Case Without a Corpse (22 page)

“Oh well. We can only hope for the best. I should like our boy's name to be cleared as much as possible.”

“I don't think you should set your hopes on that, Mrs. Rogers. The Sergeant admits that there doesn't seem to be much doubt of that part of the case. And now I must say goodbye. I'm off to-morrow.”

They shook hands with me, and, feeling warmed by my visit, I returned to the Mitre for lunch.

Frankly I did not expect much of a phone call from Beef. I comforted myself with the reflection that whether it came through or not I should be acting according to the best precedents. Even if he rang through to say that he had unearthed the weeks-old corpse of young Rogers's victim, I should only be in the convention if I had long given up hope of his solving the riddle.

At about three-thirty, however, I was called to the phone.

“'Ere, Mr. Townsend,” came his voice, so loud that it hurt my ear-drum and I had to hold the instrument an inch from my head, “I'm on to it all right. Got everythink mapped out. Just wot I thought.”

“Well, who did he murder?” I asked, rather irritably.

“You wait till I tell you the 'ole story. It'll raise the ‘air off your 'ead. I'll be with you as soon as I can. We're just starting off now. I'll pick you up at the Mitre.”

“Why? Where are we going?”

“You'll see. There's one or two jobs to be done in Braxham. Then we'll pop up to the Yard, see?”

And before I could enquire any further, he had put down his receiver. He had evidently been in a state of tremendous excitement for I had heard his breath wheezing as though he were exhausted from running to the telephone. I decided to keep an open mind on the subject, and sat down to an early cup of tea to pass the time until he arrived.

When the motor-bike pulled up outside, I found myself quite unthrilled. I can see now that this was the surest proof that I had never really believed in Beef. Here he was, arriving at the Mitre with what he claimed was a proven explanation of the whole thing, and I didn't even feel inclined to go out and meet him.

He burst into the room where I still sat over the tea-things. He had, it seemed, been a bit shaken and chilled by his ride on Galsworthy's pillion, for his nose and gills were positively purple, and the fringes of his moustache were damp.

“Come on!” he almost shouted. But I was calm. “Have a cup of tea?” I suggested.

“No time for tea. I tell you I'm right on to it. I've only got to get a bit more evidence…. Are you coming?”

I rose slowly. “I suppose so,” I said, and followed him out.

He dismissed Galsworthy with a hurried gesture, and strode off down the High Street.

“Where are we going?” I asked wearily.

“To Rogers's shop.”

“Look here, Sergeant, if you're going to start all that going round questioning people again, you can count me out. I've had enough of it with Stute.”

“You can please yourself,” said Beef as he hurried on.

Somehow I found myself following. I didn't believe he had solved the riddle, I was thoroughly fed up with the whole thing. But I kept with him.

As soon as I entered the bootmaker's shop for the second time that day, I knew that at least something unusual was happening, for Mrs. Rogers, looking worried, came forward excitedly.

“Oh, Sergeant,” she said, “I'm so glad you've come. I was wondering whether I ought to send for you. It's my husband.”

“Wot about 'im?”

“He's gone. I've never known him to act so strangely before. It must have been half an hour ago. He suddenly came downstairs dressed in his best suit, with his bag packed. I'd heard him moving about overhead, but I'd never thought anything of it. I asked him whatever he was about and he said he had to go away for a few days. I couldn't make it out. Of course he's been acting a bit strange ever since we knew about Alan. Well, it was a big blow to both of us. But to pack up and leave …”

“Ever know 'im to clear off like this before?”

“No. Never. Not since we've been married. I can't understand it. Of course I've sometimes had a fancy that Alan may have told him that evening who it was he murdered. And perhaps my husband can't bear the thought of it. It may have played on his nerves like. I don't know. It's frightened me. Suppose he loses his memory or something? What ought I to do?”

“But didn't 'e tell you where 'e was off to?”

“Not a word. I must have asked him a dozen times. He wouldn't say a word. That's what makes it so strange. And there's another thing … only I don't know whether I ought to tell you this….”

