‘Three-and-six?’ said Mr Egg, surprised. ‘Why, I should have thought that wouldn’t so much as pay the duty on the spirit.’
‘Nor it would,’ triumphed Mr Redwood, ‘if it was spirit. But it isn’t, and that’s the whole point. It’s a trade secret and I can’t say more, but if you were to be asked whether that was or was not the finest Parma violet, equal to the most expensive marks, I don’t mind betting you’d never know the difference.’
‘No, indeed,’ said Mr Egg. ‘Wonderful, I call it. Pity they can’t discover something similar to help the wine and spirit business, though I needn’t say it wouldn’t altogether do, or what would the Chancellor of the Exchequer have to say about it? Talking of that, what are you drinking? And you, miss? I hope you’ll allow me, gentlemen. Same again all round, please.’
The landlord hastened to fulfil the order and, as he passed through the bar-parlour, switched on the wireless, which instantly responded with the 9 o’clock time-signal, followed clearly by the voice of the announcer.
‘This is the National Programme from London. Before I read the weather report, here is a police message. In connection with the murder of Alice Steward, at Nottingham, we are asked by the Commissioner of Police to broadcast the following. The police are anxious to get in touch with a young man named Gerald Beeton, who is known to have visited the deceased on the afternoon preceding her death. This man is aged thirty-five, medium height, medium build, fair hair, small moustache, grey or blue eyes, full face, fresh colour. When last seen was wearing a grey lounge suit, soft grey hat and fawn overcoat, and is thought to be now travelling the country in a Morris car, number unknown. Will this man, or anyone able to throw light on his whereabouts, please communicate at once with the Superintendent of Police, Nottingham, or with any police-station? Here is the weather report. A deep depression . . .’
‘Oh, switch it off, George,’ urged Mr Redwood. ‘We don’t want to hear about depressions.’
‘That’s right,’ agreed the landlord, switching off. ‘What gets me is these police descriptions. How’d they think anyone’s going to recognise a man from the sort of stuff they give you? Medium this and medium the other, and ordinary face and fair complexion and a soft hat – might be anybody.’
‘So it might,’ said Monty. ‘It might be me.’
‘Well, that’s true, it might,’ said Mr Redwood. ‘Or it might be this gentleman.’
‘That’s a fact,’ admitted the man in the burberry. ‘Or it might be fifty men out of every hundred.’
‘Yes, or’ – Monty jerked his head cautiously towards the newspaper in the corner – ‘him!’
‘Well, so you say,’ said Redwood, ‘but nobody else has seen him to look at. Unless it’s George.’
‘I wouldn’t care to swear to him,’ said the landlord, with a smile. ‘He come straight in here and ordered a drink and paid for it without so much as looking at me, but from what I did see of him the description would fit him as well as anybody. And what’s more, he’s got a Morris car – it’s in the garage now.’
‘That’s nothing against him,’ said Monty. ‘So’ve I.’
‘And I,’ said the man in the burberry.
‘And I,’ chimed in Redwood. ‘Encourage home industries, I say. But it’s no help to identifying a man. Beg your pardon, sergeant, and all that, but why don’t the police make it a bit easier for the public?’
‘Why,’ said the sergeant, ‘because they ’as to rely on the damn-fool descriptions given to them by the public. That’s why.’
‘One up to you,’ said Redwood pleasantly. ‘Tell me, sergeant, all this stuff about wanting to interview the fellow is all eyewash, isn’t it? I mean, what they really want to do is to arrest him.’
‘That ain’t for me to say,’ replied the sergeant ponderously. ‘You must use your own judgement about that. What they’re asking for is an interview, him being known to have been one of the last people to see her before she was done in. If he’s sensible, he’ll turn up. If he don’t answer to the summons – well, you can think what you like.’
‘Who is he, anyway?’ asked Monty.
‘Now you want to know something. Ain’t you seen the evening papers?’
‘No; I’ve been on the road since five o’clock.’
