Him Vandam approached rather differently, asking him to give a list of all the people whom he could remember having passed through the corridor on that Wednesday night. The man would have made an ideal witness, being evidently very observant and having all his facts clear and sharp-edged. He had begun work shortly after eleven, and from that until the night porter arrived at 3.00 no one entered or left No. 78. He described accurately the porter’s visit with the tea, his exit in a couple of minutes empty-handed, Swayne’s departure some twenty minutes later, and the carrying down of the luggage.
As far as it went, this was conclusive, but it didn’t satisfy Vandam. Under Bragg’s guidance he interviewed a number of other servants, chambermaids, lift boys, shoeblacks, all of whom confirmed as far as they were able what he had already heard, and all of whom picked out Swayne’s photograph from among the others. Then he asked to see No. 78, made certain that no one could have left through the windows—they were thirty feet up and overlooked the main street—went into the question of fire escapes, and at last finally and completely satisfied himself that Swayne had been in the building between half-past ten on the Wednesday night and twenty-five minutes past three on the Thursday morning.
‘Now for Gresham Bros., the car owners,’ thought Vandam as, after making the polite clerk a friend for life by promising to explain the business later and telling him how much he had helped him, he left the Bellevue and turned eastwards towards ’sGravenhagen Street.
Here, after some trouble, he found Jan Voogdt. The driver remembered the occasion in question. He had driven the fare he had picked up at the Bellevue at 3.25 to the railway station. A porter had there taken charge of the traveller’s luggage. He knew the porter and remembered his name. He was a coloured man called Christmas White.
Vandam, methodical and painstaking as ever, went on to the station and looked up White. Like the taxi man, the latter also remembered the midnight passenger. He had arrived in Jan Voogdt’s taxi, and he, White, had put his luggage into a sleeping berth on the train. The traveller had had his ticket and the berth was reserved for him.
To make assurance doubly sure, Vandam visited the booking clerk. Here he learned that Swayne, whose appearance the clerk knew, had taken his ticket and engaged his berth on the Monday previous.
Vandam was satisfied. Swayne had certainly left by the train in question. He was doubtless going for the Warwick Castle, due out at 7.00 p.m. on the Saturday evening. It would be well, however, to make sure of this, in case his subsequent investigation satisfied him of the man’s guilt. He therefore despatched a code wire to the Capetown police, asking them to ascertain the point.
As Vandam walked slowly back to headquarters, he ran over in his mind what he had learned up to the present. Swayne had been staying for some days at the Bellevue Hotel. He had left the building about five o’clock on the fatal Wednesday evening, and had not been seen again until 10.30. Then he had come in, paid his bill, and remained in his room until it was time to leave to catch the south-bound train. He had travelled by that train, and had presumably embarked on the steamer for England.
Smith had left his room about ten minutes past eight that night. The questions, therefore, which still remained to be settled were, first, where was Swayne between 8.10 and 10.30, and second, where was Smith during the same period? In other words, could the murder have taken place between those hours?
Vandam recollected that the medical evidence was not inconsistent with such a supposition. Dr Bakker had examined the body between seven and eight on the Thursday morning, and had given it as his opinion that death had taken place about ten hours previously. The Inspector was aware that such testimony was not conclusive, but so far as it went, it supported the idea.
That evening, when he had finished his day’s work and was sitting smoking in his most comfortable armchair, Vandam’s thoughts returned to the case. What, he wondered, had taken place in that terrible shed in the Groote Park? What was the sequence of events which had led up to the tragedy? Was Swayne really the murderer? Had his quarrel with Smith been about the pretty barmaid, Jane Louden? Though at the moment he could not reply to these questions, he swore to himself that it would not be long before he learned their answers.
Presently he began to consider details. How had the victim been lured to his doom? By an anonymous letter? Or by one forged in Miss Louden’s handwriting? Vandam’s experience suggested something of the kind.
He tried to picture the happening at the shed, Smith’s arrival, his feeling his way in through the enshrouding darkness of the night, perhaps his whispered ‘Are you there?’ the dull thud of the sandbag on the unsuspecting head, the collapse of that powerful frame into a shapeless heap …
Vandam, reconstructing the scene, saw suddenly the significance of the sweeping of the floor and of the newspapers. Smith could not be allowed to fall on the earthy floor. Still less could Swayne roll the body over as he searched the pockets for the document which in all probability had been used to lure the victim to his doom. Why not? Simply because the clothes would be stained by earth, stained a different colour from the railway ballast, and would therefore afford a clue to the sharp-eyed detective who would be called in if any suspicion about the ‘accident’ arose. To lay newspapers on the floor would be an obvious precaution. But newspapers, covering an area on which was spread little heaps of earth and small stones, would tear when pressure came on them. Therefore the heaps of earth and the stones must be removed. The floor must be swept. And when the work of the newspapers was done, when the clothes had been searched and the document removed, and the body dragged down to where the accident was to be staged, these marks left in the shed must be removed. The papers must vanish. And how could this be done more efficiently than by burning? Vandam saw that Swayne would have to burn them. And he would have to throw back the earth over the floor so as to remove the signs of the sweeping.
Smoking feverishly, Vandam believed he could picture the whole scene: Swayne crouching, sandbag in hand and with murder in his heart, behind the door of the shed; Smith, possibly suspecting a trap, but still forced to go on, groping his way cautiously to the place; his sudden instinctive realisation of danger; the dull thud of the sandbag; the limp form falling; the dragging of it in so that the door might be shut and a light used; the search for a possible incriminating document; the extinction of the light, and the terrible, staggering journey with the corpse from that awful shed, across the wall and down on to the railway below. Vandam seemed to see it all; the dragging of the body into the tunnel; the leaving it across the rails; the return to the shed; the burning of the papers and the scattering of the earth; the stealthy crossing of the railway; the hiding of the sandbag cover and the hammer. The hammer! Vandam was brought up sharp in his imaginings. The hammer did not fit in. What had the hammer been used for?
Here was a problem on which at first light seemed unattainable. The Inspector rose to his feet and began silently pacing the room. For twenty minutes he strode up and down, his head bent forward, his lips moving as he put his thoughts into words, and then at last the sought for idea flashed into his mind. Was the hammer not a precautionary measure? Had it not been brought to the site, and used, because there was an element of doubt about the efficacy of the sandbag? A sandbag left no marks. How was Swayne, a layman without medical knowledge, in the imperfect light of the shed and in his hurry and excitement, to be quite sure that the sandbag had done its work? He must run no risk of his victim being merely stunned. He must be certain that there would be no revival in that body before the train came.
The more Vandam thought over it, the better his theory seemed to work in. He now saw why the sandbag had been used in the first instance. There must be no blood in the shed. And blood must not stain the murderer’s clothes as he dragged the body to the railway. But the railway once reached, he could complete his ghastly work. Blood on the line did not matter; it would be expected.
As Vandam thought over his theory, he felt distinctly pleased with himself. Starting from nothing, he had evolved a complete conception of what might have occurred, from the original motive almost down to the last detail. Of such an achievement he might be justly proud.
But he was under no illusions on the matter. He fully recognised that his idea was a mere guess, and he quite saw that some new fact might upset the whole of it and leave him as far from a solution as ever. However, his theory was