The Case of the Vanishing Corpse

by Robert Newman

  “Oh, my aunt, I almost forgot about that,” said Sara. “Yes, we’d better.”

  3

  The first Murder

  In spite of Andrew’s best efforts, Sara did not get to Scotland Yard until the following week. He wrote to Wyatt immediately, telling him how disappointed Sara had been and how anxious she was to see him again but, as Wyatt explained later, there had been some important developments on one of his cases and it was not until the following Monday that he sent Andrew a telegram telling him to bring Sara to the Yard on Tuesday and he would take them both out to lunch.

  Sara was in a very good mood—she had been ever since the dance recital at the school where she had done splendidly, as Andrew had known she would—and she enjoyed the tour of the Yard thoroughly. She was a little disappointed in the Black Museum—she had apparently expected to find wax effigies of famous criminals there like those Madame Tussaud’s—but this was more than compensated for when they saw a villainous looking man with handcuffs on being brought in by two constables.

  Wyatt took them to a chop house on the Strand for lunch, and it was not until they were having dessert that Andrew had a chance to bring up something that had been on his mind.

  “By the way,” he said, “I can tell you where you can reach your friend, Sergeant Polk.”

  “Where?”

  “At Lord Somerville’s, sixty-two Alder Road. That’s apparently where he’s caretaker.”

  “How do you know?”

  Andrew told him how they had seen Polk talking to the constable on the day of Sara’s recital.

  “That’s interesting,” said Wyatt. “Is that Somerville the Assyriologist?”

  “I think so,” said Andrew. “Fred said he was a Syrisomething.”

  “What’s an Assyriologist?” asked Sara.

  “He studies the civilizations of Assyria, Babylonia and Chaldea the way an Egyptologist studies the civilization of ancient Egypt. What was Polk talking to the constable about?”

  “Their dog had been killed the night before.”

  “Their dog?”

  “Yes. Apparently a watchdog that had been brought in from Somerville’s country place.”

  “How was it killed?”

  “The constable hadn’t had a chance to go into it when Fred talked to him, but he thought it had been poisoned.”

  “I see.”

  Andrew hadn’t told Sara he was going to tell Wyatt about seeing Polk—as a matter of fact, he hadn’t really thought about it until that morning. But now, after a quick glance at him, Sara said, “Who do you think could have killed the dog? And why?”

  “I’ve no idea,” said Wyatt. “Maybe he howled or barked at night and that annoyed someone.”

  “In other words, you think one of the neighbors did it,” said Andrew.

  “I said I had no idea who had done it or why,” said Wyatt. He looked first at Andrew then at Sara. “What are you trying to do, get me involved in another case?”

  “Of course not,” said Andrew, coloring guiltily. “I just thought you’d be interested because of your friend Polk.”

  “I am interested. And I think killing a dog is a dastardly crime. But I also think it’s something the local police can handle without the assistance of the C.I.D.”

  “Probably,” said Andrew. “You’re right.”

  Wyatt may have been right at the time he made the statement, but by the next morning the situation had changed completely. Andrew heard about the new development just as he was finishing breakfast. He was putting some jam on his toast when, without even a perfunctory knock, the dining room door opened and Sara came in.

  “Good morning,” he said. Then, taking note of her seriousness, “What’s up?”

  “I don’t know. Fred’s got some kind of news but he wouldn’t tell me what it was until he could tell you too.”

  “Oh.” Then as the coachman came in, trying to look offhand, “What is it, Fred?”

  “You and your holidays,” said Fred. “Things are nice and quiet around here while you’re away. But the minute you come back, there’s trouble.”

  “What kind of trouble?”

  “Murder.”

  “What?” Andrew’s reaction was all that Fred could have hoped for. “Who was murdered, where and when?”

  “I just heard about it, but it must have happened late last night or early this morning. And it happened at that place we stopped at the other day, Lord Somerville’s on Alder Road.”

