The Sea Mystery

The evidence was valuable, but it was far from permanent. A hint that suspicion was aroused, and it would be gone. The criminal, if he were still about, would see to it that innocuous copies of the cards were substituted for these dangerous ones. French felt he dare not run such a risk. Nor could he let Gurney suspect his discovery, lest unwittingly the old man might put the criminal on his guard. He therefore went on:

“Now all I want is to make a sketch of each of these parts. The duplicator which went out in the crate may have been taken to pieces and I want to be able to recognise them if they’re found. I suppose I could get a sheet or two of paper in the storeman’s desk?”

In one corner a small box with glass sides constituted an office for the storeman. French led the way thither. The door was closed but not locked. The desk, which he next tried, was fastened. But above it in a rack he saw what he was looking for, a pile of blank bin-cards. He turned back.

“It doesn’t matter about the paper, after all,” he explained. “I see the desk is locked. I can make my sketches in my notebook, though it’s not so convenient. But many a sketch I’ve made in it before.”

Chatting pleasantly, he returned to the bins and began slowly to sketch the leg casting. He was purposely extremely slow and detailed in the work, measuring every possible dimension and noting it on his sketch. Gurney, as he had hoped, began to get fidgety. French continued talking and sketching. Suddenly he looked up.

“By the way,” he said, as if a new idea had suddenly entered his mind, “there is no earthly need for me to keep you here while I am working. It will take me an hour or two to finish these sketches. If you want to do your rounds and to get your supper, go ahead. I’ll find you in the boiler-house when I have done.”

Gurney seemed relieved. He explained that it really was time to make his rounds and that if French didn’t mind he would go and do so. French reassured him heartily, and he slowly disappeared.

No sooner had his shuffling footsteps died away than French became an extremely active man. Quickly slipping the four faked cards from their metal holders, he carried them to the office. Then taking four fresh cards from the rack, he began slowly and carefully to copy the others. He was not a skilful forger, but at the end of half an hour’s work he had produced four passable imitations. Two minutes later he breathed more freely. The copies were in the holders and the genuine cards in his pocket. Hurriedly he resumed his sketching.

French’s work amounted to genius in the infinite pains he took with detail. In twenty minutes his sketches were complete and he effectually banished any suspicion which his actions might have aroused in Gurney’s mind by showing them to him when he rejoined him in the boiler-house. Like an artist he proceeded to establish the deception.

“Copies of these sketches sent to the men who are searching for the duplicator will help them to recognise parts of it if it has been taken to pieces,” he explained. “You see the idea?”

Gurney appreciated the point, and French, after again warning him to be circumspect, left the works.

The problem of what he should do next was solved for French by the receipt of a letter by the early post. It was written on a half sheet of cheap notepaper in an uneducated hand and read:

Ashburton.
12th October.

Dear Sir,

If you would come round some time that suits you I have something I could tell you that would maybe interest you. It’s better not wrote about.

Lizzie Johnston.

French had received too many communications of the kind to be hopeful that this one would result in anything valuable. However, he thought he ought to see the ex-parlourmaid and once again he made his way to her cottage.

“It’s my Alf,” she explained. “Alf Beer, they call him. We’re being married as soon as he gets another job.”

“He’s out of a job, then?”

“Yes, he was in the sales department in the works; a packer, he was. He left there six months ago.”

“How was that?” French asked, sympathetically.

“He wasn’t well and he stayed home a few mornings, and Mr. Berlyn had him up in his office and spoke to him something wicked. Well, Alf wouldn’t take that, not from no man living, so he said what relieved his feelings and Mr. Berlyn told him he could go.”

“And has he been doing nothing since?”

“Not steady, he hasn’t. Just jobbing, as you might say.”

“Hard lines, that is. You say he had something to tell me?”

The girl nodded. “That’s right,” was her original reply.

“What is it, do you know?”

“He wouldn’t say. I told him you was in asking questions and he seemed sort of interested. ‘Wants to know about Berlyn and Pyke and Mrs. Berlyn’s goings-on with Pyke, does he?’ he sez. ‘I thought someone would be wanting to know about that before long. Well, I can tell him something,’ he sez.”

“But he didn’t mention what it was?”

“No. I asked him and he sez ‘Value for cash,’ he sez. ‘He puts down the beans and I cough up the stuff. That’s fair, ain’t it?’ he sez. ‘Don’t be a silly guff, Alf,’ I sez. ‘He’s police and if he asks you questions, why, you don’t half have to answer them.’ ‘The devil I have,’ he sez. ‘I ain’t done no crime and he hasn’t nothing on me. You tell him,’ he sez, ‘tell him I know something that would be worth a quid or two to him.’ And so I wrote you that note.”

“Tell me why you thought I was police,” French invited.

Miss Johnston laughed scornfully.

“Well, ain’t you?” she parried.

“That’s hardly an answer to my question.”

“Well, everybody knows what you’re after. They say