Case Without a Corpse (7 page)

“Never mind your scarlet runners, Beef. What is it? Loam? Clay? What?”

“Nasty chalky sort of soil, sir.”

“Same everywhere about?”

“Yessir.”

Stute had turned the boots over carefully, scraped a little at the sole, and put them down. He picked up each piece of the dead man's clothing in turn and examined it carefully but without remark. Next he demanded to see the black motor-cycling oilskins that Rogers had worn earlier in the day, and Beef had to send for them, swiftly and surreptitiously, from Rogers's shop.

“What we've got to do,” he said, “is first of all to follow as much as we can of young Rogers's movements on the day of the murder. And by that time we may be able to eliminate one or more of the candidates for the role of murderee. We know he left his home at 10.30. Where did he go?”

“That I can't say, sir.”

“Well then, come along, we'll take the car, and see what we can find. Soon straighten this up, Beef. Only you need System, Method, Efficiency. Off we go.” And he jumped to his feet and led the way to his police car at the door.

Poor old Beef! I couldn't help considering
once again that his solution of the Thurston mystery must have been the merest luck. He looked such a floundering old fellow beside this brisk detective. But I did not like to hear him reprimanded quite so brusquely. After all, he had never pretended to be anything but a country policeman, and he had done his best.

We went to the little bootmaking establishment kept by the Rogers. Mrs. Rogers joined her husband behind the counter. She was calmer to-day, but still looked tired and unhappy. No. They were quite sure he hadn't mentioned where he was going. No, they had no idea that he was lunching with Mr. Fairfax. Why wouldn't he have told them?

“Well,” explained Mrs. Rogers, “father never cared much for the Fairfaxes, as I told you. And Alan may have thought he wouldn't have liked it if he had known he was going to see Mr. Fairfax.”

“What had you against them?” Stute asked old Rogers.

“Nothing, really. There was a bit of swank with them, I always thought.”

“Did you know when he was meeting Miss Cutler?”

“Yes. He had told us that. Seven o'clock.”

“And you've no idea where he could have gone between the two?”

“No. None. I only wish we had.”

Beef drew Mrs. Rogers aside to tell her the date and time of the inquest, and this seemed to upset her again, for we left her on the verge of tears.

“They seemed to have been very fond of this fellow,” remarked Stute as we entered the car.

“But 'e was no good,” said Beef.

“He has succeeded in bewildering the police, anyway,” replied Stute rather uncharitably. “I think, before we go any further, I should like a little more information about his past.”

When we had returned to the station, Stute told Beef that if he would put the telephone through to the exchange, he would get Scotland Yard himself. It seemed that he had no wish to hear a repetition of the constable's elaborate and literary name, pronounced by Sergeant Beef. I sat back and listened, greatly impressed, while he gave his curt but thorough instructions. Young Rogers's fellow stewards were to be examined. His friends on board were to be identified and questioned. The Chief Steward was to be asked for information, and the Purser. Then, I heard, the Buenos Aires police were to be asked if they knew anything of young Rogers's record while he had been in that country.

Stute put his hand over the mouthpiece, and turned to Beef. “Taken his finger-prints?” he asked.

“'Oo's?” said Beef.

“Good heavens, man. Young Rogers's of course.”

“No, I 'aven't.”

“Then do so at once.” He turned again to the telephone. “I'll send you two sets of fingerprints to-morrow. Send one of them to Buenos Aires and get them to look them up.”

Sergeant Beef seemed to be pondering something, as Stute finished speaking. “Well, Beef?”

“I was just wondering, sir, what use it was sending them finger-prints out to … where-ever you said they was to go.”

“What use? What do you mean?”

“I mean, wot could they do wiv' 'em? They don't know wot to look 'im up under. They 'aven't even got 'is right name!”

There was a suggestion of triumph in Beef's voice. Indeed it did look as though he had caught the detective out in a blunder.

But Stute, instead of being annoyed, smiled. He leaned back, lit another cigarette, and turned to Beef.

