But with no one was Sir John on bad terms, in fact, it was rather the other way about.
One point French noted as possibly important. When questioning Myles as to Sir John’s recent letters, telegrams and visitors, the man stated that on two recent occasions a stranger had called. His card showed that he was a Mr Coates and that he came from Belfast. Unfortunately Myles could not remember the remainder of the address. The man was tall and well-built, with very bright red hair. Quite a remarkable-looking man. On the occasion of each call he had stayed with Sir John for about half an hour.
‘I suppose you’d know him if you saw him again?’
Myles declared he couldn’t be mistaken and French, having indicated that the interview was at an end, asked for Mr Breene.
The secretary was a somewhat striking-looking man of about five and thirty. Tall and spare without being actually thin, he gave the impression of extreme physical strength and fitness. His head was small, altogether out of proportion to his height. His face suggested a curious blend of the Red Indian and the Scandinavian; high cheekbones and ruggedly chiselled features combined with fair hair and the lightest of blue eyes. Energy, ambition and decision were written on every line of the man’s features. In fact before he opened his lips French realised that here was one who would get what he wanted or know the reason why.
‘I crossed over last night,’ he explained in answer to French’s question. ‘There was nothing to keep me in Belfast and things were getting behind here.’
‘I should be glad, Mr Breene, if you would tell me all you can about this unhappy affair. And first as to yourself. Have you been long with Sir John?’
‘Eight years. He appointed me private secretary while he was still running his mills in Belfast. When he gave them up and moved over here he asked would I care to remain with him as general confidential secretary and assistant. He made me a liberal offer and I accepted.’
‘You’re an Irishman yourself?’
‘A Belfast man. My brother and sister still live near Belfast.’
‘There can’t be much for a secretary to do here?’
‘There isn’t. It is simply that Sir John likes to amuse himself in his workshop and can’t be bothered with correspondence.’
French nodded and asked what sort of man Sir John was. He invariably repeated his questions to as many witnesses as possible in order to discount individual idiosyncrasies.
‘Well,’ Breene returned, ‘he is not what Americans call a good mixer. He is dry in manner and retiring in disposition and doesn’t make friends easily. And between ourselves, though I’ve no complaint to make, he is not particularly liberal about money. But when you’ve said that you’ve said everything. He is straight and honourable, and in his own way kindly. He is the type of man that the better you know him, the better you like him.’
‘Is he on quite good terms with all the other members of his family?’
French asked the question perfunctorily, but he watched keenly for Breene’s reaction. He was considerably interested by the result. Though the man said, ‘Oh, quite,’ without perceptible hesitation, French could have sworn it was with less conviction. He thought quickly. If, as Miss Magill said, Malcolm had suffered losses during the linen depression, if the old man was not liberal about money, if Malcolm was to a considerable extent his heir … Added to all that curious business at Whitehead … French decided to bluff.
‘I rather gathered,’ he said, with a sidelong glance and bending forward confidentially, ‘that relations between Sir John and his son were just a trifle strained?’
‘An exaggeration,’ Breene answered promptly. ‘Admittedly they didn’t see eye to eye about money matters. But to say that relations were strained is untrue.’
French chuckled inwardly as he bluffed again.
‘Probably you are right. It was this money question that I had in mind all the same. I wish you’d explain just what took place about it.’
‘There’s no mystery about that,’ Breene declared. ‘Major Magill, as you doubtless know, was in difficulties in connection with his business. Linen has been having a bad time in Ireland lately and more than one old and respected firm has gone down. As far as I understood it, the major was faced with having to close down, which of course he didn’t want to do. He wrote asking Sir John to put some more capital into the concern, so that he might install some new and more efficient machinery. But Sir John wouldn’t. He took the line that when he was in charge he had had to meet difficulties and that the major could do the same. It was not perhaps very reasonable, as the slump was due to conditions the major had very little control over; mostly it was the result of the War. But there it was. Sir John wouldn’t move. The major came over to see him a couple of times, but it was no good. But they were perfectly friendly and all that, for I saw them together.’
‘Quite,’ French agreed. ‘I suppose you cannot tell me where I could find Sir John’s will?’
‘I don’t even know if he made a will, though I suppose he must have.’
‘What does he keep in the safe? Can you open it for me?’
‘No. Sorry I can’t help you there either. Sir John keeps the key himself and only on one occasion did I see inside. It seemed to contain only papers, but there may have been objects of his collection too valuable to leave unprotected.’
It suddenly occurred to French that here was rather a serious difficulty. Though he had not actually gone the length of formulating the words, ‘The Case Against Malcolm Magill,’ he realised that the formulation on such a phrase was by no means an impossibility. From the information gained in Ireland Malcolm was a priori the most likely person to have disposed of Sir John’s body, and now here seemed the beginnings of a theory of motive. For to Malcolm’s unprosperous condition must be added the fact that he stood to gain by his father’s death.
French pulled himself up sharply. This would never do. Cases were not conducted in such a way, at least not successful cases. Let him get his facts before jumping to conclusions. At the same time … He turned to Breene.
‘I understand that Sir John went to Ireland about some invention?’
Breene agreed. Sir John was always working out some idea. He was very ingenious and worked as if brought up to the trade.
French nodded.
‘Do you happen to know the exact nature of this Belfast business?’
Breene took out a cigarette case and automatically selected a cigarette, as an afterthought handing the case to his companion.
‘To a limited extent only,’ he answered. ‘Sir John warned me to say nothing about it, but I suppose I’m free from that now. Not that it seems of any importance.’ He twirled his flint and held out the lighter. ‘For some years Sir John has been working on one invention which really would be valuable if he could bring it off. He has been trying to find an improved way of combining artificial silk with the finest linen. He thinks it might be possible to produce a fabric which would be as light and smooth as silk, while strong and uncreasing and giving good wear. He believes such a fabric, if cheap enough, would supersede both real and artificial silk. A jolly fine idea, if he could only do it. There’d be an immense future for such a product. Incidentally it would set the Ulster linen trade on its feet again, make it boom, in fact.’
‘Incidentally also it would make the inventor a millionaire—if he handled his cards well.’
‘Quite. Well, Sir John had found a name for his new product; he was going to call it “Sillin,” a portmanteau of “silk” and “linen,” you understand. But unfortunately that was all he had found. The product itself eluded him. His visit to Belfast was in connection with it.’
‘Just how, can you tell me?’
‘I can’t. He told me he was going to see an engineer in Belfast about it and as he might want to enter into