The Case of the Dead Diplomat (29 page)

“I thought he was coming to that, Superintendent,” observed Morden dryly. “He wants us to take over the case.”

“Yes, sir, it's getting a bit thick. We've already got two senior officers working in the provinces and this will make a third.”

“Still, we can't refuse. Have we any senior officer with local knowledge?”

The Superintendent considered. “No, sir, but among the juniors there is Sergeant Jago, who was born at Tavistock and passed his early days there. The only chief inspector that could be spared at the moment is Richardson. He's the junior chief inspector, but he's had a varied experience and either by good luck or good management he has got home with his cases.”

“Could he start at once?”

“Yes, sir, this afternoon if you like.”

“Send him in, then.”

In a few moments the junior chief inspector made his appearance. There were those who resented his quick promotion over the heads of officers senior to him, but it was impossible to feel malice towards a man who gave himself no airs, who appeared ever anxious to learn from those junior to himself in rank, and who gave the fullest credit to all who worked under him. It had been his success in a Paris case and the warm recommendation from the Foreign Office that had brought him his last step in promotion.

“You sent for me, sir?” he said to Morden.

“Yes, Mr. Richardson. It was to ask you if you know Dartmoor at all?”

“No, sir. I've been once to the convict prison, but that is all.”

“Well, now is your opportunity. The Chie Constable has asked for help in a difficult case which is set out in these papers, and I propose that you take Sergeant Jago with you, as he has an intimate knowledge of the district. Get a copy made of these papers to take with you; get the anonymous letters photographed; get the usual advances and report yourself to the Superintendent at Winterton to-night if you can.”

 “Very good, sir.”

“I don't want you to waste valuable time in writing reports, but if you make any discovery that promises well, you should let us know.”

For the next hour Richardson made life a burden to the various departments concerned in sending officers to work in the provinces. But in the end he found himself on the Waterloo platform with his companion in time for the afternoon express to Tavistock. All this had been arranged by telephone from Scotland Yard. The first part of the journey was devoted to a study of the Chief Constable's letter, and to the photographs of the two anonymous letters.

“Have a good look at these photographs, Jago, and tell me what you make of them,” said Richardson; “take your time.”

Jago studied the envelopes and their postmarks and then scrutinized the text of the letters. “One thing strikes me, Chief Inspector. These two letters were sent off on the same day and the man who posted them could only have posted one in Tavistock and the other in Moorstead if he had a car or motor-lorry.”

“Ah! That's where your local knowledge comes in. It's a sound deduction, but why should the owner of the car go to such pains to be anonymous?”

Sergeant Jago shook his head, and Richardson pulled out a map from his pocket. “The distance is only a dozen miles or so, nothing very much for a motor-lorry; but what do motor-lorries carry right across the moor?”

“Mostly granite.”

 “Oh, then there are granite lorries between Tavistock and Moorstead?”

“Yes, sir, there's Rowe's quarry a mile or two out from Tavistock, where the best granite comes from, and there's a smaller quarry somewhere near Moorstead.”

“Have you noticed anything special about the handwriting of these anonymous letters? Would you say that the two were written by the same man?”

Jago studied the photographs again. “Well, if they were, the fellow disguised his hand. The writing in the Commissioner's letter slopes backward much more than the other.”

“It does, but that's a familiar trick for a half-educated writer of anonymous letters.”

“You think the same man wrote both?”

“I feel sure of it and if I'm right we have something to go upon. First the misspelling. He spells ‘burial' with two r's in the Commissioner's letter, and ‘buried' in the Chief Constable's also has two r's.”

“But I don't see why he should have wanted to appear to be two different people.”

“Only because he thought that more notice would be taken of two people than one, and he wanted notice taken, which makes me think that he knows something and that it's not merely a hoax.”

“But if he knows something, why shouldn't he come openly to the police and tell them?”

“Ah, that's what we've got to find out. For the moment we're only speculating. Suppose, for instance, that the writer is an ex-convict lately released on licence and that he saw a crime committed; he might think that he wouldn't stand a chance with his bad record if he were accused of committing the crime.”

“Yes, I see that, sir.”

“At any rate, you with your local knowledge have given us something to work upon—the motor-lorry theory.”

