Freeman Crofts – The Groote Park Murder (страница 4)

‘I am of the opinion the man had been dead from eight to ten hours when found.

‘I am, etc.,

‘PIETER BAKKER.’

‘Thank you, Doctor, there’s not much doubt about that part of it.’ Clarke put the sheets carefully away in his pocket. ‘But I should like to know what took the man there. It’s a rum time for anyone to be walking along the line. Looks a bit like suicide to me. What do you say, sir?’

‘Not improbable.’ The doctor rose and took his hat. ‘But you’ll easily find out. You will let me know about the inquest?’

‘Of course, sir. As soon as it’s arranged.’

The stationmaster had evidently been watching the door, for hardly had Dr Bakker passed out of earshot when he appeared, eager for information.

‘Well, Sergeant,’ he queried, ‘have you been able to identify him yet?’

‘I have, Stationmaster,’ the officer replied, a trifle pompously. ‘His name is Albert Smith, and he was connected with Hope Bros. store in Mees Street.’

The stationmaster whistled.

‘Mr Smith of Hope Bros.!’ he repeated. ‘You don’t say! Why, I knew him well. He was often down here about accounts for carriage and claims. A fine upstanding man he was too, and always very civil spoken. This is a terrible business, Sergeant.’

The sergeant nodded, a trifle impatiently. But the stationmaster was curious, and went on:

‘I’ve been thinking it over, Sergeant, and the thing I should like to know is,’ he lowered his voice impressively, ‘what was he doing there?’

‘Well,’ said Clarke, ‘what would you say yourself?’

The stationmaster shook his head.

‘I don’t like it,’ he declared. ‘I don’t like it at all. That there piece of line doesn’t lead to anywhere Mr Smith should want to go to—not at that time of night anyhow. It looks bad. It looks to me’—again he sank his voice—‘like suicide.’

‘Like enough,’ Clarke admitted coldly. ‘Look here, I want to go right on down to Mees Street. The body can wait here, I take it? One of my men will be in charge.’

‘Oh, certainly.’ The stationmaster became cool also. ‘That room is not wanted at present.’

‘What about those engines?’ went on Clarke. ‘Have you been able to find marks on any of them?’

‘I was coming to that.’ Importance crept once more into the stationmaster’s manner. ‘I had a further search made, with satisfactory results. Traces of blood were found on the cowcatcher of No. 1317. She worked in the mail, that’s the one that arrived at 11.10 p.m. So it was then it happened.’

This agreed with the medical evidence, Clarke thought, as he drew out his book and made the usual note. Having made a further entry to the effect that the stationmaster estimated the speed of this train at about thirty-five miles an hour when passing through the tunnel, Clarke asked for the use of the telephone, and reported his discoveries to headquarters. Then he left for the Mees Street store, while, started by the stationmaster, the news of Albert Smith’s tragic end spread like wildfire.

Messrs. Hope Bros. establishment was a large building occupying a whole block at an important street crossing. It seemed to exude prosperity, as the aroma of freshly ground coffee exuded from its open doors. Elaborately carved ashlar masonry clothed it without, and within it was a maze of marble, oxidised silver and plate glass. Passing through one of its many pairs of swing doors, Clarke addressed himself to an attendant.

‘Is your manager in yet? I should like to see him, please.’

‘I think Mr Crawley is in,’ the young man returned. ‘Anyway, he won’t be long. Will you come this way?’

Mr Crawley, it appeared, was not available, but his assistant, Mr Hurst, would see the visitor if he would come to the manager’s office. He proved to be a thin-faced, aquiline-featured young man, with an alert, eager manner.

‘Good morning, Sergeant,’ he said, his keen eyes glancing comprehensively over the other. ‘Sit down, won’t you. And what can I do for you?’

‘I’m afraid, sir,’ Clarke answered as he took the chair indicated, ‘that I am bringing you bad news. You had a Mr Albert Smith in your service?’

‘Yes, what of him?’

‘Was he a tall man of about thirty-five, broad and strongly built, and wearing brown tweed clothes?’

‘That’s the man.’

‘He has met with an accident. I’m sorry to tell you he is dead.’