‘Well, it’s like this here. This old lady, Miss Alice Steward, lived all alone with a maid in a little ’ouse on the outskirts of Nottingham. Yesterday afternoon was the maid’s afternoon out, and just as she was stepping out of the door, a bloke drives up in a Morris – or so she says, though you can’t trust these girls, and if you ask me, it may just as well have been an Austin or Wolseley, or anything else, for that matter. He asks to see Miss Steward and the girl shows him into the sitting-room, and as she does so she hears the old girl say, “Why, Gerald!” – like that. Well, she goes off to the pictures and leaves ’em to it, and when she gets back at 10 o’clock, she finds the old lady lying with ’er ’ead bashed in.’
Mr Redwood leaned across and nudged Mr Egg. The stranger in the far corner had ceased to read his paper, and was peering stealthily round the edge of it.
‘That’s brought him to life, anyway,’ muttered Mr Redwood. ‘Well, sergeant, but how did the girl know the fellow’s surname and who he was?’
‘Why,’ replied the sergeant, ‘she remembered once ’earing the old lady speak of a man called Gerald Beeton – a good many years ago, or so she said, and she couldn’t tell us much about it. Only she remembered the name, because it was the same as the one on her cookery-book.’
‘Was that at Lewes?’ demanded the young man called Arthur, suddenly.
‘Might have been,’ admitted the sergeant, glancing rather sharply at him. ‘The old lady came from Lewes. Why?’
‘I remember, when I was a kid at school, hearing my mother mention an old Miss Steward at Lewes, who was very rich and had adopted a young fellow out of a chemist’s shop. I think he ran away, and turned out badly, or something. Anyway, the old lady left the town. She was supposed to be very rich and to keep all her money in a tin box, or something. My mother’s cousin knew an old girl who was Miss Steward’s housekeeper – but I daresay it was all rot. Anyhow, that was about six or seven years ago, and I believe my mother’s cousin is dead now and the housekeeper too. My mother,’ went on the young man called Arthur, anticipating the next question, ‘died two years ago.’
‘That’s very interesting, all the same,’ said Mr Egg encouragingly. ‘You ought to tell the police about it.’
‘Well, I have, haven’t I? said Arthur, with a grin, indicating the sergeant. ‘Though I expect they know it already. Or do I have to go to the police-station?’
‘For the present purpose,’ replied the sergeant, ‘I am a police-station. But you might give me your name and address.’
The young man gave his name as Arthur Bunce, with an address in London. At this point the girl Gertrude was struck with an idea.
‘But what about the tin box? D’you think he killed her to get it?’
‘There’s nothing in the papers about the tin box,’ put in the man in the burberry.
‘They don’t let everything get into the papers,’ said the sergeant.
‘It doesn’t seem to be in the paper our disagreeable friend is reading,’ murmured Mr Redwood, and as he spoke, that person rose from his seat and came over to the serving-hatch, ostensibly to order more beer, but with the evident intention of overhearing more of the conversation.
‘I wonder if they’ll catch the fellow,’ pursued Redwood thoughtfully. ‘They – by Jove! yes, that explains it – they must be keeping a pretty sharp look-out. I wondered why they held me up outside Wintonbury to examine my driving-licence. I suppose they’re checking all the Morrises on the roads. Some job.’
‘All the Morrises in this district, anyway,’ said Monty. ‘They held me up just outside Thugford.’
‘Oho!’ cried Arthur Bunce, ‘that looks as though they’ve got a line on the fellow. Now, sergeant, come across with it. What d
o you know about this, eh?’
‘I can’t tell you anything about that,’ replied Sergeant Jukes, in a stately manner. The disagreeable man moved away from the serving-hatch, and at the same moment the sergeant rose and walked over to a distant table to knock out his pipe, rather unnecessarily, into a flower-pot. He remained there, refilling the pipe from his pouch, his bulky form towering between the Disagreeable Man and the door.
‘They’ll never catch him,’ said the Disagreeable Man, suddenly and unexpectedly. ‘They’ll never catch him. And do you know why? I’ll tell you. Not because he’s too clever for them, but because he’s too stupid. It’s all too ordinary. I don’t suppose it was this man Beeton at all. Don’t you read your papers? Didn’t you see that the old lady’s sitting-room was on the ground floor, and that the dining-room window was found open at the top? It would be the easiest thing in the world for a man to slip in through the dining-room – Miss Steward was rather deaf – and catch her unawares and bash her on the head. There’s only crazy paving between the garden gate and the windows, and there was a black frost yesterday night, so he’d leave no footmarks on the carpet. That’s the difficult sort of murder to trace – no subtlety, no apparent motive. Look at the Reading murder, look at—’
‘Hold hard a minute, sir,’ interrupted the sergeant. ‘How do you know there was crazy paving? That’s not in the papers, so far as I know.’
