Case with No Conclusion (14 page)

I could picture it. Beef watching a train was Beef “on the job.” I half expected him to suggest disguises, or at least coloured glasses to wear when he took up his position on the platform. But I said nothing.

“If we see her,” he said, “it's the Continent for us. And even if we don't, I don't see we should be doing any harm having a run over for a look round.”

“But, Beef,” I said, “is that altogether fair? Peter Ferrers certainly agreed to pay expenses, but this virtually amounts to a holiday. And you know perfectly well…”

“I know perfectly well what I'm doing,” said Beef. “Didn't Stute find out what he wanted in that last case by us slipping over to Paris?”

“That was entirely different, and you know it.”

“I know I'm going to lay hands on this young fellow, and I know how I'm going to do it. If you don't want to come, say so. If you want to miss the best bit of action you're likely to get over this caserne pursuing a runaway chauffeur in a Continental resort—then stay at home by all means. But if you take my advice, you'll come with me to Victoria.”

I took his advice.

W
E
took up our positions near the entrance of the Continental boat-train departure platform, but I was surprised and rather disappointed to find that Beef at first behaved with a sobriety and conventionality that was most uncharacteristic of him. He had bought an evening paper, and held it spread in front of him. And although his eyes were over the top of it as soon as a new group of passengers approached the platform, he made no ostrich-like attempt to conceal himself behind it.

I felt the whole thing was rather forlorn. There was, as Beef had pointed out, a reasonably fair chance that the girl would join Wilson. But since Beef appeared to have elicited from Wilson's sister that the chauffeur was abroad, it was also quite possible that she would be crossing the Channel. One could further assume that since she had left her job today she would be making the journey tonight. And one could guess that she would be leaving Victoria. But each of these was no more than a probability, and for each of them I could have suggested half a dozen alternatives. However, the eternal optimism of Beef was infectious, and I found myself watching the faces of everyone who approached, half expecting to find Rose among them.

We had not been waiting for more than twenty minutes before Beef turned to me with a familiar look on his face.

“Well,” he said, “there are only two trains she could be going on tonight. The first one's the eight-twenty for the Newhaven-Dieppe crossing, and the other one isn't till eleven. That's the Dover-Ostend.”

“But what about the trains that went before we got here?” I objected, for we had not arrived at the station until well after seven.

“There weren't none,” said Beef triumphantly. “At least, none that she could have gone on. The Folkestone-Boulogne was at four-thirty and she couldn't have got that—not without leaving the Cypresses before she did. No, it's one of these two, or none at all tonight.” He looked up at the station clock, and then came to the point which I had foreseen nearly five minutes before.

“Quarter to eight,” he said thoughtfully. “Well, that about gives me time…Here,” he suddenly said with decision, “you hang on here for a bit. I've just got to slip across the platform.”

This, at least, I had anticipated, and it was with no surprise at all that I saw him disappear into the buffet. I decided that even where I stood I might be noticeable to anyone approaching the ticket-collector, and took my place on a crowded seat from which I could equally well observe, but where, unless I was being actually sought for, I should remain unnoticed.

Ten minutes later Beef emerged, and crossing to me, took a place beside me that scarcely had room
for him, and to obtain possession of which he had to do a good deal of pushing and expanding. He pulled up his newspaper again and nudged me too violently with his elbow.

“Won't half be all right if we have to go across, will it?” he said. “I've only been once, and that was to Paris when I was in the Force and under Stute's orders. He didn't seem to know how to enjoy himself either. If you and me was on our own I believe we'd see life.”

I felt that a rather prim attitude befitted me here. “I hope we shall see Wilson,” I said curtly; “that, after all, is what we're being paid to go for. There's a girl coming across now who looks rather like Rose. Keep your eyes open.”

Beef kept his eyes open in a most conspicuous way, by slumping down into his chair, pulling his hat forward, and peering over the top of his paper like a child playing peep-bo. A little slim man on his left who had been watching him, and feeling the discomfort of his presence for some time, turned and asked him whatever was the matter.

