The Case of the Vanishing Corpse

by Robert Newman

  Brother Ibrahim looked at him admiringly. “The young one not only remembers, but understands. Yes. My sleep was disturbed again last night.”

  “Disturbed how?” asked Andrew.

  Ibrahim shrugged. “I have not the words for it. But still I may be able to help you. Wait here a moment.” And he walked off some fifteen or twenty feet, sank down gracefully onto the grass with his legs crossed and his back to them.

  “What’s he doing?” asked Finch.

  “I don’t know,” said Andrew. “But he told us to wait here.”

  “He told us!” said Finch scornfully, and he marched off after the Egyptian and paused looking down at him. Sara, Andrew and Wyatt followed slowly. Ibrahim was sitting there with his eyes closed and the tips of his fingers pressed to his forehead.

  “What is he doing?” Sara asked Andrew in a hushed voice.

  “I’m not sure. Maybe meditating. Or maybe he’s put himself into a trance.”

  “And what are we supposed to do, wait here till he comes out of it?” asked Finch. “Hey, you. Wake up!”

  “Don’t do that,” said Sara. “He said he might be able to help us. Or”—she looked sharply at Finch—“don’t you want him to help us?”

  Before Finch could answer, Brother Ibrahim opened his eyes.

  “Yes,” he said. “There is something here—an Osiris. It is buried … there!” and he pointed to a place near one of the greenhouses.

  “A what?” asked Finch.

  “He means a corpse,” said Wyatt. “The ancient Egyptians called everyone who died the Osiris.”

  “And he got that from sitting there with his eyes closed?”

  “However he did it, don’t you think we should go look?” said Andrew. “It should be easy enough to tell whether something’s been buried there or not.”

  “All right,” Finch said to the Egyptian. “Show me where.”

  Brother Ibrahim rose and walked across the lawn to a large bush some four or five feet high.

  “Here,” he said, pointing down.

  They had all followed him and now looked down. The turf had been cut in a circle around the bush and there was no question but that the soil had been freshly turned.

  “I think he’s even balmier than the rest of you,” said Finch. “But we’ll look.” He jerked his head at a spade that had been thrust into a compost pit full of grass clippings, leaves and dead flowers. “Get that,” he said to Wyatt, “and start digging.”

  Wyatt saluted, got the spade and set to work. He had only taken a few shovelsful, making a neat pile of the loose soil he dug up, when the door of the nearest greenhouse burst open and a squat, gnomelike man wearing an ancient, wide-brimmed straw hat came hurrying out.

  “What the devil are you doing?” he said angrily.

  “What does it look like?” asked Finch. Then, looking him up and down. “Who are you, anyway?”

  “I’m Parr, the head gardener here,” he said with a broad Somerset accent. “Who are you?”

  “Inspector Finch of Scotland Yard.”

  “I don’t believe you! Since when did the police go around vandalizing people’s gardens?”

  “Who’s vandalizing your garden?”

  “What do you call what you’re doing to my Indicum-Roseum?”

  “Your what?”

  “My Indicum-Roseum!” he repeated, pointing to the bush.

  “Oh. I’ve been given information that a body was buried here. I doubt it myself, but I’ve got to make sure, so we’re going to dig up your Indian rose, or whatever it is, and see.”

  “You’ll do no such thing!” said Parr. “Give me that!” And he wrenched the spade away from Wyatt.

  “I told you that I’m looking for a body,” said Finch with barely controlled fury. “That means that a serious crime may have been committed—which is why the marchioness gave me permission to go where I want, do what I want. If you don’t give that spade back to the constable at once, I’ll arrest you for interfering with the police in the performance of their duty!”

  “The mistress gave you permission to dig up the Indicum?”

  “She did.”

  Parr threw down the shovel, ripped off his hat and hurled that to the ground, too.

