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 primeval 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 today 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 tonight,’ 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 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 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, 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 Faggott?’

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