‘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.
But, interesting as was this find, it offered no aid to identification, and Clarke turned with some eagerness to the pocketbook and papers.
The latter turned out to be letters. Two were addressed to Mr Albert Smith, c/o Messrs. Hope Bros., 120-130 Mees Street, Middeldorp, and the third to the same gentleman at 25 Rotterdam Road. Sergeant Clarke knew Hope Bros. establishment, a large provision store in the centre of the town, and he assumed that Mr Smith must have been an employee, the Rotterdam Road address being his residence. If so, his problem, or part of it at all events, seemed to be solved.
As a matter of routine he glanced through the letters. The two addressed to the store were about provision business matters, the other was a memorandum containing a number of figures apparently relating to betting transactions.
Though Sergeant Clarke was satisfied he already had sufficient information to lead to the deceased’s identification, he went on in his stolid, routine way to complete his inquiry. Laying aside the letters, he picked up the pocketbook. It was marked with the same name, Albert Smith, and contained a roll of notes value six pounds, some of Messrs. Hope Bros. trade cards with ‘Mr A. Smith’ in small type on the lower left-hand corner, and a few miscellaneous papers, none of which seemed of interest.
The contents of the pockets done with, he turned his attention to the clothes themselves, noting the manufacturers or sellers of the various articles. None of the garments were marked except the coat, which bore a tab inside the breast pocket with the tailor’s printed address, and the name ‘A. Smith’ and a date of some six months earlier, written in ink.
His immediate investigation finished, Sergeant Clarke returned to Dr Bakker in the other room.
‘Man’s name is Albert Smith, sir,’ he said. ‘Seems to have worked in Hope Bros. store in Mees Street. Have you nearly done, sir?’
Dr Bakker, who was writing, threw down his pen.
‘Just finished, Sergeant.’
He collected some sheets of paper and passed them to the other. ‘This will be all you want, I fancy.’
‘Thank you, sir. You’ve lost no time.’
‘No, I want to get away as soon as possible.’
‘Well, just a moment, please, until I look over this.’
The manuscript was in the official form and read:
‘11th November.
‘To the Chief Constable of Middeldorp.
‘SIR,—I beg to report that this morning at 6.25 a.m. I was called by Sergeant Clarke to examine a body which had just been found on the railway near the north end of the Dartie Avenue Tunnel. I find as follows:
‘The body is that of a man of about thirty-five, 6 feet 0 inches in height, broad and strongly built, and with considerable muscular development. (Here followed some measurements and technical details.) As far as discernable without an autopsy, the man was in perfect health. The cause of death was shock produced by the following injuries: (Here followed a list.) All of these are consistent with the theory that he was struck by the cowcatcher of a railway engine in rapid motion.
‘I am of the opinion the man had been dead from eight to ten hours when found.
‘I am, etc.,
‘PIETER BAKKER.’
‘Thank you, Doctor, there’s not much doubt about that part of it.’ Clarke put the sheets carefully away in his pocket. ‘But I should like to know what took the man there. It’s a rum time for anyone to be walking along the line. Looks a bit like suicide to me. What do you say, sir?’
‘Not improbable.’ The doctor rose and took his hat. ‘But you’ll easily find out. You will let me know about the inquest?’
‘Of course, sir. As soon as it’s arranged.’
The stationmaster had evidently been watching the door, for hardly had Dr Bakker passed out of earshot when he appeared, eager for information.
‘Well, Sergeant,’ he queried, ‘have you been able to identify him yet?’
‘I have, Stationmaster,’ the officer replied, a trifle pompously. ‘His name is Albert Smith, and he was connected with Hope Bros. store in Mees Street.’
The stationmaster whistled.
‘Mr Smith of Hope Bros.!’ he repeated. ‘You don’t say! Why, I knew him well. He was often down here about accounts for carriage and claims. A fine upstanding man he was too, and always very civil spoken. This is a terrible business, Sergeant.’
The sergeant nodded, a trifle impatiently. But the stationmaster was curious, and went on:
‘I’ve been thinking it over, Sergeant, and the thing I should like to know is,’ he lowered his voice impressively, ‘what was he doing there?’
‘Well,’ said Clarke, ‘what would you say yourself?’
The stationmaster shook his head.
‘I don’t like it,’ he declared. ‘I don’t like it at all. That there piece of line doesn’t lead to anywhere Mr Smith should want to go to—not at that time of night anyhow. It looks bad. It looks to me’—again he sank his voice—‘like suicide.’
‘Like enough,’ Clarke admitted coldly. ‘Look here, I want to go right on down to Mees Street. The body can wait here, I take it? One of my men will be in charge.’
‘Oh,