“Investigation,” he whispered, “on a big case.” Whereat the little man looked extremely uncomfortable, got up, and walked away.

The girl came nearer, and it was evident that she was making for our platform.

“Doesn't look like her to me,” said Beef, and he was quite right. “Ah, well, you never know,” he added, and we sat on there in silence, until there was only five minutes left to the time at which the train was scheduled to leave.

“I told you it would be no good,” I said irritably as the barriers closed and we watched the guard waving.

But Beef was too sanguine to be dismayed yet. “There's the Dover-Ostend train yet,” he told me. “I don't say I'd rather go to Belgium than France, but it would be better than nothing. Come on, we've got time to go and have one,” and he marched me off the station.

I was thoroughly fatigued when once more we stood waiting for the eleven-o'clock train. And I think that perhaps I dozed off, for I was awakened by a violent nudging from Beef. “Here she comes,” he muttered. “Don't let her see you. Do your bootlace up.”

“It's done up,” I returned innocently.

“Hide your face, for God's sake,” Beef went on rudely, “we don't want her to see us.”

His paper was crinkling with his excitement, and his eyes popping over the top of it. “Yes, it's her,” he said. “She's quite alone and got her suitcase.” His remarks took the form of an American wireless commentary. “She's coming across. She's looking round about. Now she's stopped. She's looking for her ticket. She's got it all right. What did I tell you? She's going to the train. She's showing the man her ticket. He's passed it. She's walking up the platform. I'll keep an eye on her while you hop back and buy two first-class tickets for Ostend.”

“First class?” I queried dampingly at the end of this monologue. “Why first-class?”

“Well, I'm a first-class detective, aren't I? I'm not going to do anything by halves.”

“I'm not suggesting half-measures,” I returned, “but you're spending someone else's money.”

“Do you think Lord Simon Plimsoll would go third class?” was his scornful reply. “You get the tickets quick while I watch her.”

My last glimpse as I turned to the booking-office was of Beef stalking up the platform with his body slightly crooked and his hat almost meeting his coat-collar.

But I really was impressed. I had to admit that however much one laughed at the old boy it was he and not Stute who had foreseen this, and who was on the track of whatever developments there might be at the end of this journey. His methods seemed ingenuous, but once again I had to admit that they were getting him there.

I walked up the train, peering into the carriages, and almost missed the familiar figure where it crouched in a first-class compartment. As I handed him the ticket, he elaborately destroyed the platform ticket which had admitted him.

“Well, we're off,” he said unnecessarily as the train steamed out a few minutes later. “And she's safe and sound in a third-class carriage down the corridor. What do you say to that?”

I said nothing, but I should have respected his achievement more if he had not insisted, every half-hour or so, on walking down the train “to see if she was all right.” His manner of passing her carriage
was calculated to draw the attention of anyone far less suspicious than Rose might well have been. But apparently it did no harm, and we had the satisfaction of seeing the girl make her way on board at Dover.

Once he had satisfied himself that the gangway was up with Rose still in the third-class quarters, Beef was prepared to relax. “It's only on the films, and in the most improbable detective stories, that they disappear in mid-Channel,” he explained as he led me to the bar. “But we must look out for her at Ostend. Can't tell if she's staying there or going on to Brussels. Though since Wilson's sneaked across on an excursion, I should think it's more than likely they're staying on the coast. Garçon,” he suddenly shouted to the astonished bar-tender, “two pale ales.” Then turning to me. “See, I know a bit of French,” he said with a wink.

I was relieved to find that it was a smooth crossing, for I remembered that Beef was not a good sailor. But once the lights of Dover had dimmed, I told him that I was going to turn in.

“All right,” he said, “only I think I'd better stay up and keep an eye on things.”

I was too tired to ask what things, and took no further interest in the world until I was awakened on our arrival at Ostend to find Beef standing over my bunk. “Come on,” he said, “we mustn't lose sight of her.”

