While, therefore, Superintendent Howells in no way relaxed his efforts, French took an early train south. He was in a thoughtful mood as they pulled out of the station. This, it was evident, was going to be one of those troublesome cases in which an ingenious criminal had enveloped his evil deeds in a network of false clues and irrelevant circumstances to mislead the unfortunate detective officer to whom an investigation into them might afterward be assigned. Confound it all! It was not long since he had got rid of that terribly involved affair at Starvel in Yorkshire, and here was another that bade fair to be as bad. However, such was life, and worrying wouldn’t alter it. He was starting on an interesting journey and he might as well forget his case and make the most of the scenery.
V
Messrs. Berlyn and Pyke
Shortly before French stepped out of the train at the little terminus of Ashburton.
He had enjoyed his run, particularly the latter portion through the charming South Devonshire scenery, along the coast under the red cliffs of Dawlish and Teignmouth, and then inland through the well-wooded hills of Newton Abbot and Totnes. He was pleased, too, with the appearance of Ashburton, a town T-shaped in plan and squeezed down into the narrow valleys between three hills. He admired its old world air and its pleasant situation as he walked up the street to the Silver Tiger, the hotel to which he had been recommended.
After a leisurely dinner he went out for a stroll, ending up shortly after dark at the police station. Sergeant Daw had gone home, but a constable was despatched for him and presently he turned up.
“I went to the works at once, sir,” he explained in answer to French’s question. “They’re out at the end of North Street. A big place for so small a town. They employ a hundred or more men and a lot of women and girls. A great benefit to the town, sir.”
“And whom did you see?”
“I saw Mr. Fogden, the sales manager. He turned up the information without delay. The duplicator was ordered from London and he showed me the letter. You can see it if you go up tomorrow. There was nothing out of the way about the transaction. They packed the machine and sent it off, and that was all they could tell me.”
Suspiciously like a wild-goose chase, thought French as he chatted pleasantly with the sergeant. Like his confrère at Burry Port, the man seemed more intelligent and better educated than most rural policemen. They discussed the weather and the country for some time and then French said:
“By the way, Sergeant, the name of this Veda Works seemed vaguely familiar when you telephoned it. Has it been in the papers lately or can you explain how I should know it?”
“No doubt, sir, you read of the sad accident we had here about six weeks ago—a tragedy, if I may put it so. Two of the gentlemen belonging to the works—Mr. Berlyn, the junior partner, and Mr. Pyke, the travelling representative—lost their lives on the moor. Perhaps you recall it, sir?”
Of course! The affair now came back to French. So far as he could recall the circumstances, the two men had been driving across Dartmoor at night, and while still several miles from home their car had broken down. They had attempted to reach the house of a friend by crossing a bit of the moor, but in the dark they had missed their way, and getting into one of the soft “mires,” had been sucked down and lost.
“I read of it, yes. Very sad thing. Unusual, too, was it not?”
“Yes, sir, for those who live about here know the danger and they don’t go near these doubtful places at night. But animals sometimes get caught. I’ve seen a pony go down myself, and I can tell you, sir, I don’t wish to see another. It was a slow business, and the worse the creature struggled the tighter it got held. But when it comes to human beings it’s a thing you don’t like to think about.”
“That’s a fact, Sergeant. By the way, it’s like a dream to me that I once met those two gentlemen. I wish you’d describe them.”
“They were not unlike so far as figure and build were concerned; about five feet nine or five feet ten in height, I should say, though Mr. Berlyn was slightly the bigger man. But their colouring was different. Mr. Berlyn had a high colour and blue eyes and reddish hair, while Mr. Pyke was sallow, with brown eyes and hair.”
“Did Mr. Berlyn wear glasses?” French asked, with difficulty keeping the eagerness out of his voice.
“No, sir. Neither of them did that.”
“I don’t think they can be the men I met. Well, I’ll go up and see this Mr. Fogden in the morning. Good night, Sergeant.”
“Good night, sir. If there’s anything I can do I take it you’ll let me know.”
But French next morning did not go to the office equipment works. Instead he took an early bus to Torquay, and calling at the local office of the Western Morning News, asked to see their recent files. These he looked over, finally buying all the papers which contained any reference to the tragic deaths of Messrs. Berlyn and Pyke.
He had no suspicions in the matter except that here was a disappearance of two persons about the time of the murder, one of whom answered to the description of the man who had called for the crate. No one appeared to doubt their death on the moor, but—their bodies had not been found. French wished to know what was to be known about the affair before going to the works, simply to be on the safe side.
He retired to the smoking room
