Case Without a Corpse, page 9
“The other chance of Smythe having been the victim at first looked better to me. It was that the girl seen by Meadows on the back of the motor-bike at 5.50 was not Smythe at all, but another girl wearing her white mackintosh and impersonating her. That would mean that Rogers had already murdered Smythe somewhere between Chopley and Braxham, or within a short distance of the route, and was deliberately working an alibi—by trying to prove that she was alive at 5.50. But that doesn’t hold water. For one reason, I am convinced that his only other woman friend was Molly Cutler, and at 5.50 she was sitting at high tea with her mother. And again, what could he have done with the corpse? He had had only forty-five minutes to cover the ten miles from Chopley, do his murder, conceal the body, and meet his accomplice. Again, impossible, especially since that walk across the Common had to be taken into account, and there was certainly no body near the part in which it took place. Besides, it would mean that the whole thing had been most intricately timed and planned, if he was to have someone ready to wear the disguising mackintosh and sit on his pillion at that point and time, to establish an alibi. So altogether, I don’t see how the victim can have been Smythe.
“But when we come to the others, there are just as many objections. Take Fairfax. He was last seen leaving the Mitre with Rogers at 2.20. At four o’clock Rogers arrives at Rose Cottage, quite cheerful and ready to discuss with Smythe the return of his letters. Now could the man who later felt so guilty about his crime that he confessed to it and committed suicide, have gone through that hour with Smythe, appeared normal to Mrs. Walker, greeted Meadows and later drank with Sawyer, having just committed a murder? It is ridiculous. If he murdered Fairfax it must have been in the evening, after he had made all those arrangements with Smythe unconscious of any possibility that he would be a murderer before the night. And if he murdered Fairfax in the evening, where had Fairfax been from 2.20 onwards? No one in the town remembers seeing him, though he was a well-known figure. And he never returned to his hotel.
“Again, if it was Fairfax he murdered, where is Mrs. Fairfax? And why hasn’t she raised an outcry about her husband’s absence? We know that she had no hand in the murder, even supposing that she was party to it, for she spent Wednesday afternoon and evening in town with Mrs. Rogers. Why haven’t we heard from her?
“Then the foreigner. I grant you that this might seem to be the best chance, but even so it leaves too much to be explained to be convincing. Who was this foreigner, and what was his interest in young Rogers? Was he the person who had been following him? Those points may be cleared up by our report from Buenos Aires, when it comes. But even so, if it was the foreigner who was murdered by Rogers, who was the man you saw watching the removal of the corpse? You described him as looking ‘foreign.’ And Mrs. Watt, who took Molly Cutler home that evening, has been to us to report that a ‘foreign looking man’ who spoke very bad English was hanging about outside. She says he asked her what had taken place and that she didn’t reply. That would mean, then, that there were two foreigners in the district which seems scarcely likely when we cannot find any trace of even one’s having stayed a night in Braxham.
“To raise another more fanciful supposition—suppose Rogers and Fairfax had actually shared some motive for wanting to rid themselves of this ‘foreigner’ and had murdered him together, and that Fairfax had impersonated the foreigner to Mrs. Watt, and to you—what object could he have had? Was he hoping that we should assume him to have been the murdered man? It’s out of the question, for he could not have known that young Rogers wouldn’t tell us whom he had murdered before taking poison.
“Then, lastly, there’s the possibility I mentioned that young Rogers only believed he had killed someone, and that the person whom he believed dead is even now recovering secretly from his attack. Well, I suppose this might be the explanation. But most of my objections to the other theories apply to this—except the ones that refer to the concealment of the corpse, of course. And that person, whoever he or she is, must be pretty badly wounded. A fellow like Rogers would have good reason before he committed suicide. He was certain in his mind, at any rate, that his victim was dead, when he swallowed that poison. How, then, could a seriously wounded person have been got out of Braxham, or have been kept in Braxham for that matter, and treated for wounds, without our hearing of it? No, I don’t much like that theory either. Not at present, anyway.
“So you see, Townsend, we are still in a fog. But little by little the facts are coming in. And one only needs enough relevant facts to form a theory, and enough confirmation of a theory to make a case. So we keep at it.”
“You do,” I said with some admiration, “and you certainly put what you have got very lucidly. It will straighten out in time—it must do. For one thing, one or another of the three people will turn up, which will narrow down your search.”
“Yes,” said Stute, “it seems that our best chance is a system of elimination, and then concentration on the remaining suspect. Suspect of being murdered, of course,” he added with a smile.
“What does old Beef say about it?”
Stute chuckled. “The Sergeant has got very reserved lately,” he said, “and from hints dropped here and there I have an idea that he has a theory of his own. You’ve got a lot to answer for, Townsend. But I rather like the old chap. He’s conscientious, anyway.”
CHAPTER XV
BUT a few nights later, Stute was much more cheerful. He sat down at the small table we shared, and before Mrs. Simmons had had time to bring the soup he tossed a few sheets of typescript on the table.
