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‘Guess he wasn’t murdered for his money anyhow,’ Vandam thought with grim humour as he turned to the letters.
With one exception, these were commonplace enough, but as he read this one Vandam smiled with satisfaction. It was a curt note in a lady’s rather flamboyant hand, in which ‘J. L.’ assured ‘Dear Albert’ that she could not see him that night, but that he might take her out to dinner and a theatre on the following evening if he were good. The letter bore the date of a week previous, but no address. However, taken as an adjunct to the bills, it should lead speedily to the identification of the lady.
He replaced the papers in the box with the intention of taking them to headquarters, then, descending the stairs, he took leave of Mrs Regan and let himself out of the house.
‘Now for friend Holt,’ he thought, as he bent his steps towards the Central Branch of the Union Bank.
Mr Holt saw him at once. He had heard of the accident and seemed genuinely distressed by the tragic fate which had overtaken the sharer of his room. He scouted the suicide theory which Vandam put forward, saying that Smith was the last man in the world to take his own life. The Inspector’s questions he answered with the utmost readiness.
But, like the others interviewed that afternoon, he had but little to tell. He had gone to reside in Rotterdam Road about a year previously, Smith being already there. The two men, while not close friends, got on well enough together. They did not see very much of each other, as Smith was out a good deal, and their associates moved in different circles. Holt was, however, able to give the names of three men with whom Smith had been on fairly intimate terms. Vandam noted their addresses, intending to call on them next day. Generally Holt confirmed what the Inspector had already learned about the deceased’s character and habits.
‘With regard, then, to last night, Mr Holt,’ Vandam went on, ‘please tell me what occurred.’
‘Last night I was detained up town,’ the young fellow answered. ‘I did not get to my rooms until about 7.15. Smith had finished supper and was reading the paper when I went in. A word or two passed between us and then I had my supper. When I had about half finished Smith left the room, and I heard him go upstairs to his bedroom.’
‘Did you notice anything peculiar about his manner?’
‘Nothing, except that he seemed a little excited. He was restless, and kept jerking the paper about.’
‘He was quite sober?’
‘Absolutely. He seldom drank to excess.’
Vandam nodded.
‘And was that the last time you saw him?’
‘I saw him once again. When I had finished supper I went up to my room for a book, and as I opened the door he was just passing downstairs. He was carrying a small suitcase. I said, “Hallo, Smith! Going away?” “Only to spend the evening at Pendlebury,” he answered, “but if I miss the last train I shall probably stay overnight.” I went upstairs and Smith down, and that was the last I saw of him.’
Pendlebury was a residential suburb about four miles south of the city, with which it was connected by electric tram.
‘What time was that, Mr Holt?’
‘About ten minutes past eight.’
‘Smith didn’t say to whom he was paying the call?’
‘No.’
Inspector Vandam asked a good many more questions, but except that the dead man had seemed a little absent-minded off and on for some weeks past, he learned nothing further of interest.
It was too late on leaving the bank to begin another phase of the inquiry that night. Vandam, therefore, after a call at headquarters, turned homewards, and spent the evening writing up notes of what he had already done and considering his future procedure.
The inquest took place next day. It had been fixed for eleven o’clock, and Vandam spent the whole morning making his preparations and checking over the evidence of his witnesses. After a consultation, it had been decided to keep secret the fact that murder had been committed, in the hope that the assassin might be lulled into a feeling of security which would render him careless and more likely to give himself away.
The tragedy had created immense popular interest, and it was over a crowded court that the coroner was called upon to preside. Punctually to the minute he plunged into business. The jury were sworn, left to view the body, looking self-conscious and important, returned a trifle paler and obviously with less thought of their own dignity, and the taking of evidence began.
Signalman Joseph Ashe first testified as to the discovery of the body and the giving of the alarm, and from the stationmaster and the other railway officials the story of that tragic morning was told up to the arrival of the police. Inspector Vandam then swore that the body so found was that which the jury had just viewed, and Dr Bakker described the injuries.
