Case Without a Corpse (20 page)

“Whose windows are those?” queried Stute, indicating two very dirty windows which looked out on to the Rogers's back yard. They faced the wall with the door in it from a house behind the shop on that side.

“Some people we have nothing to do with. Well, there are a lot of children, and they took to climbing out of that window into our garden, and when I spoke to the mother about it, she got very abusive. Very abusive indeed.”

“Does she own the shop in front of her house?”

“Oh no. That's a lock-up sweet shop. These premises are let to her—very cheaply I believe, but the landlord can't get her out. Not very pleasant neighbours for us. Such very dirty children. My wife gets quite worried about them.”

“I see. How does one get to them?”

“There is an entrance between my shop and the sweet-shop next door.”

“Thank you, Mr. Rogers.”

“If you do see those people, Scuttle the name is, please don't mention us in any way. We shouldn't like any unpleasantness.”

“I'll remember.”

The owner of the cheerless second-hand furniture store beyond the passage proved to be rather deaf. He was stupid or obstinate or both. No, he certainly didn't know which was the night of the suicide. He didn't know there had been a suicide. He never read the papers—they were full of lies, anyway. Yes, he had heard the noise of the motor-bike in the passage
often—he wasn't as deaf as all that. He couldn't remember when he had heard it last, and certainly not at what time of day. He didn't have much to do with his neighbours, and knew nothing of their goings and comings.

The sweet-shop, on the other hand, produced a tall bespectacled gentleman who would have liked to be helpful, but who closed his shop and went home every evening at six-thirty except on Saturdays, when he kept open later. He hadn't noticed young Rogers return that evening, but he suggested a call on Mrs. Scuttle next door. She had the living quarters of his shop and her windows, as we knew, overlooked the Rogers's yard. She ought to be able to tell us if anyone could.

Stute rang at her bell. There was an instant scuffle audible, and after a fight for the privilege of opening the door two very dirty little girls faced us. There was jam on their cheeks, and their clothes were stained and rather ragged.

“Where's your mother?” asked Stute.

“In the lavortree,” instantly replied the taller.

Beef gave a rather vulgar guffaw behind me, but Stute remained calm. He did not need to speak again, however, for both small girls rushed helter-skelter down the passage shouting “Mum!”

Presently Mrs. Scuttle approached, her skirts clutched by several more children. She was a lean and harassed soul in her late thirties, as dirty and untidy as her children. Her dark hair looked greasy and hastily tied together.
She eyed us with some alarm, a hand on the door as if ready to shut it if our business wasn't welcome.

“Yes?” she said.

“I have come to make a few enquiries, Mrs. Scuttle,” said Stute, “I think you may be able to help us. “I am investigating this matter of young Rogers.”

Mrs. Scuttle's attention was temporarily claimed by one of the children.

“Marjree!” she shrieked. “Leave off, can't you?” Then turning to us she said, “Well, you better come in. I can't stand talking here.”

We followed her down the passage to a malodorous room with a kitchen range in it, before which a number of pieces of clothing were hung to dry.

“I don't know what I can tell you, I'm sure.” She turned aside to a small boy. “'Orriss! Will you put that down!” Then to us again, “What is it you want to know?”

I have no idea how many children there were in that room. Sometimes, in my wilder nightmares, I think there were a dozen. There can't have been less than six. And the whole of our interview was punctuated by her violent adjurations to them.

“Oh yes. I remember the evening right enough. Well, there was good cause to, wasn't there? (Sessull! Leave 'er alone, you naughty boy. I'll get this policeman to take you away.) Yes, I 'eard 'is motor-bike come in. I said to my 'usband next morning when we 'eard what'd 'appened that I 'eard 'im come in.”

“What time would that have been?”

“Well I was just putting Freeder to bed. It must 'ave been about 'arf past six. Not much later, anyway. (Roobee! You'll go to bed in a minute!) I always knew when 'e came in at night because apart from the noise 'is light used to shine right in that window.”

“And would you have heard him if he went out again?”

