Death on the Boat Train

By John Rhode

Death on the Boat Train, first published in 1940, is book no. 32 in the series of mysteries featuring private detective Dr. Priestley and Scotland Yard's Superintendent Hanslet and Inspector Jimmy Waghorn. Author John Rhode, a pen name of Cecil Street (1884-1964), was a prolific writer of mostly detective novels, publishing more than 140 books between 1924 and 1961. From the dustjacket: Fair blew the wind from France, and the Channel steamer Isle of Jethou rolled a bit in the stiff southwesterly breeze. But the rough crossing didn’t upset the mysterious passenger who had locked himself into his cabin as soon as he boarded the boat at Guernsey. The same desire for seclusion had manifested itself on the boat-train to Waterloo, for the guard had been presented with a pound-note to reserve a compartment for Mr. Mystery. But did he travel alone? For at Waterloo the gentleman from Guernsey was a pretty genuine corpse. Death on the Boat-Train is a first-rate detective story, once again featuring the coldly clever scientific mind of Dr. Priestley, John Rhode’s brilliant creation.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Independent Publishers Group
• Release date: Nov 22, 2019
• ISBN: 9781839740688

John Rhode

John Rhode was born Cecil John Charles Street in 1884. He was the author of 140 novels under the names John Rhode, Miles Burton, and Cecil Wade before his death in 1964.

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Publisher’s Note

Although in most cases we have retained the Author’s original spelling and grammar to authentically reproduce the work of the Author and the original intent of such material, some additional notes and clarifications have been added for the modern reader’s benefit.

We have also made every effort to include all maps and illustrations of the original edition the limitations of formatting do not allow of including larger maps, we will upload as many of these maps as possible.

DEATH ON THE BOAT TRAIN

A Dr. Priestley Detective Story

JOHN RHODE

Death on the Boat Train was originally published in 1940 by Dodd, Mead & Company, New York.

In this edition of Death on the Boat Train, the UK English spellings have been changed, in nearly all cases, to those used in the United States.

TABLE OF CONTENTS

Contents

TABLE OF CONTENTS 3

CHAPTER ONE 4

CHAPTER TWO 11

CHAPTER THREE 19

CHAPTER FOUR 27

CHAPTER FIVE 37

CHAPTER SIX 47

CHAPTER SEVEN 55

CHAPTER EIGHT 63

CHAPTER NINE 71

CHAPTER TEN 79

CHAPTER ELEVEN 91

CHAPTER TWELVE 103

CHAPTER THIRTEEN 112

CHAPTER FOURTEEN 122

CHAPTER FIFTEEN 132

CHAPTER SIXTEEN 142

REQUEST FROM THE PUBLISHER 154

CHAPTER ONE

Acting on information received, in this particular instance over the telephone, Inspector James Waghorn of the Criminal Investigation Department put on his hat and left his room at Scotland Yard.

It was a fine evening in early summer, just after eight o’clock on Wednesday, June 7th. Jimmy, as he was familiarly known to his associates, walked briskly over Westminster Bridge, cursing the fate that put him at the beck and call of every unintelligent member of the Metropolitan Police. In another half-hour he would have been free to hand over his spell of duty to a colleague and go home. And now, goodness only knew what he might find himself let in for.

As it happened the word home had acquired a very special and intimate meaning for Jimmy. In its concrete form it was represented by a cozy little flat overlooking Clapham Common. But it was not so much the flat itself as its other occupant upon whom Jimmy’s thoughts were fixed. For it was barely a fortnight since he had returned from the most blissful honeymoon that any man had ever had. And Diana? Well, there simply wasn’t any other woman like her in the world.

Thus Jimmy’s thoughts when he reached the eastern end of the bridge and turned the corner leading towards St. Philip’s Hospital. He had not gone many paces before a uniformed sergeant approached him and saluted.

Sergeant Pierce, he reported. I was on the look-out for you, sir.

Well, here I am, Sergeant, Jimmy replied briskly. What’s it all about?

Gentlemen found dead or dying in a train at Waterloo, sir, said the sergeant with the deliberate air of a man who has committed certain leading facts to memory. The railway people called up an ambulance which took him to St. Philip’s. The police station was informed and I went to take particulars, sir.

Well, you took them, I suppose, said Jimmy impatiently. What did you ring up the Yard for? No suspicion of foul play, is there? You’re not going to suggest the man was murdered? Who is he, anyway?

Pierce seemed slightly overwhelmed by this flood of questions. I took what particulars I could, sir, he replied. But there’s nothing to show who the gentleman is. And besides, the doctor says he can’t quite make it out. So I thought it my duty to get on to headquarters for further instructions, sir.

