Sleuths on the Scent

 

THE COMMERCIAL ROOM AT the Pig and Pewter presented to Mr.

Montague Egg the aspect of a dim cavern in which some primaeval

inhabitant had been cooking his mammoth-meat over a fire of damp

seaweed. In other words, it was ill lit, cold, smoky and permeated with an

odour of stale food.

“Oh dear, oh dear!” muttered Mr. Egg. He poked at the sullen coals,

releasing a volume of pea-coloured smoke which made him cough.

Mr. Egg rang the bell.

“Oh, if you please, sir,” said the maid who answered the summons, “I’m

sure I’m very sorry, but it’s always this way when the wind’s in the east, sir,

and we’ve tried ever so many sorts of cowls and chimney-pots, you’d be

surprised. The man was here to-day a-working in it, which is why the fire

wasn’t lit till just now, sir, but they don’t seem able to do nothink with it.

But there’s a beautiful fire in the bar-parlour, sir, if you cared to step along.

There’s a very pleasant party in there, sir. I’m sure you would be

comfortable. There’s another commercial gentleman like yourself, sir, and

old Mr. Faggott and Sergeant Jukes over from Drabblesford. Oh, and there’s

two parties of motorists, but they’re all quite nice and quiet, sir.”

“That’ll suit me all right,” said Mr. Egg amiably. But he made a mental

note, nevertheless, that he would warn his fellow-commercials against the

Pig and Pewter at Mugbury, for an inn is judged by its commercial room.

Moreover, the dinner had been bad, with a badness not to be explained by

his own rather late arrival.

In the bar-parlour, however, things were better. At one side of the

cheerful hearth sat old Mr. Faggott, an aged countryman, beneath whose scanty white beard dangled a long, scarlet comforter. In his hand was a

tankard of ale. Opposite to him, also with a tankard, was a large man,

obviously a policeman in mufti. At a table in front of the fireplace sat an

alert-looking, darkish, youngish man whom Mr. Egg instantly identified as

the commercial gentleman by the stout leather bag at his side. He was

drinking sherry. A young man and a girl in motor-cycling kit were

whispering together at another table, over a whisky-and-polly and a glass of

port. Another man, with his hat and burberry on, was ordering Guinness at

the little serving-hatch which communicated with the bar, while, in a far

corner, an indeterminate male figure sat silent and half concealed by a

slouch hat and a newspaper. Mr. Egg saluted the company with respect and

observed that it was a nasty night.

The commercial gentleman uttered an emphatic agreement.

“I ought to have got on to Drabblesford to-night,” he added, “but with

this frost and drizzle and frost again the roads are in such a state, I think I’d

better stay where I am.

“Same here,” said Mr. Egg, approaching the hatch. “Half of mild-and-

bitter, please. Cold, too, isn’t it?”

“Very cold,” said the policeman.

“Ar,” said old Mr. Faggott.

“Foul,” said the man in the burberry, returning from the hatch and

seating himself near the commercial gentleman. “I’ve reason to know it.

Skidded into a telegraph-pole two miles out. You should see my bumpers.

Well! I suppose it’s only to be expected this time of year.”

“Ar!” said old Mr. Faggott. There was a pause.

“Well,” said Mr. Egg, politely raising his tankard, “here’s luck!”

The company acknowledged the courtesy in a suitable manner, and

another pause followed. It was broken by the traveller.

“Acquainted with this part of the country, sir?”

“Why, no,” said Monty Egg. “It’s not my usual beat. Bastable covers it

as a rule—Henry Bastable—perhaps you know him? He and I travel for

Plummet & Rose, wines and spirits.”

“Tall, red-haired fellow?”

“That’s him. Laid up with rheumatic fever, poor chap, so I’m taking

over temporarily. My name’s Egg—Montague Egg.”

“Oh, yes, I think I’ve heard of you from Taylor of Harrogate Bros.

Redwood is my name. Fragonard & Co., perfumes and toilet accessories.”

