Case Without a Corpse (6 page)

“Think they will?” I asked. My knowledge of Scotland Yard has been gained from detective novels, and was not flattering to the Force.

“'Course they will. This 'ere Stute's a wonder. 'E gets at the truf of anythink before you can say knife. They 'ave all the latest methods, too. I shan't be able to do nothink now, except show 'em round. It's a pity—just when I was beginning to sort it out.”

I realized, very plainly, the truth of what my
old friend Beef had said. Hitherto his slow if certain wits had only been in competition with the amateur detectives, in a case which Scotland Yard had not thought worth investigating. This time he would be confronted with the keen and practised intelligence of the professional. Glancing at his red and rustic face, I realized that he could not hope to do more than show the big man about, as he suggested, and perhaps here and there put in a word, the result of his muddled cogitations, which would help. I felt that in contrast to Detective-Inspector Stute, whose name I had already heard, Sergeant Beef would present a figure that would justify the smiles of his two young constables. However, having nothing to do for a few days, I decided to stay on, and see how he progressed.

“There's one more call I'd like to make,” said Sergeant Beef to me, when we had left the station, “before the Detective gets down. That's the Riverside Private Hotel, where this Mist'r an' Misses Fairfax was staying.”

“Very well,” I said, and we set off together.

Braxham is built beside the River Jade, and at one time must have relied on the water as a means of transport. Near the railway station there are a number of old warehouses, some of them empty, the foundations of which are lapped by the water, while between them are cuts running to the river's edge. We had to pass these on our way out to the Riverside Private Hotel, which was also on the river, but with lawns running down to a landing-stage. Beyond the warehouses, beyond the station, we went, into
a more pretentious district where large, redbrick houses had been built during the last seventy years.

In the summer, one felt, this region would be pleasant, with its flowering trees and gardens, and beneath it the river, or even an occasional small yacht. But on this February evening it was damp and cheerless.

Riverside Private Hotel turned out to consist of one of the largest of these houses, a pseudogothic affair in dull red brick, built towards the beginning of this century. There was a long drive running between dripping laurel bushes, and a flight of steps up to the front door. Beef explained his business to a neat servant, and we were shown into a small room which was furnished rather like an office, and told that Mrs. Murdoch would be with us in a moment.

When she appeared, I thought her rather formidable. She was tall, raw-boned, severe, and almost certainly of Scotch origin. She looked at Beef disapprovingly, but told us to sit down, and appeared to be resigned to the necessity of giving us what information she could.

“Do's these Fairfaxes?” began Beef abruptly.

“Mr. and Mrs. Fairfax are clients of mine of two years' standing.”

“What
are they, though?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“I mean, wot's 'e do for a living?”

“I really couldn't say. His profession is no possible concern of mine.”

“Doesn't 'e fill in the usual form then?” asked Beef aggressively.

Mrs. Murdoch rose with dignity to her feet, and pulled an ornamental bell-cord. On the appearance of the maid who had opened the door to us, she said, “The Visitors' Book, Wilkins.”

Beef decided to be pleasant. “That's right,” he said, “I thought you must 'ave some record.”

But Mr. Fairfax's record, when found, said only that he was British, coming from London, and by profession “Company Promoter,” a vague term.

“Is 'e still 'ere?” asked Beef.

“No. Weren't you aware that he left yesterday?”

“Yesterday? Wat time?”

“He left the hotel with young Rogers at approximately two o'clock.”

“With young Rogers? 'Ere, this sounds interesting. Wot was 'e doing with young Rogers?”

“They had lunched together, here.”

“Wot about 'is wife?”

“She had left for London that morning.”

“So she 'ad. I'd forgotten that. So young Rogers was 'ere yesterday. Wot time did 'e get 'ere?”

“At one o'clock or so. Not later. Mr. Fairfax probably stressed the necessity for punctuality in this house.”

“Did 'e come on his motor-bike?”

“I believe so. There was a lot of noise in the drive.”

“You didn't see, then?”