  “Who was murdered?” asked Sara.

  “I’m not sure but I think that chap Master Andrew said he knew, that feisty caretaker.”

  “Polk?”

  “I think so.”

  Murder, a frightening word and a frightening idea. But, in this case, it was not something abstract. He had met the man who had been killed, talked to him, liked him. That made it more real and more shocking. And if he—Andrew—felt that way about it, how would Wyatt, who was an old and good friend of Polk, feel?

  “How did you hear about it?” he asked Fred.

  “Saw the crowd when I went out to order some feed for the horses and asked the constable on point duty, the chap I know. He said Scotland Yard was coming in on it.”

  Sara and Andrew exchanged glances, then Andrew pushed back his chair and got up.

  The constable saluted as Wyatt and the sergeant who was with him pushed their way through the crowd. They both nodded, and Wyatt knocked on the door of number 62, then said, “I don’t suppose there’s anything we can do about these people.”

  “I’m afraid not, sir,” said the constable. “Not unless we clear the street. And that’ll take more men than we have here right now.”

  “Not worth while. Word does get around, doesn’t it?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Wyatt turned back as the door opened. A tall, somewhat stoop-shouldered man in a Norfolk jacket stood there. He was probably in his forties, but it was hard to be sure for though his hair was only touched with grey, his face was drawn and deeply lined.

  “Good morning. I’m Inspector Wyatt of Scotland Yard.”

  “I’ve been expecting you—you or someone. I’m Somerville.”

  “Oh. How do you do, sir. Forgive me if I seem surprised. I heard you were away.”

  “I was, but I returned to London at the end of last week.”

  “I see.” Then, indicating the big man who was with him, “This is Sergeant Tucker of the Wellington Road police station. He’ll be working with me on this case.”

  “Sergeant.” Somerville nodded to Tucker.

  “My lord …”

  “Please come in.” Though it was clear that he was very distressed, Somerville was doing his best to observe the amenities. “I know you want to talk to me about what happened last night, but there’s someone else you should talk to as well. She’s in here.”

  He opened a door to the right of the entrance hall, motioned them in. They found themselves in a small, simply furnished parlor. Sitting in a straight-backed chair on the far side of the room was a middle-aged woman with strong, rather craggy features and piercing eyes. She had on a plain, dark dress and her hair was pulled back severely. She sat very erect and was quite pale, but that may have been because she was in pain, for she had an ugly bruise on her forehead, a cut over her eye and her right arm was bandaged and in a sling.

  “This is Mrs. Severn, my housekeeper,” said Somerville. “Inspector Wyatt and Sergeant Tucker.”

  They both bowed to her.

  “I’d like to tell you how sorry I am about what happened,” said Wyatt. “I should also tell you that I have a special interest in the case because I knew Sergeant Polk—knew him and liked him very much.”

  “Were you army, too?”

  “No, but the army is the connection. He was sergeant major in my father’s regiment.”

  “You’re General Wyatt’s son?”

  “Yes.”

  “I knew he had two sons who were in the army. I didn’t know he had one who was in the
police.”

  “It’s not something he talks about,” said Wyatt dryly.

  “I see. That explains my feeling that you were not a ordinary policeman. Does it also explain your presence on the case?”

  “Probably. The superintendent saw your name on the occurrence sheet, called me in and asked me if I knew you. When I said I didn’t, but did know Polk, he told me to take over.”

  “That makes for an interesting coincidence. Because it was your father who recommended Polk to me.”

  “You and Father are friends?”

  “I wouldn’t say that. I’m not here enough to be friends with anyone. But we’re both members of the Travellers Club. And when I mentioned that I was looking for someone to keep an eye on the place while I was away, he suggested Polk.”

  “That was what he did, acted as caretaker?”

  “Yes.”

  “What other help do you have here?”

  “None.”

  “There was just Mrs. Severn and Polk? No cook or parlor maid?”

