by Leo Bruce
“What d’you mean by ‘useful’?”
Mills looked uncomfortable.
“Well, you know. Might be worth something to someone.”
“So that’s it, is it? Well, let me tell you this, young Bomb. You can get into serious trouble for withholding information in an affair of this kind. I don’t say that if your information is any good I won’t make you a little present when the case is over, but don’t imagine you’ve got anything to sell, because you haven’t.”
“O.K., Sarge. Don’t get worked up. I said I was going to tell you.”
Mills lit a cigarette from the stump of the one he had just finished.
“I saw something that night. The night of the murder, I mean.”
“What time?”
“That’s where you’ve got me. I never thought to look. It was some time in the small hours, I think, because I’d been asleep for a long time. I don’t know for certain what woke me up, as a matter of fact. I think it was the yard door slamming to.”
He led us to the window.
“See that door there? It leads to the kitchen garden. Anyone coming to this yard from the terrace would use it. But when there’s a bit of wind, as there was that night, it blows shut unless you’re careful. It must have been the noise of it which woke me up. I went straight to the window.”
Mills seemed to be playing for effect. He paused to take several pulls at his cigarette.
“Someone was crossing the yard,” he said.
“Man or woman?”
“Don’t know. All I could see was an open umbrella.”
I jumped up with excitement.
“There you are!” I exclaimed. “I told you that what I saw the other night was important . . .”
Mills gave me a hard, narrow look.
“What did you see?” he asked, and I did not like the tone of his voice.
“Never mind Townsend,” said Beef rudely. “He’s always seeing something. Go on with what you were saying.”
Mills continued to look at me, and if ever the word “murderous” was an apt one for a man’s expression it was now.
“Go on, Bomb,” said Beef gently.
Mills seemed to pull himself together.
“Whoever it was had put up an umbrella, though it wasn’t raining and there was enough wind to make it rather difficult to hold. Seems they thought they might be seen from a window and didn’t mean to be recognized.”
“Call him ‘he’ for convenience,” said Beef. “Where did he go?”
“Across to the furnace room. The door along to the left there—you can only just see it from here. He must have stepped in first then put down his umbrella because I couldn’t see him even when he went in. I was just making up my mind to pull some clothes on and go down to see what it was all about when the umbrella was stuck out again, unfolded, and away he went under it, through the same door to the kitchen garden.”
“So you went back to bed?”
An ugly cunning look came to the young man’s face.
“No. I guessed what he had gone there for—could only have been one thing. He wanted to burn something. ‘Gulley!’ I thought. ‘Gulley destroying some evidence of his swindling!’ I’d forgotten for the minute that Gulley was supposed to be in London. So I pulled on some clothes and went down to look in the furnace.”
“Were you in time?”
“No. At least—there were no papers or anything burning. But right on top of the coke there was something that I took to be a log of wood. A very smooth, round log though. I thought there must be a madman about the place—bringing a log to the furnace in the small hours of the morning. It wasn’t until I got back to my room that I realized what it was: the heavy part of a croquet mallet. If there had been a pair of tongs handy I would have pulled it out, I daresay. But there wasn’t. In the morning it had burnt right away.”
“Is that all?”
“Isn’t it enough? Doesn’t it solve the whole thing for you.”
“Not quite. There’s still the little matter of identity, isn’t there? However, I’m grateful to you, Bomb. I want you to promise me something very particular.”
“What’s that?”
“Not to tell anyone what you’ve told us. Anyone at all.”
“Want all the credit for yourself, I suppose?”
“It’s not that. Will you promise?”
“All right. I won’t tell anyone.”
“Thanks, Bomb. See you on the dartboard tonight?”
“You bet. We’ll see those two again.”
“Till tonight then.”
We left the yard by the gate which, as Mills had indicated, led into the kitchen garden. As we opened it we almost walked into Dunton, who was leaning over a bed of culinary herbs. He nodded, but in a rather unfriendly way, I thought. We were certainly out of favour that day.
“I want you to drive me over to Roffington this afternoon,” said Beef.
I knew his trick of taking little excursions at my expense pretending that they were necessary to his enquiries when in fact all he wanted was an outing.
“What for?” I asked suspiciously.
“To see a friend of mine. Man called Piper.”
“And what has a man called Piper to do with the Ducrow case?” I asked.
“You’ll see.”
The brief show of fine weather which we had enjoyed on the previous day was over and our drive was on wet and slippery roads and through heavy rain. I did not talk much for I had to concentrate on my driving to avoid skids. Beef, too, was silent. When I remarked on this he said that he was thinking, and I let it go at that.
We came at last to the rather dreary town of Roffington, and when Beef had consulted his notebook we drove to what must have been its ugliest street. All the houses were identical and hideously built of yellow bricks. We drew up at the one Beef indicated and knocked on a shabby front door.
After we had waited some minutes an untidy woman opened it.
“Mr. Piper in?” asked Beef.
“Well, he’s not up yet. He was on night duty last night,” she said resentfully. “I was just having ten minutes myself. Who shall I say?”
“Tell him Sergeant Beef is here.”
A faint animation came to her face.
