Case Without a Corpse (12 page)

B
UT
a few nights later, Stute was much more cheerful. He sat down at the small table we shared, and before Mrs. Simmons had had time to bring the soup he tossed a few sheets of typescript on the table.

“Well, Townsend,” he said, “what do you think of that? It is a translation of the report I received to-day by air mail from Comisario Julio Mareno Méndez of Buenos Aires. I met him some years ago at the International Police Conference of New York.”

“Who is he?” I asked.

“He's the officer in charge of the Sección Identificaciones of the Argentine Police. All the finger-print archives are in his care. A most intelligent fellow.”

I began to read the document which Stute had handed to me,

“Sección Identificaciones,

“Division Investigaciones,

“Policia de la Capital Federal,

“Buenos Aires,

“Rep. A
RGENTINA.

“E
STEEMED
C
OLLEAGUE
.

“It gives me the greatest pleasure to recall our acquaintance in New York, and to be able to show you by the sincerity of my present 123
greetings, that even our work, surrounded by sordid circumstances as so often it is, gives scope now and again for a friendly salutation across the ocean, and a means of co-operating one with another in the object which we both faithfully serve—the combating of crime. It will be my endeavour and pleasure to answer your queries as fully as the means in my power and the considerable bulk of information collected by the department which I have the honour to direct, enable me to do.

“You ask me whether we know anything of a compatriot of yours, Alan Rogers, a steward employed on the Line of steamers running between Britain and Buenos Aires. I have had pleasure in making the most detailed and assiduous enquiries in our Section of Robberies and Damages, in our Section of Frauds and Swindles, in our Section of Personal Security, in that of Special Laws, and in that of Social Order. From these enquiries I am able to tell you that the subject Alan Rogers was under direct suspicion of being involved in drug smuggling and that a warrant had actually been issued for his arrest, and would have been put into action during his next visit to our country. Our Immigration Section had received orders to go aboard the ship to work, and arrest him, immediately this ship came into port. We had reason to know that the subject Alan Rogers was acting as a go-between for powerful miscreants engaged in this traffic, though we have so far been unable to discover the identity either of the perpe
trators of this crime over here, or the malefactors with whom they were in communication in your country. We believe, however, that cocaine was being carried by Rogers from the dastardly gang for whom he worked in Buenos Aires, to equally unscrupulous but no less powerful persons in your territory.

“In this connection I am instructed to say that the Police of the Federal Capital will be profoundly grateful to His Britannic Majesty's Police for any information which the latter may be able to give them about the associates of the subject Alan Rogers in England, in the hope that from this information may arise the evidence they need in their indefatigable pursuit of the corresponding criminals in Buenos Aires.

“Now with regard to the two sets of fingerprints which you have sent us, one of the right hand and one of the left, of a male person, I am pleased to be able to tell you that we have identified these. I should like to remind you, esteemed colleague, of the conversation which we had on the subject of finger-prints on the pleasant occasion of our meeting in New York. I explained to you then our unique system of classification (embracing practically the whole population, not only persons under arrest, as in your country), and assured you, somewhat to your amuse ent, I remember, that here in Buenos Aires, by the Vucetich System, we were, on occasion, able to make the dead speak, or at any rate pronounce in unmistakable and infallible
terms, their own identities. This seemed to you at the time, I recall, too large a claim for me to make for our archives, and for our principle of cataloguing finger-prints according to their own characteristics, so that the man might be identified from his finger-prints, and not only the finger-prints of a given man sought in the police library, as in your no doubt estimable system. I cannot resist the temptation to point out that this is actually a case in point, and that from our archives we have been able, with no information but the finger-prints themselves, to identify the possessor. And I would like to have the temerity to express the hope that at some time in the future your excellent, efficient, modern and brilliant directors at Scotland Yard may perceive the fact that a system which is able to perform this is unsurpassable.

“The man whose finger-prints you send me is Charles Riley, born in 1900 at Bristol, who was arrested in Buenos Aires seven years and three months ago on a charge of assault and battery and resistance to the police. It was on the occasion of this arrest that his finger-prints were taken and filed. The subject Charles Riley was employed at this time in a similar capacity to that of the subject Alan Rogers, but on the-Line of steamships which run from Buenos Aires to New York. He received a sentence of two months' imprisonment, at the end of which he was deported to his native country of England, and forbidden re-entry to this country. We have no reason for supposing that Riley and

Rogers are in fact the same person, but we have no reason for supposing the contrary, as we have no finger-prints as yet of Rogers.

“May I express the ardent hope that the information I have fortunately been able to have the honour of conveying to you may be of direct assistance to you in whatever investigation may be occupying you at this moment.

“I salute you attentively,

“Your colleague and friend,

“J
ULIO
M
ARENO
M
ENDEZ
.”

“Phew!” I said, overcome by this exuberance.

“You must remember,” Stute said at once, “that it is translated literally from Spanish, the most courtly language in the world. And the point is that his information is accurate and to the point, and clears up a number of our mysteries.”

“What does Beef think of it?” I asked.

Stute smiled. “The Sergeant, in his own words, is ‘took aback.' He ‘wouldn't never have believed it possible.' I'm afraid that to Beef anything that is really and thoroughly methodical must always seem more or less miraculous. I left him trying to pronounce the name Julio Mareno Mendez in a sort of ecstasy of admiration.”

“Well, I don't altogether wonder. It is pretty marvellous. So now you know young Rogers's real name.”

“Yes. And we know how he came to be down-and-out when he went to beg from old Rogers in Bromley that day. And we know
what his envelope of ‘lottery tickets' really contained. And we can form a pretty good guess at his business with Fairfax.”

“And the foreigner?”

