Sapper
Herman Cyril McNeile (1888–1937) was a soldier before becoming a best-selling thriller writer. He adopted the pen-name Sapper as a hat-tip to the Royal Engineers, in which he had served with distinction during the First World War, being awarded the Military Cross. In 1920, he created Captain Hugh ‘Bulldog’ Drummond, ‘a demobilised officer who found peace dull’ whose principal adversary is the master-criminal Carl Peterson. The Drummond stories became bestsellers, and in 1929, Ronald Coleman, who played the lead in the film Bulldog Drummond, was nominated for an Academy Award. The New York Times called it ‘the happiest and most enjoyable entertainment of its kind that has so far reached the screen’, but after Sapper’s death from cancer, his reputation faded.
Sapper was not a sophisticated writer, but he knew how to tell a story, and this knack is on display in several of his tales featuring Ronald Standish, who appeared in short story collections and also in three of the Bulldog Drummond books. This story comes from Ronald Standish (1933), in which he is presented as a charismatic Great Detective of the type so popular at that time: ‘A born player of games, wealthy, and distinctly good-looking…With the official police he was on excellent terms, which was not to be wondered at in view of the fact that on many occasions he had put them on the right track.’ In this tale, Standish makes one of those pleasingly enigmatic remarks beloved of Great Detectives, urging the hapless Inspector Grantham to ‘consider in all its aspects the extraordinary phenomenon of the raw egg’. Sure enough, therein lies the clue to the solution of the mystery.
‘Well, I’ll be danged. She’s signalled through, and yet she’s stopping, though she’s late already. Be there summat up?’
The stationmaster of Marley Junction scratched his head, and stared at the oncoming express which was now slowing down rapidly.
‘Isn’t she supposed to stop?’ Ronald Standish asked.
‘No, sir; she ain’t. There be a slip coach for here, but main part goes through.’
Rows of heads were already protruding from carriage windows as the train came to a standstill, and the guard got out.
‘What’s the matter, Joe?’ demanded the stationmaster.
‘Murder’s the matter,’ was the unexpected answer; and with a lift of his eyebrows Ronald turned to the other member of our little party.
‘You seem to be having a busy time of it, Inspector,’ he said, and with an expression of relief the two railway officials turned round.
‘Are you the police, sir?’ cried the guard.
‘I’m Inspector Grantham of Scotland Yard,’ answered the other. ‘What’s that you say? Murder!’
‘Yes, sir. And I’ll be pleased if you can come this way, for we’re a lot behind time. He’s in the slip coach.’
We followed him to the rear of the train, paying no attention to the excited comments of the passengers, several of whom had got out on the platform. And as we got to the back carriage an irascible-looking, elderly man, who might have been a retired colonel, an old clergyman and his wife, and a young man of perhaps thirty, with a worried expression on his face, descended.
The Inspector paused for a moment.
‘This coach is separate from the rest of the train, I take it?’ he said. ‘There’s no connecting corridor?’
‘That’s so, sir,’ said the guard, ‘as you can see. No one can pass farther than my van, which is just in front of it.’
‘Then get the coach uncoupled. And all passengers, please, who were in this coach must wait.’
He entered, and we followed him along the corridor of the carriage. The stationmaster had gone off to give the necessary orders; the guard accompanied us.
‘Everything is as it was found, sir,’ he said. ‘After the train was stopped I travelled in this coach myself.’
‘Why did the train stop? I thought this was fast to Down-
water?’
‘Communication cord was pulled, sir, by the reverend gentleman.’
The Inspector nodded.
‘We’ll go into that later,’ he said. ‘Where’s the body?’
For answer, the guard opened the door of the centre compartment. On the seat by the opposite window was sprawling the body of a man. One hand hung limply downwards, and on the cushion and the carpet lay an ominous red pool. A glance was sufficient to show that he was dead, and that the cause of death was a wound in the head. The window was shut; his suit-case littered up the rack; and in the opposite corner to the body a pair of wash-leather gloves was lying on the seat.
Suddenly Ronald gave a whistle.
‘Good Lord!’ he cried, ‘it’s old Samuel Goldberg, the bookmaker.’
‘You know him?’ said the Inspector.
‘I’ve betted with him from time to time,’ Ronald answered. ‘But all in due course, for you’ll have to do something about this train, Grantham. Why not let it go on with a relief guard and run this coach into a siding.’