“It's just the sort of thing you have to know when you get to the Yard, Sergeant.” His quiet cultured voice sounded complacent. “Though of course none of us can know everything.”

“Wot is?” asked Beef, still evidently under the impression that the other had tripped up.

“This. The Argentine Police have a very efficient system of finger-print cataloguing—quite different from any other. In fact, in the International Police Conference of New York a few years ago they surprised us all. It is called the Vucetich System, because it was invented by a man called Juan Vucetich thirty years ago.”

“Go on!” The exclamation was one of deep interest, rather than an invitation to proceed.

“Instead of classifying their finger-prints under names, nature of crimes, district, or by any of
the methods used by other countries, they classify them according to certain fundamental types of finger-print. This has obvious advantages. Given a complete and clear set of fingerprints they can trace, among their enormous archives, the man to whom they belong.”

“Well, I'm blowed!” exclaimed Beef, very much impressed.

“Everyone in the country, whether Argentine or not, has his prints taken when he needs an identification card, and they've got millions of 'em. Here, as you know, we only take them when a man is charged. Of course, it doesn't always work. But in 1934 their records show that out of 513 sets of prints handed them for identification in criminal cases, they had been able to put their hand on the owners of 327 of them. Which is very good indeed.”

“I should think it was!” said Beef, rather agape. “But, 'ow can they classify 'em, sir?”

“There are four fundamental types of print,” pronounced the detective, “as you could see by sufficient study. These are distinguishable by the way in which the lines are formed in the finger-print itself. But … we're wasting time, Sergeant. I can't stop to give you a lecture on finger-prints.”

“And you mean to say that by sending young Rogers's prints out to … that place you was mentioning, we may be able to find out wot 'is real name was?”

“It's more than likely.”

“Well, I dunno,” said Beef. “Seems to me it's no good trying. You've got all these
'ere modern methods wot we knows nothink about.”

Stute smiled kindly. “Never mind, Beef. You can only keep at it. There's a lot of luck in the game, remember.”

“Thank ydu, sir,” said Beef, and seemed delighted when the detective decided to knock off for an hour while we all had lunch.

B
EEF
had asked me back to his house for what he modestly called a “bit of dinner,” and we found his wife waiting for us in the kitchen living room. She was a chirpy little woman with sharp but pleasant features, hair tightly screwed, and gold-rimmed glasses.

“It's all ready,” she said when introductions were over, and we sat down round a scrupulously clean table-cloth.

“And do you share your husband's interest in crime?” I asked.

“Gracious no. I leave all that to Beef. I never like hearing about such things. I won't even read about them in the papers. Help yourself to Brussels, won't you?”

“But surely … “ I began.

“No, it's no good. Nasty creepy murders. Not but what they tell me Beef's clever at putting his hand on the one who's done it. But I always say leave that to those that like it. It's not for me to poke my nose in. Oh, and while I think of it, Beef, that Mr. Sawyer was round this morning.”

“Wot Mr. Sawyer?” asked Beef, his mouth too full.

“Why from the Dragon. He said he wanted to see you urgent.”

“That means 'e's fixed another darts match,” said Beef, evidently delighted.

“No. It was something to do with young Rogers, he said.”

Beef turned to me. “Orways get a lot of that,” he said, “people as wants to think they knows somethink. Still, I suppose we shall 'ave to see 'im. Why did 'e come 'ere instead of the station?”

“Now how am I to know?” said Mrs. Beef. “Hand this gentleman some more parsnips and help yourself.”

“It's funny, that,” said Beef. “The Dragon's that pub down by the station. I don't use it a great deal. I'd sooner 'ave the Mitre. The beer's better, and the darts board's lit prop'ly. 'Owever, we can pop in there later on.”

“And don't stay all night,” said Mrs. Beef. “There's a good wireless programme coming on at ten o'clock, and it would be a pity to miss it.”

“You ought to know by now,” said Beef quite amiably, “that when I've got an important case on, there's no telling
what
time I shall be 'ome.”

