Читать книгу: «The Groote Park Murder»

CHAPTER I
THE DARTIE ROAD TUNNEL

JOSEPH ASHE, signalman in the employment of the Union of South Africa Government Railways, stood in his box at the west end of Middeldorp station, gazing meditatively down the yard to the platforms beyond.

It was his week on night duty, which he took in rotation with two other men. Not by any stretch of the imagination could the night shift in this particular box be called sweated labour. For the best part of an hour—indeed, since he had wearied reading and re-reading yesterday’s Middeldorp Record—Ashe had paced his cabin, or stood looking ruminatively out of its windows. For the slackest period of the twenty-four hours was just then drawing to a close. It was nearly six a.m., and since the north express had passed through shortly before four, no train had arrived or left. Except to let the engine of an early goods pass from the locomotive sheds opposite the cabin to the marshalling yards at the far end of the station, Ashe had not put his hand to a lever during the whole two hours.

He was now watching the platforms for the appearance of his mate, who was due to relieve him at six a.m. Every morning, when the hands of his clock drew to five minutes before the hour, the squat figure of the man next in the cycle would emerge from behind the Permanent Way Inspector’s hut at the end of No. 1 Platform, as though operated by the timepiece on some extension of the cuckoo principle. Can in hand, the man would come down the ramp, pass along the side of the line, and, crossing the neck of a group of carriage sidings, would reach the box in time to take over at the hour.

Suddenly a bell rang sharply, a single, clear, imperious stroke. Obedient, Ashe turned to an instrument placed at the back of the box, and marked with a brass label, ‘Gunter’s Kloof,’ and pressed a plunger. Again and again the bell sounded, and Ashe, having replied in the same code, pushed in the plunger and held it steady. With a slight click, a little card bearing the word ‘IN’ in black letters on a white ground shot from behind a tiny window in the instrument, and another card bearing in white letters on a red ground the word ‘OUT’ took its place. Ashe released the plunger, and, glancing at the clock, turned to a book lying open on the desk, and laboriously entered in spidery figures the time—5.57 a.m. At the same moment the door opened, and the relief man appeared.

‘That No. 17?’ queried the newcomer, as he placed his can beside the little stove and hung up his coat.

‘Ay, she’s running twelve minutes late,’ Ashe answered. ‘Warned at fifty-seven.’

‘No specials?’

‘Not so far.’

Some further conversation passed between the two men, then Ashe, having signed off, took his can and stepped out of the box.

It was a brilliant morning in late November. The sun, still low in the sky, was pleasantly warm after the chill which always obtains at night in South African uplands. Not a cloud was visible, and the air was extraordinarily clear and thin. Objects stood out, sharply defined, and throwing deep black shadows. Except for the faint rumble of an engine creeping out of the round-house, everything was very still.

Ashe descended the cabin steps and took his way along the railway in the opposite direction to that in which his mate had approached. He lived in a western suburb, and the railway was his most direct way home. The tracks, which were eight wide opposite the cabin, gradually converged towards the west, ’til at the Ballat Road overbridge, a quarter of a mile away, they had shrunk to the single main line which, after wandering interminably across the country, ended at Cape Town, nearly one thousand miles distant.

Beyond the Ballat Road bridge, the line curved sharply to the left, and in a cutting some twenty feet deep ran for a couple of hundred yards to a short tunnel, which carried one of the main streets of the town, Dartie Avenue, at a skew angle across the railway. To be in the centre of a city, the stretch of line between these bridges was extraordinarily secluded. Busy though both the streets in question were, all view from them was cut off by tall boardings carried up from the parapet of each bridge, and placed there originally to prevent the steam of passing trains from startling horses. At the top of the cutting at each side of the line the boundary was marked by a five-foot stone wall. Behind that, on the left side—the inside of the curve—were the houses of the town. The right-hand wall divided the railway from the Groote Park, a botanical gardens of exceptional size and luxuriance.

Ashe trudged slowly along the four foot, his eyes on the ground and his thoughts dwelling with satisfaction on the hot rashers and the clean, white sheets he was so soon to enjoy. He had almost reached the Dartie Avenue Tunnel when, looking up suddenly at the dark opening in the grey stonework, he saw something which made him halt abruptly.