Stute considered. “I think,” he said, “if we find out just who Mr. Fairfax was, whether he's alive or dead, we shall have some more ideas about that foreigner.”

“Yes,” I agreed, “but for all that this report tells you about young Rogers, it doesn't tell you anything directly indicative of the identity of the person he murdered.”

“Directly, no. You mustn't expect things to come directly. I tell you that detection is nothing but the collection and co-ordination of relevant facts. And my ‘esteemed colleague' in Buenos Aires has given me some valuable ones.”

I thought what admirable patience and coolness the man had. He had got a completely fresh line of research. Drug-smuggling, a wholly new and sinister element, had been brought into what had seemed a sordid tragedy in a small country town, but he saw nothing to get excited about. His keen mind was busy with the jig-saw as it now appeared.

“Of course,” he said presently, “I've been in touch with the Yard. They are looking up to see if Charles Riley has any sort of record, for strange as it would seem to Señor Julio Mareno Méndez, we also have our archives, even if our finger-prints are
not
catalogued on the Vucetich system.”

“Of course,” I said.

“And I've got an entirely new line of research
on Fairfax. I've asked them to see if they can link him up with any known drug-pedlar. I shouldn't be at all surprised if enquiries in
that
direction brought results.”

“No. It looks promising.”

“All the same, we mustn't let all this drug theory blind us to the possibility that it may, after all, have been the girl he murdered, and this turn out to be a mere side-line in crime of the fellow's. It's strange what you stir up when you begin to look into people's lives.”

I
WENT
down the High Street next day to buy some razor-blades, and was turning towards my hotel when I saw Molly Cutler coming towards me, alone. I was not forgetful of my responsibilities as chronicler to Sergeant Beef. There were evident precedents for me. Gentlemen in my role in the novels of detection I had so avidly read, had frequently been rewarded by becoming engaged to some lady involved, but not too intimately involved, in one of the master's cases. There was, of course, Dr. Watson, who achieved a marriage of legendary happiness in this way, and there was the conscientiously short-sighted Captain Hastings. So, anxious to do my best for Beef, I raised my hat.

Molly Cutler stopped and smiled, vaguely at first, but then with recognition. “Oh yes,” she said, “you were with Sergeant Beef that day.”

Her voice was tired and toneless, but she looked no less attractive than she had done on that first night when she had rushed in from the rain, and thrown herself beside her lover's body.

“Have they discovered anything yet?” she asked.

“Yes. Quite a lot. I wonder … would you care to come in for a coffee?” And I indicated a confectioner's shop with a tea-room attached to it.

This drinking of coffee at eleven o'clock in the morning is a good English provincial habit. It is odd that whereas on the Continent the men spend their time in cafes and the women remain at home, in England it is the women who haunt these places while the men work. As I conducted Molly Cutler to a rather isolated table, we passed groups of local ladies busily sipping the creamy, hot, but very inferior coffee supplied in such places, or talking emphatically between their sips.

There were glances at my companion, and surreptitious efforts to attract attention to her. Women whose backs were turned twisted their faces to see “the girl in the case.” There could be little doubt that her name had been on their lips before we entered.

“Thanks,” said Molly as I held her chair. Then, turning to me, she asked at once what they had found out. She had been a witness at the inquest, of course, so that the only news I could give her was of discoveries which had not been made public. I told her of the piece of Rogers's letter, but hesitated when I came to the report from Buenos Aires.

“You know, Miss Cutler,” I said, “I think you're wrong in worrying over Rogers. It's hard to tell you, but….”

“Well?” She had turned swiftly and defiantly to me.

“As a matter of fact information has come through to Detective-Inspector Stute which shows … well, quite apart from this affair, he really was no good.”

“Information? What information?” She sounded quite hostile now, and I wished that I hadn't put myself in this position.

“He's had a report from Buenos Aires….”

Molly Cutler gave a rather bitter little laugh. “Oh,
that”
she said, “I know about that.”

This was startling. “You knew….”

“You mean about his having been in prison out there? And deported? And how he changed his name? He told me all about it. It was through a fight he got into with a Belgian. Alan was a terribly impulsive fellow. I'm afraid he was often in scrapes of that kind. But they meant nothing. This fellow insulted him, and he hit him harder than he meant to. Alan was arrested, and there you are.”

She shrugged and looked down at her hands which were folded on the table.

“Yes. They told Stute about that in their report. But it wasn't that I meant when I said he was no good.”

“Then what did you mean?”

I thought there was a touch of something between impatience and contempt in her voice.

“You won't be angry with me if I tell you?”

“With you? No. Why should I be?”

I'm sorry to say that this sounded rather as though she did not think me worth her anger. But I went on.

“Well, the Buenos Aires police were going to arrest Rogers when he landed there again. He had been drug-smuggling.”

For a moment Molly stared straight at me. Then she flushed a little.

“That's nonsense, of course,” she said briefly.

I shook my head. “For your sake, I wish it were. It seems to mean so much to you that this fellow's name shall be whitened. But there's every proof. Stute even has confirmation from a fellow steward of Rogers's, on his ship. There can't be much doubt of it.”

She did not speak, and when she looked up again I saw that her eyes had tears in them which threatened to fall.

“What else are you people going to accuse him of?” she said at last, in a low intense voice. “Murder—and now drug-smuggling. You haven't the least idea what he was like.”

“What
was
he like?” I asked, largely to keep her talking and save her, and me, from the embarrassment of a scene in this place.

“Alan had lots of faults,” she said, “a violent temper was one of them. He drank too much, sometimes, and I suppose he had left a few debts behind him in different places. But there was nothing wicked in him.”

“You can't conceive of his having smuggled cocaine into the country?”

“No. I can't. He would never have done it. It wasn't the kind of thing he did.”