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CONSTABLE BRADFORD, on beat in the Netting Dale district, was wondering what could have induced him to join the Metropolitan Police. Although it was Midsummer, Tuesday 25th June being only twenty minutes old, the night was dark and cold, and a misty drizzle was falling. Through it the street lamps shone like so many full moons in a hazy sky. The wheels of such traffic that remained at that hour threw up fine sprays of oily slush.
Everything seemed quiet enough, despite the fact that the reputation of the district was rather more than doubtful. The relations between several of the residents and the police could hardly be described as cordial. Bradford knew most of these by sight, but though he looked closely at the few furtive pedestrians who passed him, he recognised none of his shady acquaintances.
But the quiet was abruptly shattered. As he came to the end of Swanton Street, a narrow thoroughfare with squalid houses on either side, a sudden clamour broke out. At first a squeal, like that of a trapped rabbit, followed by an infuriated bellow. Then a wild chorus, as men women and children, awakened from sleep, joined in the nocturnal fray.
Bradford's first instinct was to blow a resounding blast on his whistle, hoping that one or more of his colleagues on adjoining beats would hear it. Then he pounded up Swanton Street until he reached the source of the clamour, which came from the area of Number Fifteen. He knew the house well, for it was occupied by one Spotty Jim, who had for some time been under police observation. The house had three stories and a basement, the latter opening into the area. Spotty Jim occupied one room on the ground floor. The rest of the accommodation he let to such lodgers as were not too fastidious about such matters as cleanliness and comfort.
The scene, fully revealed as Bradford shone his torch into the area, was intriguing. Two men were struggling together like a pair of all-in wrestlers. The window of a room looking into the area was open, and half a dozen heads, male and female, were straining out of it. From within the room, which seemed to be packed with people, came a babble of confused voices. The only articulate one which Bradford could pick out was that of a woman, who was shrieking “Murder! Murder!” at the highest pitch of her voice.
This kind of thing was no novelty to Bradford, and his approach to the situation was undramatic. “Now then, what's all this about?” he demanded.
His voice, and perhaps the searching rays of his torch, produced an instant silence. The faces, anxious to escape recognition, disappeared from the window. The two struggling men slowly disentangled themselves, until Bradford was able to distinguish them. The bigger, clad in pyjamas, crumpled and torn open at the front, he knew well. The coarse broad face, covered with purple blotches, was that of Spotty Jim. The smaller man, wearing a shabby and ill-fitting lounge suit, was unknown to him. His slanting eyes and flat features proclaimed him an Oriental. In spite of his squirming he was held fast, for Spotty Jim held his wrists firmly behind his back. “Who have you got there, Jim?”Bradford asked.
Since the light of the torch was shining full in his face, Jim could not see the speaker. But the voice must have been familiar to him, for he replied at once. “Don't know his name, Mr. Bradford. One of my lodgers. Tried to slip away without paying. And he's laid out his pal, what's more.”
“Laid him out, has he?” said Bradford. “Well have to see about that.” He opened the area gate and was about to descend, when another constable came up beside him. “Heard your whistle, so I trotted along,” he said. “Do you want a hand?”
“I'd be glad of it,” Bradford replied. “You might look after this chap here, while I go and see what's wrong inside.”
“Best put the bracelets on him,” Jim advised. “He's a slippery customer. Turns and twists like an eel, he does. I had a proper job to hold him.”
The two constables descended the steep stone steps into the area. The newcomer deftly slipped a pair of handcuffs on the smaller man's wrists. “I've got him safe enough now,” he said. “I'll stop here with him while you get to work inside.”
Bradford turned to Jim. “Show me the way,” he said curtly.
Followed by Bradford, Jim took the few steps to the back door, which opened into the area. They entered a stone-flagged passage, which was in darkness but for the light of Bradford's torch. This revealed nobody, but a confused whispering indicated that quite a lot of people must be in hiding nearby. “It's only my lodgers,” Jim explained apologetically. “They're scared, naturally. They aren't used to such goings on in a respectable house like mine.”
“Aren't they?” Bradford replied sarcastically. “Where's this chap you say has been knocked out?”
“This way, Mr. Bradford,” said Jim. A few steps along the passage was an open doorway. They passed through this into a room, dimly lighted by a low-powered electric lamp hung just below the ceiling. The room contained two iron bedsteads, each with a straw palliasse and a tattered greasy rug. On the floor between the two beds a man lay sprawled, bleeding freely from a wound on his forehead. His heavy breathing and the spasmodic movements of his limbs showed that, though unconscious, he was not dead. He was wearing trousers and waistcoat, but his coat had been discarded and lay folded for use as a pillow on one of the beds. And lying close under the window opening on to the area was a very ordinary claw-headed hammer.
Bradford surveyed the figure on the floor. “You know who he is, I suppose?” he asked sharply.
“Why yes, of course I know him, Mr. Bradford,” Jim replied. “He's been lodging with me this six months or more. He's a Chinese gentleman, by name How Ming. Works as a carpenter, and a good man at his trade, I'm told.”
“Better get him to hospital,” said Bradford. “I'll see about that. You stay here, and mind you don't touch anything.”
Establishments of the type of Jim's lodging-house are not fitted with telephones. Bradford returned to the area and spoke to his colleague. “I'll get you to take this chap to the station. Hand him over and send along an ambulance. There's another chap inside, pretty badly hurt, by the look of him.”
The other nodded and set off, keeping a firm grip on his prisoner. Bradford watched for a few moments, half expecting an attempt at escape, but of this there was no sign. As he went back to the room he again became aware of hidden presences. “Those lodgers of yours are a bit too inquisitive,” he said to Jim, who had seated himself on one of the beds. “Just you tell them to make themselves scarce, or they may find themselves in trouble.”
Jim went out and barked into the darkness. Bradford could not catch what he said, but his words had their effect. There was a shuffling of feet, followed by silence. He came back, and Bradford told him to shut the door. As he obeyed, Bradford took his note-book from his pocket. “Now then,” he said. “What do you know about this? I want the truth, mind.”
“I wouldn't tell you anything else, Mr. Bradford,” Jim replied earnestly. “This is How Ming's room, that he's had ever since he's been here. He wanted a room to himself, so I let him have this one, though properly speaking it's meant for two. Nobody else used it till his friend came last evening. I don't know what time they turned in, but it wasn't very late.
“I sleep just above here, on the ground floor. I was in bed before midnight, but I hadn't been to sleep very long before something woke me. I sat up and listened, and in a minute or two I heard footsteps along the passage outside my door. Then the sound of fumbling with the fastenings of the front door. Someone trying to get out, I thought to myself. That didn't worry me overmuch, as before I go to bed I always lock the door and take the key.”
“In case any of your lodgers should sneak away without paying?”Bradford suggested.
“It isn't so much that,” Jim replied. “But I don't want folk creeping into this house without my knowing about it. Anyway, I got up and opened my door. It was dark in the passage, for the light wasn't switched on, and I couldn't see anybody. But I called out, 'Who are you and what are you up to?' The next thing I knew someone brushed past me and bolted down the stairs into the basement.
“I hollered out and went after him. Mind you, I didn't know who he was. There's a man and woman sleeping in the next room to this, and it might have been one of them. I've known them scrap together before now, and it might have been one running away from the other.
“But when I got down to this floor, I found the door of this room wide open. It was dark only for the bit of light that came through the window, and at first I couldn't see anything. But I switched on the light, as you see it now, and then I saw a man's leg just inside the window. The rest of him was already outside.
“I made a run for that leg, and stumbled over something lying on the floor. I didn't stop to look what it was, but jumped forward just in time to lay hold of the ankle as it went over the sill. The chap let out a queer sort of scream, and I hollered to him to come back and not try any games with me.”
“You guessed by this time who the chap was?” Bradford asked.
“Pretty well,” Jim replied. “It must be one of the two sleeping in this room, and I knew that How Ming wouldn't play a trick like that. Whoever it was, he kept on trying to wrench his foot away. I saw that I couldn't drag him back into the room, so I climbed out after him, still hanging on to his foot.
“We'd kicked up a good bit of a row between us, and the other lodgers came scuttling down to see what was up. They didn't offer to lend me a hand, but just crowded in here shouting. I couldn't make out what all the racket was about, till I heard a woman screaming that there was a dead man on the floor. That was while I was struggling with the chap in the area.”
Bradford looked at How Ming. “He's not dead, and that's a mercy. In fact by the look of him I think he's beginning to come round. The ambulance will be here any time now. Well, what next?”
Jim shrugged his shoulders. “There's not much to tell after that. As I was getting through the window the chap jerked his foot free, and started to bolt up the area steps. I went after him and dragged him back. But it took me quite a while before I could get a proper hold of him. He wriggled and twisted so that you'd hardly believe it. But at last I got hold of his wrists, and it was then that you came along, Mr. Bradford.”
At this point the ambulance arrived. How Ming was put on a stretcher and, not without difficulty, was carried out by the back door and up the area steps. When the ambulance had driven off with the injured man, Bradford and Jim returned to the basement room. Bradford directed his torch on to the hammer. “Look at that, but don't touch it,” he said. “Does it belong to you?”
Jim stared at the hammer wide-eyed. “Well, I'm blessed!” he exclaimed. “I didn't see that until this moment. That's what the chap must have hit his pal on the head with. No, it's not mine, Mr. Bradford. I've never set eyes on it till this moment.”
A possibility occurred to Bradford. “Didn't you say How Ming was a carpenter? Did he keep his tools here?”
Jim shook his head. “Not that I know of. I've never seen any of them lying about. He keeps them at the place where he works, I expect.”
Under the bed on which the coat was folded was a canvas sack. Bradford drew it out, to find painted on it a device which he took to be Chinese characters. “That belongs to How Ming,” Jim remarked. “He brought it with him when he first came here. I noticed the painting on it at the time. It's his name in Chinese writing, I expect. I can't read the characters myself, though I do speak a bit of Cantonese.”
Bradford looked closely at the hammer, without touching it. The condition of it showed that it was by no means new, and had apparently seen considerable service. On the handle had at some time been branded the initials C.L., but these had become almost obliterated by use. But, which was much more significant, on the head of the hammer were spots of blood, still wet.
Bradford nodded. “That's what he used, all right. I wonder where he got it from?”
“Brought it with him, most likely,” Jim replied. “He wasn't carrying anything when I saw him, but he may have had it stowed about him somewhere.”
“Do you know of any reason why this man should have attacked How Ming?” Bradford asked.
“No I don't, Mr. Bradford,” Jim replied emphatically. “I don't know anything about it, and that's the gospel truth. It was this way. About eight o'clock last evening the front-door bell rang. It's one of those affairs which is fixed inside the door and you wind it up when it runs down. I had it put in so that I could hear it wherever I might be.
“I went to the door and opened it, to find a man standing outside. I could see by his face that he was Chinese, but I'd never set eyes on him before. It isn't always easy to tell by his face what a Chinese is thinking about, but the way this chap looked made me guess he was pretty scared.
“I asked him who he was and what he wanted, but he shook his head as if he didn't understand me. Then he spoke, very slowly, as if he was trying to remember the right words. 'How Ming, him lives here?' I didn't tell him that he did. How Ming is a good chap, and has always kept himself to himself. I told you that he didn't want to share a room with anybody. He mightn't want to see this visitor. I told the chap to stay where he was for a bit. I don't suppose he understood what I said to him, but anyhow I shut the door in his face.
“I knew that How Ming was at home, for I had seen him come in not long before. So I came down here and told him there was a chap outside asking for him. How Ming has been in this country some time, and talks pretty fair English. He said he wasn't expecting anyone, and didn't know who this chap might be. I told him he'd better come and have a look, so we went upstairs and I opened the front door. The chap was still standing outside.”