“Did you enjoy the crossing?” I asked, as I pulled on my shoes.

“Lovely,” said Beef poetically, “clear moonlight and no licensing hours.”

We once more, as Beef put it, “picked up the trail” in the customs shed, where Rose's modest suitcase was passed more quickly than our own. But outside in the chill half-light of an autumnal dawn I was disappointed to find no sign of Ed Wilson waiting, and commented on it to Beef.

“What did you expect?” he asked scornfully. “Did you think she was going to send telegrams to tell us where he was? Still, I wouldn't mind betting she goes straight to his hotel.”

At that moment a taxi came hurrying towards the station and Rose stopped it. She appeared to have some difficulty in explaining to the driver where she wanted to go, and eventually showed him a paper from her bag. Their conversation was out of our earshot, so we could only conclude that she had given him Wilson's address.

Beef looked round for a taxi, but there was none in sight. “Taxi!” he shouted ineffectually, his voice echoing round the almost silent station. What few passengers from our train were staying in the town appeared to have gone already in the several hotel brakes sent down for them, and we were alone in the empty square. There was no sign of any other vehicle, and Beef grew slightly profane.

“Always the same,” he said. “Never one when you want it. There she goes over the bridge,” and he stood watching the motor-car disappear from sight. “We know she's in the town,” he consoled himself, “but it may take us days to find them now.” Then brightening a little, “Days!” he added.

T
HE
Ostend season was nearly over, but there was still a fair number of English holiday-makers staying in the hotels, and the narrow streets were by no means deserted. Beef chose a modest hotel, I was relieved to find, and we both decided to sleep till lunch-time and to meet then.

We came down to a pleasant meal, but not one, it seemed, which suited Beef. “Little bits of things” was his description, and he used an unprintable metaphor for the beer.

“What are we to do this afternoon?” I asked while we were drinking coffee.

“Well, where would you suppose anyone would get to as had a lot of money to spend in the afternoon?” he replied.

“To the races, I suppose. But why do you ask? Do you suppose Ed Wilson has a lot of money to spend?”

Beef did not condescend to answer my questions. “We'll go to the races,” he announced, and thereupon grew silent.

Just then the carillon sounded, and was plainly audible to us where we sat in the pale sunshine in front of our restaurant.

“Nice bells,” said Beef, “though I never cared
much for church bells at home. What's the idea of playing tunes on them?”

I began to explain to him something of the tradition of the carillon in the Low Countries, but his interest had wandered again, for he was taking advantage of the Continental practice of providing tooth-picks.

We drove to the race-course in a taxi, and Beef was astonished at the cheapness of the price of entry. “Costs you a quid in England,” he reflected as he paid over the modest sum in francs.

We had a most pleasant afternoon, but a totally fruitless one, enlivened only by two false alarms. Once we were standing high on the roof of the grandstand from which the turf and the sea were equally visible, when Beef thought he recognized Wilson approaching the Tote. He made a dive for the stairs, and presently I saw him searching through the crowd for the man he had picked out, then, when he saw his mistake, putting his hands in his pockets and behaving with all the whistling ingenuousness of a Wallace Beery. The second time was more embarrassing, for we were together near the buffet when Beef sprang forward and clapped his hand on the shoulder of another innocent racegoer. The man turned, revealing an astonished English face, and Beef stuttered his apologies. “I thought you were someone else,” he said inevitably.

“Well, I'm not,” returned the man curtly as he walked away, and Beef looked very crestfallen.
Finally, his fancy for a horse called Zig-Zag, which came in not only last but several lengths behind its slowest competitor, ended an afternoon which, however unsatisfactory, had at least been healthy and leisurely.

Beef was even more expressively rude about the tea than he had been about the beer, and vowed he would never come abroad again without a couple of pounds of Lipton's in his suitcase. But he cheered up as evening approached and I conceded that the Casino would be the place most likely for anyone with money to spend.