Lying in the right-hand offset, close against the masonry of the side, and about twenty yards inside the mouth, was a body, apparently a man’s. Something in the attitude, even with the vague outline which was all that the gloom of the archway revealed, suggested disaster, and Ashe, after his first instinctive pause, hurried forward, half expecting what he would find.

His worst fears were confirmed as he reached the place and stood looking down with horror-stricken eyes at the battered and disfigured remains of what had once been a tall, strongly-built man. It was evident at a glance that he had been struck by a passing train, and there could be no doubt that death had been instantaneous. The injuries were terrible. The body seemed to have been dragged along the ground by the engine cow-catcher, rather than to have been struck and thrown cleanly aside. It looked even as if the head had got under the cow-catcher, for the back of the skull was crushed in like an eggshell, while the features were torn and unrecognisable as if from contact with the rough ballast. The back was similarly crushed and the chest scraped open. Three of the limbs were broken, and, what seemed to Ashe the most appalling spectacle of all, the fourth, the right arm, was entirely parted from the trunk and lay by itself between the rails some yards farther back along the line.

For some moments Ashe stood transfixed, overcome by the revolting sight. Then, pulling himself together, he turned and hurried back along the railway to report his discovery. ‘No. 17,’ the goods train he had accepted before going off duty, clattered past him near the Ballat Road bridge, and when he reached the station he found that its driver had seen the body and already given the alarm. The stationmaster, hastily summoned, had just arrived, and Ashe was able to let him have some additional details of the tragedy.

‘Police job,’ the stationmaster curtly decided. ‘You say the body is thrown clear of the trains?’

‘Up against the tunnel wall,’ Ashe agreed.

‘I’ll go and ’phone police headquarters now,’ went on the stationmaster. ‘You tell that man that’s just come off No. 17 that his engine will be wanted to run out to the place, and see Deane and get a passenger van shunted out. Then ’phone the west cabin what we’re going to do.’

The stationmaster hurried off, and Ashe turned to carry out his orders. Ten minutes later the special pulled out, having on board the stationmaster, Ashe, Sergeant Clarke of the City Police, as well as Dr Bakker, a police surgeon, and two constables. It stopped a few yards short of the mouth of the tunnel, and the men, clambering down from the van, went forward on foot. Even the hardened nerves of the police were not proof against the horrible sight which met their eyes on reaching the body, and all six men stood for some moments, shocked into silence. Then, with a muttered oath, Sergeant Clarke took charge.

‘We’ll not touch anything for a minute until we have a look round,’ he said, and, suiting the action to the word, he began to take stock of his surroundings.

The dead man was lying parallel to the rails in the offset, or flat track at the side of the line. He was dressed in a suit of light brown tweed, with brown tie and soft collar. On his feet were tan shoes, and his soft brown felt hat, cut nearly in two, lay between the rails some yards nearer to the station. The gleam of a gold watch chain showed beneath his partly open coat.

The manner of the happening was writ only too clearly on the ground. The first mark, some thirty yards farther into the tunnel, was a small stain of blood on the rail, and from there to where the body lay, the traces of the disaster were sadly apparent. Save as to the man’s identity, there was no mystery here. Each one of the little group standing round could reconstruct for himself how the tragedy had occurred.

Sergeant Clarke, having observed these details, turned slowly to his companions.

‘Who found the body?’ he asked, producing a well-thumbed notebook.

Both Ashe and the driver claiming the distinction, Clarke took statements from each.

‘It’s clear from the marks,’ he went on, ‘that the man was killed by an incoming train?’ The stationmaster at whom he glanced, nodded decisively. ‘Now, what trains pass through during the night?’

‘Down trains?’ the stationmaster answered. ‘There are four. First there’s a local passenger from Harrisonville; gets here at 8.50 in the evening. The next is the mail, the through express for the north. It passes here at 11.10 p.m. Then there’s a goods gets in about midnight, and another goods about 2.30 a.m. These are not very regular, but we can get you the time they arrived last night.’

