Free Case for Sergeant Beef by Leo Bruce Page A

see what possible motive she could have had. Shoulter had no money. And she appears to have been quite fond of the wretched man.’
    â€˜Then the police,’ I put in with a disarming smile, ‘are what the newspapers called baffled?’
    â€˜That’s about it,’ said Chatto complacently. ‘But I think we shall get at something from the other end, as it were. When we’ve learnt all there is to learn about the dead man we shall know that
someone
here had a motive. We shall start from there. Motive’s the thing, every time. You can’t go wrong if you find the motive.’
    â€˜I suppose you’re right,’ said Beef. ‘Only sometimes there’s a lot of motives, and a lot of people with them.’
    â€˜Yes, there is
that,’
admitted Chatto.
    Beef stood up.
    â€˜Very grateful to you,’ he said. ‘And now I suppose I get to work. But I’ve got no big ideas, inspector. In fact I’ve got only one idea at present, and it’s this. I think we’re going to find this case a lot more difficult and a lot more interesting than it looks. Anyway, I’ll come and see you again. And if I should hit on anything I shan’t forget that you’ve let me in on this.’
    Inspector Chatto gave us his ready little smile again. But my ears burned when I thought what he must be saying to Constable Watts-Dunton about Beef when we had left the house.
    Beef disgusted me further by turning back to the Crown.
    â€˜Quite enough for to-day,’ he said. ‘I want to think. Besides, it’s opening time.’

CHAPTER TEN
Flipp was not at Home
    B UT Beef was up and busy early next morning as is his infuriating habit. He will let everything wait overnight while he plays his eternal darts and drinks his beer, then expect me to start the day’s work with all the cheerfulness and enthusiasm of a young boy.
    â€˜Come on,’ he said, while I was still sitting at the breakfast table. ‘We’ve got to go and see Miss Shoulter.’
    I rose unwillingly and we started off for Deadman’s Wood. We had learnt from willing informants in the bar on the previous evening, informants whom Beef had tried to impress with talk of ‘private investigations’, that we could reach her bungalow by the fatal footpath, passing first ‘Labour’s End’, the home of the retired watchmaker with the absurd name, and then the spot where the crime had actually been committed.
    On our way through the village we met Inspector Chatto who gave us a friendly greeting.
    â€˜On the job, eh?’
    â€˜Ah,’ said Beef. ‘There was one point I wanted to ask you about. Those footprints. You said they were Miss Shoulter’s. What made you so sure? Was there something special about them which corresponded to a pair of her shoes?’
    Chatto laughed outright.
    â€˜Wait till you see her feet!’ he said. ‘Couldn’t mistake ‘em. I doubt if there’s another woman in the county who takes that size.’
    â€˜Large, are they?’
    â€˜Large? You’ve never seen such plates of meat in your life. The footprints were hers, all right. Rubber soles which she always wears, I understand, and an outsize. But women’s shoes with semi-high heels.”
    â€˜I’ve got you,’ said Beef, and we walked on.
    We passed ‘Labour’s End’ and noticed an old gentleman at work in his garden.
    â€˜That must be Wellington Chickle,’ I whispered.
    â€˜We’ll see him later,’ promised Beef. ‘It’s Miss Shoulter I want to talk to now.’
    We were stopped again by our arrival at what Beef called ‘the Spot’. It was a pleasant place. It seemed a pity that it should have been defiled by a brutal crime. It was a clearing about twelve or fifteen yards wide, and the path ran right across it. To our left as we walked was a fallen tree, about six yards back from the path on the verge of the