The Disagreeable Man stopped short in the full tide of his eloquence, and appeared disconcerted.
‘I’ve seen the place, as a matter of fact,’ he said with some reluctance. ‘Went there this morning to look at it – for private reasons, which I needn’t trouble you with.’
‘That’s a funny thing to do, sir.’
‘It may be, but it’s no business of yours.’
‘Oh, no, sir, of course not,’ said the sergeant. ‘We all of us has our little ’obbies, and crazy paving may be yours. Landscape gardener, sir?’
‘Not exactly.’
‘A journalist, perhaps?’ suggested Mr Redwood.
‘That’s nearer,’ said the other. ‘Looking at my three fountain-pens, eh? Quite the amateur detective.’
‘The gentleman can’t be a journalist,’ said Mr Egg. ‘You will pardon me, sir, but a journalist couldn’t help but take an interest in Mr Redwood’s synthetic alcohol or whatever it is. I fancy I might put a name to your profession if I was called upon to do so. Every man carries the marks of his trade, though it’s not always as conspicuous as Mr Redwood’s sample case or mine. Take books, for instance. I always know an academic gentleman by the way he opens a book. It’s in his blood, as you might say. Or take bottles. I handle them one way – it’s my trade. A doctor or a chemist handles them another way. This scent-bottle, for example. If you or I was to take the stopper out of this bottle, how would we do it? How would you do it, Mr Redwood?’
‘Me?’ said Mr Redwood. ‘Why, dash it all! On the word “one” I’d apply the thumb and two fingers of the right hand to the stopper and on the word “two” I would elevate them briskly, retaining a firm grip on the bottle with the left hand in case of accident. What would you do?’ He turned to the man in the burberry.
‘Same as you,’ said that gentleman, suiting the action to the word. ‘I don’t see any difficulty about that. There’s only one way I know of to take out stoppers, and that’s to take ’em out. What d’you expect me to do? Whistle ’em out?’
‘But this gentleman’s quite right, all the same,’ put in the Disagreeable Man. ‘You do it that way because you aren’t accustomed to measuring and pouring with one hand while the other’s occupied. But a doctor or a chemist pulls the stopper out with his little finger, like this, and lifts the bottle in the same hand, holding the measuring-glass in his left – so – and when he—’
‘Hi, Beeton!’ cried Mr Egg in a shrill voice, ‘look out!’
The flask slipped from the hand of the Disagreeable Man and crashed on the table’s edge as the man in the burberry started to his feet. An overpowering odour of violets filled the room. The sergeant darted forward – there was a brief but violent struggle. The girl screamed. The landlord rushed in from the bar, and a crowd of men surged in after him and blocked the doorway.
‘There,’ said the sergeant, emerging a little breathless from the mix-up, ‘you best come quiet. Wait a minute! Gotter charge you. Gerald Beeton, I arrest you for the murder of Alice Steward – stand still, can’t you? – and I warns you as anything you say may be taken down and used in evidence at your trial. Thank you, sir. If you’ll give me a ’and with him to the door, I’ve got a pal waiting just up the road, with a police car.’
In a few minutes’ time Sergeant Jukes returned, struggling into his overcoat. His amateur helpers accompanied him, their faces bright, as of those who have done their good deed for the day.
‘That was a very neat dodge of yours, sir,’ said the sergeant, addressing Mr Egg, who was administering a stiff pick-me-up to the young lady, while Mr Redwood and the landlord together sought to remove the drench of Parma violet from the carpet. ‘Whew! Smells a bit strong, don’t it? Regular barber’s shop. We had the office he was expected this way, and I had an idea that one of you gentlemen might be the man, but I didn’t know which. Mr Bunce here saying that Beeton had been a chemist was a big help; and you, sir, I must say you touched him off proper.’
‘Not at all,’ said Mr Egg. ‘I noticed the way he took that stopper out the first time – it showed he had been trained to laboratory work. That might have been accident, of course. But afterwards, when he pretended he didn’t know the right way to do it, I thought it was time to see if he’d answer to his name.’
