rather destroys the interest, don't you think? I like a nice, quiet,
domestic murder myself, with the millionaire found dead in the library.
The minute I open a detective story and find a Camorra in it, my
interest seems to dry up and turn to dust and ashes--a sort of Sodom
and Camorra, as you might say."
"I agree with you there," said the young husband, "from what you might
call the artistic standpoint. But in this particular case I think there
may be something to be said for this gentleman's point of view."
"Well," admitted the first-class passenger, "not having read the
details----"
"The details are clear enough," said the prim man. "This poor creature
was found lying dead on the beach at East Felpham early this morning,
with his face cut about in the most dreadful manner. He had nothing on
him but his bathing-dress----"
"Stop a minute. Who was he, to begin with?"
"They haven't identified him yet. His clothes had been taken----"
"That looks more like robbery, doesn't it?" suggested Kitty.
"If it was just robbery," retorted the prim man, "why should his face
have been cut up in that way? No--the clothes were taken away, as I
said, to prevent identification. That's what these societies always try
to do."
"Was he stabbed?" demanded the first-class passenger.
"No," said the stout man. "He wasn't. He was strangled."
"Not a characteristically Italian method of killing," observed the
first-class passenger.
"No more it is," said the stout man. The prim man seemed a little
disconcerted.
"And if he went down there to bathe," said the thin, elderly man, "how
did he get there? Surely somebody must have missed him before now, if
he was staying at Felpham. It's a busy spot for visitors in the holiday
season."
"No," said the stout man, "not East Felpham. You're thinking of West
Felpham, where the yacht-club is. East Felpham is one of the loneliest
spots on the coast. There's no house near except a little pub all
by itself at the end of a long road, and after that you have to go
through three fields to get to the sea. There's no real road, only a
cart-track, but you can take a car through. I've been there."
"He came in a car," said the prim man. "They found the track of the
wheels. But it had been driven away again."
"It looks as though the two men had come there together," suggested
Kitty.
"I think they did," said the prim man. "The victim was probably gagged
and bound and taken along in the car to the place, and then he was
taken out and strangled and----"
"But why should they have troubled to put on his bathing-dress?" said
the first-class passenger.
"Because," said the prim man, "as I said, they didn't want to leave any
clothes to reveal his identity."
"Quite; but why not leave him naked? A bathing-dress seems to indicate
an almost excessive regard for decorum, under the circumstances."
"Yes, yes," said the stout man impatiently, "but you 'aven't read the
paper carefully. The two men couldn't have come there in company, and
for why? There was only one set of footprints found, and they belonged
to the murdered man."
He looked round triumphantly.
"Only one set of footprints, eh?" said the first-class passenger
quickly. "This looks interesting. Are you sure?"
"It says so in the paper. A single set of footprints, it says, made by
bare feet, which by a careful comparison 'ave been shown to be those
of the murdered man, lead from the position occupied by the car to the
place where the body was found. What do you make of that?"
"Why," said the first-class passenger, "that tells one quite a lot,
don't you know. It gives one a sort of a bird's eye view of the place,
and it tells one the time of the murder, besides castin' quite a good
bit of light on the character and circumstances of the murderer--or
murderers."
"How do you make that out, sir?" demanded the elderly man.
"Well, to begin with--though I've never been near the place, there is
obviously a sandy beach from which one can bathe."
"That's right," said the stout man.
"There is also, I fancy, in the neighbourhood, a spur of rock running
out into the sea, quite possibly with a handy diving-pool. It must run
out pretty far; at any rate, one can bathe there before it is high
water on the beach."
"I don't know how you know that, sir, but it's a fact. There's rocks
and a bathing-pool, exactly as you describe, about a hundred yards
farther along. Many's the time I've had a dip off the end of them."
"And the rocks run right back inland, where they are covered with short
grass."
"That's right."
"The murder took place shortly before high tide, I fancy, and the body
lay just about at high-tide mark."
"Why so?"
"Well, you say there were footsteps leading right up to the body. That
means that the water hadn't been up beyond the body. But there were
no other marks. Therefore the murderer's footprints must have been
washed away by the tide. The only explanation is that the two men were
standing together just below the tide-mark. The murderer came up out of
the sea. He attacked the other man--maybe he forced him back a little
on his own tracks--and there he killed him. Then the water came up and
washed out any marks the murderer may have left. One can imagine him
squatting there, wondering if the sea was going to come up high enough."