“Well, Townsend,” he said, “what do you think of that? It is a translation of the report I received to-day by air mail from Comisario Julio Mareno Méndez of Buenos Aires. I met him some years ago at the International Police Conference of New York.”
“Who is he?” I asked.
“He’s the officer in charge of the Sección Identificaciones of the Argentine Police. All the finger-print archives are in his care. A most intelligent fellow.”
I began to read the document which Stute had handed to me,
“Sección Identificaciones,
“Division Investigaciones,
“Policia de la Capital Federal,
“Buenos Aires,
“Rep. ARGENTINA.
“ESTEEMED COLLEAGUE.
“It gives me the greatest pleasure to recall our acquaintance in New York, and to be able to show you by the sincerity of my present 123 greetings, that even our work, surrounded by sordid circumstances as so often it is, gives scope now and again for a friendly salutation across the ocean, and a means of co-operating one with another in the object which we both faithfully serve—the combating of crime. It will be my endeavour and pleasure to answer your queries as fully as the means in my power and the considerable bulk of information collected by the department which I have the honour to direct, enable me to do.
“You ask me whether we know anything of a compatriot of yours, Alan Rogers, a steward employed on the Line of steamers running between Britain and Buenos Aires. I have had pleasure in making the most detailed and assiduous enquiries in our Section of Robberies and Damages, in our Section of Frauds and Swindles, in our Section of Personal Security, in that of Special Laws, and in that of Social Order. From these enquiries I am able to tell you that the subject Alan Rogers was under direct suspicion of being involved in drug smuggling and that a warrant had actually been issued for his arrest, and would have been put into action during his next visit to our country. Our Immigration Section had received orders to go aboard the ship to work, and arrest him, immediately this ship came into port. We had reason to know that the subject Alan Rogers was acting as a go-between for powerful miscreants engaged in this traffic, though we have so far been unable to discover the identity either of the perpe trators of this crime over here, or the malefactors with whom they were in communication in your country. We believe, however, that cocaine was being carried by Rogers from the dastardly gang for whom he worked in Buenos Aires, to equally unscrupulous but no less powerful persons in your territory.
“In this connection I am instructed to say that the Police of the Federal Capital will be profoundly grateful to His Britannic Majesty’s Police for any information which the latter may be able to give them about the associates of the subject Alan Rogers in England, in the hope that from this information may arise the evidence they need in their indefatigable pursuit of the corresponding criminals in Buenos Aires.
“Now with regard to the two sets of fingerprints which you have sent us, one of the right hand and one of the left, of a male person, I am pleased to be able to tell you that we have identified these. I should like to remind you, esteemed colleague, of the conversation which we had on the subject of finger-prints on the pleasant occasion of our meeting in New York. I explained to you then our unique system of classification (embracing practically the whole population, not only persons under arrest, as in your country), and assured you, somewhat to your amuse ent, I remember, that here in Buenos Aires, by the Vucetich System, we were, on occasion, able to make the dead speak, or at any rate pronounce in unmistakable and infallible terms, their own identities. This seemed to you at the time, I recall, too large a claim for me to make for our archives, and for our principle of cataloguing finger-prints according to their own characteristics, so that the man might be identified from his finger-prints, and not only the finger-prints of a given man sought in the police library, as in your no doubt estimable system. I cannot resist the temptation to point out that this is actually a case in point, and that from our archives we have been able, with no information but the finger-prints themselves, to identify the possessor. And I would like to have the temerity to express the hope that at some time in the future your excellent, efficient, modern and brilliant directors at Scotland Yard may perceive the fact that a system which is able to perform this is unsurpassable.
“The man whose finger-prints you send me is Charles Riley, born in 1900 at Bristol, who was arrested in Buenos Aires seven years and three months ago on a charge of assault and battery and resistance to the police. It was on the occasion of this arrest that his finger-prints were taken and filed. The subject Charles Riley was employed at this time in a similar capacity to that of the subject Alan Rogers, but on the-Line of steamships which run from Buenos Aires to New York. He received a sentence of two months’ imprisonment, at the end of which he was deported to his native country of England, and forbidden re-entry to this country. We have no reason for supposing that Riley and
Rogers are in fact the same person, but we have no reason for supposing the contrary, as we have no finger-prints as yet of Rogers.
“May I express the ardent hope that the information I have fortunately been able to have the honour of conveying to you may be of direct assistance to you in whatever investigation may be occupying you at this moment.
“I salute you attentively,
“Your colleague and friend,
“JULIO MARENO MENDEZ.”
“Phew!” I said, overcome by this exuberance.
“You must remember,” Stute said at once, “that it is translated literally from Spanish, the most courtly language in the world. And the point is that his information is accurate and to the point, and clears up a number of our mysteries.”
“What does Beef think of it?” I asked.
Stute smiled. “The Sergeant, in his own words, is ‘took aback.’ He ‘wouldn’t never have believed it possible.’ I’m afraid that to Beef anything that is really and thoroughly methodical must always seem more or less miraculous. I left him trying to pronounce the name Julio Mareno Mendez in a sort of ecstasy of admiration.”
