The Groote Park Murder

‘THE DETECTIVE STORY CLUB is a clearing house for the best detective and mystery stories chosen for you by a select committee of experts. Only the most ingenious crime stories will be published under the THE DETECTIVE STORY CLUB imprint. A special distinguishing stamp appears on the wrapper and title page of every THE DETECTIVE STORY CLUB book—the Man with the Gun. Always look for the Man with the Gun when buying a Crime book.’

Wm. Collins Sons & Co. Ltd., 1929

Now the Man with the Gun is back in this series of COLLINS CRIME CLUB reprints, and with him the chance to experience the classic books that influenced the Golden Age of crime fiction.

Copyright

Published by COLLINS CRIME CLUB

An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd

1 London Bridge Street

London SE1 9GF

www.harpercollins.co.uk

First published in Great Britain by The Crime Club by W. Collins Sons & Co. Ltd 1923

Copyright © Estate of Freeman Wills Crofts 1923

Introduction © Estate of Freeman Wills Crofts 1937

Cover design © HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 1923, 2017

A catalogue copy of this book is available from the British Library.

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

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Source ISBN: 9780008159337

Ebook Edition © April 2017 ISBN: 9780008159344

Version: 2017-03-07

Contents

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Introduction

PART I: SOUTH AFRICA

I. THE DARTIE ROAD TUNNEL

II. THE POTTING SHED

III. GATHERING THE THREADS

IV. VANDAM FORMS A THEORY

V. ROBBERY UNDER ARMS

VI. A PROFITABLE EVENING

VII. THE SCALA CINEMA

VIII. VANDAM MAKES UP HIS MIND

IX. MARION HOPE

X. THE DEFENCE

PART II: SCOTLAND

XI. A FRESH START

XII. ON THE CRIANLARICH ROAD

XIII. TOUCH AND GO

XIV. INSPECTOR ROSS TAKES CHARGE

XV. THE BALLACHULISH FERRY

XVI. INTRODUCING SIR ANTHONY SWAYNE

XVII. MR SANDY BUCHAN

XVIII. ENLIGHTENMENT AND MYSTIFICATION

XIX. LIGHT OUT OF DARKNESS

XX. CONCLUSION

The Detective Story Club

About the Publisher

INTRODUCTION

THE WRITING OF A DETECTIVE NOVEL

WE are going, you and I, to write a detective novel, or so I am informed. Let us see, then, how we would set about it and what we would find ourselves up against.

Necessarily we must follow a hypothetical method, for if we asked a hundred detective-novelists how they worked, we should probably get a hundred quite different replies. And we are going to write a detective story, which we are doubtless agreed deals with detection and in which the problem is supreme: not a thriller, which depends on conflict and thrills, nor yet a crime novel, which is the history of some particular crime, usually from the criminal’s point of view.

Before we begin we must settle one or two points about our detective. Is he to be a gifted amateur, a professional private detective, or a man from the C.I.D.? Is he to be a ‘character’ or an ordinary humdrum citizen? Is he to work alone or to have a Watson? Suppose you settle these points? You have? Then let’s get down to it.

If we’re lucky we shall begin with a really good idea. This may be one of five kinds. Firstly, it may be an idea for the opening of our book: some dramatic situation or happening to excite and hold the reader’s interest. The standard way of finding a body in the first chapter, if hackneyed, is hard to beat.

Secondly, our idea may be for the closing or climax of our book. This must also be dramatic. As an example I suggest the well-known situation in which Tom, who thinks Jack is dead and has impersonated him, is unexpectedly confronted with Jack in a police office or court of law.

Our idea, thirdly, may be for a good way of committing a crime, probably a murder. It should be novel and ingenious—but not too ingenious—and if possible concerned with things with which the man in the street is familiar. This is probably the most usual way of starting work on a book. Every detective fan will think of dozens of examples.

A fourth kind of idea on which to build a book is that we shall write about some definite crime, such as smuggling, gun-running, coining, arson, or frauds in high finance.

Lastly, our idea may be simply to place the action in a definite setting, such as a mining setting, or a golf or fishing setting, or to lay our scenes in a certain place: a bus or an office, an opium den or Canterbury Cathedral.

We may of course build our book on some idea which does not fall under one of these heads. For instance, Dr Austin Freeman’s book, The Red Thumb Mark, was probably built on the idea that a fingerprint is not necessarily convincing evidence.

This then is the first stage in our work: getting the idea to start on. Our second stage is more difficult: we have to build up the plot on our idea.

We do this in a very simple, but very tedious way: we ask ourselves innumerable questions and think out the answers. One question invariably leads to another, and as we go on our plot gradually takes shape.

Suppose we have decided on a murder by antimony poisoning. We shall ask ourselves questions such as: Where does the murderer get the antimony? How does he administer it? What is his motive?