The assistant manager stared.

‘Dead!’ he repeated blankly, a look of amazement passing over his face. ‘Why, I was talking to him only last night! I can hardly believe it. When did it occur, and how?’

‘He was run over on the railway in the tunnel under Dartie Avenue about eleven o’clock last night.’

‘Good heavens!’

There was no mistaking the concern in the assistant manager’s voice, and he listened with deep interest while Clarke told him the details he had learned.

‘Poor fellow!’ he observed, when the recital was ended. ‘That was cruelly hard luck. I am sorry for your news, Sergeant.’

‘No doubt, sir.’ Clarke paused, then went on, ‘I wanted to ask you if you could tell me anything of his family. I gathered he lived in Rotterdam Road? Is he married, do you know?’

‘No, he had rooms there. I never heard him mention his family. I’m afraid I can’t help you about that, and I don’t know anyone else who could.’

‘Is that so, sir? He wasn’t a native then?’

‘No. He came to us’—Mr Hurst took a card from an index in a drawer of the desk—‘almost exactly six years ago. He gave his age then as twenty-six, which would make him thirty-two now. He called here looking for clerical work, and as we were short of a clerk at the time, Mr Crawley gave him a start. He did fairly well, and gradually advanced until he was second in his department. He was a very clever chap, ingenious and, indeed, I might say, brilliant. But, unfortunately, he was lazy, or rather he would only work at what interested him for the moment. He did well enough to hold a second’s job, but he was too erratic to get charge.’

‘What about his habits? Did he drink or gamble?’

Mr Hurst hesitated slightly.

‘I have heard rumours that he gambled, but I don’t know anything personally. I can’t say I ever saw him seriously the worse for drink.’

‘I suppose you know nothing about his history before he joined you?’

‘Nothing. I formed the opinion that he was English, and had come out with some stain on his reputation, but of that I am not certain. Anyway, we didn’t mind if he had had a break in the Old Country, so long as he made good with us.’

‘I think, sir, you said you saw Mr Smith last night. At what hour?’

‘Just before quitting time. About half past five.’

‘And he seemed in his usual health and spirits.’

‘Absolutely.’

Sergeant Clarke had begun to ask another question when the telephone on the manager’s desk rang sharply. Hurst answered.

‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Yes, the assistant manager speaking. Yes, he’s here now. I’ll ask him to speak.’ He turned to his visitor. ‘Police headquarters wants to speak to you.’

Clarke took the receiver.

‘That you, Clarke?’ came in a voice he recognised as that of his immediate superior, Inspector Vandam. ‘What are you doing?’

The sergeant told him.

‘Well,’ went on the voice, ‘you might drop it and return here at once. I want to see you.’

‘I’m wanted back at headquarters, sir,’ Clarke explained as he replaced the receiver. ‘I have to thank you for your information.’

‘If you want anything more from me, come back.’

‘I will.’

On reaching headquarters, Clarke found Inspector Vandam closeted with the Chief in the latter’s room. He was asked for a detailed report of what he had learned, which he gave as briefly as he could.

‘It looks suspicious right enough,’ said the great man after he had finished. ‘I think, Vandam, you had better look into the thing yourself. If you find it’s all right you can drop it.’ He turned to Clarke with that kindliness which made him the idol of his subordinates. ‘We’ve had some news, Clarke. Mr Segboer, the curator of the Groote Park, has just telephoned to say that one of his men has discovered that a potting shed behind the range of glass-houses and beside the railway has been entered during the night. Judging from his account, some rather curious operations must have been carried on by the intruders, but the point of immediate interest is that he found under a bench a small engagement book with the name Albert Smith on the flyleaf.’

Clarke stared.

‘Good gracious, sir,’ he ejaculated, ‘but that’s extraordinary!’ Then, after a pause, he went on, ‘So that’s what he was crossing the railway for.’

‘What do you mean?’ the Chief asked sharply.

‘Why, sir, he was killed at ten minutes past eleven, and it must have been when he was leaving the park. Across the railway would be a natural enough way for him to go, for the gates would be shut. They close at eleven. There are different places where he could get off the railway to go into the town.’