Sgt Beef - Case Without A Corpse Part 8

I really can't remember. I didn't notice. To tell you the truth I was having forty winks when he came in.

You said last night he was wearing his motor-biking things, though?

Yes. That's right.

Oh. You never 'eard the bike?

Not as far as I can remember.

'Ow did you first know it was back in the shed in your yard, then?

The constable went to look, when he came round last night.

Thank you, Mr. Rogers. And now I should like to 'ave a look at 'is things.

Mrs. Rogers rose wearily to her feet. I'll take you up, she said.

No, mother, you stay by the fire, said her husband. I'll go upstairs with the Sergeant.

But she shook her head. I shouldn't like anyone to be touching Alan's things unless I were there, she said, and began to lead the way.

The dead man's bedroom was at the back of the little house, over the room in which we had been sitting. It was cold and rather cheerless this February afternoon, and had the slightly stuffy air of most cottage bedrooms. There was an iron bedstead, a dressing-table with another photo of Molly Cutler on it, and a trunk. Beef eyed the latter.

'Fraid I shall 'ave to 'ave a look, he said, and opened the lid.

Young Rogers's belongings were so ordinary that they were soon examined. Suits, s.h.i.+rts, oddments of clothing, an electric torch, a camera, shoes, writing materials (but no letters), hairbrushes, and his steward's uniform.

'E didn't seem to bring 'ome much from abroad, Beef reflected.

Well, there was the Customs, said Mrs. Rogers.

He never seemed to think it worth while, said her husband. He said things were dearer out there than what they are here.

I daresay, said Beef. It's often the way.

He paused for a final look round the room and noticed, hanging near the door, a suit of overalls. They were dark blue in colour, and seemed to be almost new. There was not a sign of dirt or grease on them anywhere.

Nice clean overalls, Sergeant Beef reflected.

Yes, said Mrs. Rogers. He never used them, you' see. His uncle bought them for him over at Claydon a week or so back, didn't you, Dad? But he was silly about them, and bought them too small. We we're laughing about them when Alan first got home. He was going to wear them to do his bike, but he couldn't get them on.

Beef fingered them for a minute. Oh, he said.

Slowly we all went downstairs.

I think that's all I need ask you for the moment, he said, I'm sorry to 'ave 'ad to do it when you was both upset. But these things 'ave to be done. I'm sure if you think of anything else that might be useful you'll let me know.

We'd like it all to be sifted out, Sergeant, said Mrs. Rogers. But it was plain that she was anxious for us to leave her alone, and I was relieved when I saw Beef making for the street. This had been the most trying half-hour I had faced with him.

CHAPTER VII.

IN THE High Street a boy was selling evening papers. He had only two of the three which reached this town, but I purchased these. A glance at the front page was sufficient to show me that the case was going to be a much-advertised one.

Who was it that invented that ancient tag, supposed to be the Editor's advice to the new reporter? Dog bites mannot news. Man bites dognews. Here was a case of it. These papers, tired, no doubt, of cases in which the task of the police was to find out who had killed So-and-So, were enjoying themselves with this strange reversal of the common case. Coming straight from the tragic household of the Rogers, I found their facetiousness in rather bad taste.

PUZZLEFIND THE MURDER.

was one heading, in the heavy type reserved for major sensations, and

MURDERBUT NO CORPSE.

was another.

Beef, glancing at these over my shoulder, snorted with disgust. Perhaps he too felt, after our visit to the Rogers', that there wasn't much room for humour in the case. But he did not pause as we took our way to the police station.

Here a surprise awaited him. The young constable whom I had met last night handed him a telegram. While Beef was reading it I glanced at the two men who were under his authority, and thought I discerned an exchange of smiles which seemed to say that they tolerated the Sergeant amiably. It certainly took Beef a long time to study the telegram, but I hoped that these smarter, and probably better-educated young men, were not smirking at his slowness. However, I made no remark.

They're coming down, said Beef at last. Who, Sergeant, the Yard? asked one of the constables.

Detective-Inspector Stute, said Beef. Good Lord! He's the big noise just now. They must think a lot of this case. It's all the newspaper publicity, I suppose.

Beef turned to me. It's a funny thing, he said, they wouldn't 'ear of it when I arst them this morning. I was all at sea then. And now, just as I begin to get a bit of an idea of the case, down they come. Oh, well. They'll soon puzzle it out.

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 pityjust 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 compet.i.tion 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 pa.s.s 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 pseudo-gothic 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.

Go's these Fairfaxes? began Beef abruptly.

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

What are they, though?