"Ow!" said Kitty, "you make me creep all over."
"Now, as to these marks on the face," pursued the first-class
passenger. "The murderer, according to the idea I get of the thing, was
already in the sea when the victim came along. You see the idea?"
"I get you," said the stout man. "You think as he went in off them
rocks what we was speaking of, and came up through the water, and
that's why there weren't no footprints."
"Exactly. And since the water is deep round those rocks, as you say, he
was presumably in a bathing-dress too."
"Looks like it."
"Quite so. Well, now--what was the face-slashing done with? People
don't usually take knives out with them when they go for a morning dip."
"That's a puzzle," said the stout man.
"Not altogether. Let's say, either the murderer had a knife with him or
he had not. If he had----"
"If he had," put in the prim man eagerly, "he must have laid wait for
the deceased on purpose. And, to my mind, that bears out my idea of a
deep and cunning plot."
"Yes. But, if he was waiting there with the knife, why didn't he
stab the man and have done with it? Why strangle him, when he had a
perfectly good weapon there to hand? No--I think he came unprovided,
and, when he saw his enemy there, he made for him with his hands in the
characteristic British way."
"But the slashing?"
"Well, I think that when he had got his man down, dead before him,
he was filled with a pretty grim sort of fury and wanted to do more
damage. He caught up something that was lying near him on the sand--it
might be a bit of old iron, or even one of those sharp shells you
sometimes see about, or a bit of glass--and he went for him with that
in a desperate rage of jealousy or hatred."
"Dreadful, dreadful!" said the elderly woman.
"Of course, one can only guess in the dark, not having seen the wounds.
It's quite possible that the murderer dropped his knife in the struggle
and had to do the actual killing with his hands, picking the knife up
afterwards. If the wounds were clean knife-wounds, that is probably
what happened, and the murder was premeditated. But if they were rough,
jagged gashes, made by an impromptu weapon, then I should say it was a
chance encounter, and that the murderer was either mad or----"
"Or?"
"Or had suddenly come upon somebody whom he hated very much."
"What do you think happened afterwards?"
"That's pretty clear. The murderer, having waited, as I said, to see
that all his footprints were cleaned up by the tide, waded or swam back
to the rock where he had left his clothes, taking the weapon with him.
The sea would wash away any blood from his bathing-dress or body. He
then climbed out upon the rocks, walked, with bare feet, so as to leave
no tracks on any seaweed or anything, to the short grass of the shore,
dressed, went along to the murdered man's car, and drove it away."
"Why did he do that?"
"Yes, why? He may have wanted to get somewhere in a hurry. Or he may
have been afraid that if the murdered man were identified too soon it
would cast suspicion on him. Or it may have been a mixture of motives.
The point is, where did he come from? How did he come to be bathing at
that remote spot, early in the morning? He didn't get there by car,
or there would be a second car to be accounted for. He may have been
camping near the spot; but it would have taken him a long time to
strike camp and pack all his belongings into the car, and he might have
been seen. I am rather inclined to think he had bicycled there, and
that he hoisted the bicycle into the back of the car and took it away
with him."
"But, in that case, why take the car?"
"Because he had been down at East Felpham longer than he expected, and
he was afraid of being late. Either he had to get back to breakfast at
some house, where his absence would be noticed, or else he lived some
distance off, and had only just time enough for the journey home. I
think, though, he had to be back to breakfast."
"Why?"
"Because, if it was merely a question of making up time on the road,
all he had to do was to put himself and his bicycle on the train
for part of the way. No; I fancy he was staying in a smallish hotel
somewhere. Not a large hotel, because there nobody would notice
whether he came in or not. And not, I think, in lodgings, or somebody
would have mentioned before now that they had had a lodger who went
bathing at East Felpham. Either he lives in the neighbourhood, in which
case he should be easy to trace, or was staying with friends who have
an interest in concealing his movements. Or else--which I think is more
likely--he was in a smallish hotel, where he would be missed from the
breakfast-table, but where his favourite bathing-place was not matter
of common knowledge."
"That seems feasible," said the stout man.
"In any case," went on the first-class passenger, "he must have been
staying within easy bicycling distance of East Felpham, so it shouldn't
be too hard to trace him. And then there is the car."
