“That’s got it,” the latter cried, eagerly. “A long shot, but a bull’s-eye! I have to thank you for it, Mr. Illingworth, and you don’t know how grateful I am.”
The first fact was not encouraging. The magneto which had been supplied originally with Mr. Berlyn’s car was the same that had been sent in by Makepeace with the short-circuited winding. So far, therefore, the breakdown might have been genuine enough. But it was the second item which had so transported French. A precisely similar magneto had been sold as a spare about a month earlier and under circumstances which left no doubt as to the motive. It had been ordered by a Mr. Henry Armstrong, in a typewritten letter headed “The Westcliff Hotel, Bristol,” and it was to be sent to the parcels office at St. David’s Station, Exeter, marked, “To be kept till called for.” The letter was being sent over by hand, and when French received it a few minutes later he saw that it had been typed by the same machine as that ordering the duplicator.
“That’s fine, Mr. Illingworth,” he repeated in high delight. “That’s one of my major difficulties overcome. I just want you to tell me one other thing. How long would it take to change the magneto—out in the country on a dark night?”
“It’s a half-hour’s job for a skilled man. The actual lifting in and out of the machine is easy, but the setting is the trouble. The contact-breaker, as I’m sure you know, has to be set so as to give the spark at the right point in the engine cycle. That takes a bit of time.”
“I follow that. But is there no way that the adjustable parts could be set beforehand to save that time?”
“That’s right. They could be marked and everything set to the marks. That would speed things up.”
“By how much, should you say?”
“With everything marked, a man could do the whole thing in fifteen minutes.”
“Good!” said French. “I guess that’s everything at last.”
He returned to Paddington and caught the express for Exeter. He was overjoyed at his progress. The issue was rapidly narrowing.
How rapidly it was narrowing struck him even more forcibly as he thought of a further point. The trick had been played with Berlyn’s car. Could it have been done without Berlyn’s knowledge? Could, in fact, anyone but Berlyn have carried it out? French did not think so. It was beginning to look as if the solution of the whole problem were in sight.
At Exeter he went about the package. As far as book entries were concerned, he was quickly satisfied. But no one remembered the transaction, nor could anyone recall enquiries having been made by a tallish, red-faced man with light hair and glasses.
Nothing daunted, French caught the last train from Exeter to Ashburton, full of an eager anxiety to get to grips with his remaining problems.
XI
John Gurney, Night Watchman
French had now reconciled the apparent contradiction in regard to one of his four test points. Obviously his next job was to clear up the other three.
As he considered on which he should first concentrate, his mind fastened on the one point which at the time had seemed not completely satisfactory—the slightly suspicious manner of Gurney, the night watchman. During the night, as he now knew, the body of Stanley Pyke had been taken to the works and put into the crate. It was impossible that this could have been done without Gurney’s knowledge. Gurney must be made to speak.
Accordingly, after breakfast next morning he set off to the man’s house. He passed out of the town on the Newton Abbot road, then turning into a lane to the left, struck up the side of the valley. Soon he reached the cottage, a tiny place with deep overhanging eaves and creeper-covered walls. In front was a scrap of well-kept garden and in the garden was the man himself.
“Good morning, Gurney,” French greeted him. “I thought you would have been in bed by now.”
“I be just going,” answered the old man. “I came out an’ begun a bit o’ weeding an’ the time ran round without my noticing.”
“That’s lucky for me,” said French, heartily. “I want a word with you. A nice place you’ve got here.”
“Not too bad, it ain’t,” the other admitted, looking about him with obvious pride. “The soil’s a bit ’eavy, but it don’t do so bad.”
“Good for your roses, surely? Those are fine ones beside the house.”
Gurney laid aside his hoe and led the way to the really magnificent bed of La Frances to which French had pointed. It was evident that these were the old man’s passion. French was not a gardener, but he knew enough to talk intelligently on the subject and his appreciation evidently went straight to the watchman’s heart. For some minutes they discussed horticulture, and then French wore gradually round to the object of his visit.
“Terrible business that about Mr. Berlyn and Mr. Pyke,” he essayed. “It must have set this town talking.”
“It didn’t ’alf, sir. Everyone was sorry for the poor gentlemen. They was well liked, they was.”
“And that was another terrible affair,” pursued French after the local tragedy had been adequately discussed, “that finding of the dead body in the crate. Extraordinary how the body could have been put in.”
“I didn’t ’ear naught about that,” Gurney answered, with a sudden increase of interest. “You don’t mean the crate you was speaking about that day you was up at the works?”
“No other. Keep it to yourself and I’ll tell you about it.” French became deeply impressive. “That crate that I was enquiring about was sent from here to Swansea. There it was called for by a man who took it on a lorry to a place called Burry Port and threw it into the sea. A fisherman chanced to hook it and it was brought ashore more than a month later. And when it was opened