“Did How Ming recognise him?”Bradford asked.
“I'm not sure that he did,” Jim replied. “But I'm pretty sure that the chap recognised him. They had a few words together in Cantonese, too quickly for me to follow just what they said, but I gathered that the chap was explaining who he was. How Ming seemed satisfied, for he told me that he'd take the chap to his room and have a chat with him.
“Well, down they went. And not long afterwards How Ming came up to see me. He said that his friend wanted a bed for the night, and could I fix him up. I said that I daresay I could manage it, if he had the money to pay. How Ming said that would be all right, for if he hadn't the money he would pay for the bed himself. That was all right with me, for I knew I could trust How Ming. I told him I would find the chap a bed in one of the rooms. I said I didn't suppose he wanted to be bothered with him.
“I was rather surprised when he said that was how it would have to be. His friend had begged to be allowed to sleep in his room. When he had asked him why he was so keen on that, he had said that he daren't sleep in a room with strangers. He had something in his pocket that was worth a lot of money.”
Bradford's suspicions were instantly aroused. “Did he tell How Ming what this something was?” he asked.
“That I couldn't say,” Jim replied. “If he did, How Ming didn't pass the news on to me. And I'm not one to ask too many questions.”
“I wonder,” said Bradford. The whole affair was becoming deeply suspicious. The man had come to the house looking scared. He had told How Ming that he had something in his pocket worth a lot of money. Putting two and two together, it seemed fairly obvious that he had stolen something and was afraid that it would be stolen from him in turn. Spotty Jim had long been suspected of being a receiver of stolen goods. He might well know more about the matter than he saw fit to tell. “While you were having this conversation with How Ming, did he mention the man's name?” Bradford asked.
Jim shook his head. “Never once. He spoke of him only as a friend, and I let it go at that. If he didn't choose to tell me the name, it was no business of mine.”
“Well, it'll be my business,” said Bradford. “Now you slip along up to your room. When I'm ready to go I'll knock you up, and you can let me out by the front door.”
Jim made no objection. Indeed, it seemed to Bradford that he was glad to get away without being questioned further. He left the room, and Bradford listened to the sound of his footsteps ascending the stairs to the ground floor. Then he set to work to investigate.
The first thing to which he directed his attention was the canvas sack. It was secured only by a piece of rope, and he had no difficulty in untying the knot. He turned the sack upside down, and shook out the contents on the floor. Picking these up one by one, he found that they consisted entirely of articles of clothing. No tools of any kind. And, for that matter, no money or valuables in any form.
This last fact struck Bradford as rather curious. An employed carpenter ought to be in possession of some money. Especially so early in the week, as he was probably paid his wages on Fridays. In a pocket of the coat, perhaps. He had made it into a pillow. He might have liked to sleep with his money under his head.
But a search of the coat pockets revealed nothing whatever. Bradford looked round the room for some likely hiding place. But Jim's economy did not provide chests of drawers or wardrobes for the use of his lodgers. The only furniture in the room consisted of a couple of well-worn wooden chairs and a battered tea-chest. This latter had apparently served How Ming as a dressing table, for on it lay a pair of hair-brushes. Inside the chest, which stood on its side, was a pair of blue overalls.
Bradford continued his search, looking for loose floorboards or hidden crannies in the walls. But he found nothing of the kind, and was at last satisfied that no money was concealed in the room. Then he turned his attention to the hammer. The handle, though blackened with use, was still fairly smooth. It should retain finger prints. He looked at it thoughtfully, wondering how he was to pick it up without running any risk of obliteration.
Then he chuckled softly to himself as an idea occurred to him. And a pretty smart one at that, he told himself. He took a piece of string from his pocket, and inserted one end of it between the handle and the floor. Then he tied a slip knot and drew it tight. He lifted the hammer by the string, from which it dangled head uppermost. After one last look round, he left the room and made his way up to the ground floor.
Jim must have been listening for him, for he was standing in the passage when Bradford arrived there. “You've finished then, Mr. Bradford?” he asked.
“For the present, anyhow,” Bradford replied. “You can let me out now.” Jim unlocked the front door, opened it, and stood aside to let Bradford pass. “No objection to my going down and fastening that window, Mr. Bradford? I don't like to think of it being left open so that anyone could get in. There are some queer folks about.”
“You're telling me,” Bradford replied drily. “You can please yourself about the window. You'll be seeing us again before very long.”
He left the house and set out for the police station. He had not very far to go, and arrived there within a few minutes. He was greeted by the sergeant on duty. “Well, here you are at last. I heard you had a job on in Swanton Street. What have you got there?”
Bradford dangled the hammer before the sergeant's eyes. “The weapon with which the job was done, I reckon,” he replied. “I fixed it like this so that I shouldn't have to touch it.”
“Well, hang it up somewhere,” said the sergeant. “We'll get the finger print chaps from the Yard to go over it. Have you found out the name of the injured man?”
“I've only got Spotty Jim's word for it,” Bradford replied. “He says it's How Ming. But he doesn't know, or at all events says he doesn't know, the name of the chap that hit him. This is what he told me.”
He repeated to the sergeant his conversation with Jim, then went on to describe his own investigations. “There's no doubt that the chap you've got here attacked How Ming, but why I can't make out. And what was it he had about him that was worth a lot of money? You put him through it, sergeant?”
The sergeant grunted. “I questioned him, if that's what you mean. But he doesn't understand English, or pretends he doesn't. He just shook his head at everything I asked him. We shall have to get an interpreter along and tackle him again. We searched him, and this is what we found.”
The sergeant opened a drawer of his desk and produced an envelope. From this he extracted first a grimy Post Office Savings book, and then five one pound notes and one of ten shillings. The creases on these showed that they had been folded into four. “The chap howled like a thrashed dog when this lot was taken from him,” the sergeant went on. “Then he started jabbering in some jargon none of us could understand. You can look at that book if you like.”
Bradford picked it up and turned to the first page. Under the words, 'Signature of Depositor' was a mark, not an ordinary cross, but a queer squiggle, which was in fact an ill-drawn Chinese character. Against this had been written, in a clerkly hand, 'Witnessed' followed by an illegible signature and the description of the witness, 'Post Office Clerk.' “The chap couldn't write his own name,” the sergeant commented. “Turn over to the next page.”
Bradford did so. At the head of the page was a space for name and address. In this were entered the name Ah Lock, in block letters, and the address, 5, Rupert Terrace, Cranport.
“The point is, does that book belong to the chap we've got?”the sergeant remarked. “If so, we've got his name and address. As soon as it's a reasonable hour, I'll ring up the Cranport police and ask them to make enquiries. Until then, there's not much more to be done. Except that I'll get on to the Yard and ask them to find us a reliable interpreter.”
Nothing farther occurred until nine o'clock in the morning, when the interpreter, accompanied by Inspector Arnold, of the Criminal Investigation Department, arrived in a police car at the Police station. Superintendent Dewsbury, in charge of the Division, was present, and to him Arnold reported. “I've brought this man along, sir. He's a perfectly respectable Chinese tradesman from Limehouse. His knowledge of English isn't exactly fluent, but it's easy enough to understand what he means.”
“Then we'll go into the charge room and see what we can make of the chap between us,” said Dewsbury. They did so, to find the sergeant and the interpreter already there. The prisoner was sent for, and after a dazed look about him sat down in the chair indicated. “Now then,” said Dewsbury, addressing the interpreter, “see if you can get any sense out of him. Start by asking him who he is and where he comes from.”
The interpreter spoke to the man in Cantonese. The sound of a familiar tongue seemed to electrify him into volubility. He poured out a flood of words in a shrill voice, until the interpreter held up his hand in desperation. “He say a lot,” he said when the prisoner had come to an end of his speech. “He say his name Ah Lock and he come from Cranport. And he say he British subject, born Hong Kong. And he want to know why you take his book and cash. He say that no right.”
“Ask him when he came to London, and why,” said Dewsbury.
The interpreter put the question, to which the prisoner replied rather sulkily. “He say he come yesterday afternoon to see his friend How Ming.” the interpreter translated.
“Give me that hammer, sergeant,” said Dewsbury. It was handed to him by the string, and he held it up before the prisoner's eyes. “Ask him why he brought this with him.”
The interpreter's question brought another flow of words. “He say he no bring it. He never see hammer before. He say it must 'long How Ming. He carpenter.”
“That's nonsense!”Dewsbury exclaimed impatiently. “The man's obviously lying. Ask him why he hit How Ming on the head with the hammer.”
The prisoner howled indignantly before he replied. “He say he no hit How Ming,” said the interpreter. “He say another man hit him, the master.”
“Who the devil does he mean by the master?” Dewsbury demanded.
“The master of the house, I t'ink,” the interpreter replied.
“That would be the landlord. Spotty Jim, sir,” the sergeant put in.
“So that's the yarn,” Dewsbury remarked. “We shall have to try to get the story out of him. Ask him what he was doing when How Ming was attacked.”
This produced a greater flow of volubility than ever. More than once the interpreter tried ineffectually to stem the flood. “He speakee too much,” he said when at last the shrill vociferation came to an end. “He say he asleep when master come in. He wake and see him and How Ming stand up talkee talkee. Then he see master hit How Ming and he fall down.”
“Wait a minute,” Dewsbury interrupted. He turned to/the written report Bradford had made and glanced through it. “Yes, I thought so. The constable says that the room was almost completely dark when he entered it. Ask him how he was able to see all this.”
The question seemed to floor the prisoner for the moment, and his answer came after a perceptible pause. “He say he t'ink light on in room,” said the interpreter.
“That's what he thinks, is it?” said Dewsbury. “Ask him what he did after he saw How Ming knocked down.”
This time the answer was unhesitating and rapidly gabbled. “He say he scared,” the interpreter translated. “He t'ink master hit he too. He bolt by window, but master he catchee him.”
“We know the rest,” said Dewsbury. “All right, that'll do. You can take him away, sergeant. I'm afraid you'll have to stay here, interpreter. We shall want you in court presently.”
LATER IN THE DAY the prisoner was brought before the magistrate at the West London police court. Dewsbury and Arnold were present, though they took no part in the proceedings. The case was protracted, for the magistrate instructed the interpreter to translate all the evidence given to the prisoner. He also told him to make it clear to the prisoner that he could question any of the witnesses. Of this liberty, however, the prisoner took no advantage.
The first witness was Bradford, who described his adventures at 15, Swanton Street. He was followed by Spotty Jim, who gave his name as James Whampoa, and his occupation as lodging-house keeper. His story was exactly the same as he had told Bradford.
After him came the sergeant. He had communicated by telephone with the Cranport police, and had had a reply from them. They had informed him that a man of the name of Ah Lock lodged at 5, Rupert Terrace, Cranport. He had not been seen there since midday on the previous Saturday.
The hammer was then produced, and a finger-print expert from Scotland Yard entered the witness box. He had examined the hammer at the police station that morning, and had found well-defined prints on the handle. He had then taken prints of the prisoner's hands. The prints from the right hand corresponded exactly with those on the hammer.
The magistrate then told the interpreter to ask the prisoner if he wished to say anything. A short conversation ensued between them, at the end of which the interpreter spoke. “He say he tell true to the police. He no can say more.”
“Ask him if he understood the evidence regarding the finger prints,” said the magistrate.
The interpreter put the question. “He say he understand, but it a mistake. He never touchee hammer.”
