by Bruce, Leo
Beef nodded.
“Ah, yes,” he said.
“I’ll tell you what more I know about the boy’s background. His mother is a drunkard—not a habitual or hopeless drunkard, but one who enjoys periods of complete oblivion. She didn’t strike me as being a dangerous type of a woman or a criminal, just rather difficult and fond of alcohol. There is also a daughter, a very handsome young woman called Rosa, who may well be mixed up with the same crowd of Spaniards. The home life appears to have been pretty irregular, but neither mother nor daughter can suggest any reason why the boy might have wanted to commit suicide, nor, indeed, any person who could have had any motive in murdering him. Rosa was working at a tobacconist’s shop, her employer being a man called Jevons, who was a most conventional and unpromising type.
“There’s one interesting person, though, connected with this case whom I’m inclined to suspect on sight, but he’s so obviously a suspect that you, Sergeant, will dismiss him at once. He had been Beecher’s manager up to the fight, but the two had had a violent disagreement a few weeks before, and Beecher had secured a discharge from his contract. This manager, whose name is Abe Greenbough, was known to feel extremely resentful about the quarrel. He was the last person in whose company Beecher was seen that evening. I have interviewed him and formed my own impressions, and I have no doubt that you will do the same. He is not by any means the conventional type of manager such as one meets in novels and films; he has none of the fat, cigar-smoking, jewel-wearing appearance. He has none of the things which Mr. Townsend would perhaps have liked him to have in the circumstances. On the contrary, he is tall, thin-lipped, and rather aggressive in character. He lost a leg in the War, and has a very rough artificial fitment which makes his loss only too plain. He has been a manager for only five years, and I am unable to trace any of his life or movements before that time, though I suspect that he has been in trouble at some time. His only answer to me was that he had been ‘abroad.’
“With the boys he has managed he is extremely unpopular. Once they sign up with him he keeps them under lock and key, as it were, gives them a very poor share of the money they should have, and generally treats them meanly. I have no other evidence for connecting him with the crime. I give you the facts as I know them.
“Now this gymnasium where the body was found was in itself something of a thieves’ kitchen. It is kept by a man known as Seedy, whom we have had ‘in’ several times for odd thieving—nothing very elaborate or large—but an undesirable character for all that. He used at one time to have a racket which he worked successfully until his appearance began to give him away. He would go to estate agents or search the columns of newspapers for furnished flats to let, and while looking round and considering them he would manage to lay his hands on anything lying about that was worth taking. Lately, he has come down (as he would consider it) to running this dirty little gymnasium, where the lads learn things other than boxing. We have traced more than one criminal offence to his influence.
“Beecher’s associates there were chiefly two men, one considerably older than he was, and one about his own age. The elder, known as Sandy Walpole, is a boxer who hasn’t had a fight for five years. He is an appalling specimen in my view, a great, heavy lout, punch-drunk, and useless to any community. The younger, Jimmy Beane, still fights occasionally, but he drinks more than a young lad should, and has some very undesirable associates—not always with men of his own class. I recommend him to your notice as a thoroughly vicious young wastrel, and I leave you to make what you can of him.
“The best of the bunch was undoubtedly Beecher himself. From everything that has been told me about him I gather that he’s a lad who, if he had a father to look after him, might have turned into something decent, both as a boxer and as a human being. His sister certainly thinks so, as you’ll find out when you meet her.”
Beef sat quite silent and still for a few minutes, as though there was great activity going on inside his head.
“Extraordinary,” he said, “how it ties up with the other one, isn’t it?”
I made my first contribution to this professional conversation.
“I really don’t see that,” I said. “In the one case we get a young nobleman dying in the gym of one of England’s greatest schools, surrounded by his fellows, boys of distinguished families and good breeding. You find a number of people who, with one exception, are of spotless character, and who cannot be associated with anything criminal. In the other case, you have the murder of a young blackguard, who lived among blackguards—with a drunken mother and a father who had deserted them both. You have a crooked manager, criminal associates, and all the paraphernalia of low life. I can find no similarity whatever.”
“Ah,” said Beef. “But you don’t want to take much notice of that sort of thing. Breeding doesn’t count for much when it comes to crime, and you know what Shakespeare said.”
I exchanged smiles with Stute, and said: “Well, I don’t at the moment.”
“‘Kind hearts are more than coronets . . .’” began Beef.
“That was Tennyson,” I interrupted sharply.
“Same thing,” went on Beef in his thick-skinned way, oblivious of Stute’s amusement. “Anyhow, I don’t go much on titles and that. I can’t understand how it is, Inspector, that they put you on to this case and not on to the other.”
Stute shrugged his shoulders.
“The other one’s officially regarded as closed,” he said. “You’ve heard the Coroner’s verdict and everything. This one is certainly murder.”
“Shouldn’t be surprised,” said Beef. “Well, I’ll go ahead and find out what I can.”