“It's more than likely. He used to put 'is lights on in the yard, even if 'e didn't start 'is machine up there, which 'e did, as often as not. (Mind what you're doing! Erbutt, I'm speaking to you! You'll 'ave that over!) No, I'm sure 'e didn't take 'is bike out again that night. I should 'ave noticed.”

That seemed doubtful in the face of the distractions which assailed her. But I supposed that she was accustomed enough to these to have been able to give her attention to the engrossing matters of her neighbours' activities.

“And you heard nothing more that night?”

“Nothing at all. I've often thought to myself that I might well 'ave, but I didn't, so that's all there was to it. (Rouse! ROUSE!) No I can't tell you what I don't know.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Scuttle.”

“Oh, you're welcome. I'd like to know who it was 'e did in, too. But I shouldn't be surprised if we never do know, now.”

“A
ND
I'm beginning to agree with her,” said Stute, as we gratefully breathed fresh air again.

“Oh, come,” I said, “you've got another detail in your time-table. You know now that young Rogers came in while his uncle was having his evening stroll, and went out again, presumably on foot.”

“Presumably, but not certainly. Remember that old Rogers describes him as coming in at eight o'clock, with his oilskins wet and muddy. Is one to suppose that he went out wearing those oilskins, but on foot? They'd be pretty trying to walk about in.”

“But on a wet night.”

“Well, we shall see. At least we know that he did come in between 6.30 and 7.0 and that he brought his motor-bike into the yard behind the shop.”

Stute left us soon after that, in none too good a temper. He seemed irritated, not so much because he had failed to solve the case, but because he had been baffled by a matter which had seemed so obvious. He could never forget that to the Yard it had at first not seemed worth investigation, that Beef had actually been told to clear it up himself. And he still could not reconcile himself to the fact that after these weeks of investigation he was still eluded not by a murderer but by a murder.

Beef suggested a game of darts that evening, and when we reached the Dragon we were met with still more discouraging news.

“George has turned up again,” wheezed Sawyer across the counter to us.

“Who's George?” I asked Beef.

“I's brother, wot 'ad cleared out to escape 'is wife,” Beef explained.

“Yes, poor chap,” said Mr. Sawyer, “I went over there yesterday and found him back in harness. It seemed she put his photo in the paper and the people where he was working saw it and it was all up with him.”

Secretly I had had a fancy for Mr. Sawyer's brother as the person murdered by Rogers, so that it wasn't hard for me to disguise my disappointment by an exaggerated sympathy with the returned prodigal.

“What a shame!” I said.

“You're right. It is a shame,” said the publican. “She's giving him no end of a time now she has got him back. When I was over there yesterday he didn't dare stick his head out of the door without her being after him with that tongue of hers. You ought to hear her. And one of his men's left who'd been with him for twelve years, because he said he couldn't stand the way
she's
been on to him while George was away.”

“It's not right,” said Beef.

“It's
not
right,” agreed the publican, with even more emphasis. “She's not much better with me. Got on to me as soon as I got there yesterday for helping George when he went off.
Of course she'd got it out of him where he'd got the money from. You should have heard how she went for me over it. Ought to be in prison, she said, for helping a man to desert his wife. I was as bad as George, she said. Then she started on about keeping a public house and all that.”

“And wot did you say?” asked Beef.

“Me? Well, for George's sake I didn't say much. It would only have made her worse with him after I'd gone. It turns out he's been in London, and got work almost at once on a building job in Highgate somewhere. Only the silly chap went and give his own name when they asked him, and there you are. He says he was as comfortable as anything where he was, nice rooms and that, and if he wanted to go out for half an hour in the evening there was no one to say he shouldn't.”

“What time did he leave here?” asked Beef thoughtfully.

“Here?”

“Yes. On the night he pushed off, I mean?”

“Well, I told you. 'E came in to borrow …”

“Yes, I know. But wot time did 'e leave the town, I mean?”

“Oh, I can't tell you that.”

“I should like to know, though.”