The Inspector nodded, and a few moments later the express was speeding on her way, whilst the slip coach, with us still on board, was shunted off the main line.
‘Yes—I knew him, Grantham,’ said Ronald. ‘He was a bookmaker and quite a decent fellow. Great Scott! What’s that mess?’
He was studying the woodwork of the door with a puzzled expression.
‘Why—it’s the remains of a raw egg! Here are bits of the shell on the carpet. And there’s the place it hit the door. What an extraordinary thing to find in a railway carriage. Did you notice it, guard, when you came in?’
‘Can’t say as ’ow I did, sir. I was so worried and bemused that I didn’t think of little things like that. When I sees there was nothing to be done for the poor gentleman I just shut the door again and started the train off after telling the driver to stop her here.’
‘And you shut the window, too?’
‘No, sir. The window was shut already. Both the window and the door was shut when I got here.’
‘I think we’d better start our investigation, Mr Standish,’ said the Inspector. ‘We can come back again later to the body. Pull down the blinds’—he turned to the stationmaster—‘and lock the carriage up. No one is to enter it.’
We found the other occupants of the coach pacing about the platform. The young man had joined up with the clergyman and his wife; the irascible military man was fuming visibly.
‘I hope you’ll hurry this business as much as possible,’ he cried irritably. ‘I’m judging hounds this afternoon, and I shall be late. I may say that I knew nothing about it till the train was stopped.’
‘Quite, sir, quite,’ said the Inspector soothingly. ‘But in view of the fact that a man has been found dead in circumstances which preclude natural causes, you will appreciate that I must make inquiries. Now, sir,’ he turned to the clergyman, ‘I understand that it was you who pulled the communication cord and stopped the train. Presumably, therefore, it was you who first discovered the body. Will you tell me all you know? First—your name, please.’
‘I am the Reverend John Stocker,’ said the old man, ‘of the parish of Meston, not far from here. And really I fear I can tell you but little of this terrible affair. I was reading in my carriage—’
‘Which compartment did you occupy, Mr Stocker?’
‘Let me see—which was it, my love?’ he asked his wife.
‘The third-class one—two away,’ she answered promptly.
‘Please proceed,’ said the Inspector, making a note.
‘It so chanced,’ continued the clergyman, ‘that I happened to glance out of the window at a passing train. It was travelling in the same direction as ourselves, at about the same speed, on the next line. I watched it idly, as we very slowly overtook it, when suddenly, to my amazement, I saw some people in the train beckoning to me. They were shouting and pointing, and though, of course, I could not hear what they said, it seemed to me by their agitation that something must be wrong, and that whatever that something was, it was in our train. So I got up and walked along the corridor to find, to my horror, the body of that unfortunate man.’
‘What did you do then?’ said the Inspector.
‘I pulled the communication cord.’
‘Did you go into the carriage?’
‘No, I did not. The door was shut, and the sight had unnerved me.’
‘And what happened then?’
‘This gentleman’—he indicated the hound judge—‘came out from his compartment at the other end of the carriage, and I called to him. He came at once, and I showed him what had happened. By that time, of course, the train was slowing up.’
‘Quite correct,’ barked the other. ‘I went—’
‘One moment, sir, if you please,’ said the Inspector. ‘Your name?’
‘Blackton—Major Blackton. Late of the Gunners.’
‘Now, sir. When you saw the dead man what did you do?’
‘Opened the door, and went in to make certain, though, when you’ve seen as many men shot through the head as I have, it was obvious to me at first sight that he was beyond aid.’
‘Did you shut the window?’
‘No, sir, I did not. The window was already shut. I noticed it particularly, because I remember thinking to myself what an extraordinary thing it was that a man should be travelling with both door and window shut on a hot day like this.’
The Inspector nodded thoughtfully.
‘Any more you’d like to say, sir?’
‘Naturally, my first thought,’ continued Major Blackton, ‘was that it was a case of suicide.’
‘Why naturally?’
‘Damme, man. I hadn’t shot the feller, and it wasn’t likely the padre had, and at that time I thought we were the only people in the coach. However, when I found no sign of any weapon on the floor or the seat I realised it couldn’t be suicide. That wound caused instantaneous death, or I’m no judge of such matters, so that by no human possibility could he have got rid of the gun.’