I see, said Jimmy. The man’s dead by now, I gather? Where is he?

In the mortuary, sir, just here. I’ve got the key.

They entered the mortuary together and Pierce led the way to a slab upon which was lying a body covered with a sheet. The sergeant drew this back, exposing the head and face of a man between fifty and sixty. It was a resolute, rather cruel face, Jimmy decided, after a minute or so of silent inspection. Dark hair beginning to turn grey, clean-shaven lips and chin, slightly hooked nose, eyes set deeply under heavy overhanging brows. But on the whole no striking characteristic by which to distinguish this individual from possibly hundreds of others resembling him.

At Jimmy’s nod Pierce drew up the sheet again.

It’s just a matter of routine, said the inspector quietly. You found no clue to his identity, you say? Those are his personal effects at the foot of the slab, I suppose?

Yes, sir. The clothes he was wearing and the suitcase found in the carriage with him.

Right. Slip round to the nearest telephone. Ring up the Yard and tell them that Inspector Waghorn wants a photographer sent round here as soon as possible. Then come back.

Pierce saluted and departed on his errand. Jimmy, left alone in the mortuary, set to work to examine the articles laid out at the foot of the slab. He began with the clothing the dead man had been wearing. A woollen vest, a pair of pants and a colored cotton shirt. These were of very ordinary quality and apparently quite new. A pair of grey silk socks, not new, but with a remarkably expensive feel about them. A soft collar which matched the shirt and had obviously been bought with it. A cheap grey tie with black spots, also quite new. A pair of common metal cuff links and two very ordinary collar studs, front and back.

Nothing out of the common about the underclothing, Jimmy thought. In that respect the dead man’s taste seemed to have been on the economical side, but for the luxurious tendency for silk socks. Jimmy turned to the outer garments, beginning with the hat. This was grey, made of soft felt and evidently far from new. But the hat possessed one rather curious feature. An oval patch inside the crown showed where a label had been removed, and this label had, no doubt, borne the name of the firm from which the hat had been bought.

The coat and trousers were no more informative. The former was a sports coat of rough tweed, the latter were of grey flannel. Neither bore any indication of the tailor who had made them. Jimmy, after a careful inspection, came to the conclusion that they had been bought ready-made and very little worn. A pair of brown shoes, certainly not new but in excellent condition, and a cheap light raincoat completed the inventory of the clothing.

A plain white linen handkerchief with no initial or laundry-mark was knotted together at the four corners and contained the articles found in the dead man’s pockets. Jimmy undid the knots and frowned at the collection thus revealed. Surely no man travelling by train could have carried less about his person. Six one-pound currency notes and a quantity of small change, silver and copper, amounting to twelve shillings and fourpence. A Yale key which Jimmy examined with more than ordinary curiosity, for the number which it had once borne had been filed away. And finally, a first-class return ticket from Guernsey to London, bearing the current date, June 7th, from which the outward coupons Guernsey to Southampton and Southampton to Waterloo had been removed.

All that remained now was a small brown imitation leather suitcase. Jimmy opened this and took out the contents one by one. A pair of silk pajamas which looked as though they had never been worn. A set of underclothing exactly similar to that which the dead man had been wearing. The usual shaving and washing tackle. A brown woollen muffler. A paper package containing a quantity of ham sandwiches. Some of the sandwiches had apparently been eaten and the package tied up again carelessly.

Pierce reappeared as Jimmy finished his examination.

The photographer will be here in a few minutes, sir, he reported.

Good man, Jimmy replied. He nodded towards the slab. You said he was found dead in a train at Waterloo. What train was it?

The boat-train from the Channel Islands, sir, said Pierce. It got in at 7.10 this evening, and they found him unconscious in a first-class carriage.

Jimmy nodded. I see. Well, he had a ticket from Guernsey, so at least we know where he came from. The next thing for you to do is to find the doctor who saw him when he was admitted and ask him if he would mind coming round here and having a word with me.

A few minutes later the house physician appeared and nodded cheerfully to Jimmy. Good-evening, Inspector, he said. It’s about that poor chap over there, I suppose? The ambulance brought him in just after half-past seven. He was dead then, but he hadn’t been dead very long, a matter of minutes rather than hours.

What did he die of? Jimmy asked.

The doctor glanced at him shrewdly. The post-mortem will determine that, I expect, he replied.

Jimmy smiled. I admire your caution, Doctor. But won’t you give me your personal opinion? Not necessarily for publication, but as a guarantee of good faith, as the papers say.

I’d willingly give you my opinion if I had one, the doctor replied. But, between ourselves, I don’t quite know what to make of him. Here’s a man travelling alone, and therefore presumably not at the point of death when he began his journey. And yet he’s found dead at the end of it and from no apparent cause. By which I mean that I have examined the body thoroughly and have failed to find any signs whatever of external injuries.