“Well, there never is, as far as I can see. Case or no case. But still. Have some treacle roll, will you, Mr. Townsend?”

There was plainly an excellent understanding between them—Mrs. Beef being tolerant of her husband's weaknesses, while having a certain respect for his success, and Beef appreciating his wife's good humour and cooking. When I had bade good-bye and thanked her and been told to come again “whenever I was passing,” we set out for the station again, feeling warmed and filled.

Stute was waiting impatiently. “Good heavens, Beef,” he said, “does it take you all day to eat? I had a sandwich and was back here half an hour ago. I'd like to see how some of you fellows would get on in London, with a really big case keeping everyone on his toes.”

“Sorry, sir,” grumbled Beef.

“There's some important news here. My man has been round to the flat occupied by Fairfax and his wife. The wife left yesterday morning, and Fairfax, apparently, has never returned there. No one was in the flat at all last night, and when Mrs. Fairfax left she took two suit-cases. What do you think of that?”

“That's funny,” said Beef.

“Funny? I wish I shared your sense of the comic. It complicates things immensely.”

Beef cleared his throat. “I 'ave something to report also,” he said.

“Well?”

“That is—I shall 'ave. Mr. Sawyer, 'oo keeps the Dragon 'Otel near the station, 'as some information for me connected with this 'ere turn-out wot 'e says is urgent.”

“Indeed? Perhaps he has discovered the corpse in one of his beer barrels.”

“Well, for all you could taste the difference in 'is beer 'e might of,” said Beef. “It's the most poisonous….”

“If you would give a little less attention to beer, and a little more to the matter we are investigating, Beef, we should get on more quickly. I've sent your men round the town
to see whether they can pick up any information from the local gossips. Though how you expect people to respect a policeman with a name like Galsworthy, I don't know. Now come along. We'll call in at this pub and see your man then go out to Chopley and see what we can find out about this other girl. We've got to get our information tabulated.”

“Yessir.”

The Dragon proved to be a dreary looking public house in a rather grimy street which ran parallel to the river and towards the station. It stood among the warehouses we had noticed yesterday, and its back premises must have gone down to the water's edge. It was narrow and tall, its boards painted green and its paintwork dirty. The lace curtains across its upper windows were limp and grey and its aspect was altogether uninviting. It was the sort of house which, built in a working class area, sold immense quantities of liquor, and troubled little about its amenities.

We had arrived after hours, so that Beef had to hammer for a long time on the side-door before it was opened. But at last an immensely stout man appeared. His face was bloated and crimson, and the grotesque enormity of his stomach was accentuated by the fact that he wore no jacket.

“Nice time to come,” he said. “I was just going to have my dinner.”

“I'm sorry, Mr. Sawyer,” said Beef. “I only just got your message.”

Stute was impatient, and when the publican
stood aside he hurried in by the small space left between abdomen and wall.

“Now then,” he said brusquely, “what have you to tell us?”

“This gent's from Scotland Yard,” said Beef aside to Sawyer.

The publican was disgruntled. He had pictured the giving of his information as a leisurely and enjoyable affair over a glass of bitter. It was unpleasant to have his importance as one possessing special knowledge exploded by this curt stranger.

“It's not much,” he said sulkily. “Only he came in here that evening.”

“'Oo? Rogers?”

“Yes.”

“What time?” snapped Stute.

“Well,” said the publican sarcastically, “not knowing that he had just done someone in, or was just going to do someone in, I never made a special note of the time. But I can tell you it wasn't many minutes after I'd opened at six o'clock.”

“Say 6.10?” Stute asked.

“Round about then.”

“And? What did he say?”

“What did he say? He said a double Scotch and a splash, if you want to know.”

“Nothing else?”

“Nothing much. He mentioned he'd just seen someone off on the six o'clock train.”

“Oh, he mentioned that. Did he say who it was?”

“No.”

“Did he look normal?”

“Normal?”

“Did he look himself, I mean? Anything unusual about him?”