Once again the Inspector nodded.
‘You said, sir,’ he remarked after a pause, ‘that at that time you thought you were the only people on the coach. When did you find you weren’t?’
‘Just before the train stopped, when that young man joined us in the corridor. And it seems to me that he might be able to tell you something, because he’d been talking to the dead man.’
‘How do you know that?’
‘Because he said so. “Good God!” he said, “what’s happened? I was only talking to him ten minutes ago.” Then he had another look and said: “What on earth has he done that for?” And by that time the train had stopped and the guard took charge.’
He glanced at his watch.
‘That’s positively all I can tell you, Inspector, so with your permission I’ll get away.’
‘Sorry, sir,’ said the Inspector quietly, ‘but at the present juncture that is quite impossible. You don’t seem to realise,’ he continued a little sternly, ‘that a man has, so far as we know, just been murdered under conditions that render it imperative that the other occupants of the coach should place themselves unreservedly at the disposal of the police. Other points may arise over which I shall want to see you later. And now, before I interrogate the other gentleman, there is one further question. Did either of you two gentlemen hear the sound of a shot?’
‘I certainly didn’t,’ said Major Blackton, ‘but then I was at the far end of the coach.’
‘I didn’t, either.’ The clergyman glanced at his wife. ‘Did you, my love?’
She shook her head decidedly.
‘I heard nothing,’ she said. ‘Nothing at all.’
‘Thank you, madam.’ He beckoned to the young man. ‘Now, sir, will you tell me what you know of this affair? First—your name.’
‘Carter—Harry Carter.’
‘Did you know the dead man?’
‘I did,’ said Carter quietly.
‘What was his name?’
‘Samuel Goldberg.’
‘Had you spoken to him since leaving London?’
‘I had a long talk with him. That’s what made it so amazing, because he seemed his usual self when I left his compartment.’
The Inspector consulted his notebook.
‘You said to Major Blackton: “What on earth has he done that for?” or words to that effect. What did you mean by that remark?’
Carter stared at him.
‘Just what I said. I couldn’t make out why he should commit suicide.’
‘Why should you assume it was suicide?’
Carter stared at him even harder.
‘What else could it have been? Unless it was an accident.’
‘It was neither suicide nor an accident, Mr Carter. Goldberg was murdered.’
‘Murdered? But who by?’
‘That is what we are endeavouring to find out. Now, Mr Carter, am I to understand that you didn’t hear Major Blackton and the guard talking in the corridor after the train started again and saying it was murder?’
‘I did not, and for a very good reason. I returned almost at once to my own compartment to try and think out how this very unexpected development was going to affect me.’
The Inspector stopped writing and glanced at Standish. Then he looked steadily at Carter.
‘Mr Carter,’ he said gravely, ‘it is my duty to say one thing to you. We are investigating a case of murder, and everything points to the fact that the murderer was one of the people who travelled from London in that slip coach. You need not tell me anything that might, in certain eventualities, incriminate you.’
Carter stared at him in amazement.
‘Good God!’ he burst out at length, ‘you aren’t suggesting that I had anything to do with it?’
‘I am suggesting nothing,’ answered the Inspector shortly. ‘I am merely pointing out your possible future position. And having done so I will now ask you in what way Goldberg’s death could affect you? You need not answer if you don’t wish to.’
‘But, of course, I wish to. I’ve got nothing to hide. I owed him money, and I was wondering whether his suicide—as I then thought it was—would wipe out this debt.’
‘Had your discussion with him previously concerned this debt?’
‘It had,’ said Carter.
‘Was it an acrimonious interview?’ asked the Inspector mildly.
‘Well, when you ask your bookie not to press for payment and he cuts up rough, it’s not very pleasant.’
‘And it terminated some ten minutes before you found that Goldberg had, as you thought, committed suicide?’
‘That’s right.’
‘May I ask how much was the sum involved?’
‘A thousand pounds.’
Inspector Grantham tapped his teeth with his pencil.
‘One final question, Mr Carter. Did you know that Goldberg was going to travel by this train?’
‘I hadn’t an idea of it until I found him in the same coach.’
The inspector rose and closed his notebook with a snap.
‘That is all for the present,’ he said, and then, for the first time, Ronald spoke.