  “I’ll give her my notice!” he shouted. “As daft as any in Bedlam she be! Since early April she’s been at me to move it so she could see it from the breakfast room window. ‘I’ll not!’ I told her. “Three years I’ve been nursing it in the greenhouse. This is it’s first spring out of doors, and I’ll not move it till it’s bloomed—not for the queen herself!’ Well, last week it finished blooming, yesterday I transplanted it, and now she’s letting you dig it up again.”

  “She is,” said Finch. “Get on with it, Wyatt.”

  But as Wyatt bent down, Parr snatched the spade himself.

  “No!” he said. “If it must be done, I’ll do it. I’ll not have a clumsy policeman injuring the roots. From the state of Virginia in America it came,” he said, pushing the spade skillfully into the ground with his foot, “the only one of this kind and this color that I know of. And what it thinks of the way we’re treating it, I don’t know and don’t want to know!”

  He put the dirt on the pile Wyatt had started and continued digging in sullen silence. Working carefully, he dug down two or more feet completely around the bush, then levered it up with the spade and, with Wyatt’s help, lifted it out and put it to one side.

  “Well, there you are,” he said. “Where’s your body?”

  They all looked down at the hole which was some four feet in diameter and almost three feet deep. It was clear that the earth beneath the bush had not been disturbed, but having gone this far, Finch was stubborn.

  “If it’s there, it’s deeper than that,” he said. “Keep digging.”

  “Not I,” said Parr, throwing down the spade. “It’s my opinion that the only thing that’s buried there is your brains. If you want any more digging done, do it yourself.” And he marched off towards the greenhouse.

  “How dare you talk to me that way!” roared Finch. “Come back here!”

  But the gardener ignored him, went into the greenhouse and closed the door. His face flushed with rage, Finch glared after him, then said, “All right, Wyatt. You dig.”

  “Yes, Inspector,” said Wyatt. Taking off his helmet and tunic, he picked up the spade and began to dig. Convinced that they were wasting time and effort for no purpose, Andrew looked sympathetically at Wyatt. But, as always, Wyatt did not seem too disturbed. Catching Andrew’s eye, he glanced toward the compost pit where he had found the spade. Andrew was not certain he knew what Wyatt wanted him to do, but the sign was as unmistakable as the others had been. Moving back slowly from between Sara and Brother Ibrahim, he circled around behind Finch and drifted toward the compost pit. He saw something white on the ground a few feet from it and picked it up. It was a cigarette butt like the one Sara had found behind the tree; the tobacco rather loose and the paper open rather than pasted into a tube. He didn’t know if the cigarette stub itself had any significance, but the fact that a second one had been found here did: it would indicate that whoever had waited behind the tree had also been in Three Oaks. Wyatt must have seen it when he went to get the spade, but conscious of Finch’s hostility, he had not wanted to pick it up himself.

  Wrapping the cigarette butt in his handkerchief, Andrew put it in his pocket and returned to the others. Though not as skillful as the gardener, Wyatt was young and strong and by now the hole was about four feet deep. Standing in it, he paused for a moment to wipe the perspiration from his face. As he picked up the shovel again, Ibrahim sighed and said, “Something is not right.”

  “What do you mean?” asked Finch.

  “I was before sure there was body here. Now the ka or shadow of the ka is gone, and I am not sure. I go to temple to seek guidance and enlightenment.” And bowing to the inspector, he walked off toward the grotto.

  Finch stared after him, a vein in his forehead throbbing, th
en turned to Andrew and Sara. “Well?” he said with barely controlled rage, “have you changed your minds too?”

  “About what?” asked Sara.

  “About a body being buried here!”

  “We never said the body was buried here,” said Andrew. “We said that we saw a body that disappeared and that it was a logical deduction that it had been gotten over the wall somehow and—”

  “Logical deduction?” roared Finch. “Nonsensical moonshine. I was an idiot to listen to you in the first place! I don’t know what your game was, but I know there wasn’t any murder, wasn’t any body, and you should both get a good caning for having wasted so much of my time!”

  “And who’d give it to us, you?” asked Sara, her eyes flashing and a good deal of her original Cockney creeping back into her speech. “You’re right. You ’ave been an idiot—not because you listened to us, but because of the way you’ve gone about all this, calling people liars when they’re not and trampling over clues like a blooming elephant!”

