by Bruce, Leo
“We reached the house at a quarter to eight, and Benson arrived about five minutes later. He was a florid, race-going sort of fellow, essentially provincial, and rather a bore. I could see no particular reason why anyone should wish to murder him, any more than one would have thought they wished to murder all members of his type. He mentioned that his car was out of order and that his wife wasn’t well—the sort of conversation that one would expect from him. After dinner in the library we actually allowed Stewart to read several passages. Then we came to the point. Would he, or would he not, buy enough shares in the Passing Moment to keep it alive? He would not. Peter wasted a certain amount of valuable time in trying to make him change his mind, then we got up to go. Duncan arrived, apparently from nowhere, with our coats, Peter started up that old bus of his, and we came back to London. He dropped me at my flat and drove away. There you have the whole thing, and unless there are any questions you feel you must ask, I won’t take any more of your time.”
Beef stood up straight away. “No,” he said, “there’s no questions about the dinner-party. You’ve told me all I want to know. But,” he added, stepping almost threateningly towards Wakefield, “there’s one thing I want to hear from you. What did you do after Peter Ferrers left you at your rooms?”
“I thought that was coming,” smiled Wakefield. “As it happens, I went straight to bed.”
“And I,” said Beef, “thought that was coming. Good morning, Mr. Wakefield.” And with an air of conscious triumph, he stalked out of the office, leaving Wakefield and me to exchange glances; his of comprehension, mine of apology.
Chapter VII
ON the drive down to Sydenham I asked Beef about the whisky he had persuaded me to appropriate from the Cypresses. “You told me you’d explain it, Beef,” I said, glancing mischievously at the figure beside me, for I was convinced that he had taken it for quite unprofessional reasons.
“So I will, in due time,” he said. “That’s got to be analysed.”
“Analysed?” I repeated, smiling at this gross piece of subterfuge. “Why should you want the whisky analysed when the man’s been stabbed?”
“Because,” returned Beef quite seriously, “I believe it contained arsenic.” And that was all he would say.
The girl Rose opened the door at the Cypresses, and showed us again into the library, where we found Peter alone. He looked unhappy and tired, I thought, though he said good morning, and offered us cigarettes. “The police have been here again this morning,” he said. “There seems to be no doubt at all that poor old Duncan committed suicide.”
“I’m very sorry about it, sir,” said Beef, and there seemed to be genuine sympathy in his voice. “Must be very upsetting for you, having known him all your life.”
Peter nodded. “Yes,” he said, “we all feel it. He was as loyal a man as you could want to meet. And although in this last year or two he seemed to have become nervy, and highly strung, he always did his job rather better than one could expect. I was fond of him in an odd way. I can remember him taking me to kindergarten, and coming to meet me afterwards.”
“But have you any idea what made him do it?” blundered Beef.
“I rather think it was the strain of all this business. I know he felt very worried at the thought that he might be called up to give evidence, and that his evidence might tell against my brother. However, his wife will be able to tell you more than I can. Would you like me to call her?”
“Perhaps it would be as well,” said Beef.
Mrs. Duncan was as short and stalwart as her husband had been narrow and pale. Her arms seemed to be bursting out of her dress, and her face was large and white like a plain suet pudding. She showed no signs of grief at her recent loss, but her expression was resentful. And one felt at once that she had mastered the nervous Duncan as easily as she ruled the rest of the kitchen. There was something a little unhealthy about her, the faint odour of perspiration perhaps, or the heavy fleshiness of her figure.
“Very sorry to hear of your loss,” said Beef ponderously.
“Mm,” returned Mrs. Duncan, as though she were dubiously accepting a tribute.
“You have no doubt in your mind that he committed suicide?” asked Beef.
“Oh no,” said the cook. “He’d threatened to do it a dozen times. He was so upset with all this.” She glanced accusingly at Peter Ferrers. “And it’s hardly a wonder.”
“Still,” said Beef complacently, “one would have thought it would take more than a to-do of this kind to make a normal man do himself in. If he’d handled as many murders as I have, he’d have known better.”
“It wasn’t the murder,” said Mrs. Duncan, “it was his attachment to the family. I always told him he thought too much about his work. He couldn’t sleep at night if everything wasn’t just right. ‘Do your job and have done with it,’ I used to say. But no, he’d be wondering if Mr. Stewart had liked this, and fidgeting over Mr. Peter saying that, until he was little better than a ninny. And then when this happened he was nearly off his head. I told him straight that I didn’t see that Benson was much loss. But all he’d say was, ‘If you knew all that I know,’ or, ‘I hope I never have to tell all I can tell,’ or something of that sort.”
“There you are,” said Beef triumphantly to Peter and me, “I told you yesterday he knew more than he’d say.”
“Well, if he did,” argued his widow, “he’s took it with him to his grave, for he never told me nothing. He’d worry and fidget and jump as though someone had come up behind him, and mumble in his sleep, but he never give nothing away.”
“When did you notice his manner changing?” asked Beef.
“Well, he’s never really been the same since the old gentleman died. Though you’d think that the bit of money he came into would have cheered him up.”
