Case with No Conclusion Read online

  “That’s where it always was.”

  “What makes you so sure?”

  “Well, for one thing,” said the girl, “because Mr. Stewart was always playing with it. Always had it in his hand, he did. He’d call you up to tell you something what ought to have been done, and he’d sit there twiddling the knife till it fair gave you the creeps.”

  “She’s quite right, Beef,” broke in Peter; “the knife was always on the table. It was used for anything. We used to sharpen our pencils with it, and things like that. Father always used to say he’d have it blunted, but he never did.”

  Beef turned to the girl again. “Do you know,” he asked, “when the knife was cleaned last?”

  “Why, at eleven o’clock that morning, of course.”

  “Of course?”

  “I always cleaned the knife every morning. All the metal-work had to be done regular. Mr. Stewart was very particular about it,” answered the girl.

  “This knife,” he said slowly, “what did it look like?”

  Peter Ferrers interrupted. “It was quite an ordinary sort of dagger,” he said; “Father picked it up years ago at a little antique shop. The handle was rather well done, in ornamental silver. I should say the blade was about eight or nine inches long, and about an inch wide all the way down, ending in a sharp point. But I expect the police would show it to you if you’re interested.”

  “That’s all right,” said Beef, “I was only wondering. Now,”—he turned again to the girl—“when you came out of the library, where was Wilson?”

  The girl thought for a moment. “Well, first of all he came out with me,” she said, “and then when he saw I was all right he called out for Duncan, and went back in.”

  “Did Duncan come straight away?”

  “I passed him on the stairs as I went down to the kitchen.”

  “Now, there’s just one more question I want to ask you,” said Beef, leaning forward over the table. “Have you any idea what Mr. Stewart was doing all that day?”

  “He went out soon after breakfast,” said the girl, “and didn’t come home again till about half-past six, when he went straight upstairs to change. After that he sat and waited for the gentlemen to come.”

  “In the library?”

  “No, he sat in the drawing-room.”

  “So he never went into the library at all that day?”

  “No, not after he had Wilson in there in the morning.”

  “All right,” said Beef, “that’s all.” Then as the girl turned to go an idea seemed suddenly to strike him. “By the way,” he said, “what’s your name?”

  “Rose,” answered the girl, but gave no surname.

  Then, as she turned to the door again, Beef leaned forward and quickly picked a cushion off the settee.

  “Here,” he said, “what’s this?”

  On the side of the cushion were two long parallel lines of dark red; obviously blood.

  “I don’t know,” said Rose, “I hadn’t noticed it before.”

  I took the cushion from Beef and examined it. It was evident that a knife had been wiped on it.

  Chapter IV

  DON’T you think,” said Peter Ferrers, “that the butler would be the person whose information would be most likely to help you?”

  “I don’t know,” said Beef slowly; “I never much cared for butlers. I’ve noticed there’s nearly always one of them around when a murder’s been committed, though. Well, I suppose we’d better have him in.”

  I was disappointed in Duncan. I had hoped for something new in butlers. A one-eyed butler, or a little loud-voiced butler, would have been a change, but Duncan was painfully in the tradition. By conforming to type, I felt resentfully, he would make my task of narrating the case as something pithy and original, far more difficult. True he had some odd habits with his artificial teeth, but these could scarcely be considered startling enough to provide the “copy” I required. He clicked them and made them jump in his mouth, then, apparently with his tongue, dislodged the plate, so that two teeth jumped out on you as you watched, then disappeared again like small white rabbits down a burrow. But his tall, grotesquely thin figure and cadaverous yellow face, his long bony fingers and narrow bald head reminded me all too plainly of Suspect Number Three in a dozen films and stories.

  “Duncan,” said Peter Ferrers in a gentle and kindly voice, “these two gentlemen are making an independent investigation of the case in the hope of proving that Mr. Stewart is innocent. I want you to tell them all you can.”

  Duncan seemed startled. Indeed, his thin eyebrows were lifted as though he were permanently surprised, forever expecting a shock.

