Case Without a Corpse, page 11
The shopkeeper (and postmaster) looked up through the thick lenses of his spectacles and said, “Yes?”
“A large Players, please,” said Stute.
While he was being served he came straight to the point.
“I wonder whether you could help me,” he said. “I’m looking for a man called Freeman who was here with his wife some years ago.”
The shopkeeper looked up. I suddenly perceived that he possessed that irritating quality, extreme caution.
“What about him?” he asked, non-committally.
“I want to trace him, that’s all;”
“’Fraid I can’t help you,” said the shopkeeper. “He was only here a short time.”
“I know. But any information you can give me about him would be welcome. I’m from Scotland Yard,” he added.
Again that wary glance. “What has he done?” asked the shopkeeper.
Stute seemed to think that in order to get what he wanted he must give a certain amount in return.
“It’s not what he’s done,” he returned, “but we have reason to think that he may have been murdered.”
The shopkeeper looked suitably startled. “What, round here?” he asked.
“No, no. In quite a different part of the world. At any rate Mr. Freeman is missing, and I hoped you might be able to tell us something about him which would help us to trace him.”
At that the shopkeeper really seemed to make an effort to recall Freeman.
“I don’t think I can. He had what we call the Old Cottage, at the other end of the village. He was there about six months. Very quiet people, they were. Paid up weekly.”
“Know where they came from?”
“No. I understood that they had just retired. They meant to settle down here, but they found it too quiet for them.”
“Where did they go to?”
“That I can’t say. But I daresay the Rector might be able to tell you. They went to church a good deal, I understood.”
“Did they?” asked Stute.
“Oh yes. Great church people. We’re chapel ourselves, so of course we know nothing about that. But it’s what I heard.”
“Did they make any other friends here?” asked Stute.
“Not that I know of. They were quite civil with everyone but not what you’d call sociable. I believe I remember hearing something about Mr. Freeman giving a big subscription to one of the Rector’s charities, but I don’t know what truth there was in that.”
“I’m very much obliged to you,” said Stute, “and I’ll see the Rector. Good afternoon.”
I had been amused to notice, during this interview, what a different manner of questioning Stute had when he was dealing with a person from whom information had to be drawn. When people came up to him breathless with excitement and anxious to tell all they knew, he was curt and chilly. But with a man like this he could be polite, almost insinuating.
“That’s something new about our friend Fairfax,” he said, “A church-goer, was he? Well, well. Some of our neatest criminals have been that.”
We got back into the car, and Stute asked a passing errand boy the way to the Rectory. He pointed towards a great grey-stone house, half visible from where we sat, and some three hundred yards away. It stood among splendid trees, but it had that look of slightly decayed grandeur which so many of such parsonages, built towards the beginning of the last century, seem to have nowadays. The gate into the drive was open, and we soon pulled up before an imposing porch.
Stute tugged at a wrought-iron bell-pull, and somewhere in the bowels of the house a bell tolled lugubriously. After an interval a diminutive servant appeared.
“Is the Rector in?” asked Stute.
“What name?” piped the child.
“Inspector Stute and Mr. Townsend.”
The servant looked rather startled, and hesitated.
“It’s all right,” smiled Stute. “We have only come to make a few enquiries.”
As though hypnotized, the small servant backed into the hall, and we followed her. She showed us, without speaking, into a draughty drawing-room without a fire in it, and disappeared. I glanced about me at the crowded but chilly display of ornamental china, and shuddered.
But the Rector soon entered, and to our relief we found that he had none of the rowdy egotism of the Vicar of Chopley. He was a little lean, rather unwashed-looking man, with half an inch of underclothing showing below his cuff at either wrist. But he had a conciliatory smile, and a manner of speaking at once jerky and ingratiating.
“I understand,” he said, “that you represent Scotland Yard. Wish to ask me some questions?”
“That’s so,” said Stute. “I want to ask you about a man called Freeman.”