"Yes. Where is the car, on your theory?" demanded the prim man, who
obviously still had hankerings after the Camorra theory.
"In a garage, waiting to be called for," said the first-class passenger
promptly.
"Where?" persisted the prim man.
"Oh! somewhere on the other side of wherever it was the murderer was
staying. If you have a particular reason for not wanting it to be known
that you were in a certain place at a specified time, it's not a bad
idea to come back from the opposite direction. I rather think I should
look for the car at West Felpham, and the hotel in the nearest town
on the main road beyond where the two roads to East and West Felpham
join. When you've found the car, you've found the name of the victim,
naturally. As for the murderer, you will have to look for an active
man, a good swimmer and ardent bicyclist--probably not very well off,
since he cannot afford to have a car--who has been taking a holiday
in the neighbourhood of the Felphams, and who has a good reason for
disliking the victim, whoever he may be."
"Well, I never," said the elderly woman admiringly. "How beautiful you
do put it all together. Like Sherlock Holmes, I do declare."
"It's a very pretty theory," said the prim man, "but, all the same,
you'll find it's a secret society. Mark my words. Dear me! We're
just running in. Only twenty minutes late. I call that very good for
holiday-time. Will you excuse me? My bag is just under your feet."
There was an eighth person in the compartment, who had remained
throughout the conversation apparently buried in a newspaper. As the
passengers decanted themselves upon the platform, this man touched the
first-class passenger upon the arm.
"Excuse me, sir," he said. "That was a very interesting suggestion of
yours. My name is Winterbottom, and I am investigating this case. Do
you mind giving me your name? I might wish to communicate with you
later on."
"Certainly," said the first-class passenger. "Always delighted to have
a finger in any pie, don't you know. Here is my card. Look me up any
time you like."
Detective-Inspector Winterbottom took the card and read the name:
LORD PETER WIMSEY,
110A Piccadilly.
* * * * *
The _Evening Views_ vendor outside Piccadilly Tube Station arranged his
placard with some care. It looked very well, he thought.
MAN WITH
NO FACE
IDENTIFIED
It was, in his opinion, considerably more striking than that displayed
by a rival organ, which announced, unimaginatively:
BEACH MURDER
VICTIM
IDENTIFIED
A youngish gentleman in a grey suit who emerged at that moment from the
Criterion Bar appeared to think so too, for he exchanged a copper for
the _Evening Views_, and at once plunged into its perusal with such
concentrated interest that he bumped into a hurried man outside the
station and had to apologise.
The _Evening Views_, grateful to murderer and victim alike for
providing so useful a sensation in the dead days after the Bank
Holiday, had torn Messrs. Negretti & Zambra's rocketing thermometrical
statistics from the "banner" position which they had occupied in the
lunch edition, and substituted:
"FACELESS VICTIM OF BEACH OUTRAGE IDENTIFIED
MURDER OF PROMINENT
PUBLICITY ARTIST
POLICE CLUES
"The body of a middle-aged man who was discovered, attired only
in a bathing-costume and with his face horribly disfigured by
some jagged instrument, on the beach at East Felpham last Monday
morning, has been identified as that of Mr. Coreggio Plant, studio
manager of Messrs. Crichton Ltd., the well-known publicity experts
of Holborn.
"Mr. Plant, who was forty-five years of age and a bachelor, was
spending his annual holiday in making a motoring tour along the
West Coast. He had no companion with him and had left no address
for the forwarding of letters, so that, without the smart work
of Detective-Inspector Winterbottom of the Westshire police, his
disappearance might not in the ordinary way have been noticed until
he became due to return to his place of business in three weeks'
time. The murderer had no doubt counted on this, and had removed
the motor-car, containing the belongings of his victim, in the hope
of covering up all traces of this dastardly outrage so as to gain
time for escape.
"A rigorous search for the missing car, however, eventuated in its
discovery in a garage at West Felpham, where it had been left for
decarbonisation and repairs to the magneto. Mr. Spiller, the garage
proprietor, himself saw the man who left the car, and has furnished
a description of him to the police. He is said to be a small, dark
man of foreign appearance. The police hold a clue to his identity,
and an arrest is confidently expected in the near future.
"Mr. Plant was for fifteen years in the employment of Messrs.
