The Hog's Back Mystery (18 page)

Bradbury glanced over it. “Right-o, inspector. When would you like us to start? We can do it any time.”

French did not answer directly. “Tell me,” he said, putting his head on one side, “do you think there'd be any chance of doing this job secretly? If there's nothing in my idea it doesn't matter. But if there is, I'd rather no one knew about it. You can understand, Mr. Bradbury, that it would be wiser not to put anyone on his guard.”

Bradbury was obviously thrilled. It was a new experience to be taken into the confidence of an officer of the Yard engaged on a murder case, and the young man reacted suitably. He was out, he said, to help the inspector and he would do the work as unostentatiously as he could.

“I don't think, you know, that we can keep the thing quiet if your man is about and watching developments,” he declared. “If he's there he'll see it. But I believe we can prevent our men smelling a rat. I'll tell 'em a roll of essential plans were forgotten here and got covered and we have to find them. But of course if we get what you're looking for the fat'll be in the fire.”

“That's just what I'm considering, Mr. Bradbury,” French said slowly. “I'm inclined to think it would be better to do the work with policemen and at night.”

Bradbury looked disappointed. “Could they do it?” he asked doubtfully. “Shovelling this heavy clay is no joke if you're not accustomed to it.”

“That's the very thing that's bothering me,” French admitted. “I want your men to do the work, but I don't want them to find anything. Look here, couldn't you clear it back to where it was on Sunday and let us do the rest?”

Again the young man showed disappointment. French saw what was wrong. “Of course,” he added, “if you yourself could see your way to come out and give our men the benefit of your advice, I'd take it kindly. But I'd like to keep anything we might find absolutely to ourselves.”

Bradbury was radiant. All he had wanted was to be in on the affair. He agreed at once to cast forward the recently tipped clay, leaving the slope as it had been on the previous Sunday week. He would then have a number of small lamps filled and set aside for the night work, and would meet French and do anything he could to help.

“Very good of you, I'm sure,” French declared. “When do you think we can get to work?”

“To-night, I should think. I'll put some men into it now. You'd like to stay and see us start? Then see here.” Entering with zest into the experiment, he turned to the corner of the hut and pointed to a filthy old waterproof, stained with clay and oil. “Put that on and those leggings and stick that plan under your arm and they'll mistake you for an engineer. That's better. Except for the glory of your hat you look fine.”

They went out of the hut and along the workings, tramping heavily through the sticky mud, just as French had tramped with Clifford Parry down at Whitness. Just as Parry would have done, Bradbury called a ganger and gave his instructions.

“I say, Bates, I want you to bring your men down to Peg 188 and shift a bit of stuff. We've lost some plans and we've got to find them if we dig up the whole of Surrey. They were put down on the slope and the tip's gone over them. Start in here and clear it back.”

The men, obviously unsuspicious, began to work along the hundred-foot stretch, quickly throwing the clay forward into the field, and roughly trimming the slope as Bradbury directed, that is, as it had been on the Sunday in question. Having seen the work started, French excused himself on the ground that he wished to make arrangements for the night, and leaving his borrowed plumage in the hut, he returned to Farnham.

Sheaf was not pleased at the idea of turning his constables into navvies, but he raised no serious objection, and a squad of a dozen men was got together and instructed to be ready at eleven o'clock. Having arranged the necessary commissariat and transport, French returned to his hotel for dinner and a rest.

Chapter XVII

And Carries It Out

That night three cars left the police station at Farnham and took the road leading to the Hog's Back. In the leading one sat French with beside him Sergeant Sheepshanks. The remaining seats were filled with constables. Short intervals separated the cars.

French was more nervous than he would have cared to admit. He had taken a biggish risk, staking a good deal of his reputation on this throw. What they were about to do would cost money, and if it led to no result he would have to stand the racket, a racket admittedly not of censure, but of ridicule and loss of prestige.

He ran over again in his mind the steps which had led him to his conclusion, and as he did so he took comfort. He believed, whether his conclusion should turn out right or wrong, that his present action was justified. The chance of success was sufficient to make the effort worth while.

First, he had suspected Slade of the murders, or one of them, either acting alone or with Julia Earle. Slade had the necessary motive and, so far as French could form an opinion, the necessary character for the crime. French was inclined to gloss over the question of whether he had the opportunity: assume he had. Now it was practically certain that Ursula Stone had been murdered on Sunday afternoon and her body removed in a car. The great difficulty, however, was, Where could it have been removed to? Where could it have been hidden? An exhaustive search had failed to find it. Then suddenly French had thought of the most perfect hiding-place conceivable. If the body could be buried in the freshly tipped earth on this by-pass road, it would be hidden for good. In the first place the surface of the tip was so rough and uneven that the disturbance of making the grave would never be seen. Then on the very next day the grave would be covered by fresh deposits of clay, and by the time the by-pass was finished, the body would be buried under some fifteen or twenty feet of clay. This perfect hiding-place was not only the only one known in the entire district, but it was close—within five miles of Earle's house—and was secret: away from the track of people and screened from the sight of houses.