The magistrate remarked that this was a case in which a statement from the injured man was essential. He understood that there was every likelihood of How Ming's recovery. He would therefore remand Ah Lock in custody until such time as How Ming was in a fit state to appear and give evidence.
This concluded the proceedings. The accused was marched off, protesting volubly in his native tongue.
That evening, Arnold called upon a very old friend of his, Desmond Merrion, who had served on the Admiralty Intelligence service during both wars. He was a man of varied experience, and had frequently been able to assist Arnold in his investigations. He lived at The Hall, High Eldersham, but business frequently brought him to London, where he had rooms in St. James's. Arnold knew that he was in London now, for he had had a conversation with him on the telephone the previous day.
He found Merrion at home when he called at his rooms between nine and ten. Merrion welcomed him with his usual cordiality. “I hoped you'd find time to drop in and see me. Come in, and we'll have a chat and a drink together.”
He took Arnold into his sitting-room, and produced beer for Arnold and whisky for himself. “There you are. Sit down, light your pipe, and make yourself comfortable. Is this merely a friendly visit, or have you something on your mind you want to unload on me?”
“I've come to tell you a story that may interest you,” Arnold replied. “Didn't you tell me once that you knew something about the Chinese and their ways?”
“I may have told you that,” said Merrion. “But I hope you didn't assume from what I said that I was an expert. I can't claim to be an Old China Hand, though I have spent a little time in both Hong Kong and Shanghai. Why do you ask me?”
“Because I have been put on to a rather queer case in which a couple of Chinese are concerned. One of them has been charged with unlawfully wounding the other. I'd like to tell you the story, if you'd care to hear it.”
Merrion nodded. “I'm always ready to hear about your cases, you know that. Fill up your glass and go ahead.”
Arnold told him the facts, including the interrogation of Ah Lock at the police station and the evidence given in court. “You see, it's one man's word against another's. Ah Lock says it was Spotty Jim who bashed How Ming on the head. Spotty Jim says that he only arrived on the scene after the bashing. The finger-print business seems to show pretty conclusively that Ah Lock did the job.”
“I quite agree,” said Merrion. “You're inclined to believe Jim's story rather than Ah Lock's? Do you know anything about either of them?”
“Very little about Ah Lock,” Arnold replied. “In “fact nothing so far, beyond his name and the address of the house where he lodged in Cranport. But we know quite a lot about Spotty Jim. He's lived in this country for a good many years, but we believe that he was born in China, the son of an English father by a Chinese mother. But I'm bound to admit that I never knew his name till he gave it in court to-day. James Whampoa! However did he come by an outlandish surname like that?”
“Perhaps it was his birthplace,” Merrion suggested. “Whampoa is a town on the Pearl River, not far from Canton. Am I to gather from your knowing so much about him that he's not above suspicion?”
Arnold laughed. “You remember my trusted subordinate, Detective Sergeant Wighton? You'd better ask him about Spotty Jim. Wighton claims to know every crook in London, and Spotty Jim is one of his particular pets.”
“What form does Jim's crookedness take?”Merrion asked.
“He does business as a fence, in a small way, as a sideline to the lodging-house keeping. We don't interfere with him overmuch, for we find him too valuable. Of course we keep him under observation, and warn him if he's inclined to go too far. You see, he's a nark, and more than once he's given us a useful tip. Besides, 15, Swanton Street is a favourite refuge for crooks. We've often found a man, or woman, for that matter, whom we've wanted, lodging there.”
“It hardly seems that Spotty Jim is a man whose word could be accepted without question,” Merrion remarked.
“He isn't,” Arnold agreed. “How much of the story he tells is strictly true I'm not prepared to say. One point struck me, though it doesn't appear to have struck anyone else. Jim says that, before he went down to the basement, he heard a man trying to open the front door, and that this man brushed past him. Ah Lock says that he bolted straight from the basement room through the window. Whether there is any significance in that discrepancy, I don't know,”
“You've got to remember this,” said Merrion. “The Chinese mind doesn't work on straight and logical lines. An uneducated Chinese has no appreciation of facts as such. He may quite honestly be unable to distinguish a fact from a figment of his own imagination. He will swear to some taradiddle in the firm belief that he is telling the truth.”
“And that may apply to Ah Lock?”Arnold asked.
“I think it quite likely,” Merrion replied. “And there's another thing. Scientific evidence would be utterly beyond him. I don't suppose Ah Lock understood a word of the finger-print man's evidence, in spite of the interpreter's efforts. If he did get the hang of it, he probably thought it was a device of some malignant devil, and therefore to be disregarded. That would account for his disinclination to answer any questions.”
“We shall see what attitude he takes on his next appearance,” said Arnold. “By the way, I rang up the hospital before I came here. They told me that How Ming's condition was satisfactory, and that he ought to be fit enough to appear in court by the end of the week.”
“When he does give evidence, you may care to recall my remarks upon the Chinese mind,” Merrion replied. “I don't suppose his statement will be much more reliable than Ah Lock's.”
“You believe that all Chinese are liars?” Arnold asked.
“Far from it,” Merrion replied. “You seem to have missed my point. To begin with, I am speaking of uneducated Chinese. Although they may make false statements, it does not follow that they are deliberately lying. It is just that they may be incapable of giving an accurate description of the event. The picture of it has become distorted in their memory.”
“It seems to me to come to the same thing,” said Arnold. “But I want to tell you something else. You remember that I told you about a Savings Bank book being found in Ah Lock's possession? I've got it here.”
He took the book from his pocket and laid it on the table beside them. “That book puzzled me from the first. If Ah Lock came up to London merely to see his friend How Ming, why did he bring his Savings Bank book with him?”
Merrion glanced at the book lying on the table. “That seems to me an easy one. Look at the front cover of the book. Do you see what's printed on it? 'Keep this book
in a safe place. Its loss may cause you trouble.' Although I don't suppose that Ah Lock could read that, he had the sense to know that the book was not the sort of thing to leave about. It would be safer in his pocket than in his Cranport lodgings. Besides, he may have wanted to prove to How Ming that he was a man of substance.”
Arnold laughed. “For once, my friend, your imagination has led you astray. That wasn't why he brought the book with him. Although the book and the entries in it appear perfectly genuine, I wanted to make quite sure. So I took it to the Chief Office of the Post Office Savings Department in Blythe Road, Kensington, and showed it to an official there.
“He glanced at the first page and, to my amazement, told me that he had seen this very book before, as recently as yesterday. I asked him how that had come about, and this is the story he told me.”
“Yesterday afternoon, shortly before the office closed, a Chinese man, who apparently had no more than a dozen words of English, came in and produced the book. He said, slowly and indistinctly, 'Me wantee all cash.' The official took this to mean that he wanted to withdraw the whole of the deposit. He gave the man an application form, and made him understand where he wanted a signature, or a mark.”
Merrion picked up the book and glanced at the first page. “I see that the signature of the depositor is a mark, actually a Chinese character, duly witnessed.”
“Exactly,” said Arnold. “The official had seen that, of course. But the man took the pen the official offered him, and laboriously wrote on the form the name Ah Lock.”
“The devil he did!”Merrion exclaimed. “Had he learnt to write his name in English since the book was issued to him? I see that the first deposit was made over three years ago.”
Arnold shook his head. “The man's behaviour hardly suggests that. This is what the official told me. He pointed to the mark in the book and then to the signature the man had written on the form, and shook his head. It took the man a minute or so to tumble to what he meant. Then, instead of making a mark on the form similar to the one in the book, he snatched up the book and bolted from the office.”
“As I have tried to make clear to you, the actions of a Chinese are often difficult to account for. All the same, this is what the incident suggests to me. This man was not the one who had made the mark in the book. And he didn't feel capable of reproducing it with sufficient accuracy.”
“Which is only a roundabout way of saying that the book wasn't his,” Arnold replied. “The name of the man we're holding in custody isn't Ah Lock. And we have it from the Cranport police that a man of the name of Ah Lock lodges at the address given in the book.”
“It was only natural that your man should have given the name of the owner of the book,” said Merrion. “Otherwise he would have been asked to explain how he came to be in possession of a book belonging to someone else. I suppose it's quite certain that it was your man who presented the book at the office in Blythe Road?”
“I don't know who else it can have been,” Arnold replied. “I tried to make sure, and asked the official to come to the police station after the office was closed. By the time he arrived I had collected a few Chinese specimens. Chinese people seem to be attracted to 15, Swanton Street. I suppose Spotty Jim's strain of Chinese blood appeals to them. He has three Chinese males lodging with him now, and I borrowed them.
“I lined them up with our man for a fourth for the official to look at. I asked him to point out the man he had seen yesterday afternoon. But he only shook his head after staring at them for a bit. He said they all looked very much alike to him. If one of them had been the man who had called at the office, he couldn't tell which it was. So my inspection parade was a flop.”
Merrion smiled. “You couldn't have expected anything else. The average European finds it difficult to distinguish one Chinese man from another. But you must have made Jim's three lodgers feel very uncomfortable. They probably thought that this strange foreign devil was putting a spell upon them. I mean that.”
“I can't help their troubles,” Arnold replied. “In spite of the failure of identification, it must have been our man who presented the book. We don't know how he came by it, but it's a pretty safe guess that he stole it. The real Ah Lock is probably a friend of his. Sooner or later one would expect him to report to the police that his Savings Bank book is missing.”
“I wonder,” said Merrion. “He might feel rather shy about going to the police. Being Chinese, he might prefer to take direct action on his own account. He probably guesses who it was that pinched the book. It strikes me as rather significant that he hasn't shown up at his lodgings in Cranport since midday on Saturday.”
“What do you mean by that?”Arnold asked.
“Just this,” Merrion replied. “That he's on the war path after the thief. There seems to be a general impression that your man was scared when he arrived at Jim's lodging house. He didn't want to sleep alone or with strangers. He may have guessed that the real Ah Lock was on his tracks. As a matter of fact, he's safer where he is than if he were at large. If the real Ah Lock had run him to earth, he might very well have stuck a knife into him. It would have been quite in accordance with Chinese custom.”
“Perhaps that's why he brought the hammer with him,” said Arnold. “It would have served him as a weapon of defence. His wish to sleep in How Ming's room was another measure of precaution. He hoped that How Ming would come to his aid if he were attacked. But what I can't understand is why he turned the hammer against his ally.”
Merrion lighted a cigarette and puffed at it thoughtfully for a minute or two. “Since your man isn't Ah Lock, it will be convenient to find a label for him till we know his real name,” he said after an interval. “Wu will do, it's a common enough Chinese name. Having done that, we'll indulge in a bit of guesswork.”
“Wu came by Ah Lock's Savings Bank book. We can't be certain that he stole it. His first problem was how to get hold of the money it represented. There were many reasons why he could not set about that in Cranport. In the first place, to attempt to draw the whole sum there would have involved delay, which he could not risk, if Ah Lock was on his heels. Then again Ah Lock might have been known at the Post Office.”
“Wu learnt somehow that by taking the book to Blythe Road he could draw the money on the spot. He had, or borrowed, enough money for his fare to London. That he believed was all he required, for once there he expected to draw the whole of Ah Lock's savings. But he didn't, for he blundered by forging Ah Lock's name instead of his mark, and when the official pointed this out to him he panicked.”
“All that seems likely enough,” Arnold remarked.
“I'm glad you agree,” Merrion replied. “Now we enter the realm of pure speculation. What was Wu to do next, having no money in his pocket?”
“Wait a minute,” Arnold interrupted. “He had money in his pocket, five pounds ten in notes.”