“No. The motor-bicycle, if it was a motor-bicycle, was left round the bend of the drive.”

“You 'ad a look then, did you?” Beef sounded almost roguish.

Mrs. Murdoch spoke loftily. “I glanced from a window to see what all the noise was. I saw young Rogers walking up, having left his motorbike near the gate. Once before I had asked him not to make a fiendish noise under the windows with it. We have elderly persons and invalids here, who like to sleep during the afternoon.”

“Then 'e came in and 'ad 'is dinner with this 'ere Fairfax?”

“Lunch, yes.”

“And when did 'e go?”

“Mr. Fairfax accompanied him at about 2 o'clock.”

“Did 'e take 'is bike then?”

“No. Not then. He came for it, I believe, about three-quarters of an hour later.”

“You 'eard 'im start it up?”

“One couldn't help it.”

“And Fairfax?”

“Mr. Fairfax has not returned.”

“Well, I'm blowed. Wot about 'is luggage?”

“It remains in his room. Quite untouched, of course.”

“That's funny.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“I mean it's funny 'is not showing up again.”

“I thought it somewhat curious myself. And, of course, his account is unpaid.”

“Come 'ere often did 'e?”

“About every two months or so.”

“Whatever for?”

Mrs. Murdoch squared her shoulders. “Most
of my clients repeat their visits. And there was the fishing.”

“I know. But it's only a bit of coarse fishing. Perch, and roach and that.”

“Still, Mr. Fairfax was very fond of it.”

“And 'e gave no 'int that 'e might be leaving yesterday?”

“On the contrary, I had understood that he required his room for three or four days at least.”

“Wot about 'is wife? Did she know?”

“I think not. She has gone back to town expecting him after the week-end.”

“She was fed up wiv it down 'ere, I suppose?”

Mrs. Murdoch answered with dignity. “Mrs. Fairfax did not fish,” she said.

Sergeant Beef looked up from his notebook. “And there isn't nothink else as you could tell me?”

Mrs. Murdoch coughed. “I have Mr. Fairfax's London address,” she said.

“That might come in useful,” said Beef. “I'll note it down.” And with great care he did so.

That appeared to be all the information that Beef wanted or could get from Mrs. Murdoch.

“I tell you wot though,” he said, “I should like a word wiv the girl wot giv' 'em their dinner yesterday. She might 'ave 'eard somethink.”

“The
waiter
who served Mr. Fairfax at lunch yesterday can come and speak to you,” said Mrs. Murdoch. “But the servants are not encouraged to listen to private conversation among the guests. And now I will ask you to excuse me. I trust that the name of the Riverside
Private Hotel will be used as little as possible in connection with this unpleasant case.”

The way in which she enunciated the word “unpleasant” suggested that Beef himself was involved in the general nausea of the business.

“That's not for me to say, Ma'am. You better get on to the newspapers about that. They'd say any think.”

Mrs. Murdoch rose. “It's all very unsavoury,” she said. “I'll send the waiter to you. Good evening.” She marched from the room resolutely.

Beef blew violently through his lips, so that his moustache wavered outwards. “'Ow 'ud you like to work for 'er?” he whispered. “An' she never suggested us 'aving a drop of nothink, either. Still that's interesting wot she said about young Rogers being 'ere with that Fairfax, isn't it?”

The waiter, an elderly man correctly dressed, came in.

“Did you give Mr. Fairfax 'is … lunch yesterday?” asked Beef.

“Yes. I served the gentlemen.”

“Didn't 'ear nothink did you?”

“I don't quite understand,” said the waiter haughtily.

“All right, my lad,” said Beef. “The old girl's not 'ere now. You needn't be up in the air. Wot was they talking about?”

“I never listen…”

“Come off of it. Come off of it. Wot did they say?”

“I did happen to gather that the gist of their talk referred to the younger gentleman's occupation.
Mr. Fairfax was emphatic in his advice to him to leave the sea, and settle down ashore.”

“Is that all?”

“That is all I heard.”

“Was they talking secret at all?”

“Oh no. Quite openly.”

