‘The Suitcase’ 
FREEMAN WILLS CROFTS

OFFICER: Inspector Joseph French 
FORCE: CID, Scotland Yard 
TIME: 1956

CASES: ‘Inspector French’s Greatest Case’ (i9Z4), ‘The 12.30 from Croydon’ (1934), ‘Death of a Train’ (1946), ‘The Mystery of the Sleeping Car Express’ (1956) etc.

PROFILE: Known laconically to his colleagues at the Yard as ‘Soapy Joe’, Inspector Joseph French gives the impression of being easygoing and difficult to ruffle-which is most probably why the crime historian H. R. F. Keating has referred to him as ‘the Mr Plod of fictional sleuths’. His comfortably dressed appearance and twinkling blue eyes match his unaggressive personality, which can, however, lure the unsuspecting law-breaker into drawing the wrong conclusions about his skills of detection. For patience is very much French’s middle name and his always thorough investigations have proved him to be an expert manhunter with a unique ability to break seemingly unbreakable alibis. His thirty years of dedicated service have seen him rewarded with promotion to Chief Inspector and, finally, Superintendent. As a man who loves travel, French is always at his most perceptive when investigating crimes on the railways and he has broken a good many cases as a direct result of his knowledge of the rail system.

CREATOR: Freeman Wills Crofts (1879-1957) had actually been a construction engineer on the railways in Northern Ireland for over twenty years before a severe illness confined him to bed and he decided to while away the hours writing a crime novel. The result was ‘The Cask’ (1920), in which the solution was arrived at through the use of timetables, and the book is widely regarded in crime fiction circles as a masterpiece as well as one of the definitive crime novels. Inspector French played the central role in many of Crofts’s subsequent mysteries and earned the acclaim from critic Melvyn Barnes of being ‘arguably the greatest police detective, whose solid and tireless work enabled countless readers to identify with his triumphs and frustrations’. The case of ‘The Suitcase’ is a fine example of ‘Soapy Joe’ at work on a murder case on the railway-solid and methodical as always in the face of what seems like a watertight alibi.

THE STORY:

Albert Rank shivered in the chill wind which was blowing along the platform of Thorpe station on this late February afternoon. Wearing a thin, soiled waterproof and carrying a small suitcase, he shrank behind a stack of luggage. He wished to avoid notice, for he was on a terrible errand: no less than the murder of his enemy, David Turner.
Rank was porter, boots and general factotum in a small hotel in North London. He was a careful, hardworking man, unmarried, and three months earlier had been good-humoured, cheerful, and contented. Then all at once something seemed to go wrong, and one blow after another fell upon him, till he had reached his present unhappy situation.
It began about money. A friend of his was employed in a training stable, and from him Rank learnt that sure money was to be made out of horses, if only one had the necessary inside knowledge. This knowledge the friend claimed. Rank was persuaded to back the friend’s fancy.
At first he had the usual beginner’s luck, followed in due course by the usual disastrous losses. His difficulties increased till for the sake of a few pounds he was faced with the loss of his job and everything he held dear.
In his distress he lost his head. A large number of minor smash-and-grab raids had taken place in this North London area, all, it was believed, the work of one gang. Rank determined to try his hand at the game, believing that his work would be put down to the gang. It was of course fantastically foolish, but he felt sure he could get away with it.
The scene of his exploit was to be a small newsagent’s shop. He had watched the place and knew that the ancient proprietor disappeared for tea each afternoon, leaving the young girl assistant in charge. On a dark and blustery November afternoon Rank entered, asked for cigarettes, and when the girl opened the cash register for change, he grabbed the little wad of notes it contained.
The affair didn’t work out quite as he had hoped. There was a slight delay in releasing the notes from under their clip, and the girl’s cries brought the proprietor running. Before Rank could get away the old man had seized him. To free himself Rank hit out. As he ran from the shop he saw his victim falling backwards. He got safely away, but next day he learnt from the papers that the man had struck his head in the fall and was dead.
Rank was overwhelmed. The last thing he had wished was to hurt anyone, and he would have given all he had many times over to bring the man back to life. Then, as the immediate horror dulled, fear for his own safety took its place. He sweated as he pictured the arrival at the hotel of two large men and with a shrinking terror thought of what might follow. But one, two, and three days passed without incident, and gradually he began to breathe more freely.
Then on the third evening the blow fell, though it was not the one he had been dreading. As he left the hotel for a short break a stranger fell in beside him.
‘Name of Turner,’ said the man. ‘David Turner. You’re Albert Rank?’
Rank admitted it.
‘I saw what happened on Tuesday,’ Turner continued. I heard the girl scream and I saw you run out. I waited till the police came and I told them.’
Rank’s heart missed a beat. Then tremulously he muttered: ‘You’re mistaken. I was at no shop.’
‘Quite,’ the other answered. ‘You can tell that to the police when the time comes.’
A remnant of Rank’s courage was coming back. ‘I don’t believe you,’ he declared. ‘If you’d made an accusation the police would have come to question me. They haven’t.’
‘I’m not all that fool,’ Turner replied. ‘I told them I recognised your face but couldn’t place you. But don’t you make any mistake. I can remember who you are at any time, and then it’ll be you for the eight o’clock walk.’
Rank glanced at the other’s face. There was greed in it and an unholy joy, but of softness or mercy no trace. The man would do what he said. ‘What do you want?’ Rank asked thickly.
‘Ah, that’s better.’ Turner’s manner grew almost friendly. ‘Half the swag and a pound a week and I’ll forget what I saw. I mean as long as the pound goes on.’
Rank exclaimed at the extortion. He pleaded, he threatened, he declared he couldn’t pay, all to no purpose. In the end, as he had known from the beginning, he had to agree.
When Turner left him he was in despair. From now on he would be in Turner’s power. Sooner or later there would be further demands. A chance word might give him away: not merely his happiness nor his comfort, but his life! Only too clearly he saw that while Turner lived he would know neither safety nor happiness. Gradually the thought of the man’s death became an obsession.
He had now learnt a good deal about Turner. He was a passenger guard and worked on the slower trains of the main East Coast route between London and Edinburgh. His way home led him past the hotel, and on different occasions he had noticed Rank.
Rank now wondered if some accident could happen along the line. As he thought over it almost unconsciously a plan formed in his mind. He would travel by one of Turner’s trains. He would get him alone in his van. And then-!
It was for this purpose that, with a heavy cosh hidden under his clothes, he was now at Thorpe station awaiting the London train. At 5.30 to the minute it came in. From previous inspection he had learnt that the dining-car was the sixth from the rear and that the five coaches between it and the van were of the side-corridor type, with luggage shelves and lavatories at their ends. He also knew that only one guard was in charge: his enemy, David Turner.
Unostentatiously mingling with the crowd, Rank approached the train. He was the last to get into the coach immediately behind the dining-car. There he placed his suitcase on one of the shelves, got out again, and strolled along the platform to the last coach. He climbed in, quietly entered the lavatory beside the van and bolted the door, having gripped the handles in his handkerchief. A few seconds later the train started.
From Thorpe to Selcaster, the next stop and for which Rank held a third single, was an hour’s run. During it he had counted on the corridor being clear, for at this time of year the train was seldom crowded, and the first dinner was not served till after Selcaster.
At zero hour he left the lavatory and passed through the swaying vestibule into the van. When Turner saw him he jumped up.
‘Good Lord, Rank! What’s the ruddy idea?’
‘Just a word with you, Turner.’
‘Not here. If you’re seen I’ll get it in the neck.’
‘I’ll not be a minute. See, I’ve got a scheme with money in it, but it would take two to get it. Will you join me?’
This was an opening which Turner could not resist. He hesitated, and Rank drew a paper from his pocket. It bore an imaginary plan. ‘House, full of valuables and empty. Not overlooked. See, here’s a sketch.’
As Turner grudgingly bent forward to examine the paper, Rank struck. Turner pitched forward and lay motionless.
A wave of sheer terror swept over Rank as he straightened up and put away his cosh. Now he was in real danger. If a passenger were to come into the van, he was as good as hanged. He felt an overwhelming urge to rush from the place.
He fought it down. Failure to stick to his plan would mean certain disaster. He must indeed get as far from the van as possible, but not by headlong flight. That near lavatory would not be far enough, for at Selcaster porters would be grouped where the van stopped, and he might be seen leaving. Therefore he must pass unnoticed along the corridor. He had worked out how this was to be done.
He slipped the sketch into his pocket and drew on a pair of rubber gloves. Then, setting his teeth, he knelt down and began to strip the uniform off the body. He found it harder than he had expected. Indeed, he grew panicky, it took so long. But at last it was done. Quickly he put on the uniform over his own clothes, coat and all. This was why he had shivered in a featherweight waterproof. Owing to Turner’s being about his height, but of a sturdier build, the uniform fitted reasonably well. Indeed, it was this fact of their relative sizes that had suggested his plan. With rubber pads in his cheeks and the peak of the uniform cap pulled low over his eyes, he was satisfied no one would recognise him, specially in the dimly lit corridor.
One other precaution remained to be taken. Before leaving the van he made a space in a pile of luggage, dragged the body in, and covered it with suitcases. Discovery of the crime at Selcaster was inevitable, but not, he hoped, till he had left the station.
Having glanced quickly round to make sure he had forgotten nothing, he left the van, and summoning all his strength of will, walked in a leisurely yet businesslike way down the corridor. To his relief he met no one. At last he reached the end of the fifth coach and drew the door to behind him. He was now in the little space containing the luggage shelves, the lavatory, and the vestibule leading to the dining-car. Picking up his suitcase, he went into the lavatory. As he bolted the door some of his anxiety dropped away from him. The worst was now over and so far all had gone well.
The suitcase contained his overcoat and a hat. Having taken these out, he stripped off the guard’s uniform and his rubber gloves and, together with the cosh, cap, and waterproof, packed them in the case. His plan required it to be weighted but the weight must not take up much room. He had found the very thing in an old cast-iron door from the front of the patent stove in the hall of his hotel. This door, which had been renewed because its enamel had been burnt off, had been left beside the rubbish bin for the dustmen to take away. Rank had protected himself here too. If its absence were noticed, it would naturally be assumed that the men had taken it.
At last the train began to slacken speed and presently drew in to the platform at Selcaster. Rank stepped out and walked off, neither dawdling nor hurrying. He reached the exit in the middle of a throng of others, handed up his ticket, and left the station. A sigh of relief burst from him. Now he was practically safe. One further precaution and he would be absolutely so.
He knew Selcaster, in fact he had prospected it for the purpose of this very expedition. He turned along the river and soon reached a suburban area and an outlying bridge. Though the wind had fallen, it remained cold and raw and there were few people on the roads. Rank passed on to the bridge, which was deserted. Halfway across he took a cord from his pocket, put it through the handle of the suitcase, and lowered the latter from the parapet. When it reached the water he let go one end of the cord and the suitcase sank without splash or sound. Returning to the centre of the town, he boarded a bus to Wrexborough, a town some fifteen miles along the railway to the south. There he walked about till the next train left for London. He took a single ticket and joined it without incident.
As he sat in his third-class compartment he went over what he had done. Yes, he was safe! He had left absolutely no clue whatever. No detective officer, no matter how skilful and gifted, could possibly trace him. No one knew of his association with Turner, and the girl in the shop had not seen his face. Nothing could connect him with either crime.
In the subsidiary matters apart from the actual murder he had been equally circumspect. The suitcase, cap, and waterproof he had bought in different shops in the East End while wearing a disguise. For his whole-day absence from London he had an adequate explanation. He had gone to his birthplace, Notfield, and had there spent the day visiting hotel after hotel, asking what chances there were of a job. The reason he would give would be that his gambling debts were making life unpleasant in London, and he was considering a fresh start elsewhere. The Notfield hotel proprietors would confirm his statement, and it was unlikely that he had been noticed on the bus from Notfield to Thorpe, an hour’s run taken in the late afternoon to enable him to join Turner’s train.
At 9.55 the train drew into King’s Cross. If challenged, Rank would say he had come direct from Notfield, arriving at St Pancras at 10.10. To support this theory he walked to St Pancras, returning to the hotel after the 10.10 came in. When he had registered the time of his arrival by asking the cook for a bite of supper, he felt that his worries at long last were over.