Suppose in answering this last question we choose greed: that he inherits money from the man he kills. At once new questions suggest themselves. What was the relationship between the two men? Why had the deceased left money to the other? And so on.

As we continue propounding and answering these questions, we shall have the happiness of finding a story gradually growing out of nothing. We continue the good work ’til the whole happening is built up, from the first thought of the crime right down to its completion, together with the subterfuges the criminal adopts to secure his safety. A rough synopsis is then made, together with sketch maps of the important localities, short biographies of the principal characters, and a chronology of the main events.

It should be clearly understood that this synopsis is of the actual facts which are supposed to have happened: It is not a synopsis of the book. We don’t get to the book ’til the third stage, for which, however, we are now ready.

In this third stage we reconsider the whole circumstances from a new viewpoint, the viewpoint of the person or persons through whom we are going to tell the story. What is the first thing that would have become known? Would it have been the finding of the body? If so, begin with that. What would then be done? The police would be sent for. What would they do? They would make certain enquiries, they would look for motives, they would find out who was in the neighbourhood when the crime was committed.

We continue working in this way ’til we have completed a second synopsis of the case, this time describing the gradual revealing of the details to the detective. As we do so, we find that we have to supply a good deal of fresh material. That means of course a new set of questions to be answered. There is, for instance, the very important problem of how the detective discovers the truth. He could if possible do so through some flaw inherent in the criminal’s plans, unperceived ’til now by the reader. If, however, this can’t be arranged, the necessary clues must be planted for the detective to find.

This second synopsis which, let us suppose, we have now completed, gives us the sequence of events right from the discovery of the crime up to the arrest and conviction of the criminal. It is, in other words, a précis of our book. We probably have to make another chronology giving the movements of the detective, as well possibly as more sketch maps. Then, having estimated the length of our various scenes and satisfied ourselves that our book is going to run to the required 80,000 words, we can proceed to our next stage.

The fourth stage is the actual writing, and there is nothing to be said about it except that we take the advice of the King in Alice in Wonderland and begin at the beginning, go on ’til we come to the end, and then stop.

When writing we invent the minor episodes. For instance, our synopsis may read: ‘Detective finds paper in X’s room.’ We have now to think out how the detective obtains access to X’s room, whereabouts the paper is hidden, and how the detective comes to look in that place.

The writing of the passages which give the necessary clues to the reader requires a lot of thought. All the clues must be given which he needs to enable him, by the use of his intelligence, to reach the truth. At the same time they must not be easy to pick up.

There are many tricks for concealing clues. The chief is perhaps to invert the sequence of events or to alter their connection. Suppose we want to tell the reader that the murderer is a good shot. If his skill be mentioned in connection with the shooting of the victim, the story is given away. But if it be brought out in relation to a shooting competition in another part of the book, the reader will probably miss its significance.

Let us now pause for a moment to consider our climax. In this we shall try to clear up as suddenly as possible what has been up to now a complete mystery. If on reaching the climax the reader says: ‘Of course! Why didn’t I think of that?’ we shall have done our job well.

Well, we go over our manuscript, checking and cutting and patching and re-writing. Then having typed a fair copy, we try it on the dog: we get as many of our friends to read it as we can. We incorporate the more useful of their suggestions, and at last our book goes off, carefully registered, and with a magic name on the cover. Whereupon we settle down to wait.

FREEMAN WILLS CROFTS

1937

PART I

CHAPTER I

THE DARTIE ROAD TUNNEL

JOSEPH ASHE, signalman in the employment of the Union of South Africa Government Railways, stood in his box at the west end of Middeldorp station, gazing meditatively down the yard to the platforms beyond.

It was his week on night duty, which he took in rotation with two other men. Not by any stretch of the imagination could the night shift in this particular box be called sweated labour. For the best part of an hour—indeed, since he had wearied reading and re-reading yesterday’s Middeldorp Record—Ashe had paced his cabin, or stood looking ruminatively out of its windows. For the slackest period of the twenty-four hours was just then drawing to a close. It was nearly six a.m., and since the north express had passed through shortly before four, no train had arrived or left. Except to let the engine of an early goods pass from the locomotive sheds opposite the cabin to the marshalling yards at the far end of the station, Ashe had not put his hand to a lever during the whole two hours.

He was now watching the platforms for the appearance of his mate, who was due to relieve him at six a.m. Every morning, when the hands of his clock drew to five minutes before the hour, the squat figure of the man next in the cycle would emerge from behind the Permanent Way Inspector’s hut at the end of No. 1 Platform, as though operated by the timepiece on some extension of the cuckoo principle. Can in hand, the man would come down the ramp, pass along the side of the line, and, crossing the neck of a group of carriage sidings, would reach the box in time to take over at the hour.