“That’s right,” Stute told him, “and I wish you luck. I shall be the last man to underestimate you, Beef, after the Sydenham affair.”
“Sydenham affair?” Beef’s eyes twinkled. “Sydenham, eh?” he said. “I thought I failed in that.”
Stute looked very serious.
“No,” he said. “You didn’t fail, and you know it. However, the less said about that the better. All I want to point out to you now is that I shall be glad to hear how you get on, and pleased if you tell me anything exciting you may happen to find.”
“I will,” promised Beef.
The interview was over.
17
“We’ll follow the same procedure,” said Beef pompously.
“What procedure?”
“Well, we’ll go and have a look at the gym. You drive round there straight away.”
We found that the place was called the Olympia Gymnasium, but this grand name seemed a little inappropriate for the subterranean and dingy room we saw through dirty windows as we went down the steps. We knocked at the door, which was opened by a man who, I assumed (rightly, as it turned out), was Seedy himself.
“Afternoon,” said Beef, and instead of following up this greeting he waited silently to see what Seedy would say.
The other looked at him suspiciously.
“What was it?” he asked.
“It’s about the murder,” said Beef.
“Reporter?” queried Seedy.
“No, detective,” said Beef.
“Scotland Yard?” Seedy said.
“No, private. Acting for a gentleman as might have ten shillings to spend on information, if information was forthcoming.”
“Come in,” said Seedy, and he allowed us to pass before he bolted the door.
I stared about me inquisitively. We were standing in a room eighteen feet long by about twelve wide, lit by electric bulbs round which wire protectors had been fitted. A little ring had been fixed up in the middle of the room, and there were the usual mats, skipping-ropes, boxing-gloves, and the etceteras of a practical place for professionals. Everything was dirty and dark. In one corner a rough wooden screen-work had been fitted up round a shower-bath, and near this some dirty towels were lying on the floor. In another was the semblance of a bath, on which stood a large teapot and a number of dirty cups.
Seedy himself bore out Stute’s description of him. If he ever looked like the sort of man who might be contemplating renting a furnished flat it must have been some time ago. He certainly would not deceive the most gullible landlord to-day. He wore a pair of grey flannel trousers, which had been made for a stouter man, and were hoisted high on his waist by braces. These, a flannel shirt, a reef of socks round his ankles, and a pair of dirty gym shoes made up his attire, while out of it stretched a veined neck and a little, keen, white ferret face.
“Now then,” said Beef aggressively. “What can you tell us?”
“Nothing,” said Seedy, almost before Beef’s question was finished.
“Come on,” said Beef.
Seedy shook his head.
“Come on,” Beef cajoled him.
“I’ve got nothing to tell you,” said Seedy, in an ugly, high-pitched voice.
“Oh, yes, you have. You know all about this young fellow, and his manager, and his friends, and the Spaniards he was mixed up with.”
Seedy’s eyes darted round the room as though he were looking for an escape.
“What have you come to me for?”
“Must start somewhere,” explained Beef.
“Well, I had nothing to do with it,” said Seedy.
“I’m not saying you did. I want particulars from you, not a confession. How long had you known the boy?”
Seedy looked as though he begrudged even this information.
“Over a year,” he said eventually.
“And Jimmy Beane?”
“He started coming about the same time. I think they were friends before they came here.”
“What about the other one, Sandy Walpole?”
“He’s a man I’ve known longer.”
“Who else do you know that Beecher was mixed up with?”
“Well, there was his manager, Abe Greenbough.”
“What do you know about him?”
Seedy seemed startled at this question.
“Nothing,” he snapped quickly. “Nothing at all.”
“Did he manage any other of your boys?”
“Only young Beane.”
“Did you have any dealings with him?”
“No.”
“Did he used to come round here often?”
“Once or twice, to see the lads about something.”
“Ever late at night?”
“No. I close up here every evening at ten.”
“Who had keys of the place?”
“Beecher had one. There was only his and mine.”
“Why did Beecher have a key?”
“He and Beane sometimes wanted to get in when I wasn’t here.”
“Walpole never had one?”
“No.”
“What else was this place used for besides training?”
“Nothing.”
“How many boys used it?”
“About eighteen or twenty altogether, some of them not very often.”
“Did Beecher have anything to do with the others?”
“He might spar with them now and again, but I’ve never known him leave the place with any.”
“Did he ever bring any outsiders down?”
Seedy paused; his little rat’s eyes went round the room again.
“Only once that I can remember.”
“Who was that?”
“He was a foreigner, a nasty-looking chap.”
“What kind of a foreigner? German or what?”
“No. More a Greek or Italian look about him.”
“Might have been a Spaniard?” suggested Beef.
“That’s right. Brown face, black hair.”
“How do you know he was foreign?”
“He and Beecher were speaking a foreign language.”
“Did you catch any words?”
“I could have heard everything, only when you don’t understand you don’t take the words in. I do remember something like Gooster.”
This strange word was inscribed in black capitals in Beef’s notebook.
