Case with No Conclusion by Leo Bruce

paper on its feet, but nothing would shift him. I told Peter right from the start that it was useless, but he wouldn’t entirely give up hope until the other night.”
    â€œBut how…?” began Beef.
    Wakefield turned on him like a schoolmaster interrupted during an English literature lesson by a boy who wished to leave the room. “That night was our final attempt,” said Wakefield, “and we had agreed that if he refused to help us then, we would give up hope of his assistance. It so happened that there had arrived that day in the office a book for review which we knew would please him, and Peter had decided to take it down. Stewart was not, you will observe, the kind of man withwhom any particular subtlety was needed. The book was one of those ghastly great illustrated editions of the Rubáiyát of Omar Khayyám, which, one had hoped, had passed out of popularity long ago. It was quarto in size, bound in white buckram with a grotesque display of ornamental gilt lettering on the sides and back. It was printed on handmade paper, and its coloured plates were by some woman who had a passion for purples and pinks. Stewart liked to read aloud quotations from this overrated poem, and it was part of Peter’s ingenuous plan that we should ask him to do so that evening.
    â€œWe reached the house at a quarter to eight, and Benson arrived about five minutes later. He was a florid, race-going sort of fellow, essentially provincial, and rather a bore. I could see no particular reason why anyone should wish to murder him, any more than one would have thought they wished to murder all members of his type. He mentioned that his car was out of order and that his wife wasn’t well—the sort of conversation that one would expect from him. After dinner in the library we actually allowed Stewart to read several passages. Then we came to the point. Would he, or would he not, buy enough shares in the
Passing Moment
to keep it alive? He would not. Peter wasted a certain amount of valuable time in trying to make him change his mind, then we got up to go. Duncan arrived, apparently from nowhere, with our coats, Peter started up that old bus of his, andwe came back to London. He dropped me at my flat and drove away. There you have the whole thing, and unless there are any questions you feel you must ask, I won’t take any more of your time.”
    Beef stood up straight away. “No,” he said, “there’s no questions about the dinner-party. You’ve told me all I want to know. But,” he added, stepping almost threateningly towards Wakefield, “there’s one thing I want to hear from you. What did you do after Peter Ferrers left you at your rooms?”
    â€œI thought that was coming,” smiled Wakefield. “As it happens, I went straight to bed.”
    â€œAnd I,” said Beef, “thought
that
was coming. Good morning, Mr. Wakefield.” And with an air of conscious triumph, he stalked out of the office, leaving Wakefield and me to exchange glances; his of comprehension, mine of apology.

Chapter VII
    O N the drive down to Sydenham I asked Beef about the whisky he had persuaded me to appropriate from the Cypresses. “You told me you’d explain it, Beef,” I said, glancing mischievously at the figure beside me, for I was convinced that he had taken it for quite unprofessional reasons.
    â€œSo I will, in due time,” he said. “That’s got to be analysed.”
    â€œAnalysed?” I repeated, smiling at this gross piece of subterfuge. “Why should you want the whisky analysed when the man’s been stabbed?”
    â€œBecause,” returned Beef quite seriously, “I believe it contained arsenic.” And that was all he would say.
    The girl Rose opened the door at the Cypresses, and showed us again into the library, where we found Peter alone. He looked unhappy and tired, I thought, though he said good morning, and