Cold Blood

by Leo Bruce

  “All the same,” said Gray quietly, “don’t you think it might be as well if you did give up this case? We would, of course, cover all your fees and compensate you for any loss you may suffer.”

  “No,” said Beef obstinately. “I can’t pack in now. I’ve gone too far already. But I will promise you that no innocent person shall suffer. Now there’s one or two things I want to ask Major Gulley.”

  “But he was not here that night,” said Gray.

  “I’ve already given you a very full account of my movements.” Gulley sounded aggrieved. “I’ve told you they can be checked with the porter at the flats. If you’re going to demand the name of the lady who was with me you’re wasting your time.”

  “No. It’s not that.” I felt sick with apprehension, guessing what was to come.

  “I can’t think what else . . .”

  “What’s this about you cooking the books?” asked Beef.

  It was clear that all three of them had feared some such question as this and that they were stunned by it. The first to recover himself was Gray.

  “You are making a very ill-timed and unjust reference to something which is of no possible concern to you,” he said. “Major Gulley has now our complete confidence. Nothing in his conduct of Mr. Ducrow’s affairs has any connection whatever with the murder.”

  “You don’t deny . . .” began Beef.

  “I neither deny nor admit anything, Sir.” Gray spoke with dignity. “There is no need for me to do so. You have been listening to gossip which grossly distorts the facts. Mrs. Ducrow and I are perfectly satisfied with Major Gulley’s work for the estate.”

  “Was Mr. Ducrow?”

  “Mr. Ducrow is dead. We do not wish to speculate on what opinions he may have held. Now, are you prepared to withdraw from this investigation?”

  “No.”

  “Then I must cancel your authority to make enquiries on our behalf and instruct you to leave the house tomorrow.”

  “Just as you like about that.”

  Gulley nervously cleared his throat.

  “Aren’t we being a little hasty?” he said. “If Beef withdraws he will have to give all the information he has acquired . . .”

  “I see what you mean. We’ll discuss this tomorrow.”

  Beef elected to have what he called “a game of darts at the local” that evening and left me to face a most uncomfortable evening with our hosts. We all carefully avoided any reference to the subject which was on our minds, and I did my best to make general conversation without even mentioning Beef. I recalled my schooldays at St. Lawrence College, Ramsgate, and gave them some vignettes of my life as an insurance agent and later inspector. Then I turned to literature and drew what I thought were some rather clever comparisons between writers whose names, I consider, confer a certain kudos on those who can discuss their work intelligently—such modern giants as Christopher Isherwood and Christopher Fry, Edith Sitwell and Elizabeth Bowen, W. H. Auden and V. S. Pritchett, Stephen Spender and Louis MacNeice, a galaxy of illustrious names which I thought would arouse their interest. It was not long, however, before I saw that I was wasting my energy, for Gray confessed to a taste for such old-fashioned and bourgeois novelists as Conrad and Galsworthy, while Gulley could talk of nothing but “Westerns”. As soon as I could politely do so I took my leave and went up to bed.

  Alone in my room I wished heartily that Beef had not left the house tonight. I felt curiously nervous, and although my door was locked I did not like the thought of undressing and lying unprotected in bed. Footsteps passed in the corridor several times and once paused for a full minute outside my door. I forced my breathing to be audible as a very light regular snoring sound which I hoped would seem natural to the listener on the threshold.

  But I could not sleep. Even when there was silence in the house about me, suggesting that all were at last asleep, I found myself tossing and turning and wide awake. I could see the window from where I lay and knew that some of the clouds of the afternoon had been driven away and there was a fairly clear starry sky, while the wind seemed to have dropped.

  Somewhere in this house or in one of the lodges, I reflected, a murderer was as restless as I, knowing that he or she had committed a brutal crime for which society would show no forgiveness. But I knew better than to speculate on his or her identity.

