Cold Blood

by Leo Bruce

  Copyright © Leo Bruce 1952

  All rights reserved

  This edition published in 2019 by Academy Chicago Publishers

  An imprint of Chicago Review Press Incorporated

  814 North Franklin Street

  Chicago, Illinois 60610

  ISBN 978-1-64160-191-7

  Library of Congress Cataloging in Publication Data

  Croft-Cooke, Rupert, 1903-1980

  Cold blood.

  Reprint of the 1976 ed. published by I. Henry

  Publications, Hornchurch, Eng.

  I. Title.

  PR6005.R673C61980823’.91280-24027

  ISBN 0-89733-039-9

  ISBN 0-89733-038-2 (pbk.)

  Cover design: Lindsey Cleworth Schauer

  Interior design: Nord Compo

  Printed in the United States of America

  This digital document has been produced by Nord Compo.

  CONTENTS

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Chapitre 1

  Chapitre 2

  Chapitre 3

  Chapitre 4

  Chapitre 5

  Chapitre 6

  Chapitre 7

  Chapitre 8

  Chapitre 9

  Chapitre 10

  Chapitre 11

  Chapitre 12

  Chapitre 13

  Chapitre 14

  Chapitre 15

  Chapitre 16

  Chapitre 17

  Chapitre 18

  Chapitre 19

  Chapitre 20

  Chapitre 21

  Chapitre 22

  Chapitre 23

  Chapitre 24

  Chapitre 25

  Chapitre 26

  Chapitre 27

  Chapitre 28

  1

  The Ducrow Case seemed to change Sergeant Beef. I who had known him for many years and chronicled no less than six of his investigations, found myself astonished again and again by his behaviour during this one. It was not that he lost his somewhat boyish sense of humour, or his taste for beer, or his habit of making portentous announcements, or that he ceased to be, in outward appearance, the heavy English policeman with the ginger moustache moist at the tip from immersion in a pint glass. It certainly was not that he was any less astute in his work, or in a certain way, any less successful.

  It was as though for the first time in his life he was in what is rightly called “deadly” earnest. For the first time in his life he was a little bit afraid. For the first time he was consciously nothing less than the protector and avenger of society working against a force which he did not underestimate.

  I respected this new Beef. I was with him during most of the long and, as it turned out, dangerous investigation and I was glad to see that though the old chuckle was still heard at times, and the old childish mysteriousness maintained, he had it in him to rise above buffoonery and tackle a very unpleasant reality.

  The case opened conventionally enough. We had both read newspaper accounts of a murder in Kent and discussed them casually. For a man in Beef’s position, any murder has more than academic interest and I remember pointing this out to him on the morning when the newspapers first gave details of the Ducrow affair.

  “You should read that,” I said, handing him the paper.

  “Why?”

  “Because I have made you one of the most famous of private investigators. You never know when you may be called into a case like this.”

  He gave me a rather curious look.

  “You know, Townsend,” he said, “you amaze me sometimes. Made me a famous investigator! My work has nothing to do with it, I suppose?”

  “You find the solution, Beef, but that’s not the essential, nowadays. Which investigator doesn’t find the solution? You need a great deal more than successful detection to make you famous as a detective. You need a peculiar appearance, for one thing. Either enormously tall or minutely small. Very fat or almost wasting away. Beard, eye-glass or some such identification mark. You must resemble an alligator every few pages, like Mrs. Bradley, or talk like a peer in an Edwardian farce, like Lord Peter Wimsey. Or use bits of exclamatory French, like Poirot. You must be different, in other words.”

  “Aren’t I?” demanded Beef.

  “You are when I’ve done with you. But where would you have been without me to bring out all your little oddities? Still in the Force, probably, investigating chicken thefts in a village somewhere. I’ve made you what you are.”

  “And not done badly out of it, at the same time.”

  “I should have done better if I had had better material to work on. You seem to get such sordid crimes. If only you could be given a case with a large fortune involved, like this one. They say that Cosmo Ducrow was worth half a million.”

  Beef picked up the newspaper and began in his slow and thorough way to read its account of the case. This was written in words which doubtless were considered by their writer to be snappy and terse, but I shall state the details then known in my own way.

  Cosmo Ducrow had inherited a large fortune from his father, a shipbuilder of the Antony Gloster type. Cosmo was a strange neurotic man who shunned everything public and had few contacts with the outside world. Later I was to hear him described as a hermit-crab, a creature so sensitive that it can only live in a cockle shell, and dies if it is touched.

  Long ago he had purchased for himself a large Georgian house near a Kentish village called Hawden, about forty-five miles from London. He rarely left its grounds. In his fifties, he had already abandoned most activities which hold other men far longer, not even handling a car for himself but keeping a chauffeur to drive his Daimler on the few occasions on which he ventured beyond his lodge gates. The reason for this isolation was usually thought to be shyness, but I think it went farther than that and was pathological. He hated to meet people and was uncomfortable with any stranger.

  Ten years previously he had done what many a rich man of indifferent health has done—he married his nurse. Freda Ducrow was twelve or fifteen years younger than he was, a handsome woman of strong passions and decisive will. The two appeared to be fairly happy together, however, and Freda Ducrow had grown adept at shielding her husband from unwelcome contacts.

