French dropped his suave, kindly manner and suddenly became official and, for him, unusually harsh.
“Now, Mrs. Billing,” he said, sharply, “I’d better tell you exactly who I am and warn you that you’ve got to keep it to yourself. I am Inspector French of New Scotland Yard; you understand, a police officer. I have discovered that Mr. Pyke was murdered and I am on the track of the murderer.”
The landlady gave a little scream. She was evidently profoundly moved, not only by surprise and excitement, but by horror at her late lodger’s fate. She began to speak, but French cut her short.
“I want you to understand,” he said, threateningly, “that you must keep silence on this matter. If any hint of it gets about, it will be a very serious thing for you. I take it you don’t want to be mixed up in a murder trial. Very well, then; keep your mouth shut.”
Mrs. Billing was terrified and eagerly promised discretion. French questioned her further, but without result. She did not believe her late lodger was on bad terms with anyone, nor did she know if he had a birthmark on his upper arm.
French’s delight at his discovery was unbounded. The identification of the dead man represented the greatest step towards the completion of his case that he had yet made. He chuckled to himself in pure joy.
But his brain reeled when he thought of his four test points. If this news were true, he had made some pretty bad mistakes! Each one of his four conclusions must be false. As he remembered the facts on which they were based, he had to admit himself completely baffled.
Presently his mood changed and a wave of pessimism swept over him. The identification of the underclothes was not, after all, the identification of the body. Such an astute criminal as he was dealing with might have changed the dead man’s clothes. But when he reminded himself that the man who called for the crate resembled Berlyn, the thing became more convincing. However, it had not been proved, and he wanted certainty.
Fortunately there was the birthmark. French had examined it carefully and was satisfied that it was genuine. Who, he wondered, could identify it?
The most likely person, he thought, was Jefferson Pyke. It would be worth a journey to London to have the point settled. That night, therefore, he took the sleeping-car express to Paddington.
Daw had given him the address—17b, Kepple Street, off Russell Square, and before next morning he was there.
Jefferson Pyke was a clean-shaven man of about forty, of rather more than medium height and stoutly built. He was a study in browns: brown eyes, a dusky complexion, hair nearly black, brown clothes and shoes, and a dark-brown tie. He looked keenly at his visitor, then pointed to a chair.
“Mr. French?” he said, speaking deliberately. “What can I do for you, sir?”
“I’ll tell you, Mr. Pyke,” French answered. “First of all, here is my professional card. I want some help from you in an investigation I am making.”
Pyke glanced at the card and nodded.
“A case on which I was engaged took me recently to Ashburton, and while there I heard of the tragic death of Mr. Pyke and Mr. Berlyn of the Veda Works staff. I understand that Mr. Pyke was a relative of yours?”
“That is so. My first cousin.”
“Well, Mr. Pyke,” French said, gravely, “I have to inform you that a discovery had been made which may or may not have a bearing on your cousin’s fate. A body has been found—the body of a murdered man. That body has not been identified, but there is a suggestion that it may be your cousin’s. I want to know if you can identify it?”
Mr. Pyke stared incredulously.
“Good Heavens, Inspector! That’s an astonishing suggestion. You must surely be mistaken. I went down to Ashburton directly I heard of the accident, and there seemed no doubt then about what had happened. Tell me the particulars.”
“About a fortnight ago, as you may have noticed in the papers, a crate was picked up in the sea off Burry Port in South Wales, which was found to contain the body of a murdered man. The face had been disfigured and there was no means of identification. However, I traced the crate and I learned that it was sent out from the Veda Works on the morning after your cousin and Mr. Berlyn disappeared.”
“Good Heavens!” Mr. Pyke exclaimed again. “Go on.”
“I made enquiries and the only persons known to have disappeared were those two men. You see the suggestion? I am sorry to have to ask you, but can you help me to identify the remains?”
Mr. Pyke’s face showed both amazement and horror.
“This is terrible news, Inspector. I need hardly say I hope you are mistaken. Of course you may count on me to do all I can.”
“You think you can identify the body, then?”
“Surely I ought to recognise my own cousin?”
“Otherwise than by the face? Remember the face has been disfigured. I might say, indeed, it is nonexistent, it has been so savagely battered.”
“By Heaven! I hope you will get the man who did it!” Pyke said, hotly. “But that does not answer your question.” He hesitated. “If it is not possible to recognise the features, I’m not so sure. How do you suggest it might be done?”
French shrugged.
“Identification otherwise than by the features is usually possible. It is a matter of observation. Some small physical defect, a crooked finger, the scar of an old cut, or mole on the neck—there are scores
