The Loss of the Jane Vosper Read online

  But when he heard the superintendent’s message his bubble of self-satisfaction was suddenly deflated. Not only was the so-called information not an answer to any of his questions, but it was, so far as he could see, entirely useless and extraneous. It was simply that on the Tuesday evening, the evening before his disappearance, Sutton had rung up one of the men in the station, a constable named Osborne, to ask if he knew anything about a firm of builders in his area. The name was Rice Brothers. Osborne had known the firm only by name, and had so replied. It had happened that the next morning Osborne had gone on sick leave, and he had only just returned. As soon as he had read of Sutton’s disappearance and the questionnaire sent out by the Yard, he had reported the incident to his superintendent. The superintendent passed on the report for what it was worth.

  ‘Not very much,’ French thought at first, but as he reconsidered the matter and recalled his complete bankruptcy of ideas in the case, he began to feel that even so unlikely a clue must not be neglected. ‘I’ll go down and see Osborne,’ he therefore replied. ‘Will you kindly keep him at the station till I arrive?’

  ‘Come along. Carter,’ he called. ‘The Leman Street station.’

  ‘What’s it now, sir?’ Carter asked as they set off.

  ‘Wild-goose chase,’ French returned bitterly. ‘We have so few that I thought we’d both like one for a change.’

  For the third time that day they passed through the portals of Mark Lane Station and after a short walk found themselves at the police headquarters. The superintendent, whom French knew, greeted them warmly and sent for Constable Osborne. ‘Just tell the chief-inspector what you told me,’ he instructed him.

  The constable, however, had but little to add to what French already knew. He had made Sutton’s acquaintance over a case of arson, in which both men were interested. That had been in North London, from which area Osborne had been transferred some couple of years previously. The two men had become rather friends, having met in a social way on different occasions. Osborne, the superintendent had found out, was the only man in the Leman Street force known to Sutton, and this explained his request being made in a private way to him, rather than officially to the superintendent.

  The address of the firm about which Sutton had enquired was 29 Redliff Lane, a street leading from Great Prescott Street, which turned out of Leman Street not a hundred yards from the station. The place was a yard, or at least it had what looked like the entrance to a yard, and it had over it a board with the name, ‘Rice Bros Building Contractors. Temporary Premises.’ The constable had noticed the board, which had been up a couple of months or more, but he had been unable to give Sutton any information about the occupants. He had since walked round to Redliff Lane, and he had found that the yard was locked up and the notice gone.

  ‘I follow,’ said French. ‘Sutton just asked you if you knew anything about the firm?’

  ‘He said if I knew anything about them or could find out anything about them, he’d be glad to hear it.’

  ‘Did he say why he wanted to know?’

  ‘Not exactly, sir. He said he had a suspicion that they were wrong uns, but that as he wasn’t sure I wasn’t to report the matter officially. Just if I could get hold of anything myself I might let him know.’

  ‘Rather a lot to ask, wasn’t it?’ French considered. ‘What do you say, super?’

  The constable spoke quickly. ‘Maybe I should tell you, sir,’ he said to the superintendent. ‘I was anxious to help him, if I could do so in accordance with my duty. He had given me a tip about that arson case, that enabled me to make an arrest, and he let me get the credit of that and said nothing about what he had done. I said if I could ever do him a good turn I’d be glad to do it.’

  The, superintendent nodded. ‘No harm in that,’ he admitted, ‘but I don’t think you should have started making enquiries without reporting it.’

  ‘No, sir, certainly not,’ the man agreed hastily. ‘I didn’t do so, sir.’

  The superintendent nodded again, and French asked, ‘Can you remember the last time you saw the notice on the yard gate?’

  ‘Yes, sir, it was there on the day that Sutton rang up – in the morning, at all events. I was on beat duty in that district, and I saw it that morning.’

  French considered. ‘I think, super, I’d like to look into this matter. Any objection?’