“What age man would he have been?” went on the Sergeant.
“Round about forty-five.”
“How long ago was it?”
“Might have been a couple of months.”
“Did you ever see the boy’s mother, or his home?”
Seedy shook his head.
“Or his sister?”
“No.”
There was a pause, and I thought that the Sergeant had finished, but after clearing his throat he said rather harshly: “You’ve been ‘in,’ haven’t you?”
“What’s that got to do with it?”
“It may mean a lot. What was it for?”
“Only for two little things, nothing you could call serious,” said Seedy.
“Have you ever put these boys on to anything?”
“No, certainly not.”
“How was young Beecher off for money?”
“Like the rest of them. Sometimes he had some, sometimes he hadn’t.”
“Now we come to the evening,” said Beef.
“That I know nothing about,” Seedy retorted.
“Where was he fighting?”
“At Paddington Baths.”
“Who was his opponent?”
“Oh, a Leeds boy. It was his first fight in London.”
“What was his name?”
“I forget for the moment, but you can find out from Green-bough.”
“Did you see the fight?”
“Me? No. I never go to see fights.”
“And did young Beecher win?”
“No. He lost on points. They say it was a dull fight. Beecher was out of training.”
“Did you see him after the fight?”
“No. He didn’t come back while I was here.”
“What time did you lock up?”
“About ten, same as usual.”
“So you never saw him again?”
“Not alive, I didn’t.”
“Oh, it was you that found him, was it?”
“Yes, I found him here in the gym in the morning. It gave me a nasty shock to find the poor lad hanging there as stiff as a poker.”
“What was he wearing?”
“Just his ordinary clothes.”
“Both his boots on?”
“Boots on? Yes. Of course he had.”
“The place was locked up as usual when you got in, was it?”
“Yes. I never saw anything wrong till I found it. I thought he’d done it himself.”
“Where was he?” asked Beef.
“Well, the rope was slung from the hook which has got the punching-bag on it, and the chair”—he pointed to an ordinary wooden chair—“had been kicked away just beside him.”
“Have you swept up since the police finished?”
“Well, they wouldn’t have anything touched till to-day, and then I swept it over.”
“Did you find anything on the floor?”
Seedy looked thoroughly furtive.
“If I had found something which the police hadn’t seen, do you think the gentleman you’re acting for would be generous about it?”
“Depends what it was.”
Seedy pushed his face very close to Beef’s.
“Supposing it was a little bit of paper with foreign writing on it?” he asked.
“He might think it worth a ten-shilling note,” said Beef. “Then again, he might think he ought to report to the police that the finder had not given his information, making him an accessory after the fact.”
“Would he think it worth ten shillings besides the ten shillings already promised?” persisted Seedy.
Beef seemed to admit himself beaten.
“I dare say,” he said.
Seedy pulled out a pocket-case and carefully extracted a number of papers. From among these he drew a small piece, about two inches by three-quarters of an inch. It was white paper with faint green lines on it, and scrawled along one of the lines in an illiterate and boyish handwriting were th
e words: “La vita es sueño.”
What I thought was particularly sinister about it was that the word “vita,” which I took to mean “life,” was underlined in red ink. We both stood gazing at this for a few minutes, after which Beef solemnly pressed it between the pages of his notebook, and drawing out a pound note, pushed it across to Seedy.
“I may want to see you again, Seedy,” he said sternly. “And I should be glad if you would keep your eyes open, and your ears, too. And none of that means that you are out of suspicion yourself.”
Seedy looked at me, then at Beef, and finally once more round the room.
“I’ll tell you anything I can,” he said, and we left him.
18
Beef went home that night, and I returned to my flat feeling very depressed. Not only did it seem doubtful to me whether we should ever find a solution in this case—a doubt which it is my professional duty to maintain during all Beef’s investigations—but also this time the thing seemed to be taking such an unfortunate form. We had practically done nothing as yet but have interview after interview, none of which led us much farther.
Suppose, too, I thought, that these two murders had been the work of some maniac with a real or imaginary grudge against boxers. Would that not mean that before very long yet another gymnasium would be opened at dawn to reveal yet another young body suspended grotesquely above an overturned chair? If this were so, Beef would never be swift enough in his calculations to catch up with the murderer, and I foresaw a series of crimes and outcry in the newspapers, and complete disgrace for Beef.
To-morrow, I knew, we had yet more interviews, yet further cross-examinations. Even if Beef had got some idea in his head it was useless to me, who could not follow the slow and tortuous workings of his mind. I went off to sleep with heavy forebodings, and not much hope that a good story would emerge from all this.
However, there was one pleasant surprise in store for me. I picked Beef up at eleven next morning, having overslept after hours of insomnia. His bright, confident, almost eager manner reassured me a little, and when Mrs. Beef whispered to me that he had been “working things out in his notebook all the evening,” I really cheered up a little.
“Do you begin to see it at all?” I asked Beef.
He chuckled.