“Well, I don’t altogether wonder. It is pretty marvellous. So now you know young Rogers’s real name.”
“Yes. And we know how he came to be down-and-out when he went to beg from old Rogers in Bromley that day. And we know what his envelope of ‘lottery tickets’ really contained. And we can form a pretty good guess at his business with Fairfax.”
“And the foreigner?”
Stute considered. “I think,” he said, “if we find out just who Mr. Fairfax was, whether he’s alive or dead, we shall have some more ideas about that foreigner.”
“Yes,” I agreed, “but for all that this report tells you about young Rogers, it doesn’t tell you anything directly indicative of the identity of the person he murdered.”
“Directly, no. You mustn’t expect things to come directly. I tell you that detection is nothing but the collection and co-ordination of relevant facts. And my ‘esteemed colleague’ in Buenos Aires has given me some valuable ones.”
I thought what admirable patience and coolness the man had. He had got a completely fresh line of research. Drug-smuggling, a wholly new and sinister element, had been brought into what had seemed a sordid tragedy in a small country town, but he saw nothing to get excited about. His keen mind was busy with the jig-saw as it now appeared.
“Of course,” he said presently, “I’ve been in touch with the Yard. They are looking up to see if Charles Riley has any sort of record, for strange as it would seem to Señor Julio Mareno Méndez, we also have our archives, even if our finger-prints are not catalogued on the Vucetich system.”
“Of course,” I said.
“And I’ve got an entirely new line of research on Fairfax. I’ve asked them to see if they can link him up with any known drug-pedlar. I shouldn’t be at all surprised if enquiries in that direction brought results.”
“No. It looks promising.”
“All the same, we mustn’t let all this drug theory blind us to the possibility that it may, after all, have been the girl he murdered, and this turn out to be a mere side-line in crime of the fellow’s. It’s strange what you stir up when you begin to look into people’s lives.”
CHAPTER XVI
I WENT down the High Street next day to buy some razor-blades, and was turning towards my hotel when I saw Molly Cutler coming towards me, alone. I was not forgetful of my responsibilities as chronicler to Sergeant Beef. There were evident precedents for me. Gentlemen in my role in the novels of detection I had so avidly read, had frequently been rewarded by becoming engaged to some lady involved, but not too intimately involved, in one of the master’s cases. There was, of course, Dr. Watson, who achieved a marriage of legendary happiness in this way, and there was the conscientiously short-sighted Captain Hastings. So, anxious to do my best for Beef, I raised my hat.
Molly Cutler stopped and smiled, vaguely at first, but then with recognition. “Oh yes,” she said, “you were with Sergeant Beef that day.”
Her voice was tired and toneless, but she looked no less attractive than she had done on that first night when she had rushed in from the rain, and thrown herself beside her lover’s body.
“Have they discovered anything yet?” she asked.
“Yes. Quite a lot. I wonder … would you care to come in for a coffee?” And I indicated a confectioner’s shop with a tea-room attached to it.
This drinking of coffee at eleven o’clock in the morning is a good English provincial habit. It is odd that whereas on the Continent the men spend their time in cafes and the women remain at home, in England it is the women who haunt these places while the men work. As I conducted Molly Cutler to a rather isolated table, we passed groups of local ladies busily sipping the creamy, hot, but very inferior coffee supplied in such places, or talking emphatically between their sips.
There were glances at my companion, and surreptitious efforts to attract attention to her. Women whose backs were turned twisted their faces to see “the girl in the case.” There could be little doubt that her name had been on their lips before we entered.
“Thanks,” said Molly as I held her chair. Then, turning to me, she asked at once what they had found out. She had been a witness at the inquest, of course, so that the only news I could give her was of discoveries which had not been made public. I told her of the piece of Rogers’s letter, but hesitated when I came to the report from Buenos Aires.
“You know, Miss Cutler,” I said, “I think you’re wrong in worrying over Rogers. It’s hard to tell you, but….”
“Well?” She had turned swiftly and defiantly to me.
“As a matter of fact information has come through to Detective-Inspector Stute which shows … well, quite apart from this affair, he really was no good.”
“Information? What information?” She sounded quite hostile now, and I wished that I hadn’t put myself in this position.
“He’s had a report from Buenos Aires….”
Molly Cutler gave a rather bitter little laugh. “Oh, that” she said, “I know about that.”
This was startling. “You knew….”
“You mean about his having been in prison out there? And deported? And how he changed his name? He told me all about it. It was through a fight he got into with a Belgian. Alan was a terribly impulsive fellow. I’m afraid he was often in scrapes of that kind. But they meant nothing. This fellow insulted him, and he hit him harder than he meant to. Alan was arrested, and there you are.”
She shrugged and looked down at her hands which were folded on the table.
“Yes. They told Stute about that in their report. But it wasn’t that I meant when I said he was no good.”
“Then what did you mean?”
I thought there was a touch of something between impatience and contempt in her voice.
“You won’t be angry with me if I tell you?”
“With you? No. Why should I be?”
I’m sorry to say that this sounded rather as though she did not think me worth her anger. But I went on.