  Then suddenly something told me to look out of the window. Had I heard a sound or was the warning of a psychic nature? I shall never know, but it was urgent enough to make me jump out of bed and cross the room. I looked down by the fitful and uncertain starlight and was rewarded by seeing something which, Beef afterwards admitted, provided him with an important suggestion. Someone was coming round the corner of the house walking swiftly towards the drive. I leaned out to see who it was, but the person evidently did not mean to be recognized for over his head was an open umbrella. No rain was falling, so this could only be intended to conceal his identity from the windows above. I thought I saw a man’s shoes, but could not be certain in that light.

  What a diabolically clever disguise, I thought, for by holding the umbrella high above his head or down as low as possible he could conceal even his height. Who was this lonely being, I asked myself, leaving the house at half-past one in the morning? It could be anyone. Gabriel? Rudolf? Theo Gray? Mills? Major Gulley? Dunton? Even Beef? Or one of the women who had put on a man’s shoes? Freda Ducrow? Mrs. Gabriel? Zena? Mrs. Dunton? There was nothing to suggest the identity unless the absentee could be discovered by a tour of inspection of the bedrooms. Beef was capable of this, I thought, and resolved therefore to keep the information till the morning.

  I woke early, and finding that it was a freakishly fine day with sunlight breaking through and the air quite warm, I decided to go out for a stroll before breakfast. Perhaps I would find some trace of last night’s mysterious noctambulist.

  It was eight o’clock when I stepped out on the terrace and found that I was not the first up. Theo Gray had brought his newspaper out and was glancing at it as he strolled towards me.

  “Wonderful morning,” he said.

  I wanted to walk round the house and not stop to talk so I said, “Yes, wonderful,” rather curtly and pressed on. I had an uncomfortable feeling that he was smiling at me.

  I could find no trace of any footprints, but soon Beef joined me and I told him what I had seen during the night.

  “Oh, yes?” he said indifferently, once again seeking to belittle any help I might give to his investigations.

  “Perhaps we might see some footprints.”

  He laughed rudely.

  “You don’t half have some old-fashioned ideas,” he said. “And why on earth did you start making that noise like a sow in furrow when I was coming to your room last night? You shouldn’t do that, you know, someone might hear you. I was just coming along to tell you that me’n my partner were unbeaten at darts last night.”

  “I’m sure I should have been most interested,” I said sarcastically.

  “So you might have been when I told you who my partner was.”

  “Who was it?”

  “Mills, the chauffeur,” said Beef.

  “Perhaps it was also you who was walking about with an umbrella up last night?”

  “No. I never use an umbrella.”

  “Well, I’m getting fed up with this case,” I said. “You left me alone with those three all the evening.”

  “Didn’t you learn anything?”

  “We didn’t discuss the case. Look here, Beef, are you really getting anywhere?”

  “Slow but sure,” said Beef.

  “I’m not asking you to tell me, but have you any idea of who the murderer may be?”

  “Have you?”

  I thought for a moment, then admitted that I had not.

  “Just if you were to guess?” cajoled Beef.

  “Well, if I were to say at this point who I think is guilty, it would be nothing but guesswork. Sheer guesswork. So I’ll do what the readers of detective
novels do and choose the most unlikely.”

  “Go on, then,” said Beef.

  “I’ll say either Mrs. Dunton or Theo Gray.”

  His face grew grave.

  “Those seem to you the most unlikely?”

  “Just about. Yes.”

  “Well, you’re wrong.”

  “Both guesses?”

  “Yes.”

  “I should like you to state that a little more definitely so that there can be no question afterwards of what you meant.”

  “Very well. I tell you absolutely definitely that neither Theo Gray nor Mrs. Dunton killed Cosmo Ducrow.”

  “Good enough. That narrows the field.”

  “I may be able to put one or two more out of the running in a day or two,” said Beef.

  “Process of elimination, eh? Well, I hope it doesn’t take too long. I want to get back to London.”

  11

  No indication was given at breakfast of whether or not Beef was to retain his authority to investigate, but after the meal was finished Gray called us aside.