  Their home, Hokestones, was large and grey, planted about with huge, rather gloomy trees and out of sight of the road. I found it later a melancholy place, but it was considered to be a fine piece of period architecture, and some of the pictures and furniture were of great value.

  At the time of Cosmo’s death there were living in the house the man himself and Freda, a lifelong friend of Cosmo’s named Theo Gray, a secretary and agent, Major Gulley. This agent, as a matter of fact, was shortly to move into a cottage on the estate, which was vacant and had been furnished for him. As domestic servants there was a man named Gabriel and his wife Molly, who had worked at Hokestones for many years. There was also Mills, the chauffeur, a younger man but still nearer thirty than twenty.

  The main gate had a lodge on each side of it, one of which had been enlarged and accommodated Cosmo’s nephew Rudolf Ducrow and his wife Zena. In the other lodge lived Dunton the gardener. They were five hundred yards from the house.

  On the night of Cosmo’s death the Gabriels went to bed at nine-thirty and Mrs. Ducrow, who had been up to London that day, retired soon after ten, leaving her husband alone with Theo Gray since Major Gulley was away for the night. It was a cold night, and the two men enjoyed a whisky and soda by the fire. Then Theo Gray decided that it was time for bed and went upstairs, while Cosmo went along to the library. Gray calculates that this was about eleven o’clock. Cosmo and his wife had separate bedrooms, but Mrs. Ducrow heard Theo Gray pass her door to reach his room.

  At four o’clock in the morning Theo Gray, whose room o
verlooked the drive, was awakened by shouts from the grounds, and looked out of his window. He could see nothing. Some weeks previously two lead figures had been stolen from the garden, and fearing that something of the sort was happening again he telephoned to Dunton the gardener in one of the lodges and told him what he had heard. “You had better keep a look-out,” he said.

  Dunton pulled on some clothes and hurried out. In a few minutes he saw a man walking from the direction of the house. He concealed himself, intending to surprise and catch the visitor, but when he approached Dunton saw that it was Rudolf Ducrow. He hailed him and Rudolf appeared “very startled and upset” and hurried into his home.

  At eight o’clock next morning Dunton found the body of Cosmo Ducrow lying beside a stone seat near the croquet lawn. The back of his head was crushed, and beside him lay the croquet mallet which had, according to expert opinion, been used to give him three or four terrible blows. Rudolf’s finger prints were on this weapon.

  When Beef had read the newspaper account which embodied most of these facts he thoughtfully sucked his moustache.

  “Now, if this was one of the cases that you fellows write about,” he said, “it would turn out not to be the nephew at all. But real life’s different. How often do you get a string of suspects in real life?”

  “I don’t know, because by the time we come to read about a case all the suspects not in the running have been eliminated and only the man whom the police believe guilty is being tried.”

  “Quite right,” admitted Beef. “In real life it’s usually one of three things. The police haven’t a notion and cannot connect anyone special with the crime. Or the murderer is pretty obvious from the first. Or there is not enough evidence. But there aren’t many cases when it might be one of a dozen people and the investigator has to decide which is guilty.”

  “Which of your three do you think the Ducrow case is?”

  “Looks pretty obvious, doesn’t it? Unless there are things we know nothing about.”

  It did look pretty obvious, and for the next few days I, in common with most newspaper readers in England, expected to hear of the arrest of Rudolf Ducrow on a charge of murdering his uncle. But the case soon dropped from the front page and no arrest was recorded. I myself began to lose interest and to look elsewhere for a new opening for Beef and me.

  It was time Beef tackled another case, and one, I hoped, which would gain for him the sort of recognition which was given to his more aristocratic competitors. How many times in the past had I wished that I had devoted my talents as an investigator’s chronicler to someone less crude and homely in appearance, someone with more savoir faire, someone of the haute monde. I recognized now that it was too late to look for this and that; for good or ill my old friend would continue to be the subject of these memoirs. But as I have explained elsewhere, I myself am of the professional classes—I make no higher claim—a public schoolboy, educated as a matter of fact at St. Lawrence College, Ramsgate, and there are times when it seems that Beef will never rise above the level of a public bar. I therefore hoped that the next case to engage us would at least take us to a higher milieu.

  The Ducrow case would have done that, I reflected. Rudolf’s wife was a daughter of Lord Dunborrow, and Hokestones was quite a famous country house. But if this was not to be, at least I hoped that we should not be engaged on some sordid case which took us to slums and tenements.

  One morning Beef rang me up.

  “This looks like it,” he said cryptically.

  “What looks like what?” I asked, restraining my curiosity.

  “A case for me.”

  “For us,” I corrected.

  “For me, but I daresay you can write it up if this new publisher of yours will take it.”

  I swallowed.

  “If you imagine . . .” I began angrily.

  “Never mind. Listen to this. It’s important. I’m being called in on the Ducrow case. Theo Gray is coming to see me today.”

  “Where?”

  “What do you mean ‘where’? At my home, of course.”