  “No. I’m away most of the time, and when I’m here, my wants are very simple and Mrs. Severn is able to take care of them easily. She’s been with me for a long time. About fifteen years, isn’t it?” he said, looking at her.

  “Sixteen this last February,” she said. Her voice was rather husky, but pleasant.

  “That long?” said Somerville. “Yes, I guess it is. She was with me, took care of things down at Ansley Cross before I closed the place, moved here to London.”

  “I see. Now will you tell us exactly what happened last night?”

  “I’ll try.” Somerville glanced at Tucker who had seated himself unobtrusively in the corner and opened his notebook, then said suddenly, angrily, “This is awful, terrible! You say you knew Polk, liked him. But I not only knew and liked him—I feel responsible for what happened to him! If I hadn’t engaged him, he’d still be alive, and …” He broke off. “I’m sorry, but it’s been very much on my mind.”

  “Yes, I can see it has.”

  “What was it you asked me?”

  “To tell us what you can about last night.”

  “Yes. Well, I had been here for several days and was going back to Paris. Mrs. Severn and Polk were coming with me.”

  “Just a second,” said Wyatt. “You said you were going back to Paris?”

  “Yes.”

  “I was under the impression that when you were away you were in the Middle East.”

  “Most of the time I am—in Mesopotamia. But I also spend a good deal of time in Paris. I’ve been doing some work with Fauré, the French Assyriologist.”

  “Why were you taking Mrs. Severn and Polk with you?”

  “Because I expected to spend more time than ever in Paris now, and I didn’t like living in a hotel. I planned to take a house and have Mrs. Severn take care of it for me.”

  “With Polk’s help.”

  “I hadn’t made up my mind whether I wanted Polk to stay with us in Paris or come back here. But I wanted him to make the trip with us as a protective measure.”

  “Protective?”

  “Yes. I was taking some very valuable things back to Paris with me; some votive figures, early Kassite pottery and quite extraordinary jewelry I had dug up at Tell Iswah.”

  “I see. And how were you planning to travel?”

  For the first time Somerville hesitated. “I’m afraid that’s where I made a mistake. I was anxious about taking the train to Dover, so I arranged to have Polk drive us there.”

  “At night?”

  “Yes. I thought we’d be safe enough at this end, and of course it would be daylight by the time we arrived at Dover. But …” Again he hesitated.

  “Yes?”

  “I had planned to leave about midnight, but it took me longer than I thought to get ready and it was after three before I helped Polk carry the chest out to the brougham.

  “The chest with the valuables in it, the things you were concerned about?”

  “Yes. They were in a strongbox, which we put inside the brougham. Mrs. Severn got in, too, and I came back into the house to see if I’d forgotten anything and lock up. I was in here when I heard a noise outside—a shout, the sound of several blows, and a scream. I went running out, and there was the brougham going off up the street hell for leather. I coudn’t understand what had happened until I saw Mrs. Severn and Polk both lying on the pavement.”

  “Was Polk dead?”

  “No, not yet. I looked at Mrs. Severn first. She was unconscious, but when I started to pick her up, she opened her eyes, saw Polk and told me to take care of him. I went to him. His head was bloody and he was breathing very peculiarly. Mrs. Severn got to her feet and in spite of her injuries—her wrist was broken—she helped me carry him into the house. Then I went to get a doctor.”

  “What doctor was that?”

  “There’s one, a Dr. Davison, just up the street. I’ve never used him, but I knew about him. I woke him, told him he was needed, and he got dressed and came back here with me. By the time we got to the house, Polk was dead.”

  “What did he say was the cause of death?”

  “A blow on the temple with a club, or something of that sort. He said he thought the skull had been fractured.”

  “Our doctor is doing an autopsy, but that’s his initial opinion, too. Now will you tell us what you can about the incident, Mrs. Severn?”