“He had when you searched him,” Merrion replied. “But my guess is that when he left Blythe Road he had nothing, or at all events not enough to take him back to Cranport. I repeat, what was he to do? I'm not altogether satisfied that How Ming was a personal friend of his. But he had an idea that a compatriot of that name lodged at Jim's place. So he went there, hoping that How Ming would help him out.”
Merrion threw away the end of his cigarette and lighted another. “Did Wu ask How Ming for a loan? I'm rather inclined to think he didn't. If he had, and been refused, How Ming would have been put on his guard. He probably told How Ming that his name was Ah Lock, and showed him the Savings Bank book to reassure him.
“That may account for a remark How Ming made to Jim. If his friend had no money, he would pay for his lodging. I expect he meant ready money. The sight of the book had satisfied How Ming that Wu would repay him later.
“Now we come to a point that strikes me as forcibly as it did you. It is most extraordinary that How Ming appears to have had no money. So extraordinary that I am driven to seek for some explanation. He had some money yesterday evening, but Wu possessed himself of it.
“That would explain the reason for the attack. While they were in the basement room together, Wu became aware that How Ming had some notes in his possession. He may, for instance, have seen him transfer them from one pocket to another before he went to bed. Wu waited till How Ming was asleep, then got up, hammer in hand. His movement aroused How Ming, who jumped out of bed. He was found on the floor, not on the bed, you tell me. But Wu was too quick for him. He struck him down and took the notes. And these were the ones you found upon him when you searched him.”
“You may be right,” said Arnold. “We shall hear what How Ming has to say about it, later on. But there's one snag. According to your theory, when Wu left Cranport he didn't know that he would have any use for the hammer. Why then did he bring it with him?”
“That involves two assumptions,” Merrion replied. “All we know about Wu is that he isn't Ah Lock. Since he had Ah Lock's book, we have assumed that Wu comes from Cranport. But that doesn't follow. He may have come from anywhere, met Ah Lock, and stolen the book from him.
“Again, wherever Wu came from, how do we know that he brought the hammer with him? Whatever Jim may say, Wu may have found it on his premises. Or he may have picked it up in the course of his wanderings. It has, you say, the letters C.L. branded on it, initials, no doubt. Have you discovered what those initials stand for?”
Arnold shook his head. “I haven't tried. The hammer is the weapon Wu used, and that's good enough for me.”
“You're easily satisfied,” Merrion remarked drily. “I should have thought that the initials on the hammer might afford some clue to where it came from. And so perhaps to Wu's true name and address. However, that's your business, not mine.”
He picked up the Savings Bank book arid studied it carefully for a few minutes. “The hammer may not tell us much about Wu,” he remarked after a while. “But this book tells us a lot about Ah Lock. To begin with, we have his name and address. Then we see that at the time he opened the account, he could not write his name in English, but had to use a Chinese character as his mark. I think we may infer from that that he had not been in this country for very long.
“Next, I find the entries in the book rather interesting. Most people save what they can, and pay the money into the bank at irregular intervals. The sums they pay in are not necessarily the same every time. But Ah Lock was an exception to this rule. He paid in ten pounds, neither more nor less, during the first week of every month. The book shows that he never withdrew any of this money. The total, including interest, standing to his credit is about three hundred and eighty-five pounds.”
“A very nice little nest-egg,” Arnold commented.
“Very,” Merrion agreed. “But I'm trying to figure out what sort of a man Ah Lock must be. If he can't write English, he can hardly hold a salaried post. He must be a wage-earner, drawing a pretty good screw. That he can afford to save so much suggests that he hasn't got a wife and family to support. He ought to be easy enough to trace.”
“Who wants to trace him?” Arnold asked. “You said just now that he was probably after Wu. When he finds out that Wu's in gaol, he'll guess that the police have got the precious book. He'll come and claim it, quick enough.”
Merrion shook his head. “I doubt it. That's certainly what a European would do. But I hardly think a Chinese would argue on such logical lines. The uneducated Chinese, and once more I stress that word uneducated, usually lives in a dream world of his own. Or if you like to put it in another way, the world doesn't appear to him as it does to us. Ah Lock will act according to his own lights, you may be sure of that. And what those lights may be we can't possibly guess.”
“I don't see that we need worry about him,” Arnold replied. “If he's got a job in Cranport he's bound to go back to it, sooner or later. Then the police there can give him back the book, and ask him how he came to lose it. If he says that Wu stole it from him, that'll be another charge against Wu. And he'll tell us the chap's real name.”
“You're an optimist if you think that where Chinese are concerned it will be as easy as all that,” said Merrion. “Ah Lock may not be willing to tell anyone of his suspicions of Wu. The Chinese don't as a rule care about denouncing their compatriots to foreigners. For one thing they mistrust foreign ways, and for another they prefer to deal with the delinquent by their own methods. If I were you, I should be inclined to make further enquiries about Ah Lock. Find out where he works and, incidentally, whether he was expected to go to work yesterday.”
“It's a job for the Cranport police,” Arnold replied. “I'll have a chat with them over the phone in the morning.”
“I would,” said Merrion. “And you might ask them what sort of a place this address in the book is. Is it a common lodging-house, of the same style as Spotty Jim's establishment, or does Ah Lock lodge there by himself? You see the idea?”
“Not altogether,” Arnold replied. “Some flight of your imagination, I suppose?”
“Hardly that,” said Merrion. “It's quite a sound idea. One rather wonders what opportunity Wu had of getting hold of Ah Lock's Savings Bank book. If they lodged together in the same house, they might have had that opportunity. What's more, if Wu lodged at 5, Rupert Terrace, another lodger will be missing. And whoever keeps the place will know the name of that second missing lodger.”
“It's worth trying,” Arnold agreed. “I'll see about it in the morning. And if I have any luck, I'll let you know.”
As soon as Arnold reached Scotland Yard on Wednesday morning, he rang through to the Cranport police, asking him to make the necessary enquiries. An hour later, he received their report. Five Rupert Terrace was a common lodging-house, frequented mainly by the Chinese colony of the port. At the present time, five Chinese were lodging there, all of whom worked at the Celestial Laundry in the town. Two of the lodgers had been absent since the previous Saturday. Their names were Ah Lock and Koo Yang.
The police had interviewed the manager of the Celestial Laundry. He had last seen the two missing men when they knocked off work on Saturday at noon. Neither of them had said anything about not coming to work as usual on the following Monday. They were both good workers, and had never missed time before. When they did not appear on Monday, he had asked the three men who lodged with them if they knew anything about them. All three of them had replied that they had not seen them since their midday meal on Saturday.
Arnold rang up Merrion and repeated the report to him. “Your idea wasn't a bad one,” he said. “We know the name of the second missing lodger, and I don't doubt he's the man we agreed to call Wu. We'll be able to call him by his right name, Koo Yang, when he comes up again. Beyond that, we haven't got much further.”
“Haven't we?”Merrion asked. “Didn't you say that both men worked at the Celestial Laundry? So called, I suppose, because the workers are Chinese. Doesn't that suggest anything to you?”
“I don't know that it does,” Arnold replied. “Except that I shouldn't have thought that a Chinese laundryman would be able to save ten pounds a month.”
“Neither should I,” said Merrion. “But that's not the point. What about the hammer with the initials C.L. on it? It's a pretty safe guess where that hammer came from.”
LIKE MOST large seaports, Cranport had a Chinese colony, not very extensive, and centred for the most part in the Rupert Terrace area. The men had nearly all drifted to the port from various British possessions, attracted by the possibilities of finding work there. They were employed in the docks, and in various industries in the town. Now and then they quarrelled among themselves, on which occasion Rupert Terrace became the scene of much tumult and shouting, and occasionally one of the brawlers was hurt. Apart from these comparatively rare outbreaks, the police found them a reasonably law-abiding community.
It was characteristic of them that those who worked together also lived together. The married men among them usually hired a room to themselves, where each man lived with his wife and children, an incredible number of families in one house. The single men lived in one of the lodging-houses, as a rule at least two sharing a room.
Five Rupert Terrace was one of these lodging-houses. The tenant was an enterprising Chinese who, with the aid of his wife, ran a general shop catering for his compatriots. The ground floor was occupied by the shop, with a kitchen for the use of the tenant and his lodgers in the rear. There was no basement, only a cellar, which the tenant used for storage. The three rooms on the first floor were occupied by lodgers. The second and top floor was occupied by the tenant, his wife, and their two children.
As the Cranport police had informed Arnold, the three rooms on the first floor were, or had been since the previous Saturday, occupied by five men. One room was shared by Koo Yang and Lo Fat. They were said to be distantly related. Another was shared by Han Sung and the eldest of the five, Tsan Chin. The third, and incidentally the largest room, was occupied by Ah Lock in solitary state. Like Chaucer's Nicholas, “A chambre had he in that hostelrie, Alone, withouten any compagnie.”
But there the resemblance ended. Far from being bright and debonair, Ah Lock was of a retiring and rather morose nature. He did not entertain his neighbours by singing to the accompaniment of a stringed instrument. And the furnishing of his room was austere. A bed, a wooden chair, a rickety table, and a square metal case. This was fitted with a lock, and had been made from discarded petrol cans.
But, all the same, this unshared occupation gave Ah Lock a social distinction among his fellows. He had to pay twice as much for his lodging as did the others. And he enjoyed a privacy which was exceptional. A privacy which he rigidly enforced. He never invited any of the others to his room, and they were too much in awe of him to intrude.
Although the Rupert Terrace area was not far from the docks, none of the main approaches to the water front ran through it. In fact, many of the European inhabitants though dimly aware of the existence of a miniature Chinatown, had never visited it. It remained as an island, populated by an almost unknown race. Even the enthusiasts of the Borough Council, always anxious to improve what in most cases was far better left alone, never bothered their heads about Rupert Terrace.
Cranport lay at the head of a narrow bay, which afforded a good anchorage for shipping. The docks, and the industrial plants surrounding them, afforded employment to the inhabitants. In the centre of the town was the shopping district, and further inland again a rather depressing residential area. Beyond this the urban area petered out in recently-built housing estates. The surrounding country was mainly moorland, rising gradually to a range of barren hills. The monotony was relieved by an occasional modest farmhouse, standing in a patch of cultivated land. On the slopes of the hills were several woods, mainly of coniferous trees.
The main approaches, road and rail, to Cranport followed the coast, and only a few winding lanes traversed the moorland. These were not much used, except for traffic to and from the scattered farmhouses. On fine afternoons, motorists from the town would venture upon them in search of a suitable spot for a picnic. Otherwise, this rather bleak countryside was practically deserted.
In the evening of Wednesday, the day on which Arnold had received the report from the Cranport police, a party of children set out on an exploring expedition. There were six of them in all, drawn from the upper ranks of Cranport society, and they all had bicycles. Their leader was Billy Murford, aged twelve, the enterprising son of a highly-respected solicitor in the town. Once or twice he had been taken by his parents for a picnic on the moors, so he had a rough idea of the terrain. The game they were to play was the exploration of an unknown territory.
They carefully avoided the farmhouses and the cultivated land, for obviously there was no exploration to be done there. Led by Billy, who, if he wasn't really sure of his way, made an excellent pretence of being so, they followed a lane which in spite of its meanderings, seemed to climb the slope towards the distant hills. There were many turnings off this lane, tracks which led to some farm or another, and bypaths which apparently led to nowhere in particular. And very soon Billy, though he would stoutly have refused to admit it, had lost his sense of direction. The spot where he had picnicked was nowhere to be found.
But he pedalled on doggedly, followed by his laughing and chattering companions. Before very long the lane skirted one of the larger woods, enclosed by a dilapidated fence. In this Billy found inspiration. “This is the place I was looking for!” he exclaimed untruthfully. “I'm sure nobody has ever been in here for ever so long. Look! Here's a gap in the fence we can crawl through.”