“Oh, yes, he’s talked about you. Joined the police force together, didn’t you? He didn’t stay long at that, thank goodness. I told him I wouldn’t be a policeman’s wife for anything, and he give it up and took this job where he’s been ever since. I’ll tell him you’re here. Better come through to the kitchen. I’ve been doing my ironing, but you can find somewhere to sit down. There’s no fire in the front room.”
We did find somewhere to sit down, but it was with difficulty. It was like sitting in the sorting-room of a laundry.
“You can see what she is,” Beef whispered when she had left us. “Three weeks’ washing here. She doesn’t move till she has to. But he’s all right.”
After some minutes a heavily built humorous-looking man lumbered in and there were noisy greetings between him and Beef. Mr. Piper, it appeared, was known as “Old Windpipe”, while Sergeant Beef had shrunk to a monosyllabic “Bill”. They banged each other’s backs, and said it was donkey’s years, assured one another that they hadn’t changed and seemed about to begin exchanging reminiscences when I interrupted.
“Wasn’t there something you wanted to ask Mr. Piper?” I said.
Beef gave me an irate look but came to the point.
“Oh yes, there was one little thing. You’ve worked at the Borstal institution for twenty-odd years now, haven’t you?”
“Twenty-three.”
“So you must have had thousands through your hands. But I want you to try to remember one particular lad. Mills. Alan Geoffrey Mills. With you about twelve years ago at the age of sixteen for burglary.”
“Remember him perfectly,” said Mr. Piper at once, seeming to find this a matter of course. “In fact, you’d be surprised how many I do remember by name.”
“I better say at once I didn’t like him,” said Mr. Piper. “His conduct was always exemplary—at least, in official reports, which is what matters. He was never caught doing anything wrong all the time he was here, which didn’t seem natural to me. I suspected that there were others taking the rap for him. Mind you, I’ve only got my private suspicions about that, with nothing to back them up. But I had a feeling that he was deep. Capable of scheming things out to put someone else in the wrong.”
“Ah!” said Beef expressively.
“And I didn’t like the affair he came in for, either. It read to me as though he’d given his mates away. I daresay I was prejudiced. If you were to see an official report about him it would tell another story. But he struck me as the kind of fellow who would scheme and plot to get someone else in trouble.”
“Thanks, Windy. You’ve been very helpful. See, I’m investigating the Ducrow Case.”
“Oh! Is Mills mixed up in that?”
“He’s the chauffeur.”
Mr. Piper whistled.
“I see why you ask. Well, I don’t need to tell you that what I’ve said is between ourselves.”
“No. You don’t need to tell me,” said Beef and gave his old friend a reassuring smile.
14
Next morning Beef was called to the telephone, and when he returned to the room in which I was sitting with Theo Gray and Mrs. Ducrow his face was grave.
“The report on Rudolf’s jacket is through,” he said. “Traces of human blood have been found.”
Freda Ducrow began to cry quietly.
“Does that mean Rudy will be arrested?”
“I don’t know,” said Beef. “The Chief Inspector will do as he thinks proper, and certainly would not inform me of his plans.”
“It’s so dreadful,” sobbed Freda. “Losing Cosmo, and now this. They couldn’t find Rudy guilty, could they Theo?”
“No, no, my dear. How could they? We know Rudolf is incapable of it.”
“But it looks so black against him.”
“Perhaps that’s in his favour,” I said brightly. “Perhaps it looks too black. Too black to be natural, I mean.”
Beef and Gray exchanged glances, seeming to agree that this was a silly thing to say.
“Even if they do arrest him,” Gray assured Freda, “they could not possibly find him guilty. Every scrap of the evidence is circumstantial.”
“But he might be tried. Oh, it’s so awful. All those dreadful newspaper headlines! They seem to be positively baying after him, like bloodhounds.”
“After the murderer, not him.”
“But they think he is the murderer. Everyone does. Even these two think so.”
I spoke for both of us.
“In England a man is innocent till he’s proved guilty.”
“That’s small comfort when you’ve done your best to make him look guilty. Theo, I think I should like to go and see Ernest Wickham. He was my father’s solicitor and mine, and I believe he could advise me what to do.”
“By all means, my dear Freda, if you think it will be any comfort to you. He is certainly a very shrewd man.”
“Will you phone him and ask if he will see me today? As soon as possible? I could drive down to Folkover in time for lunch.”
Theo Gray went out to the telephone.
I knew that Folkover was about thirty miles away, the great Kentish watering-place between Folkestone and Dover from which there was a cross-channel service to Dilogne. I seemed to remember reading or hearing that Freda was a Folkover girl who had nursed Cosmo while he had been in hospital there.
Theo Gray returned to say that Ernest Wickham would expect her at about five o’clock.
“I’m going up to London myself,” Gray added. “I’m going to see Sir Mordaunt Tiptree. If Rudolf should need an advocate he is certainly the man. Besides, one of us should go and see Cosmo’s lawyers.”
“Oh, I’m glad, Theo. And perhaps they won’t arrest Rudy after all.”
“Perhaps not. But we’ll take every precaution.”