‘Good wheeze,’ said the Disagreeable Man agreeably. ‘Mind if I use it some time?’
‘Ah!’ said Sergeant Jukes. ‘You gave me a bit of a turn, sir, with that crazy paving. Whatever did you—’
‘Professional curiosity,’ said the other, with a grin. ‘I write detective stories. But our friend Mr Egg is a better hand at the real thing.’
‘No, no,’ said Monty. ‘We all helped. The hardest problem’s easy of solution when each one makes his little contribution. Isn’t that so, Mr Faggots?’
The aged countryman had risen to his feet.
‘Place fair stinks o’ that dratted stuff,’ he said disapprovingly. ‘I can’t abide sich nastiness.’ He hobbled out and shut the door.
MURDER IN THE MORNING
A Montague Egg Story
...........
‘Half a mile along the main road to Ditchley, and then turn off to the left at the sign-post,’ said the Traveller in Mangles; ‘but I think you’ll be wasting your time.’
‘Oh, well,’ said Mr Montague Egg cheerfully, ‘I’ll have a shot at the old bird. As the Salesman’s Handbook says: “Don’t let the smallest chance slip by; you never know until you try.” After all, he’s supposed to be rich, isn’t he?’
‘Mattresses stuffed with gold sovereigns, or so the neighbours say,’ acknowledged the Traveller in Mangles with a grin. ‘But they’d say anything.’
‘Thought you said there weren’t any neighbours.’
‘No more there are. Manner of speaking. Well, good luck to it!’
Mr Egg acknowledged the courtesy with a wave of his smart trilby, and let his clutch in with quiet determination.
The main road was thronged with the usual traffic of a Saturday morning in June – worthy holiday-makers bound for Melbury Woods or for the seashore about Beachampton – but as soon as he turned into the little narrow lane by the sign-post which said ‘Hatchford Mill 2 Miles’, he was plunged into a profound solitude and silence, broken only by the scurry of an occasional rabbit from the hedgerow and the chug of his own Morris. Whatever else the mysterious Mr Pinchbeck might be, he certainly was a solitary soul, and when, about a mile and a half down the lane, Monty caught sight of the tiny cottage, set far back in the middle of a neglected-looking field, he began to think that the Traveller in Mangles had been right. Rich th
ough he might be, Mr Pinchbeck was probably not a very likely customer for the wines and spirits supplied by Messrs Plummet & Rose of Piccadilly. But, remembering Maxim Five of the Salesman’s Handbook, ‘If you’re a salesman worth the name at all, you can sell razors to a billiard-ball,’ Mr Egg stopped his car at the entrance to the field, lifted the sagging gate, and dragged it open, creaking in every rotten rail, and drove forward over the rough track, scarred with the ruts left by wet-weather traffic.
The cottage door was shut. Monty beat a cheerful tattoo upon its blistered surface, and was not very much surprised to get no answer. He knocked again, and then, unwilling to abandon his quest now he had come so far, walked round to the back. Here again he got no answer. Was Mr Pinchbeck out? It was said that he never went out. Being by nature persistent and inquisitive, Mr Egg stepped up to the window and looked in. What he saw made him whistle softly. He returned to the back door, pushed it open and entered.
When you arrive at a person’s house with no intention beyond selling him a case of whisky or a dozen or so of port, it is disconcerting to find him stretched on his own kitchen floor, with his head battered to pulp. Mr Egg had served two years on the Western Front, but he did not like what he saw. He put the table-cloth over it. Then, being a methodical sort of person, he looked at his watch, which marked 10.25. After a minute’s pause for consideration, he made a rapid tour of the premises, then set off, driving as fast as he could, to fetch the police.
The inquest upon Mr Humphrey Pinchbeck Took Place the following day, and resulted in a verdict of wilful murder against some person or persons unknown. During the next fortnight, Mr Montague Egg, with some uneasiness, watched the newspapers. The police were following up a clue. A man was requested to communicate with the police. The man was described – a striking-looking person with a red beard and a check suit, driving a sports car with the registered number WOE 1313. The man was found. The man was charged, and Mr Montague Egg, three hundred miles away, was informed, to his disgust, that he would be required to give evidence before the magistrates at Beachampton.