“Why? You're not trying to mix
him
up in this murder business, are you? Because if so I can tell you right away you're talking silly. George wouldn't hurt a fly, and if he was going to do anyone in we all know who it would be.”

Beef became pompous. “I 'ave to make my enquiries,”he said, “without respect for persons or private feelings. I shall probably 'ave an interview with your brother before long.”

“Well, go ahead and have it. And I hope she's there, that's all. I'd like to see her face when a policeman comes to the door, straight I would. I wouldn't mind coming over to Claydown to see it for myself.”

“It'll be with 'im I shall want to talk,” returned Beef solemnly.

Mr. Sawyer waddled off to serve someone on the other side of the bar, and I turned to Beef.

“Have you really any suspicions in this case?” I asked.

“I'm beginning to 'ave a h'inkling,” he returned. “One thing I'll tell you, I don't know no more than you do. I 'aven't seen no think nor 'eard nothink, wot you don't know of. All I've got is an idea of wot may 'ave 'appened. And if you'd thought it out same as I 'ave you'd see just as much. Only … “ he pulled at his ginger moustache and I really began to think he was getting conceited, “only, it takes training to solve anythink like this. Training, see? Not being in the police you couldn't 'ardly be expected to've done it.”

“Why hasn't Stute, then?” I asked quickly. “He's had training enough, surely?”

Beef shook his head.

“It's all these modern methods wot confuses those chaps,” he said sadly, “Vucetich System, and Psy …sy …”

“Psychology?”

“That's it—Sickology. And tracing this, that, and the other. And analysis and wot not. I go on wot I been taught.”

“What's that?”

“Well, if you listen to wot I'm going to tell you, you'll be able to solve these cases same as I do. Specially this case, which never needed no more than wot I know. First of all, when you find something connected with it wot you can't account for, you puzzle it out, and puzzle it out, till you do, see? That's the first thing. And the next thing is to believe nothink of wot you 'ears and only 'arf of wot you sees.”

“Do you mean that our witnesses have been lying?”

“Not necessary. I mean things aren't always wot they appear to be.”

“Well. Go on.”

“That's about all I can explain. The rest's just experience. Police experience. You need that. Just like in this case. I don't say I know the answer. I've got a lot to make sure of before I can say that. But I've got a pretty good idea. Whereas you're all at sea. Why? No police training, that's all. You've seen and 'eard everythink just as I 'ave. And don't forget that if you make a book about it like you did about that other turn-out, don't you go and make it appear as though I kept somethink up my sleeve. I know no more than wot you do. Only I know 'ow to put it together and make somethink of it.”

“Well, Sergeant. I shall be the first to congratulate you if you've got anywhere near the
truth. But I can't help feeling that Sawyer's brother was your last chance.”

“Sawyer's brother?” Beef laughed. “Why you didn't think it was ‘i
m
young Rogers did for? Well, I'm blowed. You don't 'arf swallow somethink. Why I could have told you that it wasn't 'im weeks ago.”

“Then it must have been the foreigner.”

“Wot foreigner? Oh yes. I know 'oo you mean. Well, I shouldn't bet on that if I was you.”

“Then I suppose you're going to say that there wasn't a murder at all?”

“Oh, no,” said Beef quite seriously. “I wasn't going to say that. There was a murder, all right, and don't you forget it.”

B
UT
the last word for Stute came next morning in the shape of an air mail budget from Buenos Aires with a whole row of impressive looking Argentine stamps on it, together with an English translation which had been made in London for Stute's convenience.

“I wonder what your 'esteemed colleague' has to say this time,” I said, when Galsworthy brought the thing in.

Stute rarely indulged in unnecessary conversation, and was soon studying the English document with a faint frown on his forehead. When he had finished he handed it across to me.

“E
STEEMED
F
RIEND
,” it ran.

“I thank you for your amiable communication. I was delighted to note from it that you are good enough to express some praise for our system of finger-print identification, and to hear that the information which we were most fortunately able to give you was of some service to you in your intricate and profound researches. It is always a cause of pleasure to us to find that our system enables us to assist where other systems, however excellent in their way, could not do so.