Evidence of identification having been taken, the court was adjourned, to the surprise of everyone not in the know. The coroner stated that though certain of the details seemed to point to suicide, the police had not as yet succeeded in obtaining sufficient evidence to enable the jury to reach a finding.
The suggestion of suicide sent a thrill through those present, which was quickly succeeded by a feeling of disappointment as they realised that for the time being their curiosity must remain unsatisfied.
The inquest over, Vandam sat down to think out his next move. There were still some obvious inquiries to be made, and he decided he would get through with these at once, before pausing to take stock of his position generally.
First, there was the matter of the hammer. If he could find out where it had been sold and who had bought it, the evidence might lead him straight to his goal. Then there was the sandbag. The purchase of a strip of canvas or a sailmaker’s needle would surely be sufficiently uncommon to have attracted attention, and inquiry should bring the transaction to light. A visit to the various shops—jewellers, costumiers, florists—where Smith had made his purchases would probably lead to the identification of J. L., and if so, an entire new line of investigation would be opened up. There was also the matter of the automatic pistol found on Smith’s body. If the purchase could be traced it might be valuable. Finally, there were the inquiries into the movements of Swayne upon which the Inspector had already decided.
There was certainly no lack of clues, and Vandam saw a vista of strenuous work opening out in front of him.
He returned to headquarters and instructed Sergeant Clarke to undertake the hammer and sandbag inquiry, put another man on the automatic pistol, and set off down town himself to visit the shops.
His information came more easily than he had anticipated. Smith apparently had made no secret of his proclivities, and the Inspector soon learned that J. L. was a Miss Jane Louden, the daughter of the owner of a third-rate hotel—or rather public-house—in the poorer quarter of the town. The girl, a dark and haughty beauty, acted as barmaid, and was notoriously given to extracting purple and fine linen from the particular specimen of mankind whom she held in subjection for the time being. She had usually visited the shops with Smith, and had chosen the articles that appealed to her fancy. From the dates of the purchases it appeared that Smith had been a victim for over six months.
Vandam did not obtain all this information at his first call. He spent the afternoon going from shop to shop, and picked it up gradually. But nowhere did he hear of a rival to Smith.
Six o’clock was chiming from the city churches as Vandam left the last shop. His next business would be to go down to East Hawkins Street, where Miss Louden lived, and interview the lady herself. He thought that the evening would be as good a time as any for the purpose, and he went home with the intention of paying the call after he had dined.
But when, some two hours later, he asked for a drink in the bar of Louden’s Hotel, he met with a disappointment. The proprietor served him in person, and he soon learned that Miss Louden was unwell. Discreet inquiries produced the information that she was down with an attack of influenza, but was over the worst of it.
There was nothing for it, therefore, but to switch on to one of his other lines of investigation, and next day he determined he would begin the tracing of the movements of Swayne on the night of the murder.
The case against Swayne seemed to him quite strong, and he thought that if he could connect Swayne with Miss Jane Louden, and show that the fight with Smith had been about her, it would be overwhelming. But, even apart from that, it was by no means negligible.
Swayne and Smith had never got on. Smith was continually being offensive to Swayne, and Swayne was apparently swallowing it, until his temper had got the better of him and he had gone for his enemy, fighting seemingly with the object of killing him. That was only a month ago, and the passions then roused would still be strong. The whole thing looked, not only to Vandam, but to Hurst, as if Smith had some hold over the sales manager which made the latter stand treatment he would not otherwise have put up with; just, in fact, the kind of hold which would lead a man to commit murder.
A fact which tended in the same direction was the date of the tragedy. It had occurred on the very night on which Swayne had left Middeldorp for England. If Swayne intended to commit the crime, it was the night he would chose. From the psychological point of view, to complete his revenge would naturally be the thing he would wish to do last before leaving. There might also be another and more practical reason. He might hope that his departure would serve him as an alibi. If the police could be made to believe that the murder had been committed after he had gone, it would meet his case.
All these points were matters for investigation, and Vandam felt he must get at them without delay.
CHAPTER IV
VANDAM FORMS A THEORY
NEXT morning Inspector Vandam began his investigation into the movements of Swayne on the night of the murder, by a visit to his landlady, whose address he had obtained from Mr Hurst on the occasion of his visit to the Mees Street store.