  “Why, you little guttersnipe!” said Finch. He reached for her, but Wyatt, who had climbed out of the hole, pushed his hand away.

  “All right, Finch,” he said quietly but intensely. “That’s enough!”

  “What did you say?”

  “I said that’s enough!” repeated Wyatt, lifting him by the front of his jacket. “Sara’s right, but she didn’t go far enough. You’ve been acting, not just like an idiot, but like a boor and a bully as well—and it’s time someone told you so. Not just told you, but—”

  “Don’t,” said Andrew, putting his hand on Wyatt’s arm. “It’s not worth it.”

  “What?” said Wyatt.

  “It isn’t, really.”

  “No, perhaps not,” said Wyatt, releasing the inspector. “Sorry.”

  “I’ll wager you are!” said Finch, backing away from him. “But not nearly as sorry as you’re going to be! You’re going on report, my lad! And that’s not all. I’m bringing you up on charges of insubordination and assaulting a superior officer. In the meantime, until the hearing, I’m relieving you of all duties and confining you to quarters. So go on back to the section-house and stay there!”

  “Yes, sir,” said Wyatt, his face expressionless. He started to march off, with Finch walking close behind him, then paused, said, “Excuse me, sir,” and went back to get his helmet and tunic. As he bent down to pick them up, he whispered to Andrew and Sara, “Tell Beasley I want to see him right away. Tell him to come to the section-house.”

  They nodded and stood there as Wyatt went off toward the gate, followed by Finch.

  9

  The Watchers

  They went to Portobello Road by omnibus. Andrew had plenty of money with him and was prepared to take a hansom or four-wheeler, but when they got to Wellington Road a dark green City Atlas bus came along and they took that to Oxford Street, changed there for a light green Bayswater.

  Though, to begin with, they had been very upset at what had happened, they had been reassured by Wyatt’s reaction to it. It was clear that he not only had no intention of letting Finch’s attempt to discipline him keep him out of action, but that he had some plan in mind. The fact that he had given the two of them something to do helped even more. As a consequence, when they got off the bus at Pembridge Road, having ridden in the garden seat directly over the driver and behind the horses, they were almost cheerful.

  It seemed that Portobello Road was not always as busy as it had been the day Wyatt took them there. On this particular day it was almost deserted, and Beasley was alone in his shop, studying a small stone statuette.

  “It’s you, eh?” he said, looking up at them with his baby blue eyes. “What’s up?”

  “It’s Peter Wyatt,” said Andrew. “He wants you to come see him right away.”

  “He does, eh? Where?”

  “The section-house.”

  “Why the section-house?”

  “Because he got into a shindy with Finch,” said Sara. “Finch is going to bring him up on charges, whatever that is. And in the meantime he’s supposed to stay in the section-house, not go anywhere.”

  “Friendship!” muttered Beasley, scowling. “Have you got any friends?” he asked Sara.

  “A few.”

  “You?” he asked Andrew.

  “One or two.”

  “Well, get rid of them! Having friends is one of the biggest mistakes you can make. In business, a yobbo comes to you with something like this,” he held up the statuette, “and says, ‘You can have it for a quid,’ and if it’s worth it, you take it. If not, you say no. But with friendship there’s no figuring costs or convenience or anything. You come in and say, ‘Wyatt wants you,’ and I’m supposed to drop everything and go running. Sean!” he called.

  The curtain behind him was pulled aside and a slim, red-headed young man in his early twenties came out.

  “Yes, Mr. Beasley?” he said with a slight Irish brogue.

  “I’m going out. Watch the store.”

  “Yes, Mr. Beasley. What’ll I tell Lamps about that?” he asked indicating the statuette.

  “Andrew here’s supposed to be a well-educated young man. Let’s ask him. What do you think of it?” he asked Andrew.

  Andrew had been looking at the statuette. It was about ten inches tall and it appeared to be a woman, though it was hard to tell, for though the figure was smooth and polished, it was very stylized and had almost no features.