  “Certainly, Mr. Peter. Whatever little I know,” he said.

  “Did you serve the dinner?” asked Beef, breaking in on this with characteristic clumsiness.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “How was their appetites?”

  “About as usual, sir. Mr. Stewart never ate a great deal, but Doctor Benson was hearty at the table.”

  “And what was they talking about over dinner?”

  “Politics, most of the time. Mr. Wakefield did most of the talking.”

  “Any arguments?”

  “Discussion, sir, I should call it. Mr. Stewart was never much in agreement with Mr. Wakefield’s ideas, which were apt to veer towards the Socialistic a little.”

  “You mean he was a Red?”

  “I have no means of knowing his opinions exactly, sir, but Mr. Stewart found them too progressive for his liking.”

  “I see. How long have you been with the family, Duncan?”

  “I was engaged by the late Mr. Ferrers soon after he was married.”

  “So you’ve known Mr. Stewart Ferrers and Mr. Peter Ferrers all their lives?”

  “Pretty well, sir.”

  “Now,” said Beef heavily, “I want you to forget for a minute that Mr. Peter’s in the room, and tell me straight out, man to man, what you think of them.”

  “I couldn’t possibly presume,” began the butler, but Peter interrupted him:

  “Go ahead, Duncan,” he said shortly.

  “Well, sir, they were both good sons and their father knew it. He thought the world of both of them, sir, and it upset everyone terribly when he died. Mr. Peter will remember how he stayed up with him to the last, and after the end too. The doctor was wonderfully attentive as well, sir.”

  “You’re wandering from the point,” said Beef; “I want to know about their characters.”

  “Mr. Stewart was the quieter, sir. He was a very temperate man, religious and that. I understand he’s helped the church here a geat deal. Mr. Peter was a bit more lively, if you understand me.”

  “And Doctor Benson?” queried Beef.

  Duncan’s face clouded. “I have always understood he was a very clever doctor, sir. Old Mr. Ferrers had the greatest faith in him, and wouldn’t have anybody else near him in his illness.”

  “Have you always worked in this house?”

  “Yes, sir, it was when he bought this house that he engaged me.”

  “Had he any children, then?”

  “Mr. Stewart was born then, sir. Mr. Peter—ahem—arrived a year later.”

  “Are you married, Duncan?”

  I thought I detected a smile on Peter Ferrers’s face.

  “Yes, sir. I’ve been married five years.”

  “Late in life,” commented Beef, “to tie yourself up like that. Does she live anywhere round?”

  “Oh yes, sir. She’s the cook. We met in this house.”

  I was beginning to feel impatient at these probings of Beef’s, for really the matrimonial affairs of Duncan, and the past history of the Ferrers family, could scarcely be thought to bear on the matter of Dr. Benson’s murder. But you have to be patient with Beef.

  “To come back to this binge,” said Beef.

  “Binge?” queried Duncan, more startled than ever. His teeth jumped out and in again, and he leaned forward slightly.

  “Well
, dinner-party, then.” Beefs manner had taken on a sort of swagger, as though it had pleased him to find at least one witness who was nervous even of him. And it seemed quite certain that Duncan really was nervous. “What time did they start?”

  “They sat down to dinner at eight o’clock as usual. Mr. Stewart was very strict in the matter of times, sir. Just as his father had been.”

  “And finished?”

  “They went through to the library for coffee, I should say, at about twenty-past nine, sir. I took them the coffee and brandy in there.”

  “Do you remember what they were talking about in the library?” asked Beef.

  Duncan paused, glanced at Peter, and shifted his teeth. “Yes,” he said quietly.

  “Well, come on, what was it?” roared Beef.

  Peter seemed to nod permission, and Duncan proceeded. “Well, it was about this periodical of Mr. Peter’s and Mr. Wakefield’s. I have heard it discussed before, sir. It seemed that Mr. Wakefield wanted Mr. Stewart to give it financial support.”