“Come on, Mrs. Rogers …” was all Beef needed to say.

“Well, it's this. There's a drawer in his writing-desk that he always kept locked. I used to pull his leg about it. And he'd laugh, but he'd never say what was in it. Then one day, some time before Alan came home, he was alone at his desk when the postman called, and he went out to get the letters, and left the drawer open. He had some business letters he was reading and somehow or other forgot to lock the drawer. And when he went out that evening I couldn't help having a peep. And what do you think? There was a bundle of notes there that thick—pound notes they were—and a bit of paper under the elastic band with £100 written on it. I
was
surprised. Then I guessed what it was—he'd been saving up for something for me that I wasn't to know
about. I remember he once talked of our having a baby motor car one day, and perhaps that was it. Anyway, I knew it would disappoint him if he thought I'd seen, so I said nothing about it.”

“Well?” asked Beef.

“Oh yes. I was going to tell you. Just before you came I went to the drawer. I don't know what made me. But anyway I did, and the bundle was gone. I don't know what to make of it, though I daresay you do. Perhaps someone's stolen them and he's gone after him. Perhaps … perhaps it's something to do with Alan. Anyway, they've gone.”

“All
£1
notes you say?” asked Beef.

“Yes.”

“New ones?”

“No. Not extra. Just ordinary, as though they'd been put there from time to time.”

“Well now, Mrs. Rogers, don't you worry your 'ead off,” said Beef. “I daresay every-think'll turn out for the best. Wot's the time? Quarter to six? We shall 'ave to 'urry. I wonder if you'd do me a favour now?”

“Certainly I will. What is it?”

“You 'op round to my 'ouse and tell my missus I more than likely shan't be back to-night. And if you don't like staying on your own, you get 'er to make you up a bed there, see? Now then, Mr. Townsend, we must go.”

A
T
this point I began to be infected with some of Beef's excitement. It did seem so very odd that little Mr. Rogers should have suddenly deserted his wife and his business just when the Sergeant wanted to question him again. It would have been odd at any time, but just this evening, with Beef making straight for his shop, it was uncanny.

And the Sergeant's own movements now became eccentric, to say the least of it. He almost ran down the few yards of the High Street that separated us from the chief garage of the town, and dived into its office. In a few moments the proprietor's son had driven out the old Morris Oxford that he used for taxi work, and we climbed into it.

“Drive down to the station,” said Beef, “and right up close to the goods entrance. Quick as you can.”

The old car moved off, and Beef sat puffing impatiently and staring out of the window, till we approached the station yard.

“Now then, Mr. Townsend,” he said, “duck down. Right out of sight, please.”

I obeyed, not without feeling somewhat ridiculous to find myself crouching down in the taxi with Beef on all fours beside me.

“'Arry!” he called to our driver, when the car was at a standstill. “Anyone about?”

“Not at the minute,” said Harry.

“No one looking out of the waiting-room?”

“No. And they couldn't see here if they was.”

“All right. We'll make a dash for it.”

And suddenly, with quite unbelievable agility, old Beef had leapt from the taxi, and into the luggage office. As swiftly as possible I followed him.

Once inside he turned to the clerk there.

“Sorry,” he said, “only it's important, see.”

The clerk grinned. “Whatever are you up to, Sarge?” he asked, “jumping in 'ere like that?”

“No larfing matter,” said Beef, and seeing Charlie Meadows, the porter who had already given evidence, he called across to him. Meadows approached.

“'Ere, Charlie,” Beef said, in an exaggerated undertone, “I'm on to somethink.”

His whole demeanour was that of a music-hall comedian doing a comic detective act.

“Oh yes,” said Charlie Meadows laconically. He couldn't forget how his evidence had been treated before.

“I want you to do somethink for me. 'Ave a look on the platform and see if old Rogers is going on this train.”

“I don't need to look. I know he is. I saw him just now.”

“You did, did you? What did I tell you? Now look 'ere, Charlie. You go, and when the train comes in speak to 'im civil and put 'im in the front part of the train, see?”

