his brain to keener and more incisive thought. Many a criminal was brought to justice, he used to claim, as a result of his coffee habit.
He had decided that his first business must be a call at Messrs. Hope Bros. store in Mees Street. The knowledge gained since Sergeant Clarke had been there earlier in the day necessitated inquiries of a different kind to those already made, and he entered the great building and asked for the manager in the hope and belief that before he came out he would have learned at least the direction in which his subsequent inquiries should tend.
Mr Crawley, it seemed, was again out, and, like the sergeant, he was received by the assistant manager, Mr Hurst.
‘I am sorry to trouble you again about this affair,’ Vandam began, when he had introduced himself and stated the subject of his visit, ‘but our people at headquarters are not quite satisfied that we have really got to the bottom of it. They fear it may not have been the accident it looked like at first sight.’
The assistant manager stared. Vandam, whose golden rule was to give nothing away and distrust everybody, watched him keenly and unobtrusively. But there was neither embarrassment nor undue interest in the man’s manner as he exclaimed:
‘Now just what do you mean by that, Inspector?’
Vandam leaned forward and spoke confidentially.
‘There’s a suggestion of suicide.’
Mr Hurst whistled.
‘So that’s the idea,’ he returned. ‘What makes you think that?’
‘We can’t see what else would have taken him to the railway at that time.’
‘Not very conclusive, is it? That your only reason?’
‘Not exactly,’ Vandam answered slowly. ‘There are others. But what do you think of the suggestion?’
Mr Hurst moved impatiently.
‘I don’t think much of it,’ he declared. ‘Smith wasn’t the suicide kind, not by a long way. Too darned fond of himself.’
‘A coward, you mean?’
‘No, not a coward. I mean he was always out to get the best for himself. Suicide wouldn’t be his line except as a last resource, and, so far as I know, he was not in difficulties.’
‘You don’t seem to have liked him very much.’
‘I didn’t like him at all,’ Hurst returned with some warmth, ‘though maybe it’s not quite the thing to be saying so with the chap just dead. But his death doesn’t alter facts. I didn’t like him and I don’t know anyone else who did.’
‘How do you account for that?’
Mr Hurst shrugged his shoulders.
‘Hard to say. Manner perhaps. But he wasn’t popular anyhow.’
‘It’s always an astonishment to me,’ Vandam remarked easily, ‘what a difference manner makes—a thing, as you might say, that there’s really nothing in. However, that’s by the way. You tell me this deceased gentleman was not popular. Now, was there anyone he actually had a row with?’
Mr Hurst favoured his visitor with a keen glance.
‘Plenty,’ he said, dryly. ‘I had a row with him myself last week. He has got across most of us at one time or another.’
‘I don’t mean trifling differences,’ Vandam insisted. ‘Were there any really serious quarrels?’
‘I could hardly tell,’ Hurst answered. ‘Once, I know, he had a scrap with another man—one of our own staff too. I went into one of the yards and I found him and this chap, a man called Swayne, fighting rings round with half the storemen looking on. Would you call that a serious quarrel?’
‘I could hardly tell either,’ Vandam smiled. ‘Were they in earnest about it?’
‘In earnest! They were out for each other’s blood. It was the devil’s own job to get them separated. They were evenly matched; both big, strongly developed men, and for a time it might have gone either way. Then Smith got Swayne down, and I wouldn’t mind betting he’d have throttled him only for the others. They rushed in and dragged him off. Swayne was nearly unconscious. They were both pretty wild at first, and each swore he would do the other in, but next day the thing seemed to have blown over.’
‘Which was in the wrong?’
‘I don’t know. No one ever did know what started it. But Smith was always nagging at Swayne, and I expect he went too far. I don’t know how Swayne stood it the way he did.’
‘Was that long ago?’
‘About a month, I should think.’
‘It looks as if Smith had some hold over Swayne.’
‘That’s what I’ve thought more than once. Swayne isn’t a bad chap and he’s certainly no coward, but he always seemed to have the wind up where Smith was concerned.’
‘He’s on your staff, you say?’
‘Yes, he’s our sales manager.’
‘I’d better see him,’ Vandam declared. ‘He might know something that would help.’
‘Then I’m afraid you’ll have some way to look. He’s just gone to England on three months’ leave to visit his relatives. Lucky chap! I wish I could get a trip like that.’
Inspector Vandam’s hopes, which had been steadily rising during the conversation, suffered a sudden drop.
‘Oh,’ he said helplessly, ‘he’s gone to England, has he? But you say he’s coming back?’
‘Yes. We’re keeping his job for him. He’s a smart fellow, too good to lose.’
‘Is it long since he left?’
‘Only just gone. He left last night.’
The night before! The night of the murder! Vandam’s hopes made a sharp recovery. Certainly he must find out more about this Swayne.
He resumed his interrogation. It seemed that Smith had also been at loggerheads with no less a person than Mr Crawley, the manager. They had had friction over some private business, the details of which Hurst did not know. But Crawley had not allowed the matter to affect their business relations, and Hurst believed it also had blown over.
Vandam asked a number of other questions, but without gaining much more information. In spite of his careful probing, he could hear of no one else whose relations with Smith were really suspicious. Therefore, having obtained the address of Swayne’s landlady with the object of prosecuting inquiries there, he thanked Hurst for his trouble, and took his leave.
His next business was at Smith’s rooms, and a few minutes’ walk brought him to Rotterdam Road. It was a street of compara-
tively new houses, mostly residential, but with a sprinkling of shops and offices. No. 25 was wedged in between a tobacconist’s and an exhibition of gas stoves, and showed in its lower windows cards bearing the legend, ‘Apartments.’ The Inspector knocked at the door.
It was opened by an elderly woman with hard features and a careworn expression, who explained that she was the landlady. Upon Vandam stating his business, she invited him in, and answered all his questions freely. But here he did not learn a great deal beyond the mere fact that Smith had occupied rooms in the house. Mrs Regan seemed genuinely shocked at the news of her lodger’s death, though Vandam suspected this was due more to the loss of a paying client and the unwelcome notoriety which would be brought on her establishment than to personal regard for the deceased.
It seemed that Smith shared a sitting-room with a Mr Holt, a bank official, though the two men occupied separate bedrooms. On the previous evening, the night of the murder, Smith had returned at about six for supper, his usual custom. Holt was later that night and did not turn up until past seven. Mrs Regan