Free Case with No Conclusion by Leo Bruce

on the table? I mean, why didn’t he make any show of Benson having committed suicide? He never even had the confession of suicide in his pocket.”
    Stute smiled with patronizing ease. “You know, Beef, what’s wrong with you is lack of experience. You get your murders out of books, where they’reall brilliantly subtle, and concealed behind extraordinary evidence. Murder in real life is a straightforward business, committed by some blundering fool. Instead of thinking of all the cases in these detective novels that Mr. Townsend believes in, why don’t you study a few of those that appear in the papers? You’ll find that murderers are not such extremely clever people, and what thinking they do is done later.”
    Beef seemed a little crestfallen, for he said no more.
    At this point we were interrupted by the entrance of a breezy young doctor who at once told Stute that he had made his examination.
    â€œWhat of?” broke in Beef.
    There was a twinkle in Stute’s eye as he turned to the doctor. “This is ex-Sergeant Beef,” he said, “who is making a private investigation of the case for Mr. Peter Ferrers.”
    The doctor nodded a hurried greeting. “I’ve been examining the corpse of the butler,” he said to Beef, and then turning to Stute, added, “There are no signs of violence at all. I don’t think there can be the slightest doubt that he committed suicide without coercion.”
    â€œThank you, doctor,” said Stute, “that’s all I wanted to know, and I was fairly certain of it. The poor old chap may even have witnessed the murder. Certainly he knew that his employer was guilty. The onus of this knowledge was too much for him—a normally honest man—and his way out, in the circumstances, is understandable. He hadpractically told his wife this, and though it’s very distressing, I cannot feel surprised.”
    â€œDo you mind if I have a look at the corpse?” said Beef.
    Stute became even more indulgent. “Well, if you like,” he said. “Run down now, only don’t waste time over it, because I’ve got to get back to the Yard. I can’t think why you should want to see it, it’s not a pleasant sight.”
    I shuddered as Beef walked out of the room. “It’s the last thing I should want to do,” I said.
    â€œI’m afraid it’s only curiosity,” said Stute. “He was always a man never to ‘miss anything.’ Well, good morning, Townsend. I hope your old policeman provides you with some good situations. Come along, doctor.” And the two walked smartly from the room.
    When I remembered the puzzled Stute I had known at Braxham, energetically following up this and that, I noticed the contrast with this suave and confident detective. This time, as he had so pointedly said, there was no doubt.

Chapter IX
    W HEN Beef came back into the room he was with Peter Ferrers. “Suicide all right,” he said.
    â€œThe police had already established that,” I said with some exasperation.
    Beef ignored me. “Could I have a look at that book as you gave your brother that night?” he asked Peter.
    I thought that perhaps there was a flicker of hesitation or embarrassment in Peter’s glance as he heard this. But he said nothing as he went over to the table and picked up the elaborate edition of Omar Khayyám.
    Beef turned the thick pages of the big volume slowly in his hands, and finally let go his most triumphant ejaculation. “Ah,” he said, “I know which part he was reading to you.”
    I did what was expected of me. “How did you find that out?” I asked.
    Beef looked up, his face lit with simple pleasure. “I seen which pages have been cut. See! There’s only two! He couldn’t have read very much.”
    â€œNo,” said Peter, “he didn’t.”
    â€œWhat letters is these on the top?” he asked