“Freeman? Do you mean my Curate? Really, how very disagreeable. Has he been guilty of some misdemeanour? I have always refused to listen to the rumours there have been….”
“No, no,” said Stute, impatiently.
I was reminded of Beef’s reflections that morning. You never know what you’re going to find out about anyone he said. But I made no remark.
“No, sir,” Stute went on, “not your curate. A man called Freeman and his wife who lived here about two years and three months ago. He occupied, I understand, the Old Cottage in your parish.”
The Rector smiled nervously. “Oh you mean Mr. Hugo Freeman. Why yes, to be sure. Charming people. But surely….” he suddenly grew serious.
“The supposition is,” explained Stute, “that this man Freeman may have been murdered.”
“Murdered, eh? Dear, dear. Well I never. That’s bad. Delightful people, too. Look here, we can’t stand talking here. Come along into the study. We were just going to have tea. My wife will be most interested. That is, distressed. Come along. Give me your coats. Poor Freeman. Well, well. In the midst of life. This way, please.”
He led us through the tiled hall, and opened a door beyond it. I was delighted at the prospect of a cup of tea, and gladly entered the study.
If the drawing-room had been cold, this was in distinct contrast. I can only describe it as stuffy. It was a small room, over-furnished, and a bright fire lit its grate. I could see no less than three cats, and had reason to suppose that there were more. In an arm-chair by the fire the Rector’s wife was sitting and replaced a piece of buttered crumpet on her plate before greeting us. She was a big blowsy woman with untidy hair, and a voice like a man’s.
“My dear,” began the Rector, “from Scotland Yard. Inspector Stute. Mr. Townsend. It’s about poor Freeman.”
The Rector’s wife sat up, too startled to acknowledge the informal introduction. “You know what I always told you,” she said loudly. “You ought never to have given him so much liberty….”
“No, no, my dear. Not Freeman. Hugo Freeman. At the Old Cottage, you remember. Poor fellow. It appears he’s been murdered.”
“Oh,” said his wife, evidently relieved, “I thought you meant Freeman. Do sit down, Inspector. I’ll ring for some fresh tea. Murdered, you say? (Get down, will you, Tibbits. You shall have your milk presently.) How very, very terrible. They were such nice people.”
Stute, gratefully eating bread and butter, seemed content to let the talk take its own course.
The Rector went on. “Yes, charming folk. Just retired, so I understood. Business for many years in Liverpool. Accountancy, I believe. Most wearing. I’m no good at figures. And they hoped to settle here. Pity, now, they didn’t. Such a quiet parish. But plenty to do,” he added, hurriedly, “plenty to do.”
“My husband works much too hard. I always tell him he’s too conscientious. He’ll wear himself out. But about Mr. Freeman. I wonder who could have murdered him. Ah, here’s your tea. Two lumps. And you, Mr. Townsend? So you’re investigating the case, Inspector?”
“Well, it’s not quite as simple as that. We don’t know that Freeman has been murdered. But he’s disappeared.”
“There, there. Poor fellow,” said the Rector. “Such a good chap. So generous. Only had to ask him. Do anything for the church. How was he murdered? Oh, you don’t know of course. Try that cake, do.”
“I was wondering,” managed Stute, “whether you could help us.”
“Delighted,” murmured the Rector mechanically, “anything I can do.”
“Do you know where he had come from when he got here?”
“Where was it, my dear? Liverpool, wasn’t it? Or Birmingham?”
“Manchester, I rather think,” said his wife.
“One of those places, anyway,” summarized the Rector.
“And what did you say had been his profession?”
“He had just retired when he got here. Accountancy. Estate Agent. Something of the sort. I forget the details. But he had substantial means.”
“Quite. And while he was here?”
“Exemplary. A splendid parishioner. Regularly at church. Helping hand. A charming man.”
“And after he had gone?”
“We never heard from them. Most disappointing. But people are like that. My wife was hurt at first.”
“Well, it was rather rude,” said the Rector’s wife.