  A picture rose to my mind of Beef’s little house in Lilac Crescent, one of a dingy row of cottages chosen because they were not far from Baker Street. I remembered the ridiculous brass plate he had set up: “W. Beef, Investigations”. I wondered what a man like Theo Gray would make of that.

  “Couldn’t you have arranged to meet at my flat?” I asked.

  “Certainly not. He’s coming at four o’clock, so if you’re interested you’d better be round before then.”

  I agreed and hung up. At least, I thought, Beef would have a case.

  2

  “The trouble is,” said Beef while we sat awaiting the appearance of Theo Gray, “you’ve made me look so silly in some of your books that we can’t tell why I’m being called in. This man may be the murderer, for all we know, consulting me because he thinks I shall never find out and he wants to show willing.”

  “That’s an exaggeration,” I retorted. “I’ve always admitted that you’ve got your man.”

  “But you’ve made it look more like luck than judgement very often.”

  How different, I could not help reflecting, was the conversation of Holmes and Watson while they sat waiting for their clients not half a mile away. If Watson had to make any apology it was for himself, not for the man whose achievements he proudly chronicled, whereas when I looked across the sitting-room at Beef I know how much I had to explain.

  There was a short ring at the door and we could hear Beef’s wife hurrying forward from the kitchen. I had tried tactfully to explain to her the necessity, on occasions like this, of giving a professional air to the consultation, enquiring the visitor’s name and announcing him, but my efforts were in vain.

  “Gent to see you,” she said, pushing her head in and leaving our visitor to come forward after she had returned to the kitchen. We both rose.

  Mr. Theo Gray was rather a distinguished-looking man with thick hair prematurely white and a straight soldierly bearing. A clipped moustache and a well-tailored suit emphasized this. He did not look distraught or nervous, but he was clearly not a man to exhibit his emotions.

  Beef held out his large red hand.

  “This is a pleasure,” he said heartily, then introduced me.

  Theo Gray wasted little time on civilities.

  “I want your help,” he said gravely to Beef.

  “You shall have it,” Beef replied importantly. “I’ve read what’s been published of the case.”

  “That is very little. There are some baffling features of it which have not been mentioned. What I want you to do is to come down to Hokestones and discover the truth. I should like you to come at once because at any moment the police may arrest an innocent man.”

  “That’s not very likely,” cautioned Beef. “The police don’t often charge anyone with murder until they’re sure.”

  “But as far as I have been able to gather they are sure. They believe that Cosmo Ducrow was murdered by his nephew Rudolf.”

  “And wasn’t he?”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “I said, wasn’t he?”

  “Of course he wasn’t. Rudolf was very fond of his uncle and does not know what it means to be covetous. Unless we have that straight it’s not much good your working on the case.”

  I thought it was time for me to interrupt lest Beef by his tactlessness should lose his opportunity.

  “What Sergeant Beef intended . . .” I began, but Beef broke in.

  “Look here, Mr. Gray,” he said. “You’ve known this young man for years. You couldn’t imagine him doing anything like this. But can you imagine anyone else doing it, for that matter? Murder is always a surprise unless it is just a crime of violence by a thug. Now I’m not saying that I think Rudolf Ducrow murdered his uncle. I don’t know anything about it yet. But appearances are very much against him.”

  “Of course they are. That is exactly why I have come to you. I don’t want to see this young
man put to the terrible ordeal of a trial. The only way to prevent that is for someone to discover the truth.”

  “So in your mind discovering the truth and proving Rudolf Ducrow’s innocence are the same thing? You’re so sure he did not do it that you are employing me to investigate?”

  “That is so.”

  “Why me?” asked Beef suddenly and rather loudly.

  There was the hint of a smile on Theo Gray’s face as he answered.

  “I wanted the best man for the job,” he said.

  “There’s some a lot better known than me,” Beef admitted. “Been written up better. Why didn’t you go to Poirot, for instance?”

  For the first time Theo Gray looked a trifle uncomfortable.

  “As a matter of fact, I did make enquiries,” he said, “but found that he was engaged on another case.”

  “What about Albert Campion?”

  “Not interested, I gathered.”

  “So as a last resort you come to old Beef. You know, Mr. Gray, I don’t know whether I shan’t refuse this case. Then where would you be?”

  “On the phone to Inspector French . . .” began Mr. Gray, but Beef was chuckling.

  “I’ll take it,” he said. “Now let’s get down to business.”

  To my horror, he pulled out of his pocket one of the old black notebooks which he loved, and licked a stump of pencil.

  “Tell me what you can about the murdered man.”

  “Cosmo was a very strange being,” began Theo Gray. “He suffered as a boy from being the motherless son of a self-made millionaire to whom he was a great disappointment. His father was, as you know, old Mulford Ducrow, who rose from being a ship’s boy to the managing directorship of the Glasgow-Brazilian Steamship Company. He wanted a son to follow him to sea, imagining him a tough, Jack-my-hearty sort of chap, and was bitterly disappointed when Cosmo turned out to be a shy frail youngster more interested in philately than shipping. He bullied and snubbed the boy, and even when Cosmo was in his thirties the old man would shout at him and sneer at him and make him feel more self-conscious than ever.”

  Beef nodded.

  “I know the type,” he said.