Barke immediately after his arrival at the Hôtel Vichy. Then hurrying Vincent to Croydon so that he could reach Paris quickly. Vincent would doubtless make his preparations and be waiting at the Paris rendezvous, where he would see to the elimination of Barke on the latter’s arrival in the trap.
French was delighted with his theory for two reasons. First, because he thought it was the truth, and second, because it should lead him to Vincent. The names of all travellers were on record, and if he couldn’t pick the man out at once from the lists, he should be able to trace him from Le Bourget.
He went to the offices first of Imperial Airways and then of Air France, but though he was supplied with the names of everyone who crossed to Paris on that day, none awakened any responsive chord. Disappointed, he set off for Croydon to continue his inquiries on the ground.
For some time he drew a blank. He checked the lists of passengers, lest someone joining at Croydon should have been omitted from the London copies. He made every inquiry he could think of, but it was only when he produced photographs of Sir Geoffrey, Barke, and Davenport, that he began to make progress.
A baggage clerk picked up Sir Geoffrey’s. ‘I’ve seen that man somewhere,’ he said thoughtfully, ‘but where or when I’ve no idea.’
This was encouraging. French did not press him, but let him think quietly. But it was no good. In spite of all his efforts, he could not remember.
It looked like another deadlock after all. French fumed and fretted internally, while speaking soft words of encouragement and cheer. But in the end it was French’s own perspicacity which brought the desired light.
This clerk, he thought, was a baggage clerk. What did that mean? Why, that he attended not to passengers but to baggage? Was that his solution? Had Buller brought, not a passenger for Paris, but a package?
Two minutes later he was going into the records with the clerk. In another two his eyes had caught a name, and he was staring, motionless, with feelings both of bewilderment and delight.
The name was Roland Brand.
It appeared that A. F. Vincent of ‘Cheddar’, Appletree Road, St John’s Wood, had sent two suitcases, one small and one medium-sized, to Roland Brand, Le Bourget Aerodrome, by the Air France plane leaving Croydon at 12 noon on the day in question. They were marked ‘To be called for’, and as no inquiries had been received about them, it was to be presumed that they had been duly received by Brand.
‘I’ve got it now!’ added the clerk, slapping his thigh and picking up Sir Geoffrey’s photograph. ‘That’s Vincent. The whole thing comes back to me. He stood there, just where you are, making a big point that the stuff should go by the noon plane. That’s your man. Is it anything important?’
‘Important?’ French repeated vaguely. He felt utterly befogged. ‘Oh yes, in a way. It may be a help to me later.’
So Vincent was Buller! Was it possible?
But of course it wasn’t! Barke had met Vincent at lunch at the Holly and Barke knew Buller. Vincent must be someone unknown to Barke.
One thing, however, was clear. Buller knew Vincent, and they were both concerned in this business of getting Barke to Paris, presumably that he might be killed. Well, French could put his hands on Buller at any moment, and through Buller he would soon get Vincent also.
The Croydon business was puzzling enough, but when French thought of the Paris end of the affair he felt at a complete loss. Roland Brand was mixed up in it too! Was it possible after all that he was the actual murderer? When French had finished that part of the investigation he had felt reasonably satisfied as to the actor’s innocence, but now he wondered if he had been wrong. He could scarcely believe that he and Dieulot had been duped, yet he supposed it was not impossible.
But though the details of the affair were obscure, there was little doubt as to its main features. Barke had been murdered, and in some way Buller was responsible. Brand, Vincent, and probably Davenport were his accomplices. Though French could not say how, he was satisfied that between them Barke had met his end.
Yet was not this an absurdity on the face of it? Surely no one, wishing to commit murder, would have entrusted his secret to three other persons? Besides, what inducement could he possibly have offered them to join him in such a risk? Most things can be bought with money, but murder is seldom one of them. And what else had Buller to give?
The one thing that was uncomfortably evident in the whole affair was that he himself had so far failed to get to the bottom of it. None of his theories was satisfactory. To each there seemed some overwhelming objection. What he required was more information. He must learn more details of what had occurred and in their light revise his conclusions.
And as to the learning of those details? Well, two inquiries were staring him in the face, shouting out to be made.
Almost automatically he rang up the St John’s Wood local police station and asked for all the information they could give him about A. F. Vincent, of ‘Cheddar’, Appletree Road, and he was not greatly surprised to hear in reply that there was no such road in the area.
The second inquiry appeared more promising. Who had met the plane at Le Bourget and collected the suitcases? What was in them, and what had been done with the contents?
French felt that if he knew the answers to these questions, he would be nearer his solution.
For some time he wondered whether he should simply ask Dieulot to get the information. Finally he decided that the matter was so important that he ought to go over himself. He therefore rang up Dieulot and fixed up an appointment for the following day.
That night he once again crossed the Channel.