The sergeant nodded as he laboriously noted these details.

‘What about the engines of those trains?’ he asked. ‘No marks found on any of them?’

‘None reported so far. All the engines come off here—this is a locomotive depot, you understand—and they’re all examined by the shed staff before stabling. But we can have them looked over again if you think necessary.’

‘It might be as well.’ The sergeant wrote for some seconds, then resumed with a slightly consequential air: ‘Now tell me, who would be the last person to walk along the line, I mean the last person before this’—he looked at his notes—‘this Signalman Ashe?’

‘I could hardly answer that question offhand,’ the stationmaster said slowly. ‘The last I know of would be the permanent way men leaving work about six last night. But some of the station staff or the locomotive men might have been by later.’ He turned to the signalman. ‘What about you, Ashe? Don’t you come to work by the railway?’

‘Sometimes,’ the man admitted, ‘but there weren’t no body here when I passed last night.’ The sergeant fixed him with a cold eye.

‘What time was that?’ he demanded.

‘About 8.48. My shift doesn’t begin ’til 10.00 p.m., but last night I came in earlier because I wanted to make a call up town first. But I know the time it was because No. 43—that’s the passenger from Harrisonville he was speaking of’—Ashe jerked his head towards the stationmaster—‘she passed me just a few yards on the other side of the tunnel. If she had put this man down I should have seen him.’

‘But it was dark at that time.’

‘Ay, it was dark, but it weren’t here for all that.’ Ashe expectorated skilfully. ‘Why, if it had been, I’d have fallen over it, for I was walking down the offset.’

Again Clarke wrote laboriously.

‘Well, Stationmaster,’ he said at length, ‘I think we’ll get the body moved, and then I should like to have those engines looked at again. I suppose, Doctor, there’s nothing you can do here?’

Dr Bakker having signified his approval, the remains were lifted on to a stretcher and placed on the floor of the van, the melancholy little party climbed on board, and the train set back to Middeldorp station. There the body was carried to a disused office, where it would remain until arrangements could be made to remove it to the morgue. The railwaymen were dismissed, and Dr Bakker and the sergeant set themselves to make the necessary examination.

The clothes were soon stripped off, and Clarke took them to the table in an adjoining room, while his colleague busied himself with the remains. First the sergeant emptied the pockets, making a list of the articles found. With one exception, these were of the kind usually carried by a well-to-do man of the middle class. There was a gold watch and chain, a knife, a bunch of keys, a half-filled cigarette case, some fifteen shillings in loose money, a pocketbook and three folded papers. But in addition to these, there was an object which at once excited the sergeant’s curiosity—a small automatic pistol, quite clean and apparently new. Clarke drew out the magazine and found it full of shells. There was no trace in the barrel of a shot having been fired.

But, interesting as was this find, it offered no aid to identification, and Clarke turned with some eagerness to the pocketbook and papers.

The latter turned out to be letters. Two were addressed to Mr Albert Smith, c/o Messrs. Hope Bros., 120-130 Mees Street, Middeldorp, and the third to the same gentleman at 25 Rotterdam Road. Sergeant Clarke knew Hope Bros. establishment, a large provision store in the centre of the town, and he assumed that Mr Smith must have been an employee, the Rotterdam Road address being his residence. If so, his problem, or part of it at all events, seemed to be solved.

As a matter of routine he glanced through the letters. The two addressed to the store were about provision business matters, the other was a memorandum containing a number of figures apparently relating to betting transactions.

Though Sergeant Clarke was satisfied he already had sufficient information to lead to the deceased’s identification, he went on in his stolid, routine way to complete his inquiry. Laying aside the letters, he picked up the pocketbook. It was marked with the same name, Albert Smith, and contained a roll of notes value six pounds, some of Messrs. Hope Bros. trade cards with ‘Mr A. Smith’ in small type on the lower left-hand corner, and a few miscellaneous papers, none of which seemed of interest.

The contents of the pockets done with, he turned his attention to the clothes themselves, noting the manufacturers or sellers of the various articles. None of the garments were marked except the coat, which bore a tab inside the breast pocket with the tailor’s printed address, and the name ‘A. Smith’ and a date of some six months earlier, written in ink.