Suddenly a bell rang sharply, a single, clear, imperious stroke. Obedient, Ashe turned to an instrument placed at the back of the box, and marked with a brass label, ‘Gunter’s Kloof,’ and pressed a plunger. Again and again the bell sounded, and Ashe, having replied in the same code, pushed in the plunger and held it steady. With a slight click, a little card bearing the word ‘IN’ in black letters on a white ground shot from behind a tiny window in the instrument, and another card bearing in white letters on a red ground the word ‘OUT’ took its place. Ashe released the plunger, and, glancing at the clock, turned to a book lying open on the desk, and laboriously entered in spidery figures the time—5.57 a.m. At the same moment the door opened, and the relief man appeared.

‘That No. 17?’ queried the newcomer, as he placed his can beside the little stove and hung up his coat.

‘Ay, she’s running twelve minutes late,’ Ashe answered. ‘Warned at fifty-seven.’

‘No specials?’

‘Not so far.’

Some further conversation passed between the two men, then Ashe, having signed off, took his can and stepped out of the box.

It was a brilliant morning in late November. The sun, still low in the sky, was pleasantly warm after the chill which always obtains at night in South African uplands. Not a cloud was visible, and the air was extraordinarily clear and thin. Objects stood out, sharply defined, and throwing deep black shadows. Except for the faint rumble of an engine creeping out of the round-house, everything was very still.

Ashe descended the cabin steps and took his way along the railway in the opposite direction to that in which his mate had approached. He lived in a western suburb, and the railway was his most direct way home. The tracks, which were eight wide opposite the cabin, gradually converged towards the west, ’til at the Ballat Road overbridge, a quarter of a mile away, they had shrunk to the single main line which, after wandering interminably across the country, ended at Cape Town, nearly one thousand miles distant.

Beyond the Ballat Road bridge, the line curved sharply to the left, and in a cutting some twenty feet deep ran for a couple of hundred yards to a short tunnel, which carried one of the main streets of the town, Dartie Avenue, at a skew angle across the railway. To be in the centre of a city, the stretch of line between these bridges was extraordinarily secluded. Busy though both the streets in question were, all view from them was cut off by tall boardings carried up from the parapet of each bridge, and placed there originally to prevent the steam of passing trains from startling horses. At the top of the cutting at each side of the line the boundary was marked by a five-foot stone wall. Behind that, on the left side—the inside of the curve—were the houses of the town. The right-hand wall divided the railway from the Groote Park, a botanical gardens of exceptional size and luxuriance.

Ashe trudged slowly along the four foot, his eyes on the ground and his thoughts dwelling with satisfaction on the hot rashers and the clean, white sheets he was so soon to enjoy. He had almost reached the Dartie Avenue Tunnel when, looking up suddenly at the dark opening in the grey stonework, he saw something which made him halt abruptly.

Lying in the right-hand offset, close against the masonry of the side, and about twenty yards inside the mouth, was a body, apparently a man’s. Something in the attitude, even with the vague outline which was all that the gloom of the archway revealed, suggested disaster, and Ashe, after his first instinctive pause, hurried forward, half expecting what he would find.

His worst fears were confirmed as he reached the place and stood looking down with horror-stricken eyes at the battered and disfigured remains of what had once been a tall, strongly-built man. It was evident at a glance that he had been struck by a passing train, and there could be no doubt that death had been instantaneous. The injuries were terrible. The body seemed to have been dragged along the ground by the engine cow-catcher, rather than to have been struck and thrown cleanly aside. It looked even as if the head had got under the cow-catcher, for the back of the skull was crushed in like an eggshell, while the features were torn and unrecognisable as if from contact with the rough ballast. The back was similarly crushed and the chest scraped open. Three of the limbs were broken, and, what seemed to Ashe the most appalling spectacle of all, the fourth, the right arm, was entirely parted from the trunk and lay by itself between the rails some yards farther back along the line.

For some moments Ashe stood transfixed, overcome by the revolting sight. Then, pulling himself together, he turned and hurried back along the railway to report his discovery. ‘No. 17,’ the goods train he had accepted before going off duty, clattered past him near the Ballat Road bridge, and when he reached the station he found that its driver had seen the body and already given the alarm. The stationmaster, hastily summoned, had just arrived, and Ashe was able to let him have some additional details of the tragedy.

‘Police job,’ the stationmaster curtly decided. ‘You say the body is thrown clear of the trains?’

‘Up against the tunnel wall,’ Ashe agreed.

‘I’ll go and ’phone police headquarters now,’ went on the stationmaster. ‘You tell that man that’s just come off No. 17 that his engine will be wanted to run out to the place, and see Deane and get a passenger van shunted out. Then ’phone the west cabin what we’re going to do.’

