Case for Sergeant Beef (21 page)

‘That cuts both ways,' observed Beef.

‘We'll lock this shed up and leave everything as it is till the morning. Then we'll get the medico out and have a
proper examination. It's past midnight now and I'm not going to drag him out here to-night.'

The key was on the outside of the lock, so this was quite easy. But before leaving ‘Woodlands' we crossed again to the house and found Constable Watts-Dunton sitting peacefully in a chair reading by the light of the oil lamp. Flipp was still lying on the floor breathing stertorously. Chatto called the constable out of the room and told him in a hurried whisper what we had found. The long, serious face of Watts-Dunton did not change as he heard it.

‘I'll keep an eye on the shed till you all come up in the morning,' was all he said.

‘Happen to know if anyone connected with this case is left-handed?' asked Chatto. I smiled to perceive that he had been more impressed by Beef's little argument than he had admitted at the time.

‘I don't recall anyone.
He
wasn't,' he said with a contemptuous nod at the figure of Flipp. ‘I know that because he once turned out for the cricket team. Nor's Bridge. He plays every week. Can't say about Mrs Pluck, of course.'

‘Better wake him up. There's something I've got to ask him at once.'

This was not so easy as it sounded, but after a good deal of shaking from Watts-Dunton, Flipp eventually opened his eyes.

‘What is it?' he asked drowsily.

‘Have you been across to your mixing shed this evening?'

‘Yes. Course I have. Fed the chickens. My wife's deserted me.'

‘What time?'

‘About four o'clock. Why?'

‘Never mind why. All right, constable. We'll get along.'

I noticed that Flipp's head dropped back and his eyes closed automatically even before we had left the room.

We started the walk home with the wind behind us and were soon out on the road. We had not gone half a mile, however, when we heard someone whistling a tune ahead of us and recognized Joe Bridge. Chatto stopped him.

In the light of certain events of this evening about which you will doubtless hear later,' began Chatto, ‘I'm afraid I must ask you where you have been, Mr Bridge.'

‘All right. I've been to see my uncle in Barnford.'

‘Funny time of night to pay a call.'

‘Yes. Wasn't it? Good night,' returned Bridge cheerfully, and recommencing his whistling he strode on.

I was scarcely awake next morning before Beef was in my room saying that we had a job to do and adjuring me to jump into my clothes quick. I obliged him as far as I conveniently could though I would not renounce my shave. He led me off at a fast pace, and it was scarcely seven before he was knocking at the door of Mrs Wilks's cottage. I was relieved when the door was opened by Mrs Pluck.

‘Something to tell you,' Beef mumbled,

‘What is it now?'

‘Mr Chickle's dead. Thought you'd better know at once.'

‘Oh, my God. How?'

‘Hanged.'

‘You mean he hanged himself?'

‘That or – well, the police think it may be murder.'

‘Wherever's this going to stop?' cried Mrs Pluck. ‘First one, then another.'

‘It will stop when Shoulter's murderer is arrested. Now I want you to come up to Chickle's house. I want to have a good look round. He may have left something interesting.'

‘All right. Wait here. I won't be a minute.'

Her prediction was almost accurate. In a very short time she had joined us, wearing the rusty black hat and coat she had had on when she had called at our inn on the previous night – which seemed an age ago to me. She proved herself the farmer's daughter we knew her to be on her way up to ‘Labour's End', striding along ahead of us so that I was soon panting in my efforts to keep up.

Inside the bungalow she became the efficient housekeeper.

‘I don't suppose you've either of you had a cup of tea, have you? Sit down while I get a kettle boiling. Poor old chap – I'm not surprised though. I .told you he'd been funny
lately and yesterday when he came in he looked right down queer.'

‘You don't think it was murder then?'

‘Who's going to murder
him?
The other one I could understand. But Mr Chickle was a kind little soul. Friendly word for everyone. I'm sure he hadn't an enemy in the world.'

We were soon drinking hot sweet tea and munching some bread and butter. Mrs Pluck seemed thoughtful, but not unduly distressed.