“Didn’t you write to them?”
“They forgot to leave their address. And the post office never had it, either. They had to return several letters, I understand. Chiefly circulars, Brown said. Brown’s our postmaster. Long-headed chap.”
“So you’ve no idea where the Freemans went?”
“They hadn’t decided. They were going to put their furniture into store, they said. Have a holiday. Poor souls, they’d never been abroad.”
“You mean they went abroad from here?”
“Yes. To France.”
“How did you know they went to France?”
“They told me so. Besides, I signed their application for a passport.”
Stute was silent a moment, staring fixedly at the nervous Rector.
“You remember that?” he asked at last.
“Indeed I do. Freeman was smiling over it. A man of his age who had never needed a passport. Poor chap! His passport’s for Another Place now. But that one is in order, I’m sure.”
“Have some more cake?” said his wife.
“And what countries was it made out for?”
“France. Only France. I remember that. I remarked on it at the time.”
“I see. Well, I needn’t trouble you further, Rector. Thank you so much for your information.”
“And for tea,” I put in, trying to cover his brusqueness with a smile.
“Not at all. Delighted. Pleasure,” said the Rector, and I believed him. “Sad business,” he added.
“Awfully sad,” said his wife. “Sure you won’t have any more to eat? (Oh, don’t scratch, Lucille.) Was his wife murdered too?”
Stute was already leaving the room, so I gave a rather unsatisfactory shake of the head in answer to this parting question, and then followed the Rector and Inspector through the hall. We shook hands briefly with our host, and went down the steep steps of his gloomy house. Stute hurriedly lit a cigarette, and blew lustily from it, as though there was something in his lungs which he wanted entirely to expel.
CHAPTER XIX
WE must have covered about eight miles at a very fair speed before either of us spoke. The evening had darkened and one could see little more than the shining surface of wet tar ahead of us. I had momentarily forgotten our problems as I thought of the dingy little Rector and his wife.
“Do you still think our visit to Long Highbury wasted?” Stute asked suddenly.
“Well, we don’t seem much forrader,” I returned. “All we know now is that the Free-mans went from there to France.”
“You are really a splendid foil, Mr. Townsend. I wish you had taken it into your head to describe one of my cases, instead of Beef’s.”
I thought this rather rude. “Do you know so much more?” I asked.
“I certainly don’t know that the Freemans went from Long Highbury to France. But I do know why they went to Long Highbury. And I’ve a pretty good idea of how to get hold of them, or of her, now.”
“Remarkable, I’m sure,” I snapped with sarcastic incredulity. “If you’ve learnt all that from our interview in that very unventilated room, I congratulate you.”
“My dear Townsend, surely you must see for yourself? Here we have a known criminal, a man engaged in an extremely remunerative traffic which may bring him at any moment under arrest. He suddenly, under a new name, goes down to the country and takes a cottage, explaining rather vaguely that he is a retired accountant of sorts. He takes care to make friends with the Rector, and to support him rather lavishly in any appeal he may make. Then he casually decides to go abroad, and gets the Rector to sign his application for a passport. What is the inference?”
I shrugged.
“Well, he was arranging what the Americans call a hideout. He was planning for a rainy day. When trouble arose he, Ferris or Fairfax, whom nobody had reason to associate with a Mr. Freeman who once lived at Long Highbury, would have a perfectly authentic passport ready for him. And it was the only way he could get that passport. The office does not, except in certain cases, confirm details of birth, etc., given to them. Provided the application is signed by a responsible person, they issue the passport. So that our friend spent six months of his life in preparing for the dangerous moment when he would want to vanish. And vanish he could, completely. I have often wondered why more criminals don’t take this simple precaution. It may be the church-work which puts them off.”
“Good Lord! You really think….”
“I am certain of it. Why else did Ferris-Fairfax-Freeman spend that time in a village with that sort of parson? Why else? And we know that he got his passport, and having got it, disappeared leaving no address which quite distressed the Rector and his wife who thought him ‘charming.’”
