Blood on the Tracks

by Martin Edwards

  ‘I’ve read of such things, of course,’ admitted the stout man, ‘but I thought as they mostly belonged to the medeevial days. They had a thing like that in Italy once. What did they call it now? A Gomorrah, was it? Are there any Gomorrahs nowadays?’

  ‘You spoke a true word, sir, when you said Italy,’ replied the prim man. ‘The Italian mind is made for intrigue. There’s the Fascisti. That’s come to the surface now, of course, but it started by being a secret society. And, if you were to look below the surface, you would be amazed at the way in which that country is honeycombed with hidden organisations of all sorts. Don’t you agree with me, sir?’ he added, addressing the first-class passenger.

  ‘Ah!’ said the stout man, ‘no doubt this gentleman has been in Italy and knows all about it. Should you say this murder was the work of a Gomorrah, sir?’

  ‘I hope not, I’m sure,’ said the first-class passenger. ‘I mean, it 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 ma
n 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 a 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 cyclist—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 gar
age at West Felpham, where it had been left for decarbonization 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 tomorrow 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.