Freeman Wills Crofts - The Groote Park Murder

‘Good heavens!’

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Mr Hurst hesitated slightly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘Absolutely.’

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

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

Clarke took the receiver.

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

The sergeant told him.

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

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

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

‘I will.’

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

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

Clarke stared.

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

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

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

The Chief and Vandam exchanged glances.

‘Quite possibly Clarke is right,’ the former said slowly. ‘All the same, Vandam, I think you should look into it. Let me know the result.’

The Chief turned back to his papers, and Inspector Vandam and Sergeant Clarke left the room. Though none of the three knew it, Vandam had at that moment embarked on the solution of one of the most baffling mysteries that had ever tormented the brains of an unhappy detective, and the issue of the case was profoundly to affect his whole future career, as well as the careers of a number of other persons at that time quite unknown to him.

OF all the attractions of the city of Middeldorp, that of which the inhabitants are most justly proud is the Groote Park. It lies to the west of the town, in the area between city and suburb. Its eastern end penetrates like a wedge almost to the business quarter, from which it is separated by the railway. On its outer or western side is a residential area of tree-lined avenues of detached villas, each standing, exclusive, within its own well-kept grounds. Here dwell the élite of the district.

The park itself is roughly pear-shaped in plan, with the stalk towards the centre of the town. In a clearing in the wide end is a bandstand, and there in the evenings and on holidays the citizens hold decorous festival, to the brazen strains of the civic band. Beneath the trees surrounding are hundreds of little marble-topped tables, each with its attendant pair of folding galvanised iron chairs, and behind the tables in the farther depths of the trees are refreshment kiosks, arranged like supplies parked behind a bivouacked army. Electric arc lamps hang among the branches, and the place on balmy summer evenings after dusk has fallen is alive with movement and colour from the crowds seeking relaxation after the heat and stress of the day.

The narrow end nearest the centre of the city is given over to horticulture. It boasts one of the finest ranges of glass-houses in South Africa, a rock garden, a Dutch garden, an English garden, as well as a pond with the rustic bridges, swans and water lilies, without which no ornamental water is complete.

The range of glass-houses runs parallel to the railway and about fifty feet from its boundary wall. Between the two, and screened from observation at the ends by plantations of evergreen shrubs, lies what might be called the working portion of the garden—tool sheds, potting sheds, depots of manure, leaf mould and the like. It was to this area that Inspector Vandam and Sergeant Clarke bent their steps when they left headquarters.

Waiting for them at the end of the glass-houses were two men, one an old gentleman of patriarchal appearance, with a long white beard and semitic features, the other younger and evidently a labourer. As the police officers approached, the old gentleman hailed Vandam.

‘’Morning, Inspector,’ he called in a thin, high-pitched voice. ‘You weren’t long coming round. I hope we have not brought you on a fool’s errand. As I told your people, I would not have troubled you at all only for the name in the book being the same as that of the poor gentleman who was killed. It seemed such a curious coincidence that I thought you ought to know.’

‘Quite right, Mr Segboer,’ Vandam returned. ‘We are much obliged to you, sir.’