Sydenham Avenue was in a much better district than Rotterdam Road, where Smith had lodged, and No. 18 proved to be a boarding-house of superior type to the average. The landlady, tall and stately as a stage duchess, received him in an office at the back of the lounge, and answered his questions with cold, though polite, efficiency.
Mr Swayne had lived in her establishment, she told him, for three years, during which time she had found him all that a gentleman should be. About a month previously he had informed her that he was going for a holiday to England, explaining that while he was anxious to retain his room, which was particularly comfortable, he did not want to pay for it while away, and asking her if she could let it for the three months. Anxious to oblige him, she had consented to do so if possible, and had succeeded in hearing of an engineer who wished for a few weeks’ accommodation while studying conditions in some of the neighbouring mines. This man agreed to take Swayne’s room for the three months, provided he could get it by a certain day. As the date was only four days before Swayne’s departure, the latter had given it up, and, there being no other vacant room in the boarding-house, he had gone for the period in question to the Bellevue Hotel. About his actual departure from Middeldorp, or his movements on the last day of his stay, the landlady could therefore tell nothing.
Nor did she know anything of Smith nor of the relations between him and Swayne. She had contented herself with her business of running the house, and was not cognisant of the private affairs of her guests.
Before leaving, Vandam asked the landlady if she could show him a photograph of Swayne. It happened that she was able to do so, and while commenting on it, Vandam took a mental note of the photographer’s address.
On leaving Sydenham Avenue he went to the studio. There he was able to buy a copy of the portrait, which by another lucky chance was adorning one of the show frames in the window. At the same time he purchased three or four similar sized photographs of men as like Swayne as he could find.
His next business was at the Bellevue Hotel, and returning to the centre of the town, he reached the great building and asked for the manager.
‘Mr Royle is in Capetown,’ he was told, ‘but Mr Buchan, his assistant, is here, if he would do.’
Mr Buchan proved to be an efficient-looking young man with red hair and a Scotch accent. He listened courteously as Vandam explained his business.
‘I don’t want it to go further, Mr Buchan, but as a matter of fact our Chief has got a bee in his bonnet about Mr Smith’s death. He believes it was suicide. Personally I don’t, but orders are orders, and I’ve got to try and settle the point. Now Smith is believed to have seen a Mr Swayne earlier that same day. You knew Mr Swayne? He is in the Hope Bros. firm, and left a few days ago for a holiday in England.’
‘I knew him, yes,’ Buchan answered. ‘He stayed here for two or three days before leaving South Africa, though I had met him before that. We do a good deal of business with Hope Bros., and I’ve come across most of their staff. Mr Crawley, the manager, I know intimately.’
‘Quite. Well, as I say, it is believed that Smith and this Mr Swayne met some time during the day Mr Swayne left. We want to settle this point, because if they did meet Mr Swayne should be able to give us some valuable information as to Mr Smith’s state of mind and so on. But we don’t want to make a fuss and wireless the boat if there’s nothing in it. So I’m to find out first if they did meet. Can you help me in that, do you think.’
Buchan shook his head.
‘Why, no, I’m afraid not. I didn’t see Swayne that evening at all.’
‘Some of your people might know. If you’d be so kind as to put me in touch, say, with your reception clerk, I could make a few inquiries.’
‘With pleasure. Will you come this way?’
A young man was working in the reception office. Mr Buchan called him over.
‘Ah, Bragg,’ he explained. ‘This gentleman, Mr Vandam, is making some private inquiries about Mr Swayne, who stayed here recently. You remember him, no doubt?’ Mr Buchan turned to Vandam. ‘Mr Bragg will do all he can for you, and if you want me I shall be in my office.’
‘Mr Swayne left by the south express that same Wednesday night,’ the young man said promptly when Vandam had explained his errand. ‘It leaves the station here at 3.45 a.m. It’s the through train from the north.’
‘Did you see him before he left?’