‘I should like to ask you two or three other questions, Mr Carter. When you had your interview with Goldberg, did you sit by the door?’
‘I did—in the opposite corner to him. By Jove! Now I come to think of it, I’ve left my gloves there!’
‘Was the window open?’
Carter thought for a moment.
‘It was: wide.’
‘And the door?’
‘Shut.’
‘Now, Mr Carter, I want you to think carefully. Did he throw a raw egg at you?’
Carter stared at Ronald with a look of utter amazement, which changed to an angry flush.
‘Are you trying to be funny? Because, if so, it seems to me neither the time nor the place. A raw egg? Why the devil should he throw one at me?’
‘Exactly,’ said Ronald. ‘Why the devil should he? Well, Grantham, what do you propose to do now?’
The Inspector, who had frowned slightly at Ronald’s last question, again took charge.
‘I’m afraid I must request you three gentlemen, and you, too, madam, to remain here for a little while yet. I know, sir, I know about your hound show, but this is even more important. Guard—come with me. And you too, Mr Standish—if you care to.’
We returned to the slip coach and the guard unlocked the door. Then, leaving him on the platform, we entered the carriage.
‘What do you make of it, Mr Standish?’ said the Inspector.
‘At the moment, Grantham, remarkably little,’ said Ronald. ‘There are one or two very strange features about the case. Have you come to any conclusion yourself?’
‘Only to the obvious one that Goldberg was murdered by someone who was in this coach. Further than that I would not care to go, though it would be idle to deny that of the four occupants the most likely is Carter. Of course, it is possible that there was someone else in the carriage who escaped when the train stopped, but there are two grave difficulties to put up against that theory. First, it was the clergyman who pulled the communication cord. Surely, the murderer would have done it himself. And even if he didn’t, but had seized on this unlooked-for chance of escaping, he would have been bound to be seen by people in the train. I mean, one knows that when a train stops unexpectedly everyone’s head goes out of the window.’
‘And what about the egg?’ remarked Ronald thoughtfully.
‘Confound the egg!’ cried Grantham irritably. ‘You’ve got it on the brain.’
‘I have,’ agreed Ronald, unperturbed. ‘But before we go any farther, let us examine the compartment thoroughly again.’
I watched them from the corridor for ten minutes, and at the end of that time the Inspector came out and joined me.
‘Nothing of value; no trace of any weapon.’
‘And no trace of any more eggs,’ said Ronald. ‘Now, don’t get angry, Inspector. I’m not fooling. But when an extremely bizarre fact intrudes itself on one it is advisable not to overlook it. Now, have you ever heard of a man carrying one raw egg about with him? Frequently have I known people to take half a dozen or even three in a paper bag, but not one. There isn’t even a paper bag. Was he, then, carrying this solitary egg in his hand or in his pocket? However, let us go on a little further. Assuming for the moment that he had got this one egg, why did he throw it at the door? It seems a strange pastime.’
‘Your second point is easier to answer than your first,’ said the Inspector. ‘Goldberg was unarmed, and when he looked up and saw the murderer standing in the carriage he threw the first thing at him that came to hand.’
‘This solitary egg.’ Ronald stared at him thoughtfully. ‘Was he holding it, studying its beauty? Or was it on the seat beside him? However, perhaps I am over-stressing the point. Where are you off to now?’
‘To get on with the case, Mr Standish,’ answered the Inspector tersely. ‘I don’t know how or why that egg got there, but I do know that that man was murdered. Almost certainly the murderer flung the weapon out of the window, but it is just possible he did not. So my first move will be to search the baggage of the four people I have detained.’
‘Splendid,’ said Ronald quietly. ‘Have I your permission to wait here a little longer? There are one or two more points I would like to look into, and I will, of course, pass on anything I find to you.’
With a faint smile the Inspector departed and Ronald turned to me.
‘There’s something very rum, Bob—very rum indeed about this affair. Apart from the egg, who shut the window? Did Goldberg, after Carter had left him? Did the murderer, either before or after he’d done it? Or is Carter lying? I don’t think he is.’
Ronald was talking half to himself.
‘To place too much reliance on faces is dangerous, but I don’t think he is. His evidence has the ring of truth. And I ask you—would he have left his gloves here if he’d done it?’