“Why?”

“Never mind why. It's a matter of life and death. Will you do it?”

“I don't mind,” admitted Charlie.

“Well, the train'll be in in a minute. You better go out there ready. 'Ere, Jack!” This was to the clerk. “Slip through and get us a couple of tickets to London, will you? I don't want me and Mr. Townsend to be seen.”

Jack good-naturedly agreed, not without telling Beef that he was becoming a regular Sherlock Holmes. Personally I felt thoroughly ashamed of Beef. All this exaggerated secrecy, these loudly whispered instructions and surreptitious behaviour, struck me as ridiculous. I did not blame the clerk for being amused at him. However, I had thrown in my lot with the investigation, however crude its methods, and I felt I had to remain.

When the train was audible (it was the 6.0 fast train for London) Beef sent the clerk to the door which led out on to the platform.

“'As 'e got 'im?” he asked anxiously, hovering about behind the clerk, as the train came in.

“Yes. He's leading him off now.”

“This is our chance then,” said Beef, and as though he were a soldier advancing under fire he rushed across the platform into a third-class carriage. I could do nothing but follow.

An uncomfortable moment ensued. The carriage Beef had entered, the one nearest to the luggage-office, happened to be one of the few
on the train which was more or less crowded, and the people in it showed their displeasure at having to make room for Beef when they thought it would have been easy for him to choose an emptier carriage. But he seemed oblivious of the irritated noises with which they squeezed together. He was flushed now, and his eyes had none of the glassy and sleepy look they so often showed in the morning.

Seeing the clerk lounging in the doorway, Beef stood up and let the window down, indifferent to the mumbled protests of the other passengers. Without putting his head out he beckoned Jack across.

“All right. All right,” he said, when the young clerk approached, “don't look as though you was watching and telling anyone what you can see. Did the old boy turn round as we 'opped across?”

“No. He was following Charlie.”

“Any sign of 'im now?”

“Yes. He's got his head stuck out of a carriage window, watching the entrance to the platform.”

“I thought so,” chuckled Beef. “Smart bit of work that was. 'E'll never know 'e's being followed now. Thank you, Jack. See you soon, I 'ope.”

And not until the train was actually in motion did he consent to close the window and sit down.

That was one of the most uncomfortable journeys I have ever made. It is never pleasant to be surrounded by hostility, least of all when
you feel that it is merited. And the self-satisfied smile which seemed to be fixed on Beef's face made things no easier.

Besides, I was puzzled. What reason could old Rogers have for this departure? It seemed likely that the old boy knew something, and perhaps had known it all along, which was to his adopted nephew's discredit. He had been determined, I supposed, not to reveal it, and something in Beef's actions to-day—his visit to Claydown, probably—had told Rogers that enough was coming to light to make it hard for him to deny his knowledge—whatever it was.

Or else, and this seemed more sinister, perhaps, whatever forces lay behind all this, the real head of the drug-smuggling gang (if such a person existed), or someone else powerful and dangerous, had some reason for not wishing old Rogers to be questioned, and had frightened him out of Braxham.

Or—yet another possibility—it might be that old Rogers knew from Beef's visit to Claydown that he was no longer the only one to know his secret. In that case he was determined to reveal it voluntarily to Scotland Yard itself, and Beef's hurry was to prevent his doing so.

In any of these cases, why had Beef insisted on the old man's being put in the front of the train? Did some danger threaten the bootmaker? And what had the
£
100 in
£
1 notes to do with it?

I would have given a very great deal to have put some of these questions to Beef but it was clearly impossible now. He would either have
answered conspiratorially, in his absurdly audible stage whisper, or would pompously have reminded me that these were official secrets, and not to be discussed in public. Altogether I was greatly relieved when the train steamed in to the London station.

Beef's next action really shocked me, and I was impelled to apologize for it. The train had scarcely stopped when he pushed in front of the other passengers, including two ladies, and started off down the platform. I murmured what I could to excuse him, and secretly hoped I should never set eyes on any of those people again.