He must have been suffering from some fatal disease when he started, Jimmy suggested.

The doctor shook his head. No disease that I have ever come across, he replied. "You may take it that to the professional eye any fatal disease has its own characteristic appearances. Nine times out of ten I can make a pretty shrewd guess as to the disease a patient is suffering from before I start to examine him. But I couldn’t in this case.

Besides, there are very few diseases which terminate as suddenly as all that. As I say, this man must have been capable of walking about a couple of hours or so before he died. Sudden heart failure, you might think. Yes, but he doesn’t look in the least like a heart failure case. I’ll admit, if you like, that I’m genuinely puzzled.

Then I may take it that there is something mysterious about the man’s death? Jimmy asked.

It depends what you mean by that. It is, in a sense, mysterious from a medical point of view. The post-mortem will probably reveal some very unusual organic condition. But I don’t think the mystery is likely to concern the police. As I have already told you, there is no sign of violence or external injury. If you’re all that interested you’d better come round and see us again after the post-mortem.

A minute or two after the doctor had left the mortuary the official photographer arrived. Under Jimmy’s supervision a number of photographs of the dead man were taken. Jimmy then made the necessary measurements, height, chest measurement and so forth. This done he jotted down in his notebook a full description of the man and the clothes he had been wearing. At last he left the mortuary and returned to Scotland Yard.

It was almost ten o’clock when he reached his flat. As he put the key in the lock he heard voices within and wondered idly who Diana might be entertaining. His curiosity was satisfied when he walked into the lounge. There, sprawling in his own particular arm-chair, a bottle of beer on the table beside him was his immediate superior, Superintendent Hanslet.

Diana, who had heard him come in, got up and kissed him unaffectedly. Whatever have you been doing all this time? she asked.

Yes, that’s just what I want to know, Hanslet chimed in. I call it disgraceful behavior on the part of a newly married man to stay out as late as this.

I’ll tell you all about it in a minute, Jimmy replied. What are you doing here anyhow? Trying to undermine my marital bliss?

Hanslet chuckled. I shouldn’t stand a chance, I’m afraid. I’m nearly old enough to be Diana’s grandfather and she knows it. No, I knew you’d be off duty soon after eight this evening so when I’d had my supper I came round for a quiet chat. Your good lady told me to wait until you came back, and fed me with beer. So here I am.

Supper! Jimmy exclaimed. You lucky beggar. I’ve been sinking with hunger for the last couple of hours. What’s on the menu, Diana?

There’s a veal and ham pie keeping warm in the oven and I’ve got some new potatoes, she replied. I’ll bring them in here on a tray and then you can talk to us while you’re feeding.

In the intervals of attacking the pie, Jimmy told them the story of his evening’s adventure.

Just one of those irritating trifles that are always cropping up in our profession, he said. If that chap Pierce had had any gumption he could have done the job without worrying me with it. It was simply that he got rattled because he couldn’t find any means of identification.

You didn’t either, I gather, Hanslet remarked.

No, but there’s the fellow’s ticket. First-class return from Guernsey to London and back again. That means, of course, that he lives in Guernsey. Very well, then. I shall arrange for the description and photograph to be sent to the Guernsey Police. They’ll know everybody on their tight little island, and they’ll identify him in a jiffy.

I’m not so sure of that, said Hanslet thoughtfully. Do you know, Jimmy, my lad, I shouldn’t wonder if you had a spot of bother over this body of yours.

Jimmy helped himself to a second slice of pie. I’m getting used to spots of bother, he replied. But what makes you think that this particular case isn’t all plain sailing?

The description you’ve just given us of the man’s clothes. How do you fit in the general cheap underclothing with the silk socks? I can’t afford to wear silk socks every day, and I don’t suppose you can.

I don’t know, Jimmy replied. This chap may have economized on everything else in order to be able to indulge in silk socks. We shall know that when we hear all about him from the Guernsey Police.

Hanslet shook his head. I wouldn’t be too optimistic if I were you, Jimmy, he said. The Guernsey Police may identify this chap by his photographs, but I’m pretty sure they won’t be able to by the description of the clothes he was wearing.

I think I see what you mean, said Diana as she lighted a cigarette. They weren’t the sort of clothes he usually wore. Is that it?

That’s it exactly, Hanslet replied. I’ve a pretty shrewd suspicion that the only clothes he’s ever worn before were the socks and shoes. He wouldn’t risk travelling in new shoes and unaccustomed socks, for they’d probably hurt his feet. But I’m willing to bet that the rest of the clothes, which Jimmy tells us are practically new, had been acquired for this particular journey.

