suggestion of ruthless strength, there was a directness in the look and a good humour in the expression to which French felt immediately drawn. The man was quietly dressed in a suit of brown tweed, his grey Stetson hat and cloth overcoat lay on a chair, while on the ground beside him stood a brown paper parcel shaped like a cardboard hatbox.
‘Ah, French,’ said Mitchell. ‘This is Detective-Sergeant Adam M’Clung of the Royal Ulster Constabulary, stationed at Belfast. He thinks we’ve let one of our problems slip over to Ireland by mistake and he’s come to see if he can’t shove it back on us.’
Sergeant M’Clung glanced quickly at the chief inspector and then smiled. ‘I don’t know, sir, that that’s just the way I’d have put it,’ he said in a pleasant voice, though with an intonation that was strange to French, half Irish, half Scotch it sounded. ‘Pleased to meet you, Mr French. I’ve known your name for many a year, but I’ve never had a chance of speaking to you before.’ He held out an enormous hand which closed like a vice on French’s.
‘The sergeant was just telling me he crossed over last night by Kingstown and Holyhead,’ went on Mitchell. ‘But I thought, Sergeant, it was Kingstown no longer?’
‘That’s so, sir,’ Sergeant M’Clung agreed. ‘It’s now officially Dun Laoghaire, but’—he shrugged, and French enjoyed the note of tolerant superiority of the northern speaking of Free State activities—‘there’s not many that bother their heads about that; not from the north anyway.’
‘I know Dublin well,’ Mitchell said reminiscently. ‘Used to be over there often before the troubles. I liked it. But I never got to Belfast. You’ve been there, French, haven’t you?’
‘Only once, sir, and it’s a goodish while ago. I was in Belfast in ’08, during the Royal visit.’
M’Clung turned to him with evident interest.
‘It’s queer you should have mentioned that, Mr French, for I was just going to speak of it. I’m over here about what’s happened to Sir John Magill, and it was through that same Royal visit that he got his knighthood.
‘And what has happened to Sir John Magill?’ Mitchell inquired.
‘That’s just it, sir. Barring that he’s disappeared in circumstances pointing to foul play, that’s just what we don’t know. And that’s just where we want your help.’
‘Well, Sergeant, we’ll do what we can. Suppose you tell us all about it.’
The sergeant moved nervously, then leaning forward and thrusting out his face towards the others, he began to speak.
Though this was the ringing up of the curtain on as grim a tragedy as had taken place for many a long day, there was no suggestion of tragedy in the bearing of the three detectives. Rather they gave the impression of business men assembled to discuss some commonplace detail of their firm’s operations. The room with its green-tinted walls and dark plainly-finished furniture looked what it was, an office for the transaction of clerical business, and though the Englishmen listened to their companion with grave attention, for all the excitement they showed he might merely have been reciting the closing prices of British Government stocks.
‘I’d better tell you who the Magills are first,’ said Sergeant M’Clung. ‘They’re a wealthy Ulster family who made their money in linen. At the present moment old Sir John, if he’s alive, is supposed to be worth not less than a million and there are pretty valuable mills as well.
‘These mills are in Belfast—at the head of the Shankill Road—and the family lived at a place called Ligoniel, up in the hills overlooking the city. They had a big house there with fine grounds, though it’s sold now and the place broken up for building.
‘The family consists of five persons, Sir John, his son, his two daughters and his nephew. Lady Magill is dead these many years.
‘Sir John was born in ’57, that makes him seventy-two this year. The son, Major Malcolm Magill, is over forty, and the daughters, Miss Beatrice and Miss Caroline, can’t be far short of it.’
‘Are these three married?’
‘The son is married, sir, but neither of the daughters. Well, that’s about the family, for the nephew has lived away from the others from a child. Now there’s one other thing I must tell you so that you’ll understand what’s happened. While Sir John was in Belfast, living with his daughters near Ligoniel, he managed the mills himself. He also took a lot of interest in the city, in politics he was a prominent Unionist and he was also one of the leaders of the Orange Order. All that time up to the end of the War the mills were very prosperous, making any quantity of money. In 1922 Major Magill was demobilised and came back to Belfast and then Sir John, feeling he was tired of the work, handed over the whole concern to the son. He and the daughters left Belfast and settled down in London, at 71 Elland Gardens, Knightsbridge. From that day till last Thursday, so far as we know, Sir John has never been back in Ireland.’
French had already begun the dossier of L’Affaire Magill by noting on a sheet of official paper all these names and dates. The details so far were somewhat dry, but there was that in M’Clung’s manner which suggested that a crisis in the story was approaching. Mitchell sat with his arms crossed, but as French ceased writing he moved.
‘That’s five people you’ve mentioned, Sergeant,’ he said. ‘Let’s see that I’ve got ’em right. There’s Sir John Magill, the head of the family, aged 72, who has disappeared; his son Malcolm, who became a major during the War, his two daughters, Beatrice and Caroline, and a nephew, name still unrevealed.’
‘That’s right, sir. Well, to continue. Major Magill took over the running of the mills. He left the small villa he had at Ligoniel, not far from the big family house, and settled down beyond Larne, on the Coast Road to Portrush.’
Mitchell interrupted again.
‘You’re mentioning a lot of places, Sergeant. We’d better see where they are. Get hold of the atlas, will you, French?’
M’Clung moved round the table.
‘There’s Belfast,’ he explained, pointing with a huge finger of a rich dark brown shade. ‘And there’s Larne, and this is where the Coast Road runs.’
They bent over the map.
‘I follow you,’ said Mitchell. ‘This big south-west cut into the land is Belfast Lough, with Belfast city at its head. Larne is on the coast just outside and above the entrance to the Lough. Looks about twenty miles away.’
‘Twenty-four, sir.’
‘Twenty-four, is it? Then this Coast Road that you speak of runs from Belfast through Larne and along the shore to the north?’
‘That’s right, sir. It’s mostly a tourist road and there’s plenty of traffic on it in summer, but not much in winter. It was on this road, about four miles beyond Larne, that Major Magill took the house. It was not a big house, but there was a nice place with it, sheltered by a wood and with a good view out over the sea.
‘It was a good way to come into business every day, the most of thirty miles each way, but Major Magill travelled pretty quick in his Rolls Royce. He lived there with his wife and two daughters, both children. Well, gentlemen, that’s pretty well the way things were when this business happened.’
Sergeant M’Clung’s hand stole absently to his pocket, then came hurriedly away. Chief-Inspector Mitchell, recognising the action, pulled open a drawer.
‘Won’t you smoke, Sergeant?’ he invited, holding out a box of cigars. ‘A little tobacco helps a story.’
The sergeant accepted with alacrity and the three men lit up. Mitchell was a strict enough disciplinarian, but he considered a little relaxation in minor matters made the wheels of life rotate more easily.
‘Last Friday morning,’ resumed M’Clung, ‘we had a visit at Chichester Street—that’s our headquarters in Belfast—from Major Magill. He told us he had an extraordinary