They all dismounted and, leaving their bicycles by the road side, climbed excitedly through the gap. The wood was certainly an ideal place to explore. The trees grew sufficiently close together to form a shade which the evening sun did not penetrate, and the ground was deeply carpeted with pine needles. The children advanced in single file, the intrepid Billy leading them. “Hush!” he whispered. “Don't make a noise. There may be Red Indians about.”
They advanced silently, casting fearful glances from side to side. Although the fear was part of the game, it was not altogether assumed. The wood seemed strangely dark after the open moorland, and now and then there were mysterious scuttling noises. Rabbits? Or Red Indians?
They had picked their way between the trees for perhaps a hundred yards when they came to a clearing where at some time timber had been felled. Not more than a dozen or so stumps remained, and the clearing was not very extensive. From it a rutted track led away in roughly the direction from which they had come. At one side of the clearing was a heaped pile of broken pine branches. “Look!” Billy exclaimed triumphantly. “We've found a Red Indian camp!”
He sat down on one of the stumps, and the rest followed his example, forming an expectant semi-circle round him. “We must hide before they come back and find us,” said Billy. “I know. You see that heap of branches over there? We'll build a wigwam.”
This seemed a marvellous idea. They sprang from their seats and fell upon the heap, each of them seizing a branch and carrying it to the centre of the clearing. Billy himself was the most energetic. As the heap diminished, a particularly big branch became exposed. He tugged at it and, finding himself unable to move it from its place, shouted for help. Two of his companions came to his aid, and between them they hauled it aside.
A fragment of clothing, thus revealed, made them desist suddenly from their efforts, and they recoiled from the heap. “What is it?” one of the younger boys whispered tremulously.
Billy rose to his position as leader. “I don't suppose it's anything,” he replied, with an assumption of carelessness. He tiptoed forward, grasped another and smaller branch and pulled it aside. It was to his credit that he did not take to his heels incontinently. For his action had disclosed the back of a man's head. And the long black hair was clotted with dried blood.
It was Billy's first confrontation by death, but by instinct he recognised it. “It's a dead man!” he screamed hoarsely. The terror in his voice spread panic among the rest. With one accord they fled from the spot, taking the easiest route, the track leading from the clearing. This led into the lane, a few yards beyond the place where they had left their bicycles. Not until they were in the open, where the warm sunlight still lingered, did any of them speak. It was one of the younger girls who first did so. “Was it a Red Indian?” she quavered.
“I don't know,” Billy replied shortly. “We must get away from here. We must go back and tell what we've found.”
To this there was no dissenting voice. There was only one desire among them all. To get away from this awful wood, back to the safety of their own homes. They ran to where their bicycles lay, mounted them, and rode furiously down the lane, each striving not to be the one bringing up the rear. Suppose the dead man should rise and pursue them!
Not until they reached the outskirts of Cranport did they slacken speed. “I'll tell my father,” Billy gasped breathlessly. “He'll know what to do. Good-bye.”
He turned off into a road which was the shortest way to his home, which lay in the residential area. To his excited mind the short journey seemed interminable. At last he reached the house, in front of which was a small front garden. His father was there, taking advantage of the fine evening to hoe round his roses. Billy flung his bicycle aside and rushed up to him. “Daddy!” he exclaimed breathlessly. “We've found a dead man!”
Charles Murford, an unimaginative man himself, had always been mistrustful of his son's powers in that direction. “Don't talk nonsense,” he replied sternly. “Wherever have you been? Your clothes are stuck full of pine needles. You'd better pull them out before your mother sees you.”
“It's not nonsense, Daddy!” Billy replied insistently. “It's quite true. There were six of us, and we all saw him. Up in a great big wood, not very far from where we went for a picnic last year. He was covered up with branches, and when we pulled them away we found him.”
Charles Murford knew very well that though his son suffered from occasional flights of fancy, he was by nature strictly truthful. “You're excited, lad,” he said soothingly. “Are you quite sure that you didn't imagine what you say you saw? Tell me all about it.”
Incoherently Billy described the exploring adventure. There was such a ring of truth in his words that his father was forced to believe him. “Come indoors with me,” he said. “I'm going to ring up the police, and tell them what you've told me. But remember this. If there isn't a dead man there at all, you'll make us both look very foolish. And you'll probably find yourself in serious trouble for giving false information.”
This did not shake Billy in the least. “He's there all right, Daddy,” he replied.
Charles Murford laid his hoe aside and they went into the house together. The telephone was in Murford's study, but before he picked up the instrument he hesitated. “Can you describe where this wood is, Billy?”
Billy shook his head. “No, Daddy, I can't. I've never been there before. But I'm sure I could find my way there again.”
Murford rang up the number of the police station. Owing to his profession, he was well known to the local police as they were to him. A voice answered him. “Cranport police station. Who is that speaking?”
“Charles Murford, from my house, Roseland. My son has just come home, and he tells me that he has seen a dead man in one of the woods up on the moors.”
“Will you please hold on a moment, Mr. Murford?” came the reply. Murford waited for a few seconds, until another voice spoke. “Good afternoon, Mr. Murford. This is Inspector Lapworth. What's this about your finding a dead man?”
“I didn't find him,” Murford replied. “My son did. He says he was playing with some other children in one of the woods on the moors and that they found a dead man hidden under some branches. I'm pretty well satisfied that he didn't fancy it. He can't describe which wood it was, but he says that he could find his way there again.”
“Very well,” said Lapworth. “I'll take your lad's word for it. I'll take a car and bring a constable with me. We'll pick you and your boy up at your place in a few minutes.”
He rang off and Murford turned to Billy. “You've got to show us where this dead man of yours is. And if he turns out to be a stuffed guy, you'll hear quite a lot more about it.”
Billy, who had by now regained his normal poise, smiled confidently. “You'll see, Daddy,” he replied.
Mrs. Murford was a rather nervous woman. There was no reason to alarm her for the present. She was somewhere in the house, and in order to avoid her Murford and his son went out to the front gate. They had not been there more than a couple of minutes when a car drew up, Lapworth at the wheel and a constable sitting beside him. “Jump in, both of you,” said Lapworth briskly. “There's some gear in the back, but you'll find room.”
They got in, and Lapworth drove off along the road which led inland. At the outskirts of the town the ways parted. “Which way?”Lapworth asked.
“To the right, where the road goes on to the moor,” Billy replied. As the car drove on swiftly, his confidence began to fail him. Sitting in the back of a car was so different from riding a bicycle. Stretches of road which had seemed terribly long on a bicycle now seemed to slip past too rapidly to be recognised. Perhaps that was why he had failed to find the picnic spot, to which he had been driven in his father's car. His replies to Lapworth's occasional calls for direction became hesitating. Until at last the neglected fencing surrounding the wood came in sight, right ahead. “That's the place!” he exclaimed, pointing excitedly. “If you go on for a bit, you'll come to the place where we left our bikes.”
Lapworth drove on slowly, telling the constable to watch the verge on his left. They had not gone far before the constable pointed to where the grass of the verge had recently been trodden down. Further evidence that this was the place where the bicycles had been left was provided by a cycle pump, which had fallen off and been abandoned in the panic. Billy, now fully reassured, spoke excitedly. “We went into the wood through that gap there. But we didn't come out that way. A little farther on there's a track which runs right into the clearing where we found the man's body.”
Lapworth drove on till he came to the end of the track and then stopped. “We'll get out here and have a look,” he said. “There's a clearing at the end of this track, you say, young man? Very well, there's no need for you to come with us. You can stop in the car.”
The three men got out of the car and started along the track. The sun was on the point of setting, and within the wood it was already becoming dark. Lapworth, leading, switched on his torch, and its light enabled them to avoid the ruts. They went on till they reached the clearing, which was littered with branches, where the children had thrown them after pulling them from the heap. Lapworth directed his torch on each of these till he came to what remained of the heap. Then, as he looked down upon this, he uttered an exclamation. “That lad of yours was right, Mr. Murford. Come and look here, both of you.”
The constable and Murford came up beside him. The back of the man's head was visible, just as Billy had described it. “We'll clear away the rest of the branches from him,” said Lapworth curtly.
He and the constable set to work, and they very soon had the body exposed. The man was lying on his face, stretched out on the ground. He was wearing a cheap suit and shoes, and a greasy soft hat was lying on his back.
The three of them surveyed him for a few moments in silence. “We won't turn him over yet,” said Lapworth abruptly. “Slip along back to the car, constable, and bring the camera and flash-lights.”
The constable plodded back along the track. As he reached the car. Billy popped his head out of the window. “Have you found him?” he asked in an awe-struck voice.
“Yes, we've found him all right,” the constable replied. “Push over into the other corner. I want some of the gear you've got your feet on.”
Having got what he wanted, the constable carried it back to Lapworth, who took half a dozen photographs of the body from different angles. “That'll do for the record,” he said when he had finished. “Now we'll turn him over. Gently does it.”
He and the constable turned the body over till it lay on its back. The face thus exposed had a streak of dried blood down the right cheek, and was obviously that of an Oriental. The flat features and slanting eyes were sufficient evidence of that. With the aid of his torch Lapworth examined the face narrowly. “Don't recognise him,” he said at length. “Do you, constable?”
“I can't say that I do, sir,” the constable replied. “He looks to me like one of those Chinks from Rupert Terrace way. But they all look pretty much alike to me.”
“It won't take us long to find out who he is,” said Lapworth. “We'll look through his pockets and find out if there's anything there to tell us.”
But in the pockets they found nothing but a nearly empty packet with only one cigarette left in it and a box of matches.
“That doesn't help us much,” said Lapworth. “Never mind. Somebody from Rupert Terrace is bound to know him. We needn't worry about his injuries, the doctor will tell us all about them. But the chap was murdered, the branches being piled over him shows that. The idea being, of course, that the body shouldn't be found. We owe the discovery to your lad, Mr. Murford.”
Murford smiled. “Billy wasn't looking for a body. He and his young friends uncovered it only by accident. But I'm glad he was able to show you the way to where he found it.”
“He's a smart lad, and I shall tell him so,” said Lapworth. “I'll take a few photos round the clearing, to show the lie of the land. Then we'll go back and I'll make arrangements for him to be taken to the mortuary.”
He proceeded to take photographs which would serve to show the surroundings in which the body had lain. “You stop here, constable,” he said when he had finished. “You can come back with the party that fetches the body.”
He and Murford returned to the car, to find Billy waiting for them expectantly. “Well, Master Murford, you're a smart lad,” said Lapworth. “You've done a good day's work, and I'll see that you get full credit for it. Don't say anything about it until after the inquest, that's all. And now we'll be getting back.”
They drove to Cranport, and Lapworth dropped Murford and Billy at Roseland. He went on to the police station, where he took out a sheet of the six-inch Ordnance Survey, on, which he identified the wood. He found that on the map it was marked Bacton Wood. Then he sent for the sergeant, and pointed out to him the place on the map. “You see,” he said, tracing the route with his finger. “Follow this lane till you come to the wood. You'll find there's a track leading into it. When you come to the end of that, sing out, and the constable on guard will hear you. He'll show you where the body is. Get hold of a hearse, take a stretcher party with you, and bring the body here to the mortuary. Sure you can find your way?”
“I'm sure of that, sir,” the sergeant replied.,” I know Bacton Wood. There was a man injured when they were felling trees there a couple of years back, and I went there to make a report.”
“That's good,” said Lapworth. “All right. Get on with it, sergeant.”