You mean that the man deliberately intended to mask his identity? Jimmy suggested.

My dear boy, that’s perfectly obvious, Hanslet replied. Why did he tear the label out of the hat which, by the way, since it was not new was probably not his. Why did he, or someone else for him, file the number off the latchkey? Finally, why was he travelling with so remarkably few things in his pocket? You found no watch, no wallet, none of the things that a man usually carried about with him.

Jimmy considered this while he finished the pie. Queer thing that he should have died after he’d taken all those precautions, he said at last. Suicides very often try to conceal their identity. But how did he manage it?

You’ll have to wait for the result of the post-mortem before you can answer that question, said Hanslet. On the face of it, I’m rather inclined to the suicide theory myself. I expect he had a bottle of something in his pocket. After the train left Southampton he drank the something and chucked the bottle out of the window. What do you think, Mrs. Inspector Waghorn?

I don’t know, Diana replied doubtfully. Would a suicide have taken a return ticket?

You can’t account for the things suicides do, said Hanslet. They’re always a little bit off their rockers, you know. And then again, he may have taken a return ticket deliberately. It might have aroused suspicion if he’d only taken a single ticket.

Diana still looked doubtful. What about the sandwiches? she asked. Would a man who meant to commit suicide on a journey take a packet of ham sandwiches with him? Unless—I say, Jimmy, you said just now that you were ravenously hungry before you got home. You didn’t help yourself to one of the sandwiches by any chance, did you?

By jove, that’s an idea! Jimmy exclaimed. No, I didn’t, although they looked jolly good. What do you think about that, Hanslet?

I think that a really efficient inspector would have brought the sandwiches away and had them analyzed, Hanslet replied. I shouldn’t wonder if your good lady has hit the nail on the head. Now then, what are you doing to do about it?

Pick up those sandwiches on my way to the Yard in the morning, Jimmy replied promptly.

I think I should if I were you; for even if they looked to be perfectly harmless, it doesn’t follow that one of them wasn’t the cause of the fellow’s death. Only one of them may have been poisoned and that was the one he ate.

He could have made that one out of brown bread instead of white so that he could tell it from the others, Diana remarked.

Jimmy pushed the considerably lightened tray aside. That’s better, he said. My mind’s beginning to work a lot more easily. I never can think properly when I’m hungry.

Well, then, let’s hear your theory as to who this man was and why he poisoned himself in a railway carriage, Hanslet remarked.

Jimmy picked up his wife’s case and helped himself to a cigarette from it.

In the balmy atmosphere of repletion one might propound any number of theories, he replied. Our unknown friend was a highly respected member of Guernsey society. In his immaculate turn-out he was a familiar figure of the local Piccadilly. Unfortunately, some secret disaster overwhelmed him. Perhaps he had spent a lot of money which rightfully belonged to other people. Fearing the disgrace which would afflict his innocent family if he put an end to himself locally, he sneaked out of the island in a disguise which he hoped would not be penetrated. Then as soon as he found himself safely on the mainland he swallowed the dope. How’s that to begin with?

Not up to your usual standard, Diana replied critically. What was the point of the disguise?

Why, to prevent people knowing that he had committed suicide, of course.

But Diana refused to be satisfied. Don’t you see that when he didn’t turn up again people would begin to ask what had happened to him?

Probably they would. But he hoped there would be nothing to connect him with the man found dead in the train. The idea would be that he had fallen off the edge of the island and been washed away.

Hanslet rose laboriously from his chair. Jimmy, you’re talking nonsense, he said. And it’s high time that an old man like me was getting home to bed. Goodnight, both of you.

CHAPTER TWO

On his way to Scotland Yard next morning Jimmy collected the packet of sandwiches. These he handed over to the analyst with a request for a report as soon as possible. But what little enthusiasm he had ever felt about the case had evaporated in the cold light of morning. He satisfied himself that the description and photographs had been sent to the Guernsey Police, then turned to the routine work which awaited him.

He had forgotten all about the matter when early that afternoon he was informed that St. Philip’s Hospital would like to speak to him on the telephone. He picked up the receiver and recognized the voice of the house physician he had interviewed the night before.

Hallo, Inspector, is that you? said the voice. It’s about that chap who was brought in here yesterday evening from Waterloo. The chief pathologist would like to speak to you if you can spare the time to come round here.

I’ll be along straight away, Jimmy replied.

He took a taxi and within ten minutes was shown into the pathologist’s room at St. Philip’s.

Sit down, Inspector, said the pathologist genially. "My name is Ward. On the coroner’s instructions I superintended the post-mortem on the man who was brought in here from Waterloo