He went back into the compartment and stood staring round.
‘The clergyman—what about him? And our military friend? As things are, the clergyman is the more likely, as the other had to pass the door to get to this compartment. Moreover, we only have the clergyman’s word that he saw people beckoning to him from the other train. It’s unlikely, of course, but it’s conceivable that he, too, was in debt to Goldberg, and has staged a pretty piece of acting the innocent after killing him. Means his wife is in collusion with him, but stranger things have happened. But it’s that damned egg that beats me.’
‘Well, old boy,’ I said, ‘I admit it’s very peculiar, as you say, but it seems to me we’ve got to accept it as a fact that Goldberg was in possession of one raw egg. I mean, it isn’t likely the murderer came with an egg in one hand and a gun in the other.’
Ronald spun round and stared at me.
‘Great Scott! Bob,’ he cried, ‘I believe—’
He broke off abruptly, and dashed into the next compartment, where he opened and shut the window several times, while I looked on in blank amazement. What on earth there was in my semi-jocular remark that had caused this activity was beyond me, but I knew better than to ask. And then he returned to the scene of the murder, and kneeling down on the floor by the door he examined the sticky mess of shell and yolk on the carpet.
‘Hopeless,’ he muttered, ‘hopeless; but—ah!’
He was carefully picking out a piece of shell, which he placed on the seat. The search continued: two other pieces were selected, which, after a further scrutiny, he roughly joined together.
‘Do you see, Bob?’ he cried.
I did and I didn’t. Stamped in violet ink on the fragments were some letters. On one piece was written ‘atch’; on the other, ‘ways.’ Presumably part of the name of the firm where the egg had been bought, and I said so. But what further light that fact threw on the matter was beyond me, and I said that, too.
He put the bits of shell into an empty matchbox, as there came the sound of people getting into the carriage.
‘Perhaps you’re right, Bob; we’ll see,’ he said, slipping the box into his pocket.
Inspector Grantham was coming along the corridor, and with him was a man carrying a small black bag. A doctor obviously, but the thing that struck me at once was the expression of subdued triumph on the Inspector’s face.
‘Here you are, doctor,’ he said. ‘And as soon as you’ve made your preliminary examination I’ll have the body moved to a waiting-room.’
Then, as the doctor entered the compartment, he joined us in the corridor.
‘I’ve found the revolver, Mr Standish,’ he remarked complacently.
‘You have, have you?’ said Ronald. ‘Where?’
‘In one of Carter’s suit-cases.’
‘Was it loaded?’
‘No, but there was a half-open packet of ammunition. And that’s better than your raw egg, I’m thinking.’
‘How does he account for its being there?’ demanded Ronald, ignoring the gibe.
‘He doesn’t. He simply says he was taking it down to the country with him.’
‘Which,’ said Ronald, ‘is probably the truth.’
‘Of course it is,’ agreed the Inspector. ‘I don’t suppose for a moment that he brought it on the train to shoot Goldberg, but finding Goldberg in the same carriage with him he yielded to the temptation. Come, come, Mr Standish,’ he went on good-humouredly, ‘you’re very smart and all that, but really there is no good trying to pretend that there is any mystery here. Goldberg was shot by someone in this carriage. Carter admits having had a bad quarrel with him; Carter is in possession of a revolver and ammunition. Moreover, no sign of arms can be found on the other three people concerned. The thing is as plain as a pikestaff.’
And I saw that Ronald looked worried.
‘Too plain, Grantham,’ he said. ‘Altogether too plain. But if you’re right there’s only one place Carter ought to be sent to, and that’s a lunatic asylum. The man must be crazy. Why on earth didn’t he throw the gun out of the window?’
The Inspector shrugged his shoulders.
‘Like your raw egg, Mr Standish, I can’t tell you,’ he remarked. ‘Well, doctor?’
‘Killed instantaneously, of course,’ said the other, joining us. ‘If you will have the body moved, Inspector, I will carry on at once.’
The Inspector bustled off, followed by the doctor, and Ronald turned to me.
‘Bad, Bob; damned bad,’ he said, and I have seldom seen him look so grave.
‘You think Carter did it?’ I asked.
‘I am as certain as I can be of anything that he didn’t,’ he answered quietly. ‘But on the face of it, Carter’s position is about as serious as it could well be.’
