They retraced their steps down the railway, halting opposite the potting shed.
‘Let’s see,’ Vandam thought aloud. ‘We may assume the murderer carried the body down from the shed and left it on the line there, so as to make the thing look like an accident. Then he cleared off. Now, how? Where did he leave the railway?’
He stood for a moment humming a tune, then went on:
‘It’s unlikely that he would go through the Ballat Road bridge, because the station yard starts at its far end and he would fear being seen by a shunter or signalman. And it’s even less likely that he would go in the opposite direction, out of the far end of the tunnel, for about a hundred yards farther on is the Edward Street level crossing, well lighted and with a gatekeeper in charge. Where, then, would he go?’
Sergeant Clarke had recovered from his confusion.
‘Over there, sir, I should think. There’s a passage for getting to the yards of those houses runs along back of the wall. A man could dodge over there without being seen, and slip out at the end into Craven Street when the coast was clear.’
‘Exactly what I think,’ Vandam agreed. ‘Let us walk along and see if we can’t find tracks going up the slope.’
A moment later, Clarke gave a hail.
‘Here you are, sir,’ he called. ‘Plain as you’d wish.’
Stretching up the bank were similar though fainter traces to these leading to the park on the opposite side. Vandam spent several minutes examining them, and at last was satisfied that someone had passed in each direction, up and down.
He worked gradually up the bank and was about to climb the wall to look for traces on the other side when, glancing down, he stopped suddenly. At the foot of the wall, embedded in the grass, lay a few scattered stones. His sharp eye had seen that one of these had been recently moved. Though it was still in its bed, it was not fitting properly, and instead of the grass growing up to it there was a trace of fresh brown earth round its edges. Vandam stooped and with an effort lifted it. As he looked into the hole which it uncovered he whistled.
Beneath the stone lay two objects, either of which would have filled him with interest. One was an ordinary two-pound joiner’s hammer, almost new, judging by the varnish on the handle. But it was not on the varnish that Vandam’s eyes were fixed. On the head was a dull stain of blood!
The other object looked harmless enough in comparison, and yet to Vandam it seemed even more sinister. It was a tiny roll of stout canvas, not unlike a belt. Vandam picked it up and it resolved itself into a little bag about three inches in diameter and two feet six long. Both ends were sewn up tightly, but near one of them the canvas had been gashed with a knife. Vandam held his hand under the hole and shook the little tube. Some grains of sand fell out.
‘Just so,’ he thought. ‘Sandbagged in that shed. But what in all this earthly world was done with the hammer?’ He turned to his subordinate. ‘Here, Clarke, bring along that hammer. But don’t touch the clean part of the handle; there might be a fingerprint on it somewhere.’
Postponing consideration of his treasure-trove, Vandam continued his search. He climbed the wall and found himself in the lane leading into Craven Street. But its surface was hard, and though he examined it carefully from end to end, he could find no trace of anyone having passed.
Having sent Clarke for an acetylene lamp, Vandam returned to the potting shed and began one of his painstaking examinations. Every inch of the floor and shelf was scrutinised, every grain of the little heaps of soil which lay scattered about was sifted through his fingers. But his discoveries were negligible. One thing only he found, and that a triviality. The ashes in the corner were the remains of newspapers. Beyond that there was nothing.
He stood motionless, pondering over the tragic business.
First of all he wondered at what time the murder had taken place. Before 11.10 on the previous evening obviously, because the body had been struck by a train at that hour. But how much before? The murderer would want some margin of time to get the body into position and to allow for unexpected checks. But he would make this margin as short as possible, to reduce to a minimum the risk of the remains being found before the train passed. It seemed to Vandam that the meeting in the shed must have taken place about half-past ten or a little later. This, of course, was guesswork, but he could hardly picture even so cold-blooded a criminal as this ruffian must be, despatching his victim at an early hour in the evening and then sitting in the shed with the corpse, waiting until it should be time to drag it down to the line.
A further point struck him. It would, of course, be dark at this hour. Would a light not therefore have been necessary in the shed? The burning of the papers, if that had been done at the same time, would certainly have made a light. What chance would there be of that light having been seen.
Quite a good chance, Vandam decided. Though the majority of the evening visitors to the park kept down at the other end near the electric arcs and the bandstand, isolated strollers might penetrate as far as the gardens. And the screen of evergreens, though thick, could not be depended on to prevent a light showing through. Therefore, if the affair was to be kept secret before those papers could have been burned or a light used, the door must have been shut. There was, of course, no window.
Hoskins had opened the door that morning from the outside, but he hadn’t touched the inside. The murderer’s fingerprints should therefore be intact.
Vandam brought his lamp to the back of the door, and he experienced a shock of real disappointment when he saw that the woodwork was too rough to receive impressions. He would get no help there.
He felt slightly overwhelmed as he thought of the variety of problems which awaited solution. Who was guilty of the murder? What was the motive? Was more than one person involved? How had Smith been lured to the shed? What was the meaning of the sweeping of the floor and the burning of the newspapers? What had been done with the hammer? These were but a few of the salient points, and on not one of them had Vandam the slightest suggestion to offer.
But he realised that this was the position of affairs at the beginning of every inquiry, and he was by no means downhearted. Rather was he pleased that what would undoubtedly prove one of the most thrilling and important cases of the year had fallen to his lot.
He did not see that he could learn anything more on the ground, and his next business must undoubtedly be to find out as much as possible of Smith’s life and personality. No doubt he would thus come across some clue which would lead him to the solution he desired.
Having sent Clarke to get a padlock put on the door of the shed, he returned to headquarters. There he tested the hammer for fingerprints, but unfortunately here again without result. Next he returned to the station, made a further examination of the murdered man’s clothes, took prints from the dead fingers, and lastly, having set in order the facts he had learnt, went in and had a long interview with his Chief.
INSPECTOR VANDAM, hot on a new case, was a very different person from the same man engaged in routine police work in his office. Not that he was at any time slack or lazy; he was naturally too efficient and hardworking for that. But the interest of a new mystery stimulated him to an enthusiasm which rendered him careless of rest or even food, and drove him on with a tireless energy until he had either found a solution of his problems or satisfied himself that none was obtainable.
In the present case, though it was considerably after his usual lunch hour when he left his Chief’s office, he contented himself with a five-minute pause for a sandwich and a cup of coffee in a restaurant before starting the next phase of his investigation. He never drank alcohol, saying that it stupefied him, while hot coffee, he held, stimulated his brain to keener and more incisive thought.