‘Not immediately before. I saw him in the afternoon about five. He went out of the hotel about five, and he made some remark to me as he passed the office window. I didn’t see him after that, but he must have come in some time later, for he sent a waiter down from his room at about half-past ten for his bill. I sent the bill up and the money came back.’
‘Could he have passed in without your seeing him?’
‘Oh, yes, he might have done so when I was writing or at the back of the office.’
‘You weren’t here when he was leaving for the train?’
No, I closed up about eleven and went to bed.’
‘When you saw him at five can you tell me how he was dressed?’
‘A grey flannel suit and a grey Homburg hat. He always wore grey flannel.’
Vandam produced his sheaf of photographs.
‘By the way, is Mr Swayne among these?’
Bragg seemed surprised as he took the cards.
‘That’s the man,’ he said, immediately picking out Swayne’s portrait. ‘Do you not know him?’
‘Never saw him in my life,’ Vandam declared. ‘I think, Mr Bragg, that’s all I want from you. I’m very greatly obliged, I’m sure. Now could I see that waiter who came down with the bill?’
The clerk gave a rapid order on his desk telephone, and presently an elderly, reliable looking man entered. He stated that he recalled the events of the Wednesday night clearly, and answered all Vandam’s questions without hesitation.
He had been on late duty, it seemed, that evening, and about half-past ten the bell rang from No. 78, Mr Swayne’s room. Jackson, the waiter, had immediately answered the bell, and had found Swayne in his room, packing a suitcase. He had evidently just come in, for he was still wearing his grey Homburg hat.
‘Oh,’ he said, ‘waiter, I wish you’d get me my bill.’ Jackson was moving off when Swayne called him back. ‘By the way, what time do you make it?’ They compared watches and agreed that it was exactly twenty-eight minutes past ten. ‘I have to catch the early morning train, and I forgot to check my watch,’ Swayne explained, continuing, ‘I wish you’d see that the night porter understands about getting me up in the morning, and that a taxi is arranged for. I told him, but I’d like to make sure it’s all right.’ Jackson then went for the bill. It amounted to four pounds sixteen, and Swayne gave him a five-pound note, telling him to keep the change. Jackson took the money to the office, got the bill receipted, and returned with it to the bedroom. Having assured Swayne that the arrangements for the morning were in order, he left the receipted bill and withdrew, and that was the last he had seen of the visitor.
Vandam slipped a couple of shillings into the man’s hand, thanked him, and turned to the clerk.
‘Now, if I might see that night porter, Mr Bragg,’ he suggested.
‘Send Hitchcock here, will you,’ Bragg called after the retreating waiter, and presently a second man appeared, this time small, dark and alert looking, not, indeed, unlike Vandam himself.
He had been, he stated, on duty as porter on the previous Wednesday night. He had wakened Mr Swayne and seen him start for the Capetown train.
‘Just tell me all you know about his going,’ Vandam asked.
‘I came on duty at ten, sir,’ the man answered, ‘and, as usual, I looked at the board to see if there were any early calls. I saw No. 78 was to get knocked at 3.00. “Him for the south train?” I asked my mate, the porter that I was relieving. “Sure,” he says. “Is he having a taxi?” I asked, and Morton, that’s my mate, said, “Yes,” that he had fixed it up. Then at three o’clock I knocked him and brought him up a cup of tea. “Come up for my stuff in twenty minutes,” he says. I did so, and carried his baggage down to the taxi. He left the hotel about five-and-twenty minutes past three.’
‘Did he speak to you when he was going out?’
‘He just said, “Well, goodbye, porter. Thanks for your help,” and he gave me a tip.’
‘Did you notice anything peculiar about his manner?’
The porter seemed somewhat surprised at the trend of the questions, but he answered unhesitatingly:
‘No, sir, I can’t say I did.’
‘Now, porter,’ Vandam went on, ‘remember we’re talking confidentially and don’t jump to conclusions from what I’m asking you. Would it have been possible for Mr Swayne to have left the hotel between 10.30 and 3.25 that night without having been seen?’
Both Bragg and the porter stared, and the latter shook his head.
‘It couldn’t have been done,’ he said decisively. ‘Not anyway at all. No one could have got in or out without my knowing.’