So much was theory—and, French felt, good theory at that—but the case was not confined to theory. On the floor of Slade's car were traces of clay, this same yellow clay which was tipped at the perfect hiding-place. It was, so far as was known, the only yellow clay in the entire district. Moreover, Slade was not known to have been at the by-pass on any legitimate business.

All this seemed entirely convincing, but French could not forget Slade's alibi. He had undoubtedly tested it pretty thoroughly, and had found it watertight. Alibis, however, were notoriously unreliable. While French did not think that the existence of the alibi should prevent the experiment being tried, he was a good deal worried by it.

It was a perfect night for their work, at least from one point of view. Pitch darkness and a fine rain driven by a bitter wind from the south-east would keep every self-respecting person indoors. No one was likely to discover what they were doing. On the other hand it wouldn't be very pleasant. Everything would be wet and the clay specially sticky and hard to work.

Having discharged their passengers at the nearest point, the cars were driven a mile or so along the road, so that their appearance should not lead the curious to inopportune explorations. Not wishing to show lights on the Compton side of the embankment, French led his little band out in the darkness on to the uncharted wastes of the field. They reached the bank, with many a slip and stumble managed to climb it, splashed across the top, and slid down the other side. In the field at its base was Bradbury, and with him a dozen hurricane lamps.

French found that a perceptible portion of the bank had been trimmed back, the clay removed being thrown forward into the field. On the ground was a little pile of shovels and picks.

“You're ready for us, Mr. Bradbury?” he greeted his friend of the morning. “Fine!” He turned to Sheepshanks. “Now, sergeant, get the men to work, will you? The sooner we begin, the sooner we'll be through.”

“I could have got you a couple of acetylene flares,” Bradbury explained when the men had started, “but they're very bright. They would have lit up the whole country and I thought you'd rather be private even if it meant going a bit slower.”

“That's right,” French agreed, going on to point out that he considered the young man's arrangements perfect.

Bradbury took out a pipe and pouch, and bending forward with his back to the rain, began to fill the bowl.

“I suppose this is a bit out of your line, inspector?” he went on. “About as much as if I set to work to find the taximan who had picked up a certain fare?”

French also began to make preparations for smoking.

“Not so much as you might think. Curiously enough my last big job was on works like this; bigger than this.”

Bradbury looked as if he was slightly doubtful as to whether any works could have been bigger than his. “Where was that?” he grunted.

“Redchurch-Whitness; a railway widening.”

“Oh gee, yes, I know about that. Do you mean to say you were on that case? Ever come across a chap named Pole?”

“Dozens of times. I knew Mr. Pole quite well.”

“We were at college together. Good chap, Pole.”

“They were a very good crowd of men altogether,” French declared.

“Well, perhaps, except—?”

“Well, perhaps, except. There are exceptions to every rule, Mr. Bradbury.”

“I suppose there are. I'd like to see the work down there. Tell me something about it.”

French did his best. His descriptions of things did not seem quite right to himself, but this keen young man seemed to understand them all right. “It's really a very interesting job,” he went on. “You should go down and get Mr. Pole to take you over it. You'd enjoy it.”

They chatted on till presently Bradbury made a move. “I'm cold,” he declared. “I'm going to have a whack at this job.” He seized a pick and began thrusting it vigorously into the soft clay.

French somewhat gingerly took a shovel and began shifting stuff. It was harder work than he had bargained for. The clay was just in its most unpleasant and obstructive state. To get the shovel into it wasn't easy to start with, and then it wouldn't cast. It stuck to the shovel and had to be carried to where it was to be placed, and scraped off. And all the time it was slippery and abominable to walk on. The men were doing their best, but progress was slow, and once or twice French found himself regretting that he had not used the by-pass labourers instead of police. Very little work was enough for French. He soon resigned his place to a burly constable and stood back to regain his breath.

The scene was slightly weird. The faintly illuminated strip of earthy bank showing up out of the black darkness surrounding, the moving figures of the men taking up all sorts of distorted and unnatural positions in the dim radiance, the grotesque shadows dancing drunkenly, the driving rain, the melancholy sough of the wind. It recalled an episode in French's life, when several years earlier in Thirsby, in Yorkshire, he had stood by a reopened grave and watched the coffin of Markham Giles being uncovered and raised to the surface. That was in that horrible case at Starvel Hollow. Then his deduction had been justified. Would it be justified on this occasion?

French paced up and down, lost in thought. A cut of more than two feet had now been made along the whole hundred-foot stretch, and no signs of anything unusual had been come on. However, a couple of feet wasn't a great deal. It was indeed too soon to hope for anything.

He looked at his watch. It was just half-past two. The men had been working for three hours. It was time for a rest and a snack.

Half an hour later work was resumed. French made an alteration in his dispositions, concentrating the men at the centre of the stretch. It had occurred to him that the middle or place of greatest concealment was most likely to have been selected, if indeed any place had been selected at all.