Crichton, being appointed Studio Manager in the latter years of
the war. He was greatly liked by all his colleagues, and his skill
in the lay-out and designing of advertisements did much to justify
the truth of Messrs. Crichton's well-known slogan: 'Crichton's for
Admirable Advertising.'
"The funeral of the victim will take place to-morrow at Golders
Green Cemetery.
"(Pictures on Back Page.)"
Lord Peter Wimsey turned to the back page. The portrait of the victim
did not detain him long; it was one of those characterless studio
photographs which establish nothing except that the sitter has a
tolerable set of features. He noted that Mr. Plant had been thin rather
than fat, commercial in appearance rather than artistic, and that the
photographer had chosen to show him serious rather than smiling. A
picture of East Felpham beach, marked with a cross where the body was
found, seemed to arouse in him rather more than a casual interest. He
studied it intently for some time, making little surprised noises.
There was no obvious reason why he should have been surprised, for
the photograph bore out in every detail the deductions he had made
in the train. There was the curved line of sand, with a long spur of
rock stretching out behind it into deep water, and running back till
it mingled with the short, dry turf. Nevertheless, he looked at it for
several minutes with close attention, before folding the newspaper and
hailing a taxi; and when he was in the taxi he unfolded the paper and
looked at it again.
* * * * *
"Your lordship having been kind enough," said Inspector Winterbottom,
emptying his glass rather too rapidly for true connoisseurship, "to
suggest I should look you up in Town, I made bold to give you a call in
passing. Thank you, I won't say no. Well, as you've seen in the papers
by now, we found that car all right."
Wimsey expressed his gratification at this result.
"And very much obliged I was to your lordship for the hint," went on
the Inspector generously, "not but what I wouldn't say but I should
have come to the same conclusion myself, given a little more time. And,
what's more, we're on the track of the man."
"I see he's supposed to be foreign-looking. Don't say he's going to
turn out to be a Camorrist after all!"
"No, my lord." The Inspector winked. "Our friend in the corner had got
his magazine stories a bit on the brain, if you ask me. And _you_ were
a bit out too, my lord, with your bicyclist idea."
"Was I? That's a blow."
"Well, my lord, these here theories _sound_ all right, but half the
time they're too fine-spun altogether. Go for the facts--that's our
motto in the Force--facts and motive, and you won't go far wrong."
"Oh! you've discovered the motive, then?"
The Inspector winked again.
"There's not many motives for doing a man in," said he. "Women or
money--or women _and_ money--it mostly comes down to one or the other.
This fellow Plant went in for being a bit of a lad, you see. He kept a
little cottage down Felpham way, with a nice little skirt to furnish it
and keep the love-nest warm for him--see?"
"Oh! I thought he was doing a motor-tour."
"Motor-tour your foot!" said the Inspector, with more energy than
politeness. "That's what the old [epithet] told 'em at the office.
Handy reason, don't you see, for leaving no address behind him. No,
no. There was a lady in it all right. I've seen her. A very taking
piece too, if you like 'em skinny, which I don't. I prefer 'em better
upholstered myself."
"That chair is really more comfortable with a cushion," put in Wimsey,
with anxious solicitude. "Allow me."
"Thanks, my lord, thanks. I'm doing very well. It seems that this
woman--by the way, we're speaking in confidence, you understand. I
don't want this to go further till I've got my man under lock and key."
Wimsey promised discretion.
"That's all right, my lord, that's all right. I know I can rely on
you. Well, the long and the short is, this young woman had another
fancy man--a sort of an Italiano, whom she'd chucked for Plant, and
this same dago got wind of the business and came down to East Felpham
on the Sunday night, looking for her. He's one of these professional
partners in a Palais de Danse up Cricklewood way, and that's where the
girl comes from, too. I suppose she thought Plant was a cut above him.
Anyway, down he comes, and busts in upon them Sunday night when they
were having a bit of supper--and that's when the row started."
"Didn't you know about this cottage and the goings-on there?"
"Well, you know, there's such a lot of these week-enders nowadays.
We can't keep tabs on all of them, so long as they behave themselves
and don't make a disturbance. The woman's been there--so they tell
me--since last June, with him coming down Saturday to Monday; but it's
a lonely spot, and the constable didn't take much notice. He came in
the evenings, so there wasn't anybody much to recognise him, except
the old girl who did the slops and things, and she's half-blind. And
of course, when they found him, he hadn't any face to recognise. It'd
be thought he'd just gone off in the ordinary way. I dare say the dago
fellow reckoned on that. As I was saying, there was a big row, and
the dago was kicked out. He must have lain wait for Plant down by the
bathing-place, and done him in."