  ‘Of course not, chief-inspector. Can I help you?’

  ‘Only by letting Osborne show me where the place is. If I want anything else I’ll come back and ask you.’

  ‘Right-o. Good luck in your hunting.’

  ‘Now,’ said French when they had left the room, ‘I don’t think I want to be seen with a constable in uniform. You go slowly ahead, Osborne, as if you were on beat, and when you get to this yard just try the gate, as you would the door of any unoccupied house. Then you can fade away and the sergeant and I will take over.’

  Osborne saluted and set off, and when he had got a reasonable start French and Carter followed him out of the station. He turned first out of Leman Street and then out of Great Prescott Street, French and Carter stopping and arguing at the corners so as to give him time to keep ahead.

  Presently they saw him cross the pavement and try the gates of a narrow entry between two tall, rather decrepit-looking houses. The lock was evidently satisfactory, for he passed on after a few seconds, disappearing round the next corner.

  The gate was on the left side of the street, and on the near side was a tobacconist’s and on the far a public house. French, after a look at the gate, which was of an ordinary pattern about six feet high, close sheeted and in two halves, pushed open the door of the tobacconist’s. Carter, in response to a sign, strolled on.

  It was a dark and dismal little shop, sadly in need of a brush and some soap. The tobacconist was old and short-sighted, and probably didn’t see what an improvement a higher standard of cleanliness would have made. French greeted him pleasantly and asked for some cigarettes. A little discussion ensued as to the brand, but upon this important matter a conclusion was speedily reached. Then, while waiting for change, French turned to the question at issue.

  ‘I see the yard next door’s vacant,’ he remarked.

  ‘So I see,’ the old man agreed. ‘Nine shillings change.’

  French thanked him. ‘It’s not your yard, is it?’ he went on. ‘I’m looking for a yard in this district for a temporary store, and that might suit.’

  It wasn’t the old man’s. Nor could he tell who it belonged to. No, he did not know the parties who had had it recently. They never troubled him for tobacco, and he hadn’t even spoken to them.

  ‘Was the tenant,’ French went on, ‘a tall man with white hair and moustache? If so, I think he was a friend of mine.’

  The tobacconist didn’t know. His eyesight was not what it had been once. He couldn’t see who went in and out. All he knew was that tradesmen worked there, and vans and lorries came and went. But he couldn’t say what they were doing. In fact, the only other information that French could get out of him was that, except when in actual use, the gate was kept locked.

  Seeing that as a source of information the tobacconist might be ignored, French wished him good day and moved along to the public house. Here he was in luck, for the bar was empty. He called for a pint of bitter and asked the landlord to join him.

  The landlord was very willing, and soon they were chatting like old friends. Not till then did French steer the conversation to vacant yards. But even here he didn’t get as much information as he had hoped. The yard adjoining did not belong to the landlord, and he had no idea whose it was. It had been taken by a firm of builders for the last eight or ten weeks, and the boss was a big, heavily-built man with a heavy face, clean shaven except for a small moustache. He drove a Ford van and was in and out with it a good deal. He seemed to be making something in the yard, for workmen came to it and left it morning and evening. Lorries of materials came also at intervals. What they were doing the landlo
rd didn’t know.

  The landlord spoke moderately enough, but French could sense the disgust he evidently felt when he went on to explain that he didn’t know much about the men because they never used his house. ‘Not good enough for them,’ he said sarcastically. ‘You’d have thought that here at their very door, so to speak, would have been the place they’d have had their drop of beer. But no, not one of them ever as much as crossed my doorstep.’

  French did not wish to appear curious, so he finished up his beer, praised its excellence, and, having created a good impression, took his leave. But the landlord called him back. ‘If you want to know the agents for next door,’ he said, ‘I’ll see if I can find out for you. There was a sign on the gate before Rice took it.’

  French thanked him and, thinking the matter worth it, invited him to share a second pint. This worked well, and when the man left to make his enquiries French felt sure he would do his best to get the information.