  “I don’t know what it is, where it’s from or anything about it,” he said, “but I like it.”

  “You have good taste,” said Beasley. “It’s Cycladic, from one of the Greek islands, and probably dates from about 2500 B.C. The question is: Is it authentic or a fake?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Well, I do,” said Beasley. “Tell Lamps I’ll give him ten bob for it because I like it, but that it’s a fake. If he doesn’t believe me, he can ask Gregorides at the British Museum.” He rose. “Come on, you two,” and he led the way out of the shop.

  They went down the street together, Beasley walking quickly and with surprising lightness for such a large man. He let a hansom go by—it’s doubtful whether anyone could have gotten into one with him—hailed a four-wheeler and told the cabby to take them to the police station on Wellington Road. When they were settled, Beasley on the rear seat and Sara and Andrew facing him, he said, “All right. Tell me what happened—everything that happened.”

  Sara began the story, with Andrew supplying a few additional details; and Andrew finished, with Sara supplying the details. Beasley closed his eyes and sat there quietly, remaining silent for several minutes even after they were done. Then, opening his eyes, he said, “I don’t know Finch, don’t know much about him, but what I do know, I don’t like.”

  “Do you think he could have anything to do with what’s been happening?” asked Sara. “The robberies and the murder?”

  “No,” said Beasley. “I think he’s just a fool.” He took a paper bag from one of the capacious pockets of his green velvet jacket and held it out to them. “Have an olive.”

  They were different from any olives Andrew had ever seen before: small, black and somewhat shrivelled, but when he ate one he liked it. Sara had taken one too but was looking at it suspiciously.

  “What’s an olive?” she asked.

  Beasley groaned. “One of the oldest foods in the world,” he said. “Older than cheese or wine, and probably older than bread, and she wants to know what it is. Eat it, and you’ll see.”

  She put it in her mouth, chewed it slowly and thoughtfully, then said, “It’s strange, but good.”

  They continued to eat the dried olives, spitting the pits out the window, until the four-wheeler drew up in front of the police station on Wellington Road.

  “I don’t know how long I’ll be,” said Beasley to the cabby as he got out, “but wait for me.”

  The cabby touched his hat with his whip.

  “The two of you wait here also,” said Beas
ley.

  “Why can’t we go in with you?” asked Sara.

  “Because, if he’s confined to quarters, it’s going to be hard enough as it is to get them to let me see him. We’d never have a chance if we all went in.” And squaring his shoulders, he marched up the three steps and into the police station. There was a two-story, frame building next to it. It was painted grey and looked institutional.

  “Do you think that’s the section-house?” asked Sara.

  “It might be,” said Andrew.

  They tried peering through the windows. The first two looked into a large kitchen. The remaining one had opaque glass that they couldn’t see through, and of course they couldn’t look into the ones on the second story. They went around to the side of the building that was farthest from the police station. There was an open space that had been turned into a garden with flower beds edged with whitewashed stones on three sides and in the center a birdbath surrounded by a circle of gravel. As they walked around the garden, there was a sudden tapping, and looking up they saw Wyatt in one of the upstairs windows. He was in his shirt sleeves and he waved to them, gestured and then disappeared.

  “He wants us to wait here,” said Sara. “Do you think he’s coming down?”

  “I don’t think he can,” said Andrew. “But we’ll see.”

  The door of the police station opened and Beasley came out looking bleak and angry.

  “Sodding slops!” he said. “I never could stomach any of ’em except Wyatt! They won’t let me see him.”

  “Why not?” asked Sara.

  “Regulations. At least, that’s what the sergeant said. (I’d like to regulate him with a shillelagh!) He’s not supposed to see anyone or leave the section-house until his hearing. So I’m afraid that’s that. I would have tried to do whatever he wanted if I’d known what it was, but …”

  “He still may be able to tell us,” said Andrew.

  “How?”

  “I’m not sure, but he was at that window a minute ago, and—Wait a minute. There he is again.”