His immediate investigation finished, Sergeant Clarke returned to Dr Bakker in the other room.

‘Man’s name is Albert Smith, sir,’ he said. ‘Seems to have worked in Hope Bros. store in Mees Street. Have you nearly done, sir?’

Dr Bakker, who was writing, threw down his pen.

‘Just finished, Sergeant.’

He collected some sheets of paper and passed them to the other. ‘This will be all you want, I fancy.’

‘Thank you, sir. You’ve lost no time.’

‘No, I want to get away as soon as possible.’

‘Well, just a moment, please, until I look over this.’

The manuscript was in the official form and read:

‘11th November.

‘To the Chief Constable of Middeldorp.

‘SIR,—I beg to report that this morning at 6.25 a.m. I was called by Sergeant Clarke to examine a body which had just been found on the railway near the north end of the Dartie Avenue Tunnel. I find as follows:

‘The body is that of a man of about thirty-five, 6 feet 0 inches in height, broad and strongly built, and with considerable muscular development. (Here followed some measurements and technical details.) As far as discernable without an autopsy, the man was in perfect health. The cause of death was shock produced by the following injuries: (Here followed a list.) All of these are consistent with the theory that he was struck by the cowcatcher of a railway engine in rapid motion.

‘I am of the opinion the man had been dead from eight to ten hours when found.

‘I am, etc.,

‘PIETER BAKKER.’

‘Thank you, Doctor, there’s not much doubt about that part of it.’ Clarke put the sheets carefully away in his pocket. ‘But I should like to know what took the man there. It’s a rum time for anyone to be walking along the line. Looks a bit like suicide to me. What do you say, sir?’

‘Not improbable.’ The doctor rose and took his hat. ‘But you’ll easily find out. You will let me know about the inquest?’

‘Of course, sir. As soon as it’s arranged.’

The stationmaster had evidently been watching the door, for hardly had Dr Bakker passed out of earshot when he appeared, eager for information.

‘Well, Sergeant,’ he queried, ‘have you been able to identify him yet?’

‘I have, Stationmaster,’ the officer replied, a trifle pompously. ‘His name is Albert Smith, and he was connected with Hope Bros. store in Mees Street.’

The stationmaster whistled.

‘Mr Smith of Hope Bros.!’ he repeated. ‘You don’t say! Why, I knew him well. He was often down here about accounts for carriage and claims. A fine upstanding man he was too, and always very civil spoken. This is a terrible business, Sergeant.’

The sergeant nodded, a trifle impatiently. But the stationmaster was curious, and went on:

‘I’ve been thinking it over, Sergeant, and the thing I should like to know is,’ he lowered his voice impressively, ‘what was he doing there?’

‘Well,’ said Clarke, ‘what would you say yourself?’

The stationmaster shook his head.

‘I don’t like it,’ he declared. ‘I don’t like it at all. That there piece of line doesn’t lead to anywhere Mr Smith should want to go to—not at that time of night anyhow. It looks bad. It looks to me’—again he sank his voice—‘like suicide.’

‘Like enough,’ Clarke admitted coldly. ‘Look here, I want to go right on down to Mees Street. The body can wait here, I take it? One of my men will be in charge.’

‘Oh, certainly.’ The stationmaster became cool also. ‘That room is not wanted at present.’

‘What about those engines?’ went on Clarke. ‘Have you been able to find marks on any of them?’

‘I was coming to that.’ Importance crept once more into the stationmaster’s manner. ‘I had a further search made, with satisfactory results. Traces of blood were found on the cowcatcher of No. 1317. She worked in the mail, that’s the one that arrived at 11.10 p.m. So it was then it happened.’

This agreed with the medical evidence, Clarke thought, as he drew out his book and made the usual note. Having made a further entry to the effect that the stationmaster estimated the speed of this train at about thirty-five miles an hour when passing through the tunnel, Clarke asked for the use of the telephone, and reported his discoveries to headquarters. Then he left for the Mees Street store, while, started by the stationmaster, the news of Albert Smith’s tragic end spread like wildfire.