“How much was it?” asked Beef, and I felt that his question was prompted by the merest curiosity.
“Oh, not a great lot,” said Mrs. Duncan guardedly. “Three hundred pounds, or thereabouts. With what he had saved up it would have been enough to buy a nice little pub somewhere. Only, of course, he wouldn’t listen to that. He had to be hanging round here looking after Mr. Stewart for the rest of his days; and this is what’s come of it!”
“Still,” said Beef consolingly, “perhaps you’ll be able to have a house yourself now.”
“I’ve every intention,” said Mrs. Duncan, “as soon as this blows over.”
“Would you mind telling me what your husband said that makes you so certain that he did commit suicide?”
“Well, he said he was going to do himself in,” said Mrs. Duncan. “He told me so last night. It was after you’d been questioning him again. It was bad enough having to answer all the police asked him, without you coming along. He said, ‘I can’t face the court.’ It nearly drove him off his head having to attend the coroner’s. And then knowing that there would be Mr. Stewart’s trial as well, it was too much for him. Besides, he left a note.”
“He left a note, did he?”
“Yes, on the kitchen table. The police have took it now, though it was meant for me. Said he couldn’t stand no more of it; questioning and that; and was going to hang himself. And that’s what he did do. In my scullery too, and only wearing his nightshirt.”
“What time would that have been?”
“I couldn’t say, I’m sure. He came up to bed the same time as I did last night—round about ten. ’Course, we ought never to have stayed in this house after the murder. But we were told we should be wanted to give evidence, so what could we do? I think it turned poor Duncan’s head, being in and out of the library where they found the corpse. Anyway, there he was in the morning.”
“You both slept in the same room, then?” queried Beef.
“Yes,” admitted Mrs. Duncan shortly.
“Separate beds?” Beef suggested.
“If you must go into such details, yes,” he was told.
“But you never heard him get up and go out?”
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“No. But there’d be nothing unusual in that. He was very restless at night, very restless.”
Beefs voice grew sepulchral. “And where is he now?” he asked the cook.
She seemed the least embarrassed person. “In the scullery with a sheet over him. The police have seen to him.”
Beef recrossed his legs. “Now I want to ask you a few questions about the past,” he said.
Mrs. Duncan became guarded in her manner. “There’s not much I can tell you,” she assured him.
“For instance, what regular visitors was there at the house?”
“Very few, really,” she said. “There was the Reverend Smyke used to come round when he wanted a subscription to something, and Doctor Benson, and of course Mr. Peter, and really I can’t remember anyone else who came more than once.”
“What about when old Mr. Ferrers was alive?”
“It was just the same, very few strangers. There was his lawyer, a Mr. Nicholson, and another gentleman like a lawyer that was often in and out, but I think he came to see Mr. Stewart.”
“What was his name?” asked Beef, busy with his notebook.
“Orpen, I think it was,” returned the cook as though she grudged the information.
“Do you remember him?” asked Beef, turning to Peter Ferrers.
“Yes, I remember him quite well. I believe his real name was Oppenstein. I never knew his business.”
“Has he been lately?” Beef asked Mrs. Duncan.
“I think he came once just after old Mr. Ferrers died, but I’ve never seen him since.”
“Hm. Well, I think that’s all I want to know from you, Mrs. Duncan. Thank you very much. Oh—by the way…”
She turned back from the doorway which she had already reached. “What is it now?” she asked.
“Who ran the housekeeping accounts?”
As far as it was possible for one of that build, she stiffened. “I did,” she said loudly.
“Anyone go over them?”
“I don’t know whether Mr. Stewart did or didn’t, and it wouldn’t have made any difference if he had,” she said in a breath. “I handed my book in at the end of the month and it was all correct. I paid the girls their wages, and Duncan and me ours. Bought all the insurance stamps and had charge of everything. And if there’s anything you’d like to call into question…”
“Oh no,” said Beef, “I’m sure it’s all down.”
After which it was no wonder that Mrs. Duncan slammed the door as she went out.
Beef turned to Peter Ferrers. “Can’t hardly wonder at the old chap hanging himself when he’d got tied up to that, can you?” he said. Then, seeming to recollect that for Peter it was not a facetious matter of following clues and being entertained, but a tragedy in which two old friends had already lost their lives, and his brother was being held for murder, he added vaguely, “All the same, I’m sorry about it.”
Peter nodded. “Yes, she is rather much, isn’t she?” he said. “Still, she’s a good cook.”
“Did the police say they’d be back?” asked Beef.
Peter glanced at his wrist-watch. “Yes, at about midday, they said.”
“Who was in charge?” asked Beef inquisitively.
“There was an Inspector Stute.”
Beef slapped his thigh with a large hand. “Cor, ole Stute,” he grinned. “I wonder what he’ll say when he finds me down here. I’m afraid he never thought much of me, didn’t Stute. He was always on about his modern methods and that, and didn’t like the way I went straight to the heart of a thing.”
I looked at Beef with some concern. In the old days he had at least the grace to be modest about himself when he was in contact with more intelligent detectives. But his having set up as a private investigator seemed to have turned his head. Even at this minute his professional air was very obvious as he asked Peter where the nearest telephone was.