Left to himself, Lapworth considered the matter. Of the fact that the man had been murdered there could be no shadow of doubt. The circumstances ruled out any possibility of accident or suicide. The dead man was almost certainly a Chinese, and therefore had probably lived in the Rupert Terrace area. In that case, his identity should be easy to establish. The motive was not yet obvious, but it was highly likely that the murderer was a member of the same community as the deceased.
Arnold's enquiries of that morning had by no means escaped Lapworth's memory. Those enquiries had led to his men learning that two lodgers were missing from 5, Rupert Terrace. From what Arnold had said, it appeared that the man in custody in London was one of them. It was by no means impossible that the man found in Bacton Wood was the other.
Lapworth occupied his time until he was informed that the hearse had returned and the body had been deposited in the mortuary. “Very well,” he said to the sergeant who brought the message. “You know Rupert Terrace pretty well. What's the name of the chap who keeps the shop at number 5?”
“I couldn't tell you his right name, sir,” the sergeant replied. “I don't know that I've ever heard it. The Chinese round about call him the Comprador.”
“And what does that mean?”Lapworth asked.
“It means a chap who keeps a shop, I believe, sir,” the sergeant replied. “If you want to know his name I could go there and find out. He's not on the telephone.”
“I don't suppose he is,” said Lapworth drily. “A small Chinese shop-keeper wouldn't indulge in a luxury like that. Take the car, go to number 5, Rupert Terrace, and bring that Comprador back with you.”
After an interval the sergeant reappeared. “I've got him here, sir. I asked him his name, and told him to write it down. Here it is, sir.”
Lapworth took the piece of cardboard the sergeant handed to him. It had obviously been torn off a show card of some kind, and felt distinctly greasy to the touch. On it was written in pencil, in bold if rather irregular block letters, the name Chu Shek.
“So that's his name, is it,” said Lapworth. “He can write English it seems. I take it he can speak it?”
“After a fashion, sir,” the sergeant replied. “It sounds a bit funny, but one can understand what he means.”
“Bring him in then,” said Lapworth. The sergeant went out, to return with a short, podgy man, whose age Lapworth guessed to be about fifty. He was nearly bald, but he had a thin tuft of a beard which, as he entered, he fingered nervously. For a resident of Rupert Terrace he was comparatively well dressed, and a gold watch-chain spanned his ample waistcoat. His eyes were bright and intelligent, and his demeanour respectful.
Lapworth looked at him appraisingly. This man was evidently a cut above his neighbours. He looked as though his business had raised him to a level of comparative prosperity. Lapworth pointed to a chair. “Sit down. Your name is Chu Shek, I believe?”
The man inclined himself slightly as he replied. “Can do. My namee Chu Shek. I keepee lil' shop in Lupert Tellace.” He sat down in the chair, bolt upright, with his arms folded across his stomach.
“Yes, I know you keep a shop,” said Lapworth. “You take in lodgers too, don't you?”
Chu Shek's eyes narrowed slightly. “That so. Pleeceman he come askee me this mo'ning.” He held up his left hand with fingers outstretched, and with his right forefinger touched each in turn. “One, two, tree, four, five, I tellee pleeceman. He askee me if allee at home. I say two gone. He askee me where to. I tellee him no can do.”
“Meaning, I suppose, that you didn't know where they had gone to,” Lapworth remarked. “Well, I'm going to ask you to come with me. You'd better come too, sergeant.”
Lapworth led them to the mortuary, which was only a short distance away. They entered the building, where the dead man lay on a slab, covered with a sheet. Lapworth drew this aside, exposing the features, and beckoned to Chu Shek. “Have you ever seen this man before?” he asked.
Chu Shek stepped forward, and stared at the dead face. His expression was inscrutable, but Lapworth wondered whether his hesitation was due to native caution. Would an identification be likely to get him into trouble? At last he seemed to decide to take the risk. He shook his head gravely. “Bad, velly bad. This man my lodger, Ah Lock.”
To Lapworth, with his inability to distinguish one Chinese face from another, this seemed rather too positive. “How do you know he is?” he asked.
Chu Shek found this question absurd. Who should recognise a lodger's face more easily than his landlord?”Ah Lock, he have scar on left hand,” he replied. “You lookee see.”
Lapworth drew the sheet further down, until the hands were exposed. On the back of the dead man's left hand was a long scar, probably the result of a knife slash in some quarrel long ago. “You're quite right,” said Lapworth, rather grudgingly. “I'll ask you to come back with me to my room. I've a question or two to ask you.”
They returned to the police station and sat down in the Inspector's room. “When did you last see Ah Lock alive?”Lapworth asked.
“Sat'day,” Chu Shek replied unhesitatingly. “They all come back together from laundly. They all go kitchen makee chop. I no see Ah Lock and Koo Yang after that.”
“Who do you mean by all of them?” Lapworth asked.
Again Chu Shek held up his left hand with fingers outstretched, ticking off the names as he catalogued them. “Ah Lock, Koo Yang, Lo Fat, Han Sung, Tsan Chin. Tlee they come back, supper time.”
“Did you ask them where the other two were?”Lapworth asked.
Chu Shek shook his head. “I no askee them then. I askee next day, but they say no can tell.”
“Did they all go out together?”Lapworth asked.
Again Chu Shek shook his head. “I no see them. Me and wife busy in shop Sat'day.”
“Was Ah Lock on good terms with the rest of them?”Lapworth asked.
“Ah Lock, he quiet man,” Chu Shek replied. “He no makee trouble. He likee be by himself.”
“Very well,” said Lapworth. “That'll do for the present. I may as well warn you now that there will be an inquest, and you will have to give evidence of identification. Unless Ah Lock had any relatives in this country. Do you know anything about that?”
“I t'inkee no,” Chu Shek replied. “He come lodge with me tlee year ago. He say he lef fam'ly in Kowloon.”
“Then it'll be up to you,” said Lapworth. “You'll be told when you have to appear. Take him back to his shop, sergeant.”
As they left the room, Lapworth wondered how far Chu Shek was to be trusted. These Chinese all seemed to hang together, and it was unlikely that one of them would give another away. With this in mind, he had refrained from using the word murder. If Chu Shek had his suspicions, it was not to be supposed that he would divulge them to the police.
Lapworth rang up the Cranport and District Hospital and left a message there for the pathologist, asking him to examine the body as soon as possible next morning. This done, he frowned thoughtfully. He was not particularly keen upon sharing the investigation with anyone else. But there was no help for it. The Yard had been making enquiries about Ah Lock, and they must be informed what had happened.
He put a call through to Scotland Yard, and the message he left there for Inspector Arnold was terse. Ah Lock, who had lodged at 5, Rupert Terrace, had been found dead in a wood some four miles from Cranport.
REMEMBERING his promise to Merrion to let him know what he had learnt as the result of his telephone conversation with the Cranport police, Arnold went to his friend's rooms again on Wednesday evening. They were discussing the possibilities when the telephone rang. Merrion answered it, then beckoned to Arnold. “The Yard want to speak to you.”
Arnold rose and took the instrument from him. “Inspector Arnold here.” He listened for a moment or two. “Is that all?” he asked.
Apparently the answer was in the affirmative, for he slammed the instrument down and turned to Merrion. “What do you think now? The Cranport people have found Ah Lock dead in a wood.”
“Have they?” Merrion replied calmly. “That complicates matters a bit, doesn't it?”
“Complicates?”Arnold exclaimed. “Simplifies, you mean. The chap we've got, whatever his name may be, murdered Ah Lock so that he could get hold of his Savings Bank book. I shall have to go to Cranport at once.”
Merrion laughed. “Sit down and finish your drink. The news has made you all hot and bothered. It's just like you to put up a theory before you know any of the facts. As for dashing off to Cranport, hadn't you better have a word with your Chief first? He may have other ideas on the subject.”
Arnold resumed his seat. “All right, I'll stop for a few minutes longer. If you don't like my theory, what's yours?”
“I haven't one,” Merrion replied. “And I shan't have one till I know more about the circumstances. But I'm bound to admit that your case seems to be becoming more interesting, and I'd like to be in on it. Look here. If you start off for Cranport now, you'll arrive in the early hours of the morning, which won't please anyone. Have a word with your Chief first thing to-morrow. Then, if he agrees you ought to go to Cranport, I'll drive you there. How does that appeal to you?”
“It appeals to you, I can tell that,” said Arnold. “Very well, it shall be as you say.”
On Thursday morning Lapworth received two telephone messages. The first was from the pathologist. He had received the Inspector's message, and would be at the mortuary within a few minutes. Would someone with the key be there to meet him?
Lapworth sent off the sergeant with the key. A minute or two elapsed, and then the telephone rang again. This time the call was from Scotland Yard. Inspector Arnold hoped to arrive at Cranport about noon or shortly afterwards.
“I thought they wouldn't be able to keep their fingers out of the pie,” Lapworth muttered to himself as he turned to the papers lying on his table. These occupied his attention for an hour or so, at the end of which period the pathologist was shown into the room. “Good morning. Inspector,” he said. “I've had a good look over the body in the mortuary, and I thought you'd like to hear the results.”
“Sit down, Doctor,” Lapworth replied. “It's very good of you to come and tell me. I'm naturally anxious to know the cause and time of death.”
“I'll tell you of the injuries I found,” said the pathologist. “There are quite a lot of them. The unfortunate man seems to have been subjected to the most brutal treatment. There is a contusion on the right side of the head, probably the result of a blow from some blunt instrument, such as a hammer. Behind the left ear is a deep incised wound, and below the right ear a similar one. The fifth rib is broken on the left side, and the sixth on the right. The chest is fractured right across.”
“I don't wonder he's dead,” Lapworth remarked. “Can you tell which of the injuries was the actual cause of death, Doctor?”
“Not the blow with the blunt instrument,” the pathologist replied. “Though it caused breaking of the skin and contusion, the skull is not fractured. Probably the deep incisions I have mentioned were almost immediately fatal. The fracture of the ribs and chest were caused after death.”
“This, for what it is worth, is my opinion of what may have happened. The blow on the head was the first injury inflicted. This would have knocked him down and probably rendered him unconscious. He was then stabbed twice, in the region of one ear after another. The stabbing killed him, and his body was then beaten or jumped upon. May I ask where he was found?”
“In Bacton Wood,” Lapworth replied. “Covered over with a lot of branches.”
“A clear case of murder, then,” said the pathologist. “Now there's something I want to explain to you about the incisions in the region of the ears. Just now I used the word stabbed, but that may convey the impression that the weapon used was a dagger, or a knife, in fact something with a blade. But that was not the case. The weapon must have been round in cross section, with a sharp point. You know what a marlinspike looks like? Something like that.”
“Driven straight into the head?”Lapworth asked. The pathologist nodded. “Yes, and with considerable force, as the extent of the penetration shows. It may not have been thrust in, but driven in by a blow or blows with the blunt instrument with which the injury to the head was inflicted. But that is no more than conjecture on my part.”
“And the time when all this happened?”Lapworth asked.
“That's hard to tell,” the pathologist replied. “The man has certainly been dead for some days, perhaps four or five.”
“To-day is Thursday,” said Lapworth. “Would Saturday afternoon be a possible time for the murder?”
“A very likely time,” the pathologist replied. “You've reported the matter to the coroner, I take it?”
“Yes, I've done that,” said Lapworth. “But I haven't heard yet when he means to hold the inquest. I'll let you know when I do. Very many thanks for what you've told me, Doctor.”
He showed the pathologist out, then returned to his desk. He was still there when the sergeant came in. “Inspector Arnold from Scotland Yard is here, sir. He would like to see you when you are disengaged.”
“I'm disengaged now,” Lapworth replied. “Bring him in, sergeant.”