“Didn't say nothink about that afternoon?”

“I heard nothing beyond what I've told you.”

“All right. That'll do.”

Out in the damp evening, Beef pondered. “Funny, 'is not 'aving told 'is uncle and aunt 'e was going to 'ave dinner wiv Fairfax.”

“Unless it was because old Rogers didn't like Fairfax, you remember what Mrs. Rogers said.”

“Yes. So she did,” said Beef.

I
WAS
determined not to be left out of the case now, even if Detective-Inspector Stute was going to take it up. So that next morning I went round to the police station, asked for the Sergeant, and was shewn in to the office in which he and Stute were already in conference.

There was, of course, no reason why I should be admitted, but my reading of detective novels, which had been considerable, had taught me that an outsider, with no particular excuse, was often welcomed on these occasions, especially if he had the gift of native fatuity, and could ask ludicrous questions at the right moment, so I hoped for the best. Beef introduced me without explanation, Stute nodded amicably and indicated a chair, and I was at home. That, I thought, is one good thing that writers of detective novels have done—taught Scotland Yard to admit miscellaneous strangers to their, most secret conclaves.

Stute was a well-dressed man in his fifties, with thick grey hair, a young man's complexion, and a neat military moustache. He might have been, and probably was, an ex-officer. He might have been, but probably wasn't, a graduate of Oxford or Cambridge. He was listening to Beef with close attention, and the Sergeant was evidently finishing his recital.

“So that's as far's I've got, sir,” he said. “I'm very glad you've come. Course, you'll soon clear it all up, but I could see from the beginning it was too much for me.”

“It didn't sound too much, Sergeant,” said Stute. “We thought the body would turn up at once. But there you are. We must get down to it.”

He leant back in his chair, offered us cigarettes, drew slowly at one himself, then said, “It seems pretty certain that the murder was committed between 2.15 when Fairfax and Young Rogers left the Mitre and 8.0 when he reached his home.”

Beef said nothing. He evidently thought his best policy was to leave all speculation and summary to Stute.

“Then again, so far as the information you have brought to light goes, there are three possibilities in the matter of who has been murdered—Fairfax, the girl Smythe, and the foreigner who came into the Mitre, unless, of course, this foreigner is to be identified with the one Mr. Townsend saw later. Probably as soon as we start making enquiries, we shall find two of them alive and well, and have a pretty good idea that it was the third. Get me the Yard on the 'phone, and I'll have the Fairfaxes traced right away. We shall have to get a little more information about the other two first.”

Beef went to the door. “Galsworthy …” he began.

“What did you say?” asked Stute.

“I was speaking to the constable, sir.”

“You don't mean to say you have a constable called Galsworthy, Sergeant?”

“Yes, sir.”

“My God! All right. Go on.”

“Galsworthy,” said the Sergeant again, as though there had been no interruption, “get Scotland Yard on the 'phone.”

“What we want here,” said Stute, when Beef was sitting before him again, “is system. First, the dead man. Had the bloodstains examined?”

“No, sir.”

“Contents of the bottle analysed?”

“No, sir.”

“Really, Sergeant. Those should have been your first steps.”

The buzzer warned him to lift up the receiver beside hirft, and in a few moments he was reading out the address of Mr. and Mrs. Fairfax in Hammersmith, and enjoining whoever attended to it to ring him up as soon as the information was through. I liked his brisk and businesslike method of attack.

“Now that coat,” he said, “and the shirt.”

Beef pulled them out of a cupboard, and handed them to him. Stute examined them carefully.

“Yes,” he said, “I should say that was blood. Send them off to the research department. And the bottle to the analyst.”

“Galsworthy!” I could see Stute shudder. “Pack these up. Send the coat and shirt for research, and the bottle for analysis. See?”

Galsworthy repressed a smile, I thought, as he said, “Very well, Sergeant.”

“What about his boots? Examined those?”

“I did 'ave a look at 'em.”

“Let me see them,” sighed Stute. “What's the soil round here?”

“Very poor, sir. My scarlet runners last year….”