Rank had pitted himself against society, but unhappily for him, society in this instance was represented by Superintendent French of New Scotland Yard. For French the case began with a telephone message from the Chief Constable of Selcaster, recounting the facts and saying that as Guard Turner was a Londoner, he had decided to hand over to the Yard. ‘Our Inspector Cutler,’ he concluded, ‘is travelling up in the train and should be with you a little after ten.’
At ten French returned to the Yard and in due course Cutler was announced. ‘Ah, Inspector, sit down,’ French greeted him. ‘You’ve had a spot of trouble in Selcaster?’
Cutler agreed, saying that he had been instructed to make inquiries in the train, which had started as soon as they had got another guard.
French nodded. ‘Tell me what you did.’
Cutler had begun by interviewing the dining-car staff. They were positive that no one had passed through the car between Thorpe and Selcaster. Therefore the criminal’s activities had been confined to the coaches following. A search of these revealing nothing helpful, Cutler had gone through the compartments, questioning passengers and taking their names. By the time this was done they were approaching King’s Cross.
Several passengers had noticed that during the run a guard had walked forward along the corridor, but no one had observed him returning. The man indeed had vanished. It was further established that no traveller had been absent from his compartment for more than two or three minutes.
‘A pretty problem,’ said French. ‘Well, Inspector, you’ve got your work cut out for you. Meantime we’ll look into it from this end.’
French was as good as his word. During the next day or two discreet inquiries brought out a number of facts. The dead guard had lived quietly in lodgings. He had been rather unsocial, had had a doubtful reputation where money was concerned, and on the whole was not popular. But there was nothing to indicate that he had had a serious enemy.
Selcaster reported that a search for the uniform had proved fruitless. It had not been thrown out of the train nor hidden on the railway premises, nor had anyone been seen wearing it.
French had put Inspector Ludlow in charge of the London inquiry and now the two men sat talking it over. ‘As Turner was the only guard on the train,’ French was saying, ‘and as his uniform has vanished, it follows that the man seen walking down the corridor was wearing the uniform, and was therefore the murderer.’
‘Clear enough, sir.’
‘Something arises out of that, surely? The murderer was somewhere near Turner’s height and of slighter build, else he couldn’t have got the uniform on over his clothes.’
Ludlow slapped his thigh. ‘That’s good, sir! It hadn’t occurred to me.’
‘Another point,’ continued French. ‘The murderer left the train at Selcaster. We know that because there was no one in the lavatories or corridor and no stranger entered a compartment during the journey.’
‘OK, sir.’
‘As the uniform was not in the train, the murderer must have taken it with him. A strange guard would certainly have been noticed, therefore he wasn’t wearing it, and as he couldn’t carry it over his arm, he must have packed it in something. What would he use?’
They agreed that of all receptacles, a suitcase was the most likely. So French reached the first milestone on the road to a completed case.
‘A step further,’ he went on. ‘Imagine yourself guilty of the murder and carrying that uniform about with you. Would you feel happy?’
‘I’d feel happier with a can of nitroglycerine,’ grinned Ludlow.
‘That’s it. If it’s found, you hang. So you’d get rid of it, at once, there in Selcaster. No waiting till you got to London. Then find the suitcase. Spot of work for the Selcaster men.’
French rang up the Selcaster Chief Constable.
‘We’ve already got that in hand, Mr French,’ was the reply. ‘We’re going into it thoroughly. We’ve offered a good reward, and that will ensure that we get it if an outsider finds it. We’re examining areas closed to the public.’
‘If I may suggest it, what about rubbish tips?’
‘We’re having all loose places dug over.’
The river?’
‘There are few places he could have dropped it in unseen: a length of wharf, two bridges and so on. We’re having them dragged.’
French felt that he himself could have done no more. ‘Splendid!’ he congratulated. ‘If it’s there you’ll get it.’
The prophecy was soon fulfilled. Dragging operations were successful, and when French reached the Yard two mornings later he found the suitcase waiting for him. Accompanying it was a note saying that the discovery had been kept absolutely secret.
The second milepost!
The inquiry now took a different turn. French entrusted the suitcase, the waterproof and cap, the cosh and the stove door to different officers. The first four drew blanks, but the fifth made progress.
‘Find out from the makers of the stove if any similar doors were sent out as replacements during recent weeks,’ French directed Ludlow. A list was soon obtained, and Ludlow went round the London purchasers. In due course he visited Rank’s hotel, and there the proprietress identified the door from the shape of the bare patch. When Ludlow found that the porter was of about Turner’s height but of slighter build, that for some time he had seemed worried, and that he had had leave on the day of the murder, he felt a satisfying thrill. Leaving a man to shadow Rank, he hurried back to the Yard.
‘Good work,’ said French. ‘He’s our man right enough, but we must have more proof. He’ll put up some alibi for the day of the crime, and we’ll get him over that. Bring him in.’
So milepost three came and went.