To my surprise Beef chipped in:
“Mr. Townsend and I have to go to London today,” he said. “Perhaps you would not mind giving us a lift?”
I could see that Theo Gray thought this pushing.
“I am going up by train,” he said coldly.
When we were alone I asked Beef why on earth he wanted to go to London at this point when the case was beginning to grow interesting.
“You’ve got a terrible memory,” he said. “What about Miss Esmeralda Tobyn of 18 Peckham Avenue, Putney Common? Forgetting her, were you?”
“The woman Gulley was with that night, you mean? I can’t see what she has to do with the case.”
“Perhaps she’s the flowers that bloom in the spring tra-la,” said Beef with grotesque attempts at elephantine comedy. “All the same we’ve got to see her.”
“Shall I drive you up, then?”
“No. If Gray is going by train we might as well accompany him. The eleven-four he said, didn’t he? We’ll be on that, too.”
At least, I thought, we should get out of this gloomy house with its overpowering atmosphere of watchfulness and evil. I would have an opportunity to go round to my flat and attend to private affairs which were always woefully neglected while I was on a case with Beef. I went up to my room and had started to prepare for the journey when I realized that I had not shut the door and could hear what was being said by two people in the passage who evidently took it for granted that the upper part of the house would be empty at this time.
I detest the idea of eavesdropping, but detection is the better part of valour and I found myself standing quite still listening. The speakers were Freda Ducrow and Major Gulley.
“Theo has arranged for me to see him at five. I should like you to come down with me.”
“I can’t do that. Theo has particularly asked me to be here today. The accountant is coming.”
If they had spoken in natural voices I might not have been impelled to listen. But this was whispering—furtive and hurried.
“Then would you come down later? I know I shall need a drink as soon as I come from Wickham’s.”
“I suppose I could do that.”
“We’ll meet at the Marina Palace at six o’clock, then. Or as soon as I can get there.”
“I’ll be there.”
“Are those two really going away today?”
“I hope so.”
“Have you noticed Townsend? He’s afraid. I can see it. The man’s in fear of his life.”
“I’m not surprised,” said Gulley grimly.
“See you at six, then.”
“I think I had better tell Theo I’m meeting you. He likes to know what is going on.”
“All right.”
They moved away, but to my relief neither of them passed my door. I went along and reported the whole conversation to Beef.
“That’s good,” he said. “That’s the best bit of news you’ve given me for a long time.”
“I think we’re most unwise to go to London,” I told him. “The accountant is coming today and it’s far more important that you should see him and get details of Gulley’s defalcations than go chasing after his girl friend.”
“I’ve no intention of chasing after anyone’s girl friend,” said Beef pompously. “I have to interview the lady.”
Just then Gabriel came down the passage.
“Will you both be here this afternoon?” asked Beef.
“Not me. It’s my day off. I shall get away at noon and stay away for the rest of the day, believe you me.”
“On your own?”
“Yes. We can’t get out together very well.”
“Pity. We shall be back in the early evening.”
“O.K., Sarge. I’ll tell the wife. Going to London are you? I wonder you don’t pack up this job, straight I do. It’s hopeless. I suppose
they’ll arrest Rudolf at any minute?”
“I daresay.”
“I almost wish they’d get it over. I’ve had enough of murder mystery to last me a lifetime.”
At half-past ten I brought my car round to the front door in order to be in plenty of time to get Beef to the station for the eleven-four. I could see him in the hall talking to Gray and Gulley, so I joined them.
“May we give you a lift to the station?” suggested Beef. “It will save you having your car brought out.”
Gray looked at my rather shabby old car but seemed to decide to be gracious.
“Thank you. That’s very kind,” he said smiling, then turning to Gulley he asked him to cancel his order to Mills.
The three of us climbed in and I began to drive to the station.
“Pity about these frauds of Gulley’s,” said Beef apropos of nothing.
“I should prefer that we did not discuss that matter,” said Gray. “Mrs. Ducrow and Rudolf and I are, after all, the only people who are affected by anything Major Gulley may have done, and we have decided to follow a certain course in the matter.”
“Very good of you all. I hope Major Gulley appreciates it. I understand he was to have had a cottage for himself?”
“Cosmo had decided that. I see no reason not to fulfil his wishes.”
Gray looked straight ahead of him and Beef seemed, for once in his life, to feel snubbed. But when we came to the station we did not part company, and Gray seemed quite pleased when we all entered the same compartment.
On the journey I had no newspaper and decided to go over the case and suspects again in my own mind to see whether I could reach a new conclusion. Great murder cases of the past threw little light on this one for it was hard to see how it resembled any of them as yet. If Rudolf was guilty it might have something in common with the Thompson and Bywaters Case, for I was prepared to agree with Mrs. Gabriel that if Rudolf murdered Cosmo, Freda Ducrow had had her part in it. If Mills was the murderer—and I had an obstinate feeling that he might be—the whole thing most nearly followed the Rattenbury Case, including the wife’s drinking and hysteria. If any of the women had killed Cosmo Ducrow it would mean something almost unprecedented for I could think of no murder by a woman in which there had been such horrible, such wanton violence.