"By strangling?"
"Well, he _was_ strangled."
"Was his face cut up with a knife, then?"
"Well, no--I don't think it was a knife. More like a broken bottle,
I should say, if you ask me. There's plenty of them come in with the
tide."
"But then we're brought back to our old problem. If this Italian was
lying in wait to murder Plant, why didn't he take a weapon with him,
instead of trusting to the chance of his hands and a broken bottle?"
The Inspector shook his head.
"Flighty," he said. "All these foreigners are flighty. No headpiece.
But there's our man and there's our motive, plain as a pikestaff. You
don't want more."
"And where is the Italian fellow now?"
"Run away. That's pretty good proof of guilt in itself. But we'll have
him before long. That's what I've come to Town about. He can't get out
of the country. I've had an all-stations call sent out to stop him.
The dance-hall people were able to supply us with a photo and a good
description. I'm expecting a report in now any minute. In fact, I'd
best be getting along. Thank you very much for your hospitality, my
lord."
"The pleasure is mine," said Wimsey, ringing the bell to have the
visitor shown out. "I have enjoyed our little chat immensely."
* * * * *
Sauntering into the Falstaff at twelve o'clock the following morning,
Wimsey, as he had expected, found Salcombe Hardy supporting his rather
plump contours against the bar. The reporter greeted his arrival with
a heartiness amounting almost to enthusiasm, and called for two large
Scotches immediately. When the usual skirmish as to who should pay had
been honourably settled by the prompt disposal of the drinks and the
standing of two more, Wimsey pulled from his pocket the copy of last
night's _Evening Views_.
"I wish you'd ask the people over at your place to get hold of a decent
print of this for me," he said, indicating the picture of East Felpham
beach.
Salcome Hardy gazed limpid enquiry at him from eyes like drowned
violets.
"See here, you old sleuth," he said, "does this mean you've got a
theory about the thing? I'm wanting a story badly. Must keep up the
excitement, you know. The police don't seem to have got any further
since last night."
"No; I'm interested in this from another point of view altogether. I
did have a theory--of sorts--but it seems it's all wrong. Bally old
Homer nodding, I suppose. But I'd like a copy of the thing."
"I'll get Warren to get you one when we come back. I'm just taking him
down with me to Crichton's. We're going to have a look at a picture. I
say, I wish you'd come too. Tell me what to say about the damned thing."
"Good God! I don't know anything about commercial art."
"'Tisn't commercial art. It's supposed to be a portrait of this
blighter Plant. Done by one of the chaps in his studio or something.
Kid who told me about it says it's clever. I don't know. Don't suppose
she knows, either. You go in for being artistic, don't you?"
"I wish you wouldn't use such filthy expressions, Sally. Artistic! Who
is this girl?"
"Typist in the copy department."
"Oh, Sally!"
"Nothing of that sort. I've never met her. Name's Gladys Twitterton.
I'm sure that's beastly enough to put anybody off. Rang us up last
night and told us there was a bloke there who'd done old Plant in oils
and was it any use to us? Drummer thought it might be worth looking
into. Make a change from that everlasting syndicated photograph."
"I see. If you haven't got an exclusive story, an exclusive picture's
better than nothing. The girl seems to have her wits about her. Friend
of the artist's?"
"No--said he'd probably be frightfully annoyed at her having told me.
But I can wangle that. Only I wish you'd come and have a look at it.
Tell me whether I ought to say it's an unknown masterpiece or merely a
striking likeness."
"How the devil can I say if it's a striking likeness of a bloke I've
never seen?"
"I'll say it's that, in any case. But I want to know if it's well
painted."
"Curse it, Sally, what's it matter whether it is or not? I've got
other things to do. Who's the artist, by the way? Anybody one's ever
heard of?"
"Dunno. I've got the name here somewhere." Sally rooted in his
hip-pocket and produced a mass of dirty correspondence, its angles
blunted by constant attrition. "Some comic name like Buggle or
Snagtooth--wait a bit--here it is. Crowder. Thomas Crowder. I knew it
was something out of the way."