Freeman Crofts - Inspector French and the Sea Mystery

That it had been labelled at one time was evident. The heads of eight tacks formed a parallelogram which clearly represented the position of a card. It also appeared to have borne attachments of some heavier type, as there were seven nail-holes of about an eighth of an inch in diameter at each of two opposite corners. Whatever these fittings were they had been removed and the nails withdrawn.

‘How long would you say this had been in the water?’ French asked, running his fingers over the sodden wood.

‘I asked Manners, our coastguard, that question,’ the sergeant answered. ‘He said not very long. You see, there are no shells nor seaweed attaching to it. He thought about the time the doctors mentioned, say between five and six weeks.’

The bar was a bit of old two-inch shafting, some fourteen inches long, and was much rusted from its immersion. It had evidently been put in as a weight to ensure the sinking of the crate. Unfortunately it offered no better clue to the sender than the crate itself.

French added these points to his notes and again addressed the sergeant.

‘Have you a good photographer in the town?’

‘Why, yes, pretty good.’

‘Then I wish you’d send for him. I want some photographs of the body, and they had better be done first thing in the morning.’

When the photographer had arrived and had received his instructions French went on: ‘That, sergeant, seems to be all we can do now. It’s too dark to walk round tonight. Suppose we get along to the hotel and see about that dinner?’

During a leisurely meal in the private room French had engaged they conversed on general topics, but later, over a couple of cigars, they resumed their discussion of the tragedy. The sergeant repeated in detail all that he knew of the matter, but he was able neither to suggest clues upon which to work, nor yet to form a theory as to what had really happened.

‘It’s only just nine o’clock,’ French said, when the subject showed signs of exhaustion. ‘I think I’ll go round and have a word with this Mr Morgan, and then perhaps we could see the doctor—Crowth, you said his name was? Will you come along?’

Mr Morgan, evidently thrilled by his visitor’s identity, repeated his story still another time. French had brought from London a large scale Ordnance map of the district, and on it he got Mr Morgan to mark the bearings he had taken, and so located the place the crate had lain. This was all the fresh information French could obtain, and soon he and Nield wished the manager goodnight and went on to the doctor’s.

Dr Crowth was a bluff, middle-aged man with a hearty manner and a kindly expression. He was off-hand in his greeting, and plunged at once into his subject.

‘Yes,’ he said in answer to French’s question, ‘we held a post-mortem, Dr Wilbraham and I, and we found the cause of death. Those injuries to the face and forehead were all inflicted after death. They were sufficient to cause death, but they did not do so. The cause of death was a heavy blow on the back of the head with some soft, yielding instrument. The skull was fractured, but the skin, though contused, was unbroken. Something like a sandbag was probably used. The man was struck first and killed, and then his features were destroyed, with some heavy implement such as a hammer.’

‘That’s suggestive, isn’t it?’ French commented.

‘You mean that the features were obliterated after death to conceal the man’s identity?’

‘No, I didn’t mean that, though of course it is true. What I meant was that the man was murdered in some place where blood would have been noticed, had it fallen. He was killed, not with a sharp-edged instrument, though one was available, but with a blunt one, lest bleeding should have ensued. Then when death had occurred the sharp-edged instrument was used and the face disfigured. I am right about the bleeding, am I not?’

‘Oh, yes. A dead body does not bleed, or at least not much. But I do not say that you could inflict all those injuries without leaving some bloodstains.’

‘No doubt, but still I think my deduction holds. There were traces of blood in the crate, but only slight. What age was the man, do you think, doctor?’

‘Impossible to say exactly, but probably middle-aged: thirty-five to fifty-five.’

‘Any physical peculiarities?’

‘I had better show you my report. It will give you all I know. In fact, you can keep this copy.’

French ran his eyes over the document, noting the points which might be valuable. The body was that of a middle-aged man five feet ten inches high, fairly broad and well built, and weighing thirteen stone. The injuries to the head and face, were such that recognition from the features would be impossible. There was only one physical peculiarity which might assist identification, a small triangular birthmark on the back of the left arm.

The report then gave technical details of the injuries and the condition the body was in when found, with the conclusion that death had probably occurred some thirty-five to forty days earlier. French smiled ruefully when he had finished reading.

‘There’s not overmuch to go on, is there?’ he remarked. ‘I suppose nothing further is likely to come out at the inquest?’

‘Unless someone that we don’t know of comes forward with information, nothing,’ the sergeant answered. ‘We have made all the inquiries, that we could think of.’

‘As far as I am concerned,’ Dr Crowth declared, ‘I don’t see that you have anything to go on at all. I shouldn’t care for your job, Inspector. How on earth will you start trying to clear up this puzzle? To me it seems absolutely insoluble.’

‘Cases do seem so at first,’ French returned, ‘but it’s wonderful how light gradually comes. It is almost impossible to commit a murder without leaving a clue, and if you think it over long enough you usually get it. But this, I admit, is a pretty tough proposition.’

‘Have you ever heard of anything like it before?’

‘So far it rather reminds me of a case investigated several years ago by my old friend Inspector Burnley—he’s retired now. A cask was sent from France to London which was found to contain the body of a young married Frenchwoman, and it turned out that her unfaithful husband had murdered her. He had in his study at the time a cask in which a group of statuary which he had just purchased had arrived, and he disposed of the body by packing it in the cask and sending it to England. It might well be that the same thing had happened in this case: that the murderer had purchased something which had arrived in this crate and that he had used the latter to get rid of the body. And, as you can see, doctor, that at once suggests a line of inquiry. What firm uses crates of this kind to despatch their goods and to whom were such crates sent recently? This is the sort of inquiry which gets us our results.’

‘That is very interesting. All the same, I’m glad it’s your job and not mine. I remember reading of that case you mention. The papers were absolutely full of it at the time. I thought it an extraordinary affair, almost like a novel.’

‘No doubt, but there is this difference between a novel and real life. In a novel the episodes are selected and the reader is told those which are interesting and which get results. In real life we try perhaps ten or twenty lines which lead nowhere before we strike the lucky one. And in each line we make perhaps hundreds of inquiries, whereas the novel describes one. It’s like any other job, you get results by pegging away. But it is interesting on the whole, and it has its compensations. Well, doctor, I mustn’t keep you talking all night. I shall see you at the inquest tomorrow.’

French’s gloomy prognostications were justified next day when the proceedings in the little courthouse came to an end. Nothing that was not already known came out, and the coroner adjourned the inquiry for three weeks to enable the police to conclude their investigations.