  “I have been thinking over this matter,” he said, “and I’ve reached the conclusion that you would not be acting as you are unless you felt pretty certain that you can clear up the case against Rudolf. I don’t ask you to give me any assurances about that. I simply remind you that it is the concern of everyone that he should not be tried for this murder.”

  “I understand what you mean,” said Beef. “I’ll go so far as to say that it may well be avoided, but I’m afraid he will be charged and brought before a magistrate. That is, if the jacket proves to have been bloodstained. If you’ll continue to give me your co-operation, Mr. Gray, I believe I can get at the truth.”

  “Very well. But I hope you won’t discover any more evidence which seems to be against Rudolf.”

  We were interrupted just then by the arrival of the young man in question, who came in breathless and eager to tell us some strange news.

  “Extraordinary thing,” he said. “My car was stolen last night.”

  “Stolen?”

  “Yes. I left it outside my house as I always do. This morning it was gone.”

  Beef pulled out his notebook.

  “Was it locked?” he asked.

  “The doors, you mean? No. The ignition key was out, but that doesn’t mean much, as you know. I’ve lost several of them since I had the car. One yesterday, as a matter of fact, through dropping it carelessly in one of my big overcoat pockets.”

  “Didn’t you hear anything in the night?”

  “No. But then I always leave the old bus at the top of the slope so that I can start it in the morning. All the thief had to do was to jump in, take off the handbrake and away. He could start the engine at the bottom of the slope a quarter of a mile from my house. I should never hear him.”

  It was evident from Beef’s expression that whatever else he had or had not anticipated this was a development as unexpected to him as to the rest of us. But was it a development? Rudolf himself asked that very question.

  “Think it has anything to do with the murder?”

  I was amused to see that by this blunt enquiry Beef was hoist with his own petard.

  “Hard to say. Very hard to say,” he intoned and sucked his pencil stump. “Might have, and then again might not. You better report it to the police in any case. I shall be calling on Inspector Stute this morning and will mention it to him, but it should be reported in the ordinary way to the local police officer.”

  When we were alone I enjoyed a minor triumph over Beef.

  “You see? What I saw in the night was not so unimportant after all.”

  “What was that?”

  I reminded him of the mysterious figure under the umbrella.

  “It’s clear,” I said, “that some one from this house had an interest in removing Rudolf’s car last night. Perhaps he wished to immobilize him.”

  Beef said nothing, and when I offered to drive him to see Inspector Stute he replied sulkily that he would just as soon walk. In the circumstances and because it was such a lovely morning for November I agreed with him and we set out, Beef carrying a brown-paper parcel.

  When we came to the little pavilion Beef elected to look around it again. I was sure that he was doing this with the sole purpose of annoying me because I was anxious to get over our interview with Stute. I could see a little smile on his face and knew it of old.

  “Oh, come on, Beef,” I said. “Don’t let’s waste any more time.”

  He seemed to be looking for something which would justify the delay, and was relieved to see an old overcoat and hat hanging there. He began with painful deliberation to examine these.

  “More bloodstains?” I asked sarcastically.

  “No,” said Beef. “No bloodstains on this, I think.”

  He peered into the hat, a greasy and battered relic, then hung it up again.

  “I’m going on,” I said angrily.

  He thereupon began a silly piece of play-acting.

  “Could we have been seen from the house?” he asked. “Coming in here, I mean?”

  I looked round.

  “No. Of course not.”

  “Then we’ll go back to the drive the same way. Don’t cut across to the drive farther down.” He assumed an absurd air of secrecy. “That is, if you value your life.”

  More childishness, I thought. But I followed his route to humour him.

  I noticed several things before we reached the park gates, things which might have some bearing on the case, but with Beef in his present mood I decided to keep my observations to myself. I saw, for instance, that although until now there had been no sign of cattle grazing in the park, this morning there were some Jersey cows there. And I noticed that Dunton, though he pretended to be busy behind some rhododendron bushes, was watching us closely.