  “Yes, Inspector. But I’m afraid I can’t tell you very much.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I’m not sure exactly what did happen. As Lord Somerville told you, I got into the brougham. Polk was with the horses, looking at their harness. He had said something about wanting to tighten one of the martingales. Suddenly I heard an exclamation and the sound of a struggle. There were several blows. As I started to open the door to see what was happening, it was opened from the outside, someone took hold of me and pulled me out, letting me fall to the ground. I put out my hand to break the fall—that’s how I broke my wrist—but my head hit the ground, and that’s the last thing I remember.”

  “Did you see the man who pulled you out?”

  “No, I didn’t. It all happened too quickly, and besides it was too dark.”

  “Can you tell us anything about him even though you couldn’t see him? For instance, was it your feeling that he was tall or short or particularly strong?”

  “No, I can’t tell you anything about him. I think he must have been fairly strong because he pulled me out without any trouble.”

  “Was it your impression that there was just one man involved in the attack, or were there more than one?”

  Mrs. Severn frowned. “I hadn’t really thought about that—I’ve been too shaken up. But now that I do … I think there must have been more than one.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “Well, the door was opened at almost the same time as poor Sergeant Polk was attacked. Whoever attacked him wouldn’t have had time to come around to the door.”

  Wyatt nodded. “That was my impression from your description of what happened, but I wanted to make sure. Now can you tell us anything about the brougham so that we can institute a search for it?”

  “I’m afraid not,” said Somerville. “Polk rented it from a livery stable somewhere near the Wellington Road.”

  “There’s just one in the neighborhood,” said Tucker. “In the mews behind Marlborough Place. I know the liveryman, and I’ll inquire.”

  “Good,” said Wyatt. Then, turning to Somerville, “Is it your feeling that the brougham was taken in order to get possession of the chest that was in it?”

  “I can’t think of any other reason.”

  “Who knew about it? Knew that you had valuable antiquities and jewelry in the house here and were planning to move them to Paris?”

  “Anyone who had read my monographs on the dig at Tell Iswah would know what I’d found there, and might suspect I had the items here in the house. But no one knew I was going to take them to Paris.�
��

  “No one?”

  “Not that I know of.”

  “Do you think there could be any connection between the killing of your watchdog and this incident?”

  Somerville frowned. “I never thought of that, but … what connection could there be?”

  “I can think of only one reason why anyone would want to kill a watchdog, and that’s because someone wanted to enter the premises and didn’t want to have to deal with the dog or have it give the alarm.”

  “But no one did enter the premises. At least, I don’t think anyone did.”

  “Would you know?”

  “Why, yes. I assume the purpose of breaking in would be robbery, and there was no robbery—nothing was stolen—until last night.”

  “Someone might have wanted to look over the place, see if there was anything worth stealing, and decided there was but that it would be better to wait for a more favorable occasion.” He turned to Mrs. Severn again. “Did Sergeant Polk have anything to say about the killing of the dog?”

  “Well, he was very angry about it. It was he who called the police. But he never said why he thought it was done.”

  “Do you by any chance know a dark-haired, gypsy-looking man with yellow eyes and a scar on his cheek?”

  Mrs. Severn stiffened. “Why do you ask that?”

  “Because, when I ran into Polk last week and we went into a pub near here, the man I described came in and Polk had words with him. He told me afterwards that it was someone he’d had trouble with before.”

  Mrs. Severn hesitated, looking at Somerville. “Yes. I think I know who he is,” she said.

  “Who?”

  “My husband, Tom.”

  “Your husband?”

  “Yes. I hadn’t seen him for sixteen years, since before I went to work for his lordship down at Ansley Cross.”

  “Where has he been? Your husband, I mean.”

  “Where?” Her eyes blazed. “Where he belongs-in jail! At least, that’s where he was to begin with—for ten years. After that he left the country, and I heard he’d gone to Australia.”

  “Why was he in jail? What was the charge?”

  “Robbery and assault with a deadly weapon.” Then, as Wyatt glanced at Somerville, “His lordship knew about it.”