As his visitor entered the room, Lapworth rose and extended his hand. “I'm very pleased to meet you, Mr. Arnold. It's the message I left for you yesterday evening that's brought you down?”
“That's right,” Arnold replied as they shook hands. “But not to butt in on your investigations, I promise you that. I came because I thought I might be helpful.”
Lapworth appreciated this line of approach. “Sit down, Mr. Arnold,” he said cordially. “Ah Lock was murdered, there's no doubt about that. I'll tell you the story, so far as we know it at present.”
Arnold listened carefully as he did so. “A very definite case of murder,” he said when Lapworth had finished. “Now in return I'll tell you something that I think you'll find rather curious.”
In his turn Lapworth listened while Arnold told him of the incident at 15 Swanton Street, and of what he had discovered subsequently. “It all fits in,” he went on. “Our man gave the name of Ah Lock, and Ah Lock's Savings Bank book was in his possession. As a matter of fact I don't doubt that he is the other missing lodger you speak of.”
Lapworth glanced at his notes. “I find it hard to memorise these Chinese names. Koo Yang, that's it. The chap who keeps the lodging house here identified Ah Lock, and I daresay he could identify your man. Both Ah Lock and Koo Yang left his place some time on Saturday afternoon, and haven't been seen there since. I think we can put two and two together, Mr. Arnold?”
Arnold nodded. “We know that Koo Yang, for I've no doubt that is who our man is, is a pretty desperate character. He knocked his friend on the head with a hammer. On Saturday afternoon he lured Ah Lock to Bacton Wood. The pathologist's opinion of what happened there seems to me a perfectly sound one. Koo Yang first of all knocked Ah Lock on the head with a hammer, possibly the same one. I've brought the Swanton Street hammer with me, by the way. I'll show it to you in a minute.
“The blow knocked out Ah Lock, and his assailant then finished him off. From what the pathologist told you, the weapon he used seems to have been a rather unusual one. He searched his victim's pockets, and found the Savings Bank book. I don't doubt that he knew beforehand it was there. Not content with that, he trampled on the body, perhaps to make quite sure that it wouldn't come to life again. Then he covered it with branches, hoping that it wouldn't be found for some considerable time.”
“That was about the way of it,” Lapworth agreed. “The man couldn't be in a safer place while we work up our case against him. You spoke just now of a hammer?”
Arnold opened the case he had brought from London, and produced from it the hammer, which he laid on the desk at which they were sitting. “You see the initials C.L.,” he said, pointing them out with his finger. “It might be worth your while taking it to the Celestial Laundry. Possibly someone there could recognise it.”
“We'll go together,” Lapworth replied readily. “This is your case as much as mine, Mr. Arnold. You think Koo Yang pinched the hammer from the laundry where he and his fellow-lodgers worked?”
“I do,” said Arnold. “As I expect you've noticed, this hammer has a lot shorter handle than most. It could easily be carried on the person, in a pocket or otherwise.”
“It could,” said Lapworth. “Now, what would you like to do, Mr. Arnold? You'll want to see the body, I expect. Then I suggest that I drive you to Bacton Wood, where you can have a look round for yourself.”
“I needn't trouble you to do that,” Arnold replied. “I've got a car at my disposal. A friend of mine, Mr. Merrion, to whom I'd like to introduce you, drove me down here. I'm glad to have him on hand, for he knows quite a lot about the Chinese and their habits. He's waiting outside in his car now. I'm sure he'd drive me to the wood, if you could let us have someone to show us the way.”
“I'm rather glad about that,” said Lapworth. “Thursday is always my busy day, and I expect the Super is waiting for me now. I'll let you have the constable I took with me when I went there yesterday evening.”
They went out, to find Merrion sitting in the car. Arnold introduced him to Lapworth. “I shan't be many minutes,” he said. “And then I'm going to ask you to take me for a drive into the country.”
Merrion expressed his readiness to do that, and the other two went on to the mortuary. Arnold studied the dead man's face for a minute or two. “You have no doubts that this is Ah Lock?” he asked.
“So far, we've only got his landlord's identification,” Lapworth replied. “I think he's straight enough, but with these chaps one can't be sure. I shall bring along the manager of the laundry, who's a Scotsman, to see him.”
They left the mortuary and returned to the car. “If you'll wait a moment, I'll send out the constable,” said Lapworth. “He'll show you the way.”
The constable came out, and Merrion told him to sit in front. Arnold got in behind, and they drove off.
Arnold did not feel that the case held much interest for him. The whole affair was far too obvious. A case of murder, with theft for its object. And the murderer was already in custody, facing another charge. It was all too ridiculously easy. Already the evidence was quite sufficient to convince a jury.
Guided by the constable, Merrion drove out of the town and along the narrow lanes to Bacton Wood. He pulled up at the end of the track, and the three of them alighted from the car. “You don't mind my coming with you?” Merrion asked.
“Not a bit,” Arnold replied. They set off along the track, the constable leading, followed by Arnold, with Merrion bringing up the rear. He let the other two get ahead, while he sauntered after them, his eyes fixed on the ground. The weather had been dry for several days, and the earth of the track was baked dry. Such a surface would not record any footprints. By careful avoiding of the deep ruts, which had evidently been caused by the passage of a timber float, a car might have been driven along the track. But of tyre marks there was no sign. The ruts must have been made some time ago, for they were nearly filled with pine needles.
So much Merrion had observed by the time he reached the clearing. The constable was pointing out to Arnold the spot where the body had lain. “The branches were all on top of it, sir,” he was saying. “There were none of them underneath. He was lying on his face, flat on the ground.”
Merrion did not join the pair. He sat down on one of the stumps and lighted a cigarette. One of the branches, thrown aside by the children, lay beside him. It was not a dead branch, fallen off naturally, for the needles were still green. It must have been torn off one of the surrounding trees. Merrion glanced at the end of it, and as he did so muttered an exclamation.
Whenever he accompanied Arnold on one of his cases, he carried a small pocket lens. He took this out, got up, and examined the end of the branch through it. There were many other branches scattered by the children all over the clearing. He glanced at all these, then turned his attention to the growing trees.
His perambulations brought him eventually close to Arnold and the constable. “I don't know that many people come this way, sir,” the constable was saying.
“Unless it's to the farmhouses round about. Nothing came along the lane while I was waiting here yesterday afternoon.”
“Where does the lane lead to after it passes the wood?” Arnold asked.
“I can't say that I've ever been along it, sir,” the constable replied. “But I believe it comes out in Wychurst. That's a village in the hills, a couple of miles from here, I should say, sir.”
“Would anyone going from Cranport to Wychurst, by car, say, use the lane?” Arnold asked.
“I shouldn't think so, sir,” the constable replied. “It might save a mile or two, but it's narrow and rough. The quickest way would be to go by the roads. As I daresay you noticed, sir, we forked right just outside the town. If we'd gone to the left, we should have been on a good road. If we'd turned right a couple of miles along it, and then right again a bit further on, we should have got to Wychurst. That would have been quicker than following the lane.”
“Well, I think I've seen all that I want to here,” said Arnold. He became aware that Merrion was standing behind him, and turned. “Are you ready to drive us on?”
“Quite,” Merrion replied. “I'm getting hungry.” They walked down the track to the car. “Wait till I've turned the car round,” said Merrion. “It's going to be a bit of a job, for I shall have to back up the track. Watch out and stop me if I look like getting into one of those ruts.”
“You needn't turn the car,” Arnold replied. “Drive on the way it's heading. The constable tells me the lane leads to a village where there's a road back to Cranport.”
They got in, the constable again beside Merrion, and drove on. In a couple of hundred yards or so the wood ended, and the lane proceeded across the open moorland. It began to climb rather steeply, with many awkward bends. Further, as is common with lanes in hilly country, it had no verges, but ran between low banks, between which there was barely room for a large car such as Merrion's to pass. “I hope we don't meet anything,” Merrion remarked after a while.
“I don't think that's very likely, sir,” the constable replied. “I don't think any traffic comes this way, except maybe a farm cart or two.”
“Even a farm cart would be a pretty formidable obstacle,” said Merrion. “We should have to lift it, horse and all, up the bank. We can only hope that we shall be lucky.”
They were. Merrion drove on very slowly, fortunately without meeting anything. Eventually the lane, which until then had been rising steadily, began to descend. For once it ran straight, and they could see before them a village meeting in a tree-clad valley. “That's Wychurst, sir,” the constable remarked. “You want to turn left when you reach the main road.”
There was no sign to indicate the approach to the main road. Probably the lane was so little used that this was not considered necessary. Merrion turned left, and they drove through the village. It was a charming little place, with a church, and inn, and groups of thatched houses. The road running through it, Merrion noticed, carried a fair amount of traffic.
Directed by the constable, he drove back to Cranport and stopped outside the police station, where the constable got out. Merrion turned to Arnold. “We're doing no more sleuthing till we've had lunch,” he said firmly. “While I was waiting here just now I saw a hotel across the way. I'm all for trying that.”
Arnold agreed. The police station was in a street, which was flanked on the other side by a public garden in which were a few stunted trees and a number of benches. On the farther side of the garden was a similar street, in which one of the buildings bore a sign. Merrion drove round the garden and pulled up outside the hotel, which had the name of the Golden Fleece. Merrion looked at it critically. “I hardly think this can have been the destination of the Argonauts,” he remarked. “It doesn't look like a four-star establishment. Still, we may as well try our luck.”
They went in, to find the place more civilised than its outside appearance promised. They had quite a good lunch, and a pint of beer each to wash it down with. “What do we do next?”Merrion asked when they had finished.
“I shall have to go back to the police station, I suppose,” Arnold replied. “But Lapworth told me he wouldn't be there till three, and it's only just after two now. Have you any suggestion for filling up the time?”
“I have,” said Merrion. “We'll drive a little way out of the town until we come to a quiet spot, and there we'll have a chat.”
This they did. Merrion drove by the way they had gone that morning, and once clear of the town pulled up at the side of the road. “We can sit here and talk without being interrupted,” he said. “I'd very much like to hear what details Lapworth told you of this affair.”
Arnold repeated Lapworth's account, including the report of the pathologist. “It's as plain as a pikestaff,” he concluded. “Koo Yang murdered Ah Lock for the sake of his Savings Bank book.”
“Single-handed?”Merrion suggested.
“Why, yes, of course,” Arnold replied. “He wouldn't have let anyone else in on the job. If he had, he would have had to share the proceeds with him. You can see that, surely.”
Merrion smiled. “You don't mean to let anything upset your theory. Did you notice anything particularly striking in Bacton Wood?”
“I can't say that I did,” Arnold replied. “There wouldn't be much to see once the body had been taken away. Except all those branches scattered about the place. There were quite a lot of them.”
“I counted thirty-five,” said Merrion. “There may have been more. It was the branches that attracted my attention. They hadn't fallen off the trees by themselves.”
“Of course they hadn't,” Arnold replied. “Koo Yang tore them off the trees to cover up the body with.”
Merrion chuckled. “I thought you hadn't noticed. Have you ever tried to tear a fair-sized living branch from a pine tree? I have, and it isn't a bit easy, I assure you.”
Arnold looked at him suspiciously. “What are you getting at now? What was it I didn't notice?”
“That the branches hadn't been torn off,” Merrion replied. “Every one of the branches I counted had been cut off with a saw. You can see the marks of the saw not only on the branches, but on the trees they were cut from.”
“They were sawn off?”Arnold exclaimed incredulously. “That means that Koo Yang must have carried a saw with him. How did he account for what he meant to do with it?”