They had passed Okehampton and were nearing Tavistock. Richardson packed up his papers and took his modest luggage down from the rack. The train slowed down; a constable in uniform was on the platform; Richardson approached him.

“I'm Chief Inspector Richardson from Scotland Yard.”

The constable saluted. “We've been sent to meet you, sir, by Superintendent Carstairs. He had a telegram this afternoon.”

“This is Detective Sergeant Jago—a native of Tavistock.”

The constable shook hands. “I know your family well, Sergeant,” he said.

The drive from Tavistock to Winterton by the main road which skirts the moor was rapidly covered. The car drew up at the police station.

They were met on the steps by Superintendent Carstairs, who shook hands warmly with Richardson.

“I'm very glad you've come down, Chief Inspector. The fact is that with my limited staff I could never have undertaken to solve the case.”

“But I shan't be able to get on without you, Superintendent,” said Richardson. “It's true that I've brought with me Sergeant Jago, who was born and brought up in Tavistock and has knowledge of the locality, but naturally he has no acquaintance with the dead man's affairs and you would have.”

“That is the trouble, Chief Inspector. No one knows anything of the late Mr. Dearborn's affairs—not even his wife. What I propose to do for you is this. I'll show you the broken stick which was picked up by one of my officers about a quarter of a mile from the scene of the accident, and then, tomorrow morning I propose to introduce you to the widow and let you question her in any way you please. I want you to remember that whenever you require transport the police car will be at your service. In fact, I am turning over the case to you entirely.”

“The body has not been buried yet?”

“No. Dr. Symon, who was called in by the widow to attend the deceased just before he died, is a young man without very much experience, and the verdict at the inquest was given on his evidence. You will probably desire to have a second medical opinion in view of the finding of the broken stick and the anonymous letter written to me.”

“That was not the only one, Superintendent. The Commissioner in London also received one in the same handwriting. I have brought photographs of the two letters for you to see. Now may I have a look at the broken stick?”

“Step into my office, Mr. Richardson. We can dispose of all these questions now.” He led the way to a little room, scrupulously tidy, and called for his clerk. “See that we're not disturbed, Henry.”

“Very good, sir.”

“Now sit down, Mr. Richardson, and make yourself at home. This office will always be at your disposal.”

He took a bunch of keys from his pocket, unlocked a drawer and took from it the top of a heavy walking-stick with a silver band. “You will see the bloodstains on the crook.”

“With a hair adhering to it,” observed Richardson. “I suppose the bloodstains have not yet been examined to see whether it's human blood, nor the hair compared with that of the dead man?”

The Superintendent chuckled in his beard.

“No, down here I'm afraid we don't work at such high pressure. The fact is that when the Chief Constable told me on the telephone that you were coming, I thought it better not to interfere with any possible evidence.”

“Have you any doctor in your mind, say from Plymouth, who could make a second examination of the body with Dr. Symon?”

“Well, yes; I thought of calling in Dr. Fraser. He's a man of about forty-five, well known to the local magistrates, and very cautious when giving an opinion. If you approve I can telephone to him this evening to be up here to-morrow morning.”

“Very well, and now I'll show you the photographs of the letters.”

Richardson laid the two photographs on the desk. Superintendent Carstairs took out a pair of glasses, polished them with his handkerchief and bent over the letters, breathing hard. It was clear that he was more at home in dealing with his staff in out-door-work than in comparing documents. Richardson felt, more than saw, that he was waiting for a lead. It was a pathetic spectacle—this weather-beaten, bearded superintendent, who more than filled his office chair, bending over documents on which he knew that he could give no useful opinion. Richardson came to his rescue.

“You see, Mr. Carstairs, that the letters were written by the same hand and that the writer tried to disguise his handwriting by tilting the characters backward in the letter to the Commissioner. But the misspelling is the same in each.”

The Superintendent nodded.

“Then, if you look at the postmarks you can see that they were posted in places a good many miles apart. The writer, therefore, must have been in possession of a car or motor-lorry.”

Superintendent Carstairs acquiesced and handed back the photographs, glad to be rid of them. “Now, Mr. Richardson, you must be tired after your journey. I've found quarters for you and your sergeant at the local hotel—the Duchy Arms. If you will come round here at nine-thirty to-morrow morning I will introduce you to Mrs. Dearborn.”