And so Carter evidently realised. We found him in the custody of a policeman, and the instant he saw us he sprang to his feet.
‘Look here, sir,’ he cried to Ronald, ‘I don’t know who you gentlemen are, but I assume you’re something to do with the police. Well, all I can tell you is that I swear before heaven I had no more to do with the death of Samuel Goldberg than you had. I often take a revolver with me when I go down to stay with my uncle. I’m a very keen shot, and potting at rabbits is marvellous practice.’
‘I believe you, Carter,’ said Ronald, holding out his hand. ‘But there’s no good blinding yourself to the fact that a combination of circumstances has put you in a very awkward corner.’
Carter’s expression, which had cleared at Ronald’s first words, clouded again.
‘It’s hideous,’ he cried passionately. ‘It’s like a nightmare. I’m not a fool, and I see the gravity of the situation. Someone in the carriage must have shot him and I’m found with a gun. But if I’d done it should I have kept the revolver?’
‘Exactly what I said to the Inspector,’ said Ronald, with a grave smile. ‘But you may depend on one thing—’
He broke off.
‘Hallo! Grantham doesn’t look too happy.’
The Inspector was coming along the platform with a puzzled frown.
‘Well, Mr Carter,’ he said, ‘I must apologise.’
‘What do you mean?’ Carter almost shouted.
‘The bullet doesn’t fit your revolver.’
For a moment or two there was dead silence. Then Ronald stepped up to Carter and clapped him on the shoulder.
‘Congratulations,’ he said. ‘Well out of a nasty position.’
‘Thanks,’ said Carter quietly. ‘I don’t want to go through another half-hour like that again. I don’t blame you in the slightest degree, Inspector; it must have looked a cert to you. But you can imagine my feelings, knowing I hadn’t done it.’
‘I apologise again,’ said the Inspector. ‘But, damn it,’ he burst out, ‘who did? Well, it will be a question of searching the line till we find the revolver that that bullet does fit.’
‘You never will,’ remarked Ronald, lighting a cigarette.
‘Why not?’ demanded Grantham.
‘Because it isn’t there.’
‘I suppose you’re going to tell me next that Goldberg wasn’t shot at all,’ said the Inspector sarcastically.
‘No, not that. But once again I am going to suggest to you that you consider in all its aspects the extraordinary phenomenon of the raw egg.’
‘Any other points?’ asked the Inspector, impressed in spite of himself.
‘Two,’ said Ronald. ‘First—the strange fact that the window was open when Carter’s interview with Goldberg finished, and was shut when the body was found. Second—that Carter is certainly not the only person in the world who owes Goldberg money.’
‘Damn it!’ exploded Grantham, ‘I believe you know who did it.’
‘No, I don’t,’ said Ronald emphatically. ‘Moreover, it is quite possible I never shall. But we’ll see. Once again congratulations, Carter, on a lucky escape. If that bullet had fitted your gun you would have been in the soup. Come on, Bob; here’s our train coming. I’ve just got time to ask the guard of the express one question.’
And the only remark he made to me the whole way up to London added considerably to my mental confusion.
‘Well done, Bob,’ he said. ‘You solved that in masterly fashion.’
‘I solved it!’ I spluttered.
‘Of course you did, old boy. When you said the murderer had an egg in one hand and a revolver in the other.’
For the next few days I did not see him at all. The newspapers, naturally, were full of the case, and interviews were published with all four of the other occupants of the carriage. In fact, ‘Mystery of the Slip Coach’ appealed immensely to the man in the street, owing to the strange circumstances of the crime.
And it certainly was a baffling affair. As far as the public was concerned, it was obvious that one of the four people in the coach was guilty, and in most clubs betting on the final result was frequent. And it was inevitable that Carter should prove the favourite in spite of the fact that the shot did not fit his revolver. The Vicar and his wife were a delightful old pair who had lived a blameless life for years at Meston; Major Blackton turned out to be an extremely wealthy man who had just returned to England after a prolonged absence abroad, and who had never heard of Goldberg in his life.
‘You mark my words,’ said a man one day to me, ‘young Carter did it, and he’s a mighty deep ’un. Shall I tell you how? He had a second revolver. D’you get me? The gun he shot Goldberg with he bunged out of the window, leaving the other one to be found.’
