The Sea Mystery

the letters were defective and out of place. It was signed “James S. Stephenson” in a hand which French instinctively felt was disguised, with blue-black ink apparently of the fountain-pen type. It read:

12 August.

Messrs. The Veda Office Equipment Manufacturing Co. Ltd.,
Ashburton,
South Devon.

Dear Sirs,

I should be obliged if you would kindly forward to Mr. James S. Stephenson, Great Western Railway Goods Station, Morriston Road, Swansea, marked “To be kept till called for,” one of your patent Veda electric duplicators, No. 3, to take brief size. The motor to be wound for 220 volts DC and to have a flexible cord to plug into the main.

Please have the machine delivered at Swansea not later than 19th inst., as I wish to ship it from there on the following day.

I enclose herewith money order value £62 10s. 0d., the price, less discount, as given in your catalogue. Please advise receipt of money and despatch of duplicator to this hotel.

Yours faithfully,

James S. Stephenson.

There were here, French realised, several lines of enquiry. Something might be learned at the Euston Hotel. Unfortunately, the fact that the letter was written on the hotel paper and the reply was to be sent there did not mean that “Stephenson” had stayed there. French remembered his own letter from the Charing Cross Hotel to Dr. Philpot in the Starvel case up in Yorkshire. But enquiries could not be omitted. Then there was the money order. It would be easy to learn the office at which it had been obtained, and there was at least the possibility that the purchaser had been observed. Lastly there was the typewriter. French felt sure that it could be identified from the irregularities of the type.

“I may have this letter, I suppose?” he asked.

“Of course.”

He put the paper slowly away in his pocketbook and then in his careful, competent way began to ask questions.

“You sent the receipt and notification of the despatch of the crate to the Euston Hotel?”

“Certainly.”

“What is the process of despatch? When that order came in to whom did it go?”

“Well, I read it first and dropped it into a basket, from which it went automatically to the accounts department. Following the ordinary routine, the money would be collected, and if all was OK an order would go to the sales department for the despatch of the goods. When the despatch had taken place a notification in duplicate would be returned to the office, and one copy, with the receipt, would be mailed to the purchaser. The whole thing is, of course, routine, and so far as I know that routine was carried out in this case. But we can see all concerned, if you like.”

“That’s just what I would like,” French declared.

“Come along, then.”

“There’s another thing, Mr. Fogden,” French interposed. “I have told you my business because I wanted your help. But I am anxious that no one else suspects it. If I give out that the duplicator was stolen and that you have employed me to find the thief, will you back up the yarn?”

“Certainly. I am naturally anxious to have the affair cleared up. But do you think you can keep your real business secret?”

“I can for a time. But that may be long enough for me to get my man.”

In the sales department French was first shown a duplicator. It was an elaborate machine with the usual large cylinder and ingenious devices for turning out copies at high speed.

“What does it weigh?” he asked, when he had duly admired it.

“About two hundredweight.”

“Do you always send them out in crates of the same kind?”

“Always. The crate is specially made for the purpose. Unfortunately, it is an odd size and cannot be used for any of the other products.”

This was interesting. Did it, French wondered, show an internal knowledge of the firm’s methods on the part of “Stephenson”?

“Now about the actual despatch. You say an order comes from the accounts department when anything is to be sent out. Could I see this particular order?”

Mr. Fogden looked through a file, finally producing a tiny sheet of paper. But small as was the chit, it was comprehensive. On it were given not only all details of the duplicator and the address of the consignee, but also Mr. Fogden’s OK, the initials of the storekeeper who had given out the machine and the crate, of the packer who had packed it, of the carter who had taken it to the station, and of the railway goods clerk who had received it, with the dates when all these things had been done.

“By Jove!” French remarked when he had taken all this in. “You don’t leave much to chance in this establishment!”

“We believe in individual responsibility,” Mr. Fogden explained. “If anything goes wrong we can usually plant the blame on the right shoulders.”

“Well, it’s a help to me, at all events. Can I see these men who have initialled this order?”

“Certainly. Come down to the stores.” Mr. Fogden led the way to a large room furnished with multitudinous bins containing thousands of articles neatly stacked and each labelled with its code number and with a card showing the stock. Owing to its opposite walls being composed almost entirely of glass, there was a brilliant light everywhere. French marvelled at the cleanliness and tidiness of everything and expressed his admiration of the way the place was kept.

“This,” continued Mr. Fogden, whose heart was evidently reached by French’s comments, “is what we call the part store. Here are the parts of all our machines arranged in sets. Here, for example, are small parts. Those bins carry lock rods for card indexes, those ball-bearing rollers for file cases, those rings for loose-leaf books, and so on. Over there you get the wooden parts⁠—panels for vertical file cabinets, multiple bookcases, parts of desks and chairs. We carry a definite stock of each part, and every time it drops to a definite number an