  Peter Ferrers broke in. “Yes, that’s quite right, Sergeant,” he said. “Wakefield and I are not rich men, and the Passing Moment is in pretty low water. We had been trying for some time to persuade my brother to subsidize it.”

  “Any luck?” asked Beef.

  “He means,” I interrupted hastily, “were you successful?”

  Peter was quite good-humoured as he said, “I’m afraid not.”

  “So that’s what you heard?” Beef asked Duncan.

  “Yes, sir. Mr. Stewart was very definite. Not in any circumstances, he said.”

  “That’s all?”

  “That was the gist of it. There was nothing else of any importance I could gather.”

  “And then you went back to the kitchen?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Who was there?”

  “My wife and the two girls. My wife wanted to know if the dinner had been satisfactory, and when I told her that Mr. Stewart had complained about the savoury again she was very put out.” Duncan shook his head, and his pale face seemed stretched by an expression of concern.

  “What’s she do when she’s upset, then?” asked Beef, a grin beginning to show on his face.

  Duncan remained dignified. “On this occasion she marched straight off to bed,” he said.

  “Leaving you and the two girls?”

  “Yes, sir. But not for long. They was doing the crossword puzzle in the evening paper and Freda kept yawning, though I’ve told her before it’s not manners. At about a quarter-past nine Freda went up; that wasn’t long before Mr. Peter and Mr. Wakefield started off.”

  “You saw them go?” asked Beef.

  “Oh yes. I went up and got their coats and hats.”

  “Did they seem all right?”

  “Er—how do you mean, sir?”

  “Sober, and that,” said Beef.

  Peter was again smiling when Duncan said, “Most certainly, sir. I’ve never seen any member of this family anything else.”

  “Good-humoured?”

  “So far as I could gather, sir. They said good night to me.”

  “And you saw them drive away?”

  “Yes, sir. I watched the car disappear down the drive. When I got back to the kitchen, Rose was just going up to bed.”

  I was watching Duncan closely, and was not surprised to see that on the tight and parchment skin of his forehead a few drops of perspiration showed.

  “And then?” said Beef relentlessly.

  “Then, a little later, Mr. Stewart rang. I went up to the library and found him alone with Doctor Benson. He said I was to bring the whisky and soda, and needn’t wait any longer. That’s about all I know, sir.”

  “Half a minute, half a minute,” said Beef, “we’re just coming to the interesting part.” He leaned forward and said in a slow, emphatic voice, “What was they talking about when you took the whisky in?”

  Duncan seemed almost to tremble. “I explained that once to the police, sir,” he said.

  “Never mind about the police,” said Beef; “you tell me. What was they talking about?”

  “Well, as I crossed the hall, sir, I heard their voices raised. It seemed they were quarrelling.”

  “If you heard their voices raised,” said Beef, “you must have heard what they said.”

  “Well, I did hear Doctor Benson say something which I didn’t understand.”

  “What was it?”

  “He said, ‘It’s in my surgery now.’ ”

  “What else did you hear?”

  “Nothing very clear, sir. But I gathered that Mrs. Benson came into it. I heard her name mentioned two or three times.”

  “And how did her name come into it?” asked Beef.

  The butler looked confused. “Really, sir,” he said, “I should hardly know that. I suppose it was on account of Mrs. Benson and Mr. Stewart.” He looked apologetically at Peter Ferrers as he said this, and there was a sharp rattle of teeth as the bottom set gave an unusually large jump.

  “And what about Mrs. Benson and Mr. Stewart?” asked Beef heartlessly, for I could see that Duncan was more than usually embarrassed by this question.

  “Well, sir, there was a story going around about there being some sort of an affair between Mr. Stewart and Doctor Benson’s wife. People have seen them together, out in the car, and so on.”

  “Oh, they have, have they?” said Beef. “What people are these? Have you seen them together, Duncan? Or did you get the story from someone else?”

  Duncan hesitated for a moment before replying. “I can’t remember, sir, exactly who told me,” he said. “Everybody knows about it, of course. But if I remember correctly, it was Wilson who first told me about them going out in a car together.”