The stationmaster hurried off, and Ashe turned to carry out his orders. Ten minutes later the special pulled out, having on board the stationmaster, Ashe, Sergeant Clarke of the City Police, as well as Dr Bakker, a police surgeon, and two constables. It stopped a few yards short of the mouth of the tunnel, and the men, clambering down from the van, went forward on foot. Even the hardened nerves of the police were not proof against the horrible sight which met their eyes on reaching the body, and all six men stood for some moments, shocked into silence. Then, with a muttered oath, Sergeant Clarke took charge.

‘We’ll not touch anything for a minute until we have a look round,’ he said, and, suiting the action to the word, he began to take stock of his surroundings.

The dead man was lying parallel to the rails in the offset, or flat track at the side of the line. He was dressed in a suit of light brown tweed, with brown tie and soft collar. On his feet were tan shoes, and his soft brown felt hat, cut nearly in two, lay between the rails some yards nearer to the station. The gleam of a gold watch chain showed beneath his partly open coat.

The manner of the happening was writ only too clearly on the ground. The first mark, some thirty yards farther into the tunnel, was a small stain of blood on the rail, and from there to where the body lay, the traces of the disaster were sadly apparent. Save as to the man’s identity, there was no mystery here. Each one of the little group standing round could reconstruct for himself how the tragedy had occurred.

Sergeant Clarke, having observed these details, turned slowly to his companions.

‘Who found the body?’ he asked, producing a well-thumbed notebook.

Both Ashe and the driver claiming the distinction, Clarke took statements from each.

‘It’s clear from the marks,’ he went on, ‘that the man was killed by an incoming train?’ The stationmaster at whom he glanced, nodded decisively. ‘Now, what trains pass through during the night?’

‘Down trains?’ the stationmaster answered. ‘There are four. First there’s a local passenger from Harrisonville; gets here at 8.50 in the evening. The next is the mail, the through express for the north. It passes here at 11.10 p.m. Then there’s a goods gets in about midnight, and another goods about 2.30 a.m. These are not very regular, but we can get you the time they arrived last night.’

The sergeant nodded as he laboriously noted these details.

‘What about the engines of those trains?’ he asked. ‘No marks found on any of them?’

‘None reported so far. All the engines come off here—this is a locomotive depot, you understand—and they’re all examined by the shed staff before stabling. But we can have them looked over again if you think necessary.’

‘It might be as well.’ The sergeant wrote for some seconds, then resumed with a slightly consequential air: ‘Now tell me, who would be the last person to walk along the line, I mean the last person before this’—he looked at his notes—‘this Signalman Ashe?’

‘I could hardly answer that question offhand,’ the stationmaster said slowly. ‘The last I know of would be the permanent way men leaving work about six last night. But some of the station staff or the locomotive men might have been by later.’ He turned to the signalman. ‘What about you, Ashe? Don’t you come to work by the railway?’

‘Sometimes,’ the man admitted, ‘but there weren’t no body here when I passed last night.’ The sergeant fixed him with a cold eye.

‘What time was that?’ he demanded.

‘About 8.48. My shift doesn’t begin ’til 10.00 p.m., but last night I came in earlier because I wanted to make a call up town first. But I know the time it was because No. 43—that’s the passenger from Harrisonville he was speaking of’—Ashe jerked his head towards the stationmaster—‘she passed me just a few yards on the other side of the tunnel. If she had put this man down I should have seen him.’

‘But it was dark at that time.’

‘Ay, it was dark, but it weren’t here for all that.’ Ashe expectorated skilfully. ‘Why, if it had been, I’d have fallen over it, for I was walking down the offset.’

Again Clarke wrote laboriously.

‘Well, Stationmaster,’ he said at length, ‘I think we’ll get the body moved, and then I should like to have those engines looked at again. I suppose, Doctor, there’s nothing you can do here?’

Dr Bakker having signified his approval, the remains were lifted on to a stretcher and placed on the floor of the van, the melancholy little party climbed on board, and the train set back to Middeldorp station. There the body was carried to a disused office, where it would remain until arrangements could be made to remove it to the morgue. The railwaymen were dismissed, and Dr Bakker and the sergeant set themselves to make the necessary examination.

The clothes were soon stripped off, and Clarke took them to the table in an adjoining room, while his colleague busied himself with the remains. First the sergeant emptied the pockets, making a list of the articles found. With one exception, these were of the kind usually carried by a well-to-do man of the middle class. There was a gold watch and chain, a knife, a bunch of keys, a half-filled cigarette case, some fifteen shillings in loose money, a pocketbook and three folded papers. But in addition to these, there was an object which at once excited the sergeant’s curiosity—a small automatic pistol, quite clean and apparently new. Clarke drew out the magazine and found it full of shells. There was no trace in the barrel of a shot having been fired.