‘Just explain why, will you?’
‘Why, because they couldn’t,’ retorted the porter, who was getting a trifle nettled by the interrogation. ‘The side doors were all locked at dark, and from I came on duty at ten until the front door was locked at 11.30 I was there in the box the whole time, and nobody could have passed in or out without my seeing them. And from 11.30 no one could have got the door open without me. I saw Mr Swayne coming in. He came in about half-past ten, but he didn’t go out again, not until he left at 3.25 to catch his train.’
‘If you’re really keen on that point,’ interjected Bragg, who was evidently growing more and more interested, ‘it happens you can get some other evidence. Our electrician was working in 70 corridor on that night—that is just outside Mr Swayne’s rooms. Some of the bells had gone wrong, and it’s not convenient to have the boards up in the daytime. He could tell you if anyone came out of 78 during the night.’
‘Thanks, I should like to see him,’ Vandam agreed, then turned back to the porter. ‘By the way, can you tell me who drove the taxi that night?’
‘Jan Voogdt. He drives for Gresham Bros. of ’sGravenhagen Street.’
The porter was dismissed in his turn, and the electrician entered. Him Vandam approached rather differently, asking him to give a list of all the people whom he could remember having passed through the corridor on that Wednesday night. The man would have made an ideal witness, being evidently very observant and having all his facts clear and sharp-edged. He had begun work shortly after eleven, and from that until the night porter arrived at 3.00 no one entered or left No. 78. He described accurately the porter’s visit with the tea, his exit in a couple of minutes empty-handed, Swayne’s departure some twenty minutes later, and the carrying down of the luggage.
As far as it went, this was conclusive, but it didn’t satisfy Vandam. Under Bragg’s guidance he interviewed a number of other servants, chambermaids, lift boys, shoeblacks, all of whom confirmed as far as they were able what he had already heard, and all of whom picked out Swayne’s photograph from among the others. Then he asked to see No. 78, made certain that no one could have left through the windows—they were thirty feet up and overlooked the main street—went into the question of fire escapes, and at last finally and completely satisfied himself that Swayne had been in the building between half-past ten on the Wednesday night and twenty-five minutes past three on the Thursday morning.
‘Now for Gresham Bros., the car owners,’ thought Vandam as, after making the polite clerk a friend for life by promising to explain the business later and telling him how much he had helped him, he left the Bellevue and turned eastwards towards ’sGravenhagen Street.
Here, after some trouble, he found Jan Voogdt. The driver remembered the occasion in question. He had driven the fare he had picked up at the Bellevue at 3.25 to the railway station. A porter had there taken charge of the traveller’s luggage. He knew the porter and remembered his name. He was a coloured man called Christmas White.
Vandam, methodical and painstaking as ever, went on to the station and looked up White. Like the taxi man, the latter also remembered the midnight passenger. He had arrived in Jan Voogdt’s taxi, and he, White, had put his luggage into a sleeping berth on the train. The traveller had had his ticket and the berth was reserved for him.
To make assurance doubly sure, Vandam visited the booking clerk. Here he learned that Swayne, whose appearance the clerk knew, had taken his ticket and engaged his berth on the Monday previous.
Vandam was satisfied. Swayne had certainly left by the train in question. He was doubtless going for the Warwick Castle, due out at 7.00 p.m. on the Saturday evening. It would be well, however, to make sure of this, in case his subsequent investigation satisfied him of the man’s guilt. He therefore despatched a code wire to the Capetown police, asking them to ascertain the point.
As Vandam walked slowly back to headquarters, he ran over in his mind what he had learned up to the present. Swayne had been staying for some days at the Bellevue Hotel. He had left the building about five o’clock on the fatal Wednesday evening, and had not been seen again until 10.30. Then he had come in, paid his bill, and remained in his room until it was time to leave to catch the south-bound train. He had travelled by that train, and had presumably embarked on the steamer for England.
Smith had left his room about ten minutes past eight that night. The questions, therefore, which still remained to be settled were, first, where was Swayne between 8.10 and 10.30, and second, where was Smith during the same period? In other words, could the murder have taken place between those hours?