Since the murders Rank had been living through a veritable nightmare. Added to the gnawing worry of his debts was now the shadow of a ceaseless fear. Every caller at the hotel, every policeman he met, set his heart racing and his hands trembling. Like so many before him, he felt that there was nothing he would not give to call back the past. The thought added to his despair.
When one day he entered the hotel to find two large men waiting for him, a cold weight of dread settled down on him. But they were polite, even friendly. Admitting that they were police officers, they said they thought he might be able to help them in an inquiry they were making. Would he have any objection to coming to see Superintendent French, who was handling the matter?
During the silent drive Rank called up his reserves of courage. He had a perfect alibi. All he had to do was to steel his nerves and stick to his story.
French’s beginning made the former difficult. In a serious voice he told him that the inquiry was concerned with the death of David Turner, and that he needn’t answer any question unless he liked. Then he went on: ‘We understand that you were absent from work on the day of the crime. Would you care to tell us where you were?’
Rank breathed more freely. He was prepared for this, and his answer was true, except in respect of the time between four and eight. He explained that during the day he had visited hotel managers, and in this later period had had supper in a Notfield cafe. He had then walked about, revisiting the scenes of his youth.
It seemed to go down well. French nodded, then turned to an incomprehensible sideline. ‘Looking for a job at Notfield? I follow. If you had got one did you mean to remain on there, without any explanation to your old employer?’
Rank didn’t understand it, but he drove himself to reply promptly. ‘Certainly not. I’d have gone back and worked my notice.’
French nodded again. ‘You mean you didn’t intend to stay overnight?’
‘No, of course not.’
‘Then why,’ French said quietly, ‘did you take that with you?’
As he spoke he pointed across the room and there, suddenly pushed forward into view, was the suitcase. Rank stared at it, frozen with horror. Beneath its stained cover he seemed to see the shadowy outline of a cosh and a uniform. Slowly he pitched forward in a faint.