“Clever idea. He must have been a pretty deep sort of blackguard.”
“Yes. Or corking for one. I’m inclined to agree with our friend in Buenos Aires about a ‘big power’ behind this somewhere. Our record of Ferris was of a fairly ordinary type of criminal.”
“But you said that you had an idea as to where he is now, if he’s still alive. What is that?”
“His passport was made out for France, and France only. I imagine his reason for having that was an idea of his, possibly mistaken, that an application for a passport for France only would not be scrutinized as carefully as one for all countries in Europe. Remember that if the Passport Office had taken it into their heads to ask for a birth certificate, he was sunk. Anyway, presuming that he used that passport he has gone to France, and to get any further he would have to apply to a British Consul.”
“That’s true.”
“So that if we apply to the French police, and at the same time notify our consulates in France, there is a good chance of coming up with him. Always, of course, providing that he’s still alive.”
“You’re quite right, of course. How you people cover the loop-holes.”
“Just a matter of being a little bit methodical, and not neglecting any chance of gathering information. You see? That was why I went to Long Highbury. It was a chance—and it has come off. Meanwhile, Ferris-Fairfax-Freeman, if he is alive, can have no idea that we have linked him with Long Highbury. Why should he? It was a hundred to one against that woman in the basement noticing what firm had moved him. Only the invincible curiosity of people who live in houses that are divided into flats about the inhabitants of other strata, happened to come to our rescue. A little luck, and a lot of care! That’s detection.”
After that we drove on in silence for a time. My conscience was pricking me a little in the matter of Sergeant Beef. After all, it had been as his friend that I had first been introduced to the case, and I had neglected him disgracefully. But Stute was more interesting to watch. His keen, forceful mind, his habit of pigeonholing all his information with infinite care, his unhurried but resolute progress, his swift trained senses, were so obviously superior to the ponderous calculations of Beef that I was beginning to doubt the Sergeant.
However, I said to myself, as we eventually approached Braxham, perhaps my old friend may have unearthed some useful information for Stute during our absence. He would at least have plodded on with his search.
At the police station Constable Galsworthy was waiting for us.
“Sergeant Beef asked me to go and fetch him when you arrived, sir,” he told Stute. “I understand he has something to report.”
“Where is he?” the Inspector asked, with the asperity he always showed to this constable.
“He told me to tell you, if you should ask, sir, that he would be prosecuting some of the enquiries you had suggested.”
“Oh yes,” said Stute, unable to repress his grim smile. “All right. I’ll wait here.”
We sat down and smoked in silence, both of us very tired. It must have been a quarter of an hour later that Beef hurried in, perspiring slightly, but quite pleased with himself.
“Well, Beef?” said Stute at once.
“You’re a marvel, sir!” said the Sergeant loudly. “’Ow you can ’ave known I can’t make out.”
“Known what?” asked Stute rather coldly.
“Why, that I should get that information from Sawyer wot you told me to go for.”
Stute nodded. “What is it?”
“Well, ’e didn’t want to say nothink at first. But seeing that you’d told me to go an’ cross-examine ’im again, I knew there must be some-think ’e could tell. Besides, I could see in ’is eye ’e was ’iding it. So I kep’ on at ’im. And after a lot of questioning ’e outs with it.”
“What?” asked Stute impatiently.
“Why about ’is brother, sir.”
“His brother? Sawyer’s brother? What about him?”
“Don’t you know, sir? I thought you must ’ave to ’ave sent me down there. Why, ’e’s disappeared. Clean vanished.”
Stute groaned. “Not another murderee!” he begged.
“I’ll tell you wot ’e told me. This ’ere brother of ’is is married. And when I say married—well, she’s a reg’lar Tartar. You know, takes ’is wages orf ’im an’ all that. If ’e so much as goes near a pub she’s arfter ’im. I’ve seen ’er myself when she’s been over ’ere with ’im at the Dragon. Really narsty she gets.”