  “All right,” said Beef, “we’ll leave that for a bit. But there’s something which is important. Mr. Ferrers says he showed the doctor out at a quarter-past eleven. Did you hear him go?”

  “No, I was asleep by then.”

  “You went straight to bed after taking up the whisky and soda?”

  “Yes, sir. That is, of course, after I’d locked up everywhere.”

  “What do you mean, ‘locked up’? Bolted the doors and so on?”

  “Yes, sir. Mr. Stewart was very careful to have all the downstairs windows fastened—they all had special catches on them that you couldn’t slip open with a knife—and also all the doors had to be bolted. All except the front door, which had a Yale lock and was left in case any of the servants stayed out late at a dance or the pictures.”

  “You’re sure everything was done properly that night?”

  Duncan looked slightly hurt, and his eyes took on an almost angry expression as he answered, “Everything was in perfect order, sir.”

  “And you were in bed and asleep when Doctor Benson left?”

  “I was asleep by a quarter-past eleven, sir.”

  “But surely you would have heard his car drive away?”

  “Possibly, sir, but he wasn’t driving his car. He came on foot.”

  Beef looked at him at though he were angry. “And that’s all you heard or saw that night, is it?”

  “Yes, that’s all.”

  “When did you first know he’d been done in?”

  “When Wilson, the chauffeur-gardener, shouted out for me next morning. I hurried upstairs to tell him not to shout about the house like that.”

  “Did you see the girl Rose?” asked Beef.

  “Yes. It was from her I could see there was something wrong. I met her on the stairs—white as death she was. When I got into the library, there was Wilson standing staring at Doctor Benson. ‘He’s been murdered,’ he said.”

  “Had you seen Stewart Ferrers that morning?”

  “Yes, sir, I took his tea in at eight o’clock as usual.”

  “He seemed all right?”

  “Oh yes. He was asleep when I got into the room. He said good morning, and drank his tea as he did every day while I handed him his paper.”r />
  “And there’s nothing you can tell us? Not about the past or anything?”

  Duncan was already shaking his head before Beef had finished his question. “No, nothing at all,” he said, and Peter signed for him to leave the room.

  “He knows more than ever he’ll come out with,” was Beefs comment.

  “What makes you think that?” asked Peter.

  “Ah,” said Beef.

  Chapter V

  “WELL,” said Beef expansively, “I don’t know what you gentlemen feel, but…”

  I hurriedly interrupted, for I knew what proposal he was about to make. “You’d better interview the chauffeur-gardener,” I said severely.

  He gave me a vicious look. “All right, have him in,” he sullenly conceded.

  Wilson was in his chauffeur’s uniform, and stepped into the room smartly. He was a good-looking fellow, tanned and well built. But his manner was a little too slick and ready for him to be, in my mind, completely trustworthy. He seemed quite at his ease and more than ready to answer any question that could be put to him, as though he were almost enjoying the situation.

  “Sit down, Wilson,” said Peter Ferrers. “You can smoke if you like,” and he handed him a box of cigarettes.

  Wilson thanked him, lit one, and blew two columns of smoke through his nose like a picture of a dragon in a child’s book.

  Beef gaped at this performance, then seemed to pull himself together for his cross-examination. “What did you think of this Doctor Benson?” he began unexpectedly.

  “Well, I found him all right,” said Wilson, “though he wasn’t popular round here at all. Bit of a bully, I should say. But he never tried any of that stuff on me.

  “Had you had any dealings with him, then?” asked Beef.

  “Not what you could call dealings. I’ve driven his car round to the garage when he came to the house, and once or twice taken some plants up from the garden to his place.”

  “So you do the garden, do you?” Beef asked him. “I never cared for gardening,” he continued to us all contemplatively; “thirsty work I call it.”

  “I like it all right, but Mr. Ferrers wasn’t really interested. I didn’t have enough time to keep the place as I wanted.”