Mr. Egg bowed and inquired, in a discreet and general way, how Mr.

Redwood was finding things.

“Not too bad. Of course, money’s a bit tight; that’s only to be expected.

But, considering everything, not too bad. I’ve got a line here, by the way,

which is doing pretty well and may give you something to think about.” He

bent over, unstrapped his bag and produced a tall flask, its glass stopper

neatly secured with a twist of fine string. “Tell me what you think of that.”

He removed the string and handed the sample to Monty.

“Parma violet?” said that gentleman, with a glance at the label. “The

young lady should be the best judge of this. Allow me, miss. Sweets to the

sweet,” he added gallantly. “You’ll excuse me, I’m sure.”

The girl giggled.

“Go on, Gert,” said her companion. “Never refuse a good offer.” He

removed the stopper and sniffed heartily at the perfume. “This is high-class

stuff, this is. Put a drop on your handkerchief. Here—I’ll do it for you!”

“Oh! it’s lovely!” said the girl. “Refined, I call it. Get along, Arthur, do!

Leave my handkerchief alone—what they’ll all think of you! I’m sure this

gentleman won’t mind you having a drop for yourself if you want it.”

Arthur favoured the company with a large wink, and sprinkled his

handkerchief liberally. Monty rescued the flask and passed it to the man in

the burberry.

“Excuse me, sir,” said Mr. Redwood, “but if I might point it out, it’s not

everybody knows the right way to test perfume.” Just dab a little on the

hand, wait while the liquid evaporates, and then raise the hand to the

nostrils.”

“Like this?” said the man in the burberry, dexterously hitching the

stopper out with his little finger, pouring a drop of perfume into his left

palm and re-stoppering the bottle, all in one movement. “Yes, I see what

you mean.”

“That’s very interesting,” said Monty, much impressed and following

the example set him. “Same as when you put old brandy in a thin glass and

cradle it in the hollow of the palm to bring out the aroma. The warmth of

the hand makes the ethers expand. I’m very glad to know from you, Mr.

Redwood, what is the correct method with perfumes. Ready to learn means

ready to earn—that’s Monty Egg, every time. A very fine perfume indeed.

Would you like to try it, sir?”

He offered the bottle first to the aged countryman (who shook his head,

remarking acidly that he “couldn’t abide smells and sich nastiness”) and

then to the policeman, who, disdaining refinements, took a strong sniff at

the bottle and pronounced the scent “good, but a bit powerful for his

liking.”

“Well, well, tastes differ,” said Monty. He glanced round, and,

observing the silent man in the far corner, approached him confidently with

a request for his opinion.

“What the devil’s the matter with you?” growled this person, emerging

reluctantly from behind his barricade of newspaper, and displaying a bristling and bellicose fair moustache and a pair of sulky blue eyes. “There

seems to be no peace in this bar. Scent? Can’t abide the stuff.” He snatched

the perfume impatiently from Mr. Egg’s hand, sniffed and thrust the stopper

back with such blind and fumbling haste that it missed the neck of the flask

altogether and rolled away under the table. “Well, it’s scent. What else do

you want me to say about it? I’m not going to buy it, if that’s what you’re

after.”

“Certainly not, sir,” said Mr. Redwood, hurt, and hastening to retrieve

his scattered property. “Wonder what’s bitten him,” he continued, in a

confidential undertone. “Nasty glitter in his eye. Hands all of a tremble.

Better look out for him, sergeant. We don’t want murder done. Well,

anyhow, madam and gentlemen, what should you say if I was to tell you

that we’re able to retail that large bottle, as it stands—retail it, mind you—

at three shillings and sixpence?”

“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 damnfool

description 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 arrest him.”

“That ain’t for me to say,” replied the sergeant ponderously. “You must

use your own judgment 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 been 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 do 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, as 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 an 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.

Faggott?”

The aged countryman had risen to his feet.

“Place fair stinks o’ that dratted stuff,” he said disapprovingly. “I can’t

abide such nastiness.” He hobbled out and shut the door.

 

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