The Cypresses was not on the telephone, but there was a call-box apparently a few yards down the road. When Beef and I reached it he insisted rather childishly that I should squeeze myself into the box with him while he made his call. In the restricted space he began to search through the directory.
“Hm,” he said at last, “only three Oppensteins. That’s good.”
His big blunt finger seemed to have some difficulty with the work of dialling, but eventually he got through. I listened while, with elephantine attempts at tact, he asked someone at the other end if he knew Mr. Ferrers, and received, I gathered, a curt negative. Undaunted, he dialled again, and this time got as far as saying, “Oh, you did know him, then?” before the other refused to discuss his business, or so I gathered. Beefs face was lively as he put down the receiver and looked round at me.
“I thought so,” he said, “a moneylender, that’s what he was.”
Chapter VIII
WHEN the front-door bell rang, Ferrers remarked quietly that it was probably the police, and he was right. And in a few minutes Inspector Stute was ushered into the room by Rose. I had not seen him since we had met over the Braxham case, and was a little apprehensive about his attitude to Beef. I remembered his dapper appearance, and cool, efficient manner, and I knew that in this case, at all events, he would have little patience with my blundering friend.
However, he nodded with curt friendliness to Beef. “I heard you were here,” he said pleasantly. “You’ve set up on your own as a detective, then?”
“That’s right,” returned Beef, and I felt there was something aggressive in his manner. “And I’ve just come down here to get this little matter of Mr. Stewart Ferrers cleared up. I already know enough to be sure he ought never to have been arrested.”
Stute nodded, smiling. “That’s right, Beef,” he said, “you go ahead.”
“Only,” said Beef, “I think it would save a lot of time and trouble for all parties if you was to tell me on what you base your case against Stewart Ferrers.”
Still Stute remained unruffled. “Oh, you do,” he said. “Well now. Look here. You run along like a good chap and don’t take up our time. I’m pleased to see you again, but really, this sort of thing is too urgent for me to be delayed by anyone.”
Peter Ferrers suddenly stood up. “Well, I think I’ll leave you two to discuss the matter between yourselves,” he said. “I have no wish to hear the whole case over again.” And he walked out of the room.
Beef had been sucking gently at the ends of his moustache. Then, “That’s not hardly fair, Inspector Stute,” he burst out as soon as Peter Ferrers had left the room. “You know very well what’s always done in these cases. You tell me what you know, and I tell you what I know, and we’re all Sir Garnet.”
Stute sighed. “Well, very briefly I’ll outline to you the case,” he said. “It’s so clear that anyone who’s even read the newspapers probably understands it. Only, I would ask you, Beef, not to start a lot of discussion afterwards. You really mustn’t presume on the luck you had in that other matter to take up time elsewhere. First of all, and most important, Stewart’s finger-prints were quite clearly on the handle of the dagger with which Benson was murdered, and no other finger-prints were on it. Then again, Stewart had quarrelled with Benson that evening, as we found out from Duncan, and their quarrel had been a serious one. Stewart was alone in the house with Benson, except for the servants, at the time of the murder. The butler, the cook, and the two housemaids can surely be left out of suspicion for lack of motive, or even capacity.
“Then there is the evidence of the chauffeur-gardener. Stewart most carefully gave him the evening off, but he also cross-examined him on the subject of pre-selection gears, knowing that Benson’s car had these. His idea was to drive Benson away in his own car and let him be found, having apparently committed suicide, in some place from which he himself could walk home. Then again, we have a document which you haven’t seen yet. I don’t really know why I should show it to you, but since it will probably convince you once and for all that you’re wasting my time in hanging around
here, here it is. This, I may say, was found in Stewart’s pocket when he was arrested.”
He pulled out of his pocket a piece of folded paper about eight inches by four, on which had been typewritten these remarkable words:
“Received of St. Vincent Ferrer, forty seven years of hellish life now to be ended, with a total profit of £500.”
There was a twopenny stamp below this across which was the signature of Benson.
“Now,” said Stute, “our handwriting experts have made a thorough examination of this document, and they say that the signature is the genuine signature of Benson. What is the inference? It is perfectly obvious. This was a document prepared for Benson to sign under the impression that he was signing a receipt for five hundred pounds, but actually serving as a preadmission of suicide. Having refilled Benson’s glass with whisky a number of times, and having paid him the money, Stewart handed him the receipt to sign, and Benson had no idea that he was signing his own death warrant.
“Stewart’s idea, then, had been to put Benson in his own car and drive away to some lonely spot where he would leave him with the dagger in his throat, his hand on the dagger, and the document showing that he intended to commit suicide in his pocket. But this is where the hitch came; the hitch which fortunately always comes to make the detection of murderers possible. Benson hadn’t brought his car. What was Stewart to do? Either drive him away in his own, and involve himself in a hundred ways; blood on his cushions, the fact that he’d taken his car out at all, and the possibility of his being seen? No, he could not do that. Finally, he decided to leave him there in the chair. After all, nobody had seen him commit the murder, and he didn’t see how it could be proved against him.