As French closed his eyes he seemed to see the reverse process being carried out—a crane-lorry arriving on the Loughor bridge, stopping, backing at right angles to the road until its tail was up against the parapet—the road was wide enough to allow of it; the driver getting down, taking a tarpaulin off a crate, swinging the crate up to the pulley of his crane, lowering the jib until the crate swung suspended over the rushing flood beneath, then striking out some type of slip shackle which allowed the crate to fall clear. It was all not only possible but easy, and French had not the slightest doubt that it had been done. A couple of hours later he was seated in the police station at Neath, listening to Constable David Jenkins’s story. It seemed that about eight o’clock on the night of Monday, the 22nd of August, Jenkins was walking along a lane leading through a small spinney some two miles north of the town, when he came on a lorry drawn in close to one side. It was fitted with a crane such as is used for motor breakdowns, and behind the crane was an object covered with a tarpaulin. This object was rectangular shaped and about the size of the crate. There had been engine trouble which the driver was trying to make good. Jenkins paused and wished the man good night, and they talked for a few minutes. The man was slightly over middle height and rather stout, and was dressed as a lorryman—a workingman, evidently. He had reddish hair, a high colour, and glasses, and Jenkins felt sure he would know him again. The man explained that he was going from Swansea to Merthyr Tydfil and had got out of his way in trying to take a short cut. Then his engine had broken down and he was thus kept very late. But he had now found the defect and would be able to get on in a few minutes. Jenkins had stayed chatting, and in five minutes the man had said, “There, that’s got it,” and had closed up the bonnet and moved off. “Coming from Swansea, was he?” French said. “Does that lane lead from Swansea?” “Oh, yes, it leads from Swansea all right, but it doesn’t lead to Merthyr Tydfil.” “Where does it lead to?” “More like to Pontardawe.” That was all right. French was delighted with the way news was coming in. That the constable had seen his man he did not doubt. At the time, Jenkins went on, it had struck him as curious that a breakdown lorry should be used for transporting goods. But on reading French’s circular he had seen that here was a plant which would lift the goods over the parapet of a bridge. And when he remembered that the tarpaulin-covered object was about the size given, he felt he ought to report the occurrence. “Quite right, constable,” French said, heartily. “I am sure your superiors will not overlook your action.” French’s next step was clear. A crane-lorry should not be difficult to trace. He would go back to Swansea and put the necessary enquiries in train. Chapter Four A Change of Venue