The trouble was that in spite of an army of searchers no trace of another gun could be found. A large reward was offered by the police, without producing any result, and another theory was started. Carter must have had a confederate who picked up the revolver when it was thrown from the train. And that held the field for quite a time, till it was conclusively proved that Goldberg had only decided to go by that train on the very morning in question, and that it was, therefore, utterly impossible for Carter to have known about it in time to make any such arrangements.
Another source of information from which the police had hoped to derive some help proved of no assistance. The people in the other train, who had first seen the body, could say nothing which threw any more light on matters. They were two young men, one of whom was standing up at the window watching the express as it gradually overtook them. He had seen the body sprawling on the seat and realising that something was amiss, he had, with his companion, attracted the Vicar’s attention. But of one thing they were positive: the window of Goldberg’s carriage was shut. And as time went on it began to look as if the mystery would prove insoluble, which would have been unpleasant for Carter. For there was no doubt that a large percentage of the public believed that in some way or other he had done it. And even though that belief was only due to the fact that it was most unlikely that any of the other three was guilty—that it was arrived at by a process of elimination, and was not the result of any positive evidence—it made things no better for him.
And then one morning I got a ’phone message from Ronald, asking me to go round to his rooms. He was not in when I got there, but, somewhat to my surprise, I found Inspector Grantham.
‘Morning, Mr Miller,’ he said gloomily. ‘I hope Mr Standish has found out something, for this case isn’t doing me any good.’
‘I know he doesn’t think it was Carter,’ I said.
‘Then who could it have been?’ he cried. ‘But I can’t arrest him. We haven’t a shred of evidence. If only we could find the gun it was done with.’
The door opened and Ronald entered.
‘Come in, Mr Meredith,’ he said, nodding to us. ‘Here are the other two gentlemen who I know will be interested in our little venture.’
A morose-looking individual entered as he was speaking, who contemplated us suspiciously.
‘You remember, Bob,’ Ronald went on, ‘our ideas about a chicken farm. Well—I’ve found the very spot, and Mr Meredith is quite willing to sell.’
‘Give me my figure, and you can have it tomorrow,’ said the new-comer. ‘Not that it isn’t a good proposition: it is. But I haven’t the money to run it. I’ll have a drop of Scotch, thank you.’
I glanced at the Inspector as Ronald filled a glass, but his face was impassive. Only the faintest of winks showed that he realised something was up, but I knew he was as much in the dark as I was.
‘Here’s how,’ said Meredith, and drained his drink. ‘Well, gentlemen, do we talk business?’
‘No time like the present,’ said Ronald cheerfully, ringing the bell. ‘Take away that empty glass, will you, Sayers,’ he told his man, ‘and bring in some more clean ones. Now, Mr Meredith, I understand Hatchaways is for sale, and that the price you are asking is fifteen hundred pounds?’
‘That is correct,’ agreed the other, his eyes sparkling greedily.
‘And it is not mortgaged nor encumbered in any way?’
‘No; the property is quite clear.’
The door opened, and Sayers came in carrying some more glasses. And as he put them down I saw him nod to Ronald.
‘Have you had to borrow any money on the place, Mr Meredith?’ continued Ronald.
‘You’ll pardon me, Mr Standish, but I don’t see that that has anything to do with you,’ said Meredith truculently.
‘You didn’t borrow, for instance, from Samuel Goldberg, who has recently been murdered?’
Meredith gave one uncontrollable start. Then he pulled himself together.
‘Never heard of the man till I saw his death in the paper.’
‘Strange,’ said Ronald quietly. ‘He was a complete stranger to you, maybe?’
‘Absolute.’
‘Then why, Meredith, did you throw that egg through his open window in the Downwater express as his carriage came level with yours?’
Meredith lurched to his feet and tried to bluster. But there was sick fear in his face and Grantham moved towards the door.
‘It’s a cursed lie,’ he said thickly.
‘Oh, no, it isn’t,’ answered Ronald sternly. ‘On the shell of the egg you threw are fingerprints: on the glass you’ve just drunk from are fingerprints. And those fingerprints are identical. There’s your man, Grantham. He murdered Samuel Goldberg by shooting him through the head from the other train.’
For a moment there was silence, and then with a roar of rage Meredith whipped a revolver out of his pocket. But he was too late. Grantham was on him like a flash.