Then Beef made a systematic search of Chickle's room, turning out drawers and cupboards, and examining papers. He did not hurry, but he did not seem to find anything to interest him. Papers were arranged methodically and were not in any case abundant, so that the search took less time than I had anticipated. It was then extended to the rest of the house with as little result.

‘You'd have thought he'd have left a letter, wouldn't you? He was that sort.'

By the time we had returned to Barnford the village was stirring and I saw a motor-cycle outside the police-station.

‘Looks as though Chatto's got his warrant,' remarked Beef.

As we were finishing breakfast I decided to attempt the usually unprofitable business of pumping Beef on his theories and conclusions. He made his usual retort .that I knew just as much as he did, so that my guess was as good as his.

‘Do what your readers have learnt to do,' he suggested, ‘and choose the least likely of the lot, then see where that gets you.'

‘I suppose the least likely is Aston,' I suggested tentatively.

‘What about the youth Ribbon?' grinned Beef.

‘I hadn't thought of him.'

‘Then there are Mrs Pluck and the two servants and Mabel Muckroyd…'

‘I refuse to suspect her.'

‘Why? It's been known to be ever such nice people before now.'

‘You think you know who murdered Shoulter?' I asked.

‘Yes. I think I do.'

‘Then why don't you go to Chatto and tell him your theory?'

‘Because it's not complete yet. I'll tell you one thing. As I see it, one of the keys to the whole thing is that little inscription,'
have failed.
And another's that pair of outsize shoes. And another is the Christmas card which Miss Packham sent to Flipp.'

‘Now you're only making it more difficult.'

‘Well, it is difficult. I doubt if we shall ever prove the thing conclusively. It's an unusual case, as you'll realize.'

‘Mm. You think Chatto's making a mistake?'

Beef grew more genial as the police were blamed.

‘He's ignoring too much evidence,' he said. ‘He chooses what suits his notions and leaves out what doesn't.'

Speak of the devil, I thought, for at that moment Inspector Chatto walked into the room. There was a considerable change in him since the previous night-he looked fresh and sleek and smoothly shaved, and he was smiling amiably.

‘I thought you two would like to be there when I make the arrest,' he said. ‘Since you've helped me with two or three little bits of evidence. I've got the warrant and I'm going up in a few minutes.'

‘I should like it,' agreed Beef. ‘It's always interesting to see how a man behaves when he's accused of murder.'

Chatto grinned.

‘Especially when he's wrongly accused, eh? Well, come along the pair of you and you shall see for yourselves. I've got a police car this morning.'

We needed no second invitation. We pulled on our greatcoats, for it was a bitterly cold morning, and followed the inspector out.

S.B.—6
*

F
LIPP
had sobered up and had had a wash and shave before we arrived at ‘Woodlands'. Indeed, he looked a great deal fresher than Constable Watts-Dunton. He showed little surprise or emotion as Chatto brought out the whole portentous formula, ending with its warning that anything he said might be used in evidence against him.

‘I thought you suspected me,' he remarked dully.

Chatto had read out all three of the names he had used, and although he took no apparent notice of the Philipson and Flipp, he asked, rather anxiously I thought, why Chatto had called him Phelps.

‘Perhaps you've forgotten that,' said Chatto calmly. ‘It was the name you used to sign the poison book in Shoulter's shop.'

I was watching the wretched man intently and saw that this quiet statement had had its effect.

‘I want to see my solicitor – Mr. Aston,' he said, and there was a slight trembling noticeable.

‘You can telephone for him from the police-station,' conceded Chatto. ‘We're taking you over to Ashley.'

Watts-Dunton brought his coat, and Flipp made a great point of locking up the house. He was accompanied from door to door after he had carefully shut the windows from the inside. It was without further conversation, however, that we left ‘Woodlands'.