  At the lodge gates we were assailed by two Boxer dogs and heard Mrs. Rudolf Ducrow shouting “Malik! Vishinsky!” from somewhere in the rear of the house, while the Duntons had evidently resolved against any further attempt at secrecy in the matter of Mrs. Dunton’s return for she was vigorously shaking a mat at her front door.

  As we approached the village Beef was hailed by a tubby little man lounging at a shop door. His dull red cheeks and slightly glazed eyes suggested to my trained observation that he was an habitual if not an excessive beer-drinker. He greeted Beef as “Sarge” and was in turn called “Fred”, so that I guessed him to have been one of the locals with whom Beef had been hobnobbing and playing darts on the previous evening. And when we reached a house with a notice COUNTY POLICE on it, I was not surprised to find that the local sergeant was already an acquaintance of his.

  “Lovely morning,” said this character rubbing his hands.

  “Lovely,” agreed Beef. “This is Mr. Townsend, who writes my cases up for me,” he added in his grand manner.

  “Wish I had someone to do that for me,” said Sergeant Eels as he shook hands with me. “This young constable I’ve got is too busy making reports on his own.”

  Sergeant Eels was a thickset vigorous-looking man whose sharp waxed moustache jumped about on his lip when he talked as though it had a life of its own. He had a loud voice and cheerful manner.

  “Rudolf Ducrow will be down presently,” said Beef. “His car’s been pinched in the night.”

  “Not surprised,” said Eels. “He leaves it outside his house every night, right at the top of the slope. You want to see Inspector Stute, I suppose? You’ll find him along at the Buck and Arrow, where he’s staying. But have a cup of char before you go. It’s just being made.” He raised his voice to be heard by the constable whom I had seen through the door to an inner room. “Spender-Hennessy! Is that char ready?”

  “Coming up, Sarge.”

  “Decent young bloke,” said Eels. “But a bit too keen, if you know what I mean. Well, he’s not finished his training long and you know what they are when they’re young. I tell him to please himself. ‘If you want to be up at all ho
urs you can’, I say, ‘I like my sleep.’ Still, he’s had one or two nice little cases, if he has got a rather cheeky way of talking.”

  “What did you say his name was?”

  “Spender-Hennessy.”

  “I don’t know what’s happening to the Force, upon my soul, I don’t. Where do names like that come from, I should like to know?”

  “Straight out of the New Statesman,” I put in drily, but nobody took any notice, of course.

  The young constable appeared carrying two mugs, then went back for two more. Soon the room resounded to that curious mixture of gurgling and suction which suggests that policemen are enjoying hot tea.

  “So you like a bit of a look-round at night, do you?” said Beef expansively to Constable Spender-Hennessy. “I was the same myself at one time. Couldn’t keep me off my bicycle after dark when I was a beginner, same as you.”

  “Really?” said the young man in a bored voice. “You were in the Police Force, were you?”

  “This is Sergeant Beef,” said Eels with shocked emphasis. “The Sergeant Beef. And this is Mr. Townsend, who works with him.”

  “I’m afraid I don’t go to the pictures much. What is it? Cross-talk comedy?”

  “You’ll get cross-talk if you’re not careful, young man.” Eels turned to Beef. “It’s only his inexperience,” he said apologetically. “They fill ’em up with so much theory nowadays they think it’s all in books and microscopes.”

  “I know,” said Beef. He seemed to be in no way put out, and smiled to the constable. “I was going to ask you if you happened to be cycling anywhere near Hokestones on the night of the murder?”

  “Not actually,” the young man said.

  “What on earth do you mean by that?” asked Beef. “Were you or weren’t you?”

  Constable Spender-Hennessy smiled loftily.

  “I was and I wasn’t,” he said. “I did not go so far as the lodge gates, but I had a gander up the road towards them.”

  “See anything out of the ordinary?”

  “Definitely.”

  Beef turned to Eels.

  “Does he mean he did or he didn’t?”