“No, I’m afraid they’re destroyed. They were kept until the transaction was finished and then burned.”
“But you have the address?”
“Mr. John F. Stewart, St. Pancras Hotel, London.”
“You might give me the dates of the correspondence.”
This also the owner was able to do, and French added them to his notes.
“Can you describe the hand they were written in?”
“They were typewritten.”
“Purple or black ribbon?”
Mr. Llewellyn hesitated.
“Black, I think, but I couldn’t be sure.”
“Now about the driver. Can you describe him?”
“He was a middling tall man, middling stout also. His hair was red and his complexion fresh, and he wore glasses.”
“His dress?”
“I could hardly describe it. He was dressed like a well-to-do labourer or a small jobbing contractor or something of that sort. He was untidy and I remember thinking that he wanted a shave pretty badly. I took him for a gardener or general man about a country place.”
“You couldn’t guess where he had come from by his accent?”
“No, I couldn’t tell. He wasn’t local, but that’s all I could say.”
“The same man came back next day?”
“Yes.”
“Had you any conversation with him on either occasion?”
“No, except that he explained about lowering the machine on to the foundation, same as in the letter.”
This seemed to French to be all he could get, and after some further talk he and the superintendent took their leave.
“He’s loaded up the crate here in Swansea, at all events,” French exclaimed when they were in the street. “That seems to postulate docks and stations. I wonder if I can trespass still further on your good nature, Superintendent?”
“Of course. I’ll send men round first thing tomorrow. It’s too late tonight; all the places would be shut.”
“Thanks. Then I’ll turn up early in the morning.”
At the nearest telegraph office French sent a message to the Yard to have enquiries made at the St. Pancras Hotel as to the mysterious Mr. John F. Stewart. Then, tired from his exertions, he returned to his hotel at Burry Port.
Early next morning he was back in Swansea. It was decided that with a constable who knew the docks he, French, was to apply at the various steamship offices, while other men were to try the railway stations and road transport agencies. If these failed, the local firms and manufacturers who usually sent out their products in crates were to be called on. French did not believe that the search would be protracted.
This view speedily proved correct. He had visited only three offices when a constable arrived with a message. News of the crate had been obtained at the Morriston Road Goods Station.
Fifteen minutes later French reached the place. He was met at the gate by Sergeant Jefferies, who had made the discovery.
“I asked in the goods office first, sir,” the sergeant explained, “but they didn’t remember anything there. Then I came out to the yard and began enquiring from the porters. At the fifth shot I found a man who remembered loading the crate. I didn’t question him further, but sent you word.”
“That was right, Sergeant. We shall soon get what we want. This the man?”
“Yes, sir.”
French turned to a thick set man in the uniform of a goods porter, who was standing expectantly by.
“Good day,” he said, pleasantly. “I want to know what you can tell me about that crate that was loaded upon a crane lorry about six weeks ago.”
“I can’t tell you nothing about it except that I helped for to get it loaded up,” the porter answered. “I was trucking here when Mr. Evans came up; he’s one o’ the clerks, you understand. Well, he came up and handed me a waybill and sez: ‘Get out that crate,’ he sez, ‘an’ get it loaded up on this lorry,’ he sez. So I calls two or three o’ the boys to give me a hand and we gets it loaded up. An’ that’s all I knows about it.”
“That’s all right. Now just take me along to Mr. Evans, will you?”
The man led the way across the yard to the office. Mr. Evans was only a junior, but this fact did not prevent French from treating him with his usual courtesy. He explained that the youth had it in his power to give him valuable help for which he would be very grateful. The result was that Evans instantly became his eager ally, willing to take any trouble to find out what was required.
The youth remembered the details of the case. It appeared that shortly after four o’clock one afternoon some five or six weeks previously a man called for a crate. He was of rather above medium height and build, with reddish hair and a high colour and wore glasses. He sounded to Evans like a Londoner. At all events, he was not a native. Evans had looked up the waybills and had found that a package had been invoiced to someone of the name given. The crate answered the man’s description, and was carriage paid and addressed, “To be called for.” Evans had, therefore, no hesitation in letting him have it. Unfortunately, he could not remember the stranger’s name, but he would search for it through the old waybills.
He vanished for a few minutes, then returned with a bulky volume which he set down triumphantly before French.
“There you are,” he exclaimed, pointing to an item. “ ‘Mr. James S. Stephenson, Great Western Railway Goods Station, Morriston Road, Swansea. To be called for.’ ‘Stephenson’ was the name. I remember it now.”
This was good enough as far as it went, but Evans’s next answer was the one that really mattered.
“Who was the sender?” French asked, with thinly veiled eagerness.
“ ‘The Veda Office Equipment Manufacturing Co., Ltd., Ashburton, South Devon,’ ” read Evans.
The name seemed dimly familiar to French, but he could not remember where he had heard it. Evans went on to say that
