Part 12 (1/2)

Well, I'm bio wed! exclaimed Beef, very much impressed.

Everyone in the country, whether Argentine or not, has his prints taken when he needs an identification card, and they've got millions of 'em. Here, as you know, we only take them when a man is charged. Of course, it doesn't always work. But in 1934 their records show that out of 513 sets of prints handed them for identification in criminal cases, they had been able to put their hand on the owners of 327 of them. Which is very good indeed.

I should think it was! said Beef, rather agape. But, 'ow can they cla.s.sify 'em, sir?

There are four fundamental types of print, p.r.o.nounced the detective, as you could see by sufficient study. These are distinguishable by the way in which the lines are formed in the finger-print itself. But . . . we're wasting time, Sergeant. I can't stop to give you a lecture on finger-prints.

And you mean to say that by sending young Rogers's prints out to ... that place you was mentioning, we may be able to find out wot 'is real name was?

It's more than likely.

Well, I dunno, said Beef. Seems to me it's no good trying. You've got all these 'ere modern methods wot we knows nothin' about.

Stute smiled kindly. Never mind, Beef You can only keep at it. There's a lot of luck in the game, remember.

Thank you, sir, said Beef, and seemed delighted when the detective decided to knock off for an hour while we all had lunch.

CHAPTER IX.

BEEF HAD asked me back to his house for what he modestly called a bit of dinner, and we found his wife waiting for us in the kitchen living room. She was a chirpy little woman with sharp but pleasant features, hair tightly screwed, and gold-rimmed gla.s.ses.

It's all ready, she said when introductions were over, and we sat down round a scrupulously clean table-cloth.

And do you share your husband's interest in crime? I asked.

Gracious no. I leave all that to Beef. I never like hearing about such things. I won't even read about them in the papers. Help yourself to Brussels, won't you?

But surely . . . I began.

No, it's no good. Nasty creepy murders. Not but what they tell me Beef's clever at putting his hand on the one who's done it. But I always say leave that to those that like it. It's not for me to poke my nose in. Oh, and while I think of it, Beef, that Mr. Sawyer was round this morning.

Wot Mr. Sawyer? asked Beef, his mouth too full.

Why from the Dragon. He said he wanted to see you urgent.

That means 'e's fixed another darts match, said Beef, evidently delighted.

No. It was something to do with young Rogers, he said.

Beef turned to me. Orways get a lot of that, he said, people as wants to think they knows somethink. Still, I suppose we shall 'ave to see 'im. Why did 'e come 'ere instead of the station?

Now how am I to know? said Mrs. Beef. Hand this gentleman some more parsnips and help yourself.

It's funny, that, said Beef. The Dragon's that pub down by the station. I don't use it a great deal. I'd sooner 'ave the Mitre. The beer's better, and the darts board's lit prop'ly. 'Owever, we can pop in there later on.

And don't stay all night, said Mrs. Beef. There's a good wireless programme coming on at ten o'clock, and it would be a pity to miss it.

You ought to know by now, said Beef quite amiably, that when I've got an important case on, there's no telling what time I shall be 'ome.