‘And that is the gun, Inspector,’ continued Ronald, calmly, ‘that I told you you would not find on the permanent way.’
‘I wish to heaven you’d elucidate, old boy,’ I said a few minutes later, ‘for it’s the smartest thing I’ve ever known.’
Ronald filled his pipe thoughtfully.
‘You may remember, Bob,’ he said, ‘that after your illuminating remark I went into the next compartment and started monkeying about with the window. Now, there are two main types of fitting in trains. The more common has a long strap, and with that sort, when the strap has been pulled to the full extent, an outward push on the bottom of the window is necessary to keep it shut. The other type has no strap, but a slot in the top sash which, when pulled up to the full extent, automatically remains there. And that was the type used in the slip coach.
‘You may also remember how I harped on the raw egg. I could not place it, Bob; every instinct in me rebelled against the thought that Goldberg carried one raw egg with him. Then you made the remark about the murderer carrying it. Once again it was incredible if the murderer was in the carriage. He wouldn’t come in, plaster an egg on the door, and then shoot Goldberg. But, supposing the murderer hadn’t been in the carriage—what then? For a considerable time another train had been running parallel with the express, and at about the same speed. Supposing a man in that other train had seen Goldberg sitting in his compartment, and to attract his attention had thrown an egg through the open window, what would be Goldberg’s reaction? He would get up to shut the window, to prevent more eggs following. Supposing that then the egg-thrower shot him through the brain. Now you and I have seen men killed instantaneously in France, and if you cast your mind back you will remember that quite a number threw up their arms and fell backwards. What would have happened if Goldberg’s fingers had been in the notch of the window? Just what did happen in this case: he shut the window with his last convulsive jerk, thereby making it appear impossible for him to have been shot from anywhere except inside the carriage, which was, of course, an incredible piece of luck for the murderer.
‘So on that hypothesis I started. You heard me say to Grantham that I might never find the man who did it, and but for luck which now turned against him I never should have. My starting point, naturally, was the other train and its occupants. Now the last station at which it had stopped, before the murder had been committed, was Pedlington, and so there I repaired. I made inquiries with the utmost caution, because it was essential that nothing should get into the papers if we weren’t going to alarm our bird, whoever he was. And after talking to the stationmaster and getting in touch with the guard of the train, facts began to accumulate, though it was a slow business.
‘The first thing I found out was that the train was comparatively empty—so empty that the guard was able to remember more or less accurately how the passengers were seated. And the important thing was to ascertain how many compartments had only one occupant. There were only three to his certain knowledge: one with a woman, two each with a man. More than that he could not say, except that the woman was very old.
‘Now came the wearisome search. I eliminated the woman, and concentrated on the men. I went to every station after Pedlington at which the train stopped, and got in touch with the ticket collector. It was still an absolute toss-up if I could spot my man. If it was someone carrying a few eggs in a paper bag it was hopeless. And then came an astounding stroke of luck. The collector at Marlingham—four stations beyond Pedlington—remembered a man who got out there with a basket of eggs and who asked the way to some farm.
‘Bob, I was getting warm. Off to the farm I went, and found that a man called Meredith, who owned a chicken farm called Hatchaways, not far from Pedlington itself, had been there. And now I knew I’d got him. You remember the letters on the broken shell—“atch” and “ways.” He was my bird, but he was still a long way from the net.
‘So back to Pedlington, where I posed as a man with a certain amount of money who was interested in chicken farming. And I soon met Master Meredith, who thought he had found a sucker. Further inquiries revealed the fact that he was in bad financial straits, and was only too ready to sell. Further inquiries also revealed the very significant and unusual fact that he always carried a Colt revolver in his pocket wherever he went—a habit, he said, he got into while out West. So I staged the little performance this morning. Marshall, from the Yard, the fingerprint expert, was outside, and when Sayers nodded to me I knew that there was no mistake.
‘Just one of those strange crimes that nearly came off. It wasn’t premeditated, of course. By a mere freak of fate the two trains ran side by side for some time, and Meredith saw the chance of getting rid of the man to whom he owed money in such a way that no suspicion could fall on him. And when Goldberg shut the window as he died, Meredith must have thought himself absolutely safe. Which,’ he concluded, ‘he would have been if he’d thrown a banana and not an egg.’