Towards four o'clock the wind died down and the rain turned from a driving mist into a steady downpour. Everyone was tired and wet and in a slightly uncertain temper. French was beginning to feel very depressed. His chances of success seemed to grow less and less with every moment that passed. He forgot that they were approaching that period of the night when health and energy are at their lowest ebb, the time when the outlook on life seems most hopeless, the time when the end comes to the sinking, the hour at which suicide is most common. He forgot in fact that the darkest period comes before the dawn.

So it happened at all events on this occasion. It was just a little past five when one of the men gave a shout. French hurried up.

“Something 'ere, sir. See.” The constable held up the end of some dark object like the large leaf of a rooted plant. French turned his electric torch on it and gasped.

It was a piece of cloth, the end, French imagined, of a lady's skirt.

“Clear away here,” he said in a low tone. “Carefully does it now, men.”

The atmosphere grew tense as the men worked. Slowly the clay was removed, and as the object was cleared, the last lingering element of doubt disappeared. The outlines of a body became revealed: a woman's body, buried there in the clay without shroud or coffin. The only faintest sign of reverence or decency shown was that the jumper—of light green wool—had been torn off and laid over the face. When it was removed French found himself gazing with some emotion into what had been the features of Ursula Stone.

But what features! Dreadful, swollen, distorted. And the cause was not far to seek. Round the neck there was a crease, and when French examined it he found it was caused by a string. Ursula had been strangled! Poor, kindly, harmless Ursula!

French was accustomed to murder and its awful results, but when he looked down on that face and thought of how it had been brought into that state, his anger grew hot against the criminal. There would now, he told himself, be something personal in his efforts to track down the author of so fiendish a deed. It was as if this outrage had destroyed one of his own friends. If the murderer were not caught and if the murderer were not hanged, it would not be French's fault.

But moralising over the remains, however natural, would not produce this result. French pulled himself together and became official once more.

“Some kind of a stretcher?” he asked Bradbury.

“Over here,” the young man pointed. “There are planks and rope. We'll tie a couple of planks to a couple of fence posts: they'll make a hurdle. Rough, but good enough. Here, officer,” he explained.

“I suppose there's not a disused hut that we could leave the body in?” went on French.

It seemed that there was. A hut had been used as a powder store during the blasting through the chalk ridge of the Hog's Back. This work was now finished and the hut was empty. It was close by, within a few hundred yards.

“That'll do,” French agreed. “Come on, men, as soon as you're ready with that hurdle.”

The remains, cleared now of clay, were with rough reverence lifted on to the improvised stretcher, and borne along the by-pass formation to the hut. There they were laid, a policeman being left in charge. Another policeman was stationed at the place where they had been found, with orders to let no one approach. French wanted in daylight to turn the clay over again, in the hope of finding some trace of the criminal.

“You'll stop work at this particular point for a day or two, won't you, Mr. Bradbury?” French asked. “I fancy I'm not through yet with all I want.”

The young man raised his eyes and nodded significantly. “Of course, inspector. And if you want to dig farther in, we can do it for you at any time.”

“That's what I shall want,” French agreed. “Well, sir, much obliged for your invaluable help. I'll push off now, but I'll be back later. We needn't hope to keep this matter secret now, but the less of it gets out, the better.”

“That's all right, inspector. Trust me.”

French had sent the drivers for their cars, and soon the party of tired but excited men were on their way back to Farnham.

“I'm going for a wash-up and a bit of breakfast,” French declared, “and all of you men do the same. If you're a bit late turning up I'll stand for it with the super.”

French, clothed and in his right mind, was at the police station when Superintendent Sheaf arrived.

“Well, I hear you've pulled it off,” Sheaf greeted him, with slightly less pessimism than usual. “Sheepshanks looked in on his way home. That should be a help.”

“I hope so, super. It was that trace of clay in Slade's car that put me on to it. But it was a bit of luck finding the body so soon. Sheepshanks told you that she'd been strangled?”

Sheaf grunted assent. “Well, now you've got it, what do you propose to do next. Want to pull Slade in?”

French glanced at his companion. Was Sheaf just a little bit jealous? For a moment French thought so, then he felt sure he was mistaken. It was just Sheaf's manner. Sheaf had been very decent and considerate to him. In fact he had done everything he possibly could to help him, and French meant himself personally and not merely the case. However, he thought it no harm to be diplomatic.

“That's one of the things I came in to consult you about, super,” he said. “Slade has a rather awkward alibi. It may be faked: probably is. But so long as it stands I'm not sure that we shouldn't hold our hand. Personally I'd rather be a bit surer of my ground before I burned my boats, so to speak,” French added, feeling his metaphor was slightly strained. “I'd stand for keeping him under observation, but I don't think I'd favour an arrest.”

Sheaf nodded. “I agree. Do you want me to do the shadowing?”

“If you will, super.”

“I'll put a couple of men on to it. What about the body?”