“It wasn't a carpenter's saw, or anything nearly as big as that,” Merrion replied. “I looked at the cut surface of one of the branches through my lens, and could see that the saw that had been used had very fine teeth. Perhaps one of those small hack-saws about six inches long. He could have carried one of those in his pocket, easily enough.”
“If that's the case, I don't see that it matters whether he tore the branches from the trees or sawed them off,” said Arnold.
“Perhaps not,” Merrion replied. “But there's this to be considered. The time it would have taken. A small hack-saw doesn't work very fast. I imagine it must have taken him at least a minute to saw off each branch. I counted thirty-five sawn off branches, which adds up to over half an hour. Then there was the matter of collecting them and piling them on the body. The whole business must have taken him pretty nearly an hour. He didn't display the usual instinct of the criminal to get away from the scene of the crime at the earliest possible moment.”
“He wasn't in any hurry,” said Arnold. “He wasn't likely to be interrupted in a lonely spot like that.”
“All the same, to hang about for an hour or so was a bit risky,” Merrion replied. “If those children invaded the place yesterday, they might equally have done so on Saturday. And the time taken to saw off the branches and build up the pile might have been shortened.”
“What do you mean?”Arnold asked. “You've just said that it must have taken the best part of an hour.”
“Yes, if one man with one saw did the job,” Merrion replied. “But if there had been tour men with four saws, it would have taken only a quarter of that time.”
“What nonsense are you talking now?”Arnold asked irritably.
Merrion smiled. “I suppose it sounds nonsense to you. You're so attached to your own theory that you won't consider any alternative. Quite frankly, I don't believe that the murder was single-handed, or that the immediate motive was the acquisition of the Savings Bank book.”
Arnold shrugged his shoulders. “Your imagination again. To me the murderer and his motive are perfectly obvious.”
“So it appears,” Merrion remarked. “But if Koo Yang did the job on his own, his methods seem curious, even for a Chinese. I can fire a string of questions at you. How did Koo Yang know of the existence of the clearing in Bacton Wood? Had he been there before, and if so for what purpose? How did he persuade Ah Lock to accompany him there? Where did he procure the instruments used, the hammer, the unusual weapon with which the fatal injuries were inflicted, and the hacksaw? And finally, why did he waste valuable time in jumping on the dead body of his victim with sufficient violence to break the bones?”
“You've got your own answers to those questions, I suppose,” said Arnold sourly. “Hadn't you better hand them on to me?”
“You won't believe them,” Merrion replied. “But here you are. Koo Yang knew of the clearing, because he had been there before, and not by himself. Doesn't it strike you as being an ideal spot, not only for a murder, but for a secret meeting-place for a number of people? You may not be aware that the Chinese have a passion for secret societies, innocent or otherwise.”
Arnold opened his mouth to make some scornful remark, but Merrion silenced him. “No, let me finish. Ah Lock needed no persuasion. He had received a summons to a meeting, and he knew that things would be made unpleasant for him if he didn't go. Besides, I don't suppose he had any idea of what would happen to him when he got there. I find it rather significant that all five lodgers went out that Saturday afternoon. One might hazard a guess that they all attended the meeting.”
“So far as I can see, what you're driving at is this,” said Arnold. “The other four conspired to murder Ah Lock. And if the motive wasn't to get hold of his savings, perhaps you'll tell me what it was?”
Merrion shook his head. “I don't think conspiracy is quite the right word. I choose rather to imagine that the other four lodgers acted according to the rule. I don't suppose that they marched in a body to the wood. It's more likely that each man made his way there independently. One carrying a hammer, another that curious weapon, whatever it may have been, and all four of them a hack-saw.”
“What do you mean by acting according to rule?” Arnold asked.
“That, according to the rules of the society to which he belonged, Ah Lock had merited the death penalty,” Merrion replied. “And that was the motive for the murder. It also accounts for the brutal behaviour of his executioners. Ah Lock had for some reason made himself a hated pariah. Having killed him, his former associates danced triumphantly upon his body.”
“I've known you for a long time, my friend,” said Arnold. “But your imagination has never yet faked up anything quite so fanciful as all that.”
“It sounds fanciful to you,” Merrion replied. “The English crooks to whom you're accustomed don't have queer ideas like that. But you've got to remember that all the people concerned in this affair are Chinese, whose minds run in channels of their own.”
“It comes to this,” said Arnold. “According to you, Koo Yang had accomplices?”
“Again, I hardly think that's the right word,” Merrion replied. “I imagine that all four executioners took part in the affair, so that the credit should be shared equally between them. I understand that either of the wounds in the region of the ears would have been fatal. Why then were two inflicted?”
Arnold shrugged his shoulders. “To make quite sure, I suppose.”
“Or that all might participate in the killing,” said Merrion. “One man used the hammer, to bring the victim down. The second inflicted the wound on one side of the head. He handed the instrument to the third, who inflicted the wound on the other side. The fourth man jumped on the body, not only to make sure that life was extinct, but also as an expression of hatred. If that was the case, I imagine that in the eyes of our law, all were equally guilty.”
“And where does the Savings Bank book come in?” Arnold asked.
“I can offer a suggestion about that,” Merrion replied. “Why did Ah Lock take it with him to the wood? Because he thought it would be safer in his pocket than if he left it behind in his lodgings. Where did his savings come from? If out of the wages he got from the laundry, he must have been a very frugal person indeed. It might be worth your while to find out what his wages were.”
“Suppose they came from some other source. It may be that the society had some interest in that source, though that's a sheer guess. The executioners may have believed that they were entitled to some reward for their labours. Koo Yang was elected as the emissary to take the book to London and draw the money. Had he been successful, it would have been shared between the four of them.”
“You've got an answer for everything,” Arnold remarked drily, as he took out his watch. “My word! It's five minutes to three, and I don't want to be late for my appointment.”
Merrion started up the car and set off towards the police station. “Just one last word,” he said. “Don't regard the idea of a secret society, or at least an association of some kind, as being too fanciful. If such a thing exists, there is no telling how far its ramifications may extend. The lodging-house keeper may be a member. In which case, I shouldn't be inclined to put much reliance upon any statement he may make.”
ARNOLD HAD BEEN at the police station for some minutes before his colleague arrived. “I hope I haven't kept you waiting, Mr. Arnold,” said Lapworth. “I've only just been able to get away. You'll be the first to understand that though there may be a case of murder on hand, routine work must go on just the same. You've been to Bacton Wood?”
Arnold nodded. “Yes, and your constable showed me how the body was lying.”
“Good,” said Lapworth. “I took some photographs yesterday evening. The prints will be coming along before long. This is what I suggest we do next. Ask the laundry manager to come here, and get him to identify the body. Will that suit you?”
“Perfectly,” Arnold replied. “And we might show him the hammer at the same time.”
Lapworth rang up the laundry, and was put through to the manager. “He says he'll come here at once,” said Lapworth as he put down the instrument. “He oughtn't to be long, for the laundry is only ten minutes' walk from here.”
They were talking about the case when the manager arrived. His name was Mackay, and he spoke with a marked Scottish accent. “It's good of you to come so promptly, Mr. Mackay,” said Lapworth. “Would you mind stepping across to the mortuary with me? I want you to look at a dead man lying there.”
Mackay raised no objection, and they went to the mortuary together. Lapworth exposed the face, and Mackay looked at it intently. “I'm pretty sure,” he said. “May I look at his hands?”
Lapworth drew back the sheet, and after a moment's glance Mackay nodded. “Yes, I thought so. I recognise that scar on his left hand. This is Ah Lock, who worked for me for three years and more. I wondered why he didn't come to work on Monday as usual. How did this happen?”
“We aren't sure yet,” Lapworth replied guardedly. “Shall we go back to my room? There are a few questions my friend Mr. Arnold and I should like to ask you.”
They went back and sat down. “You tell me that you have known Ah Lock for three years,” said Lapworth. “What sort of a man was he?”
“A very good laundry hand,” Mackay replied. “Most Chinese are good at laundry work, and that's why I always employ them. Ah Lock was one of the best. But he was rather a queer chap in his way. The others are always chattering away like so many monkeys, but Ah Lock very rarely said a word. It wasn't that he kept aloof from the rest of them, but he didn't seem to share their interests. I don't know why it was.”
“Did that make him unpopular, Mr. Mackay?” Arnold asked.
“I don't know that it did,” Mackay replied. “I never saw any signs of ill-feeling. But you never can tell with these Chinese. They don't display their feelings except among themselves. I don't speak the language, though I've picked up a few words.”
“Do your employees speak any English?” Arnold asked.
“Most of them speak a little pidgin English,” Mackay replied. “Between that and the few words of Cantonese I've picked up, I manage to make them understand what I want.”
“May I ask what Ah Lock's wages were?” said Arnold.
“They varied according to whether he had put in any overtime or not,” Mackay replied. “A Chinese workman manages to live on much less than an Englishman could, and he doesn't expect such high wages. Ah Lock's weekly wage packet would average about five pounds, after the usual deductions.”
“I understand that another of your Chinese hands hadn't turned up this week, Mr. Mackay?” said Lapworth.
“That's quite right,” Mackay replied. “A chap called Koo Yang. He's not nearly such a good man as Ah Lock was, but he knows his job and it's a nuisance being without him. I couldn't make it out when two of them didn't turn up on Monday. I knew they hadn't gone on some spree together. Ah Lock wasn't that type, and, as I tell you, he never seemed to mix with the others.”
“What sort of a man is Koo Yang?”Arnold asked.
“A queer sort,” Mackay replied. “Almost like a child, as so many Chinese are. Sometimes he's laughing about nothing, and at other times he gets fits of nasty temper. And he's very easily scared. I expect he sees spirits and devils in every hole and corner. I've wondered whether he was quite right in the head. I don't mean mad but, well, simple, as they say. Wherever he's gone, he'll come wandering back before long, I don't doubt.”
“You say he shows signs of a nasty temper,” said Arnold. “Have you ever known him quarrel with Ah Lock?”
Mackay laughed. “I suppose he's quarrelled frequently with all of them. But you mustn't take that too seriously. Chinese are apt to scrap among themselves at the slightest or no provocation. But it's all over in a few minutes, and then they're as good friends as they were before.”
“Just one thing more, Mr. Mackay,” said Arnold. He opened his case and produced the hammer. “Have you ever seen that before?”
“I can't say that I have,” Mackay replied. “Is there anything to distinguish it from any other hammer?”
Arnold held it out, so that the initials on the handle were visible. Mackay took out his glasses, put them on and peered. “That certainly looks like our brand,” he said after a few seconds. “But whether that hammer belongs to the laundry I really can't say. My storekeeper has a few tools, and he might recognise it. I'll ask him to step along here when he's finished work, if you like.”
“I wish you would, Mr. Mackay,” Arnold said. “Is he a Chinese?”
“Not he,” Mackay replied. “He's an Englishman all right. Born and bred in Cranport, and proud of it.”
Lapworth escorted Mackay to the door and returned. “Well, that puts an end to any doubt who the dead man is,” he said. “What would you like to do next, Mr. Arnold?”
“I'd like to look at that lodging-house in Rupert Terrace,” Arnold replied. “You haven't been over it, I gather?”
“No, I haven't, and I'll come with you,” said Lapworth.
“Mr. Merrion is outside in his car,” Arnold replied. “I'm quite sure he'd drive us there. You don't mind his coming with us? His knowledge of Chinese ways may come in useful.”
“I shall be glad if Mr. Merrion will come,” said Lapworth. They went out, to find Merrion sitting in the car smoking a cigarette. Arnold told him where they wanted to go, and Lapworth got in beside him, to show the way.