That afternoon, in response to a telegram from Beef, there arrived at Barnford the last of the many people we had to meet in this case. Recalling it now I have to admit that I could see no point in sending for Mr Flusting, that friend of Chickle's who had been mentioned more than once in the course of our investigation. He had been quoted as a lifelong friend of the little watchmaker who had been a
neighbour of his during all the years in which Chickle had built up his thriving business. But I could not see how he would throw any light either on the murder of Shoulter or on the death of Chickle himself. Beef, however, set great store on the talk he would have with Mr Flusting, and even spoke of the last link in the chain.'

He arrived at Barnford by the now fateful train, and Beef was on the station to meet him. He was a tall, thin, grey-haired man who wore old-fashioned rimless pince-nez, a black overcoat and a starched collar too large for his thin neck. His eyes were blue and rheumy and he spoke in a high-pitched voice which he attempted to modulate into a tone of solemnity in speaking of the dead man.

‘Thought you ought to know at once,' said Beef as we walked away from the station.

Mr Flusting's next words surprised me.

‘Suicide, I suppose?' he said. It was clear that he saw nothing inconsistent in this.

‘That's what I think it is,' said Beef. ‘But the police have other ideas.'

‘No, no. Suicide, I'm afraid. In fact, I will go so far as to say I saw it coming.'

‘Did you indeed?'

‘Yes. He has just been to see me, you know. Stayed a few days. He was very far from normal, Sergeant. Very far from it.'

Beef did not want to hurry Mr Flusting into any sketchy talk, I thought, but was determined to have the whole story from him in detail.

‘Suppose we go and have a cup of tea,' he suggested. ‘And you tell me what you can? You see, Mr Flusting, I'm of the opinion that your knowledge of the dead man will be of the greatest assistance to us in clearing up the mystery surrounding these two deaths. I don't know the police opinion on that, but I know mine. And if you would be so good as to tell us what you knew of Mr Chickle, both in the past and more recently, it would be very valuable.'

‘I'll certainly tell you all I can,' replied Mr Flusting. ‘But
I have begun to wonder lately whether I really knew Chickle at all. There were depths in that man…'

‘Not another word till you've had a cup of tea,' exclaimed Beef as we arrived at the Crown.

But the time came for Flusting to talk. He lit his pipe, looked weakly at the pair of us and began:

‘I've known Wellington Chickle since he was a youth,' he announced, ‘and apprenticed to a watchmaker. And I don't think that anyone else has known him at all. There were two of him, you know, the bland and commonplace shopkeeper, and behind that facade a fiery and ambitious soul who was determined to leave his mark on the world. That is the thing you must understand about him – the key to the whole character of the man – he was determined to leave his mark on the world. It may seem odd if you think only of the chatty little man you probably knew, but remember I have seen behind all that. I have heard his deepest confidences. From the very first that was his resolve.'

‘And how did he go about doing it?'

‘For many years, oddly enough, in the most conventional way. He meant to build up a big business, make money and I suppose achieve success in the most ordinary manner. Perhaps he saw himself as a J.P., a Mayor, or a Member of Parliament, and in one of these offices making history. At any rate, for nearly all the years of our friendship he dedicated himself to increasing his business and making a fortune, and as you probably know he was successful in both. So successful that when the time came for him to sell his business and retire he was a rich man. I think one might say a very rich man. It was then that he gave me his first surprise.'

‘What was that?' asked Beef.

‘Well, I was waiting to see what he would do next. I knew that he must do something. He wasn't old. He had a vigorous mind and body. It was the moment for him to put into practice those secretly nourished ambitions of his. I wondered whether he would start by buying a newspaper or a title. He had once confided in me in all solemnity that a
teacher at his school had told him that he would never set the Thames on fire, and that he was going to show him something that would astonish him. Now was the time. What form would it take?'

We both stared at Mr Flusting as he asked this rhetorical question.

‘To my amazement,' went on Mr Chickle's old friend, ‘he did nothing. After selling the business he moved into rooms in London and remained there, apparently in aimless contentment. I could not understand it. I even ventured to query this, but all I got was a series of mysterious nods and winks and hints that he had something up his sleeve. But I could not help wondering what that something might be. And as time went on and he made no move and seemed content to live the rest of his days as an obscure retired watchmaker, I was more and more puzzled.