  And so he evidently did. After a considerable time he returned to say that his daughter remembered the agents were Messrs Duckworth and Something. She could not remember the second name nor the address.

  ‘I’m greatly obliged,’ French declared. ‘I’ll get it easily from the directory with that help.’ He and the landlord parted friends.

  At the nearest post office French looked up a directory. There were a great many firms of which the first name was Duckworth, but only one of them were house agents.

  ‘Got it first shot,’ French murmured, as he read out the address for Carter to note. ‘Duckworth & Crozier, 75B Fenchurch Street. Got that? Then let’s go to Fenchurch Street.’

  Mr Duckworth, whom after a twenty-minutes’ wait they succeeded in seeing, was one of those small, stupid and intensely self-opinionated men who are such a nuisance to their fellows. French was positive that they had been kept waiting simply to pander to the man’s vanity, and as a result he took a much sharper tone than he otherwise would.

  He began by producing his chief-inspector’s card and saying that the police required some information from Mr Duckworth and that he would be obliged if he, Mr Duckworth, could let him have it without delay. Was he agent for the yard at 29 Redliff Lane, which had recently been let to Messrs Rice Brothers?

  At once the little man began to make difficulties. What was the chief-inspector’s authority for asking about business which he, Duckworth, considered confidential? Was anything wrong about Rice Brothers or about the tenancy?

  French said shortly that the police were making enquiries about the yard, and if anything illegal were found in connection with it, any refusal to answer would be noted and dealt with in due course. Whereupon Duckworth declared he had not refused to answer, but only to know where he stood in the matter.

  ‘Where you stand, sir, is this,’ French said sharply. ‘You are at present delaying the police in making an enquiry into what may prove to be a serious crime. You are going to carry the responsibility for that delay. If it helps a possible criminal to escape, you will answer for it in court. Now are you going to give me my information, or would you prefer to come with me to Scotland Yard and go into it there?’

  To some extent, of course, French was bluffing. But the bluff worked. Duckworth climbed down. He said sulkily that he had nothing to hide about any of his transactions, and what did the chief-inspector want to know?

  ‘I want,’ French said, ‘to know the details of your transaction with Rice Brothers in connection with the letting of that yard.’

  Even then the man could not bring himself to answer. He rang for his clerk and asked him did he remember how they came to let the shed in Redliff Lane to Rice Brothers? French could have sworn that he knew the particulars perfectly well, and was only showing that he was so occupied with important matters that he couldn’t remember trifles. However, it was a step in the production of the information, and French waited with patience.

  Finally the clerk was told to bring the correspondence, and at long last French got what he wanted.

  It appeared that towards the end of July a man giving the name of James Rice called and said he was a partner in a firm of builders, and that they wanted to rent a shed somewhere near the docks for two or three months until their own new premises were ready for occupation. It was principally to deposit some plant in, but he might employ a few carpenters on forms and the like, if such proved necessary. Had they anything to suit?

  Duckworth gave him three or four addresses and sent a clerk round with him. After seeing all these he said the Redliff Lane shed, though not exactly what he wanted, would do sufficiently well. He said he would take it for three months from the 1st August, and then and there signed the necessary agreement and paid the three months’ rent in advance. They gave him the key and he went off.

  They heard nothing more from him until the previous Friday. Then they had received a letter from Rice saying that as his own yard was ready rather earlier than he had expected, he had moved his things there and consequently was finished with the shed. He enclosed the key. The previous Friday was the 17th of October, so he had given up possession about a fortnight earlier than he need. Duckworth had sent a man to inspect the shed, and he reported that it had been left in good order. Unfortunately the Duckworth & Crozier board had been mislaid and he, Duckworth, was having another made. That was the reason there was no board on the gate.

  French continued his questions methodically. He saw all of the staff who had interviewed Rice, and got from their joint efforts as good a description of the man as he could. He borrowed and gave a receipt for all documents which bore the man’s writing or signature, and he asked for his address. This latter was the Kelvin Hotel in the Whitechapel Road. Finally he borrowed the keys of the shed, saying that he wished to inspect it. Duckworth had by this time come off his high horse, and was now obviously anxious to give all the help in his power.

  A few minutes later French and Carter were back in Redliff Lane. Opening the gate, they passed through and locked it behind them.

  They found themselves in a cartway, little wider than the gate, which, passing through a deep canyon between high buildings, led forward to a covered shed. It was not very large, about 50 feet by 35. It was well lighted by a skylight which ran down the centre for the whole length of the roof. French noted incidentally that the glass was rough rolled, so that no one from a window or elsewhere could see into the shed. Except for the door by which they had entered, there was no opening in any of the walls. The walls were whitewashed brick and the roof of the type usually known as a Belfast truss.

  The paving of the floor showed that the area had formerly been a stable, coach-house and open yard. The divisions of these could be traced by the areas floored respectively with stable brick, concrete and cobbles. The position of the drains bore similar testimony.

  At one end was a light wooden hut with a glass front, containing a rough desk, some shelves, a sink with water laid on, a gas fire, two chairs and a telephone. It was littered with a few old newspapers. A double-sided carpenter’s bench stood near the wall opposite the entrance and in one corner was a brick fireplace. The floor had obviously been swept, but still sufficient traces of shavings and sawdust remained to show that carpentering had recently been in progress. On the floor, also, were traces of sand and stone, with two or three empty cement bags, and large grey blotches showing where concrete had been mixed. In the small amount of rubbish still remaining French saw wire nails of various sizes and a small heap of cinders. There were also indications that a load of clay had recently been deposited and removed. Except for the hut and bench, the shed was empty.

  Glancing up, French noticed that the tie-beams of the roof trusses had been recently notched. At these places the wood, which was dark and grimy with age, showed white and fresh. The notches individually were small, but they were distributed over the tie-beams to make a pattern. They made, in fact, a trace round the shed at a distance of about ten feet from the walls, the trace having two straight lines connected by semic
ircular ends. French was puzzled.

  ‘What do you make of those marks?’ he asked Carter, pointing upwards.

  Carter rubbed his chin. Then after a while he shook his head.

  ‘They’re fresh marks, those,’ French went on, ‘and there, that looks like a new plug.’ He pointed to a glossy black power plug which was attached to the middle of the centre tie-beam, just in the centre of the shed. It was connected to the electric meter by what was evidently a new cable running along the tie-beam and down the shed wall.

  ‘Place is well lighted,’ French went on, glancing again at the roof.

  Six 100-watt lamps hung from the roof, and in addition there were two over the bench and one over the desk in the office.

  ‘I wonder if that would be a runway?’ Carter said suddenly, pointing up at the notches.

  French stopped and looked at him. A runway! Yes, it just might be.

  ‘If so, sir,’ Carter went on, ‘there might have been an electric hoist on it, fed by a flex from that plug.’

  ‘You’re scintillating this morning right enough,’ French observed. ‘Take particulars of it, so we can trace its purchase if we want to.’

  Carter began to sketch and measure, while French continued prowling about, noticing everything that was to be seen.

  The only thing which he had not examined was the fireplace. He now moved over to it and stood staring down. There appeared to have been a recent fire, as there were the remains of burnt sticks and papers. The papers were, so far as he could see, in ash, and he wondered whether anyone had stirred the fire to break the flakes. If so, it would be a little suggestive. He didn’t think any scraps of paper were left, but there might be some beneath the wood. If the examination of the shed became serious, it would be worth looking.

  French brought over one of the empty cement bags and very carefully plugged the chimney opening, so as to prevent a down draught damaging any paper not